Devices and Desires e-1

by K. J. Parker

  'I trust you,' she replied disdainfully.

  He shrugged. 'Up to you,' he said. 'Let's see it, then.'

  She knelt down, lifted her basket up on to the desk, and started to empty it. Cabbage stalks, bean pods, pea helm, artichoke peel, carrot tops and a small square of parchment. He took it from her and carefully unfolded it. 'Have you read it?' he said.

  She shook her head. 'Just what's on the outside,' she said. She was lying, of course, but that didn't matter. He folded his arms on the desktop and leaned forward to decipher the tiny, awkward handwriting. Valens Valentinianus to Veatriz Sirupati, greetings.

  He lifted his head and looked at her. 'If this is a fake,' he said, 'I'll kill you. Do you understand?'

  She nodded, as though threats were a familiar part of her daily routine. Fleetingly, he wondered about her life, but it was none of his business.

  'Thanks,' he said, and lifted his hand off the money-bag.

  'Pleasure's all mine,' she said. The bag was too big for her to lift one-handed (she had small, plump paws, like a frog). 'What do you want with it, anyhow?' she added.

  'Do you really want me to tell you?'

  She didn't answer. It was obvious she hated him, for a wide variety of reasons. 'Don't you go making trouble for the master,' she said. 'He's a proper gentleman, the Ducas.'

  Vaatzes sighed. 'Fine,' he said. 'In that case, you take it back and I'll have the money'

  She scowled at him and took a step backwards toward the door. He smiled.

  'Go away,' he said.

  She hated him for another two seconds, then left the room. He heard her feet hammering on the spiral stone staircase, and a door slamming. He didn't move. He sat, with just the tips of his fingers resting lightly on the edges of the parchment, which smelt powerfully of decaying vegetables. The urge to read it was painful, but he restrained himself, to prolong the pleasure. All his adult life he'd made weapons, in the service of the Perpetual Republic; the frames and arms and springs and mechanisms of mighty engines, whose mechanical advantage was capable of magnifying the strength of the human arm into a force impossible to defend against. He knew a good weapon when he saw one, or touched its working components. He also knew a little about love-letters, particularly those that the beloved never gets to read. He'd made the connection long ago, and knew that love is the most destructive weapon of all, the only problem being how to contain and channel it into something that can be spanned, aimed and loosed.

  With the tips of his forefingers, he lifted the letter off the desktop. It was faintly translucent, being old parchment, scraped several times. Like a butcher breaking the carcass of a bird, levering the breast up off the ribcage, he folded back the corners and opened it. My chess-playing mind tells me that what you need is something to take your mind off your troubles: a story, an observation, a discussion about silk-painting or the use of nature imagery in the elegaics of Haut Bessamoges. You want me to open a hidden door in the wall and show you a room where you can hide for a little while. Instead, my mind is busy with cunning schemes-how can the Vadani take the heat off Orsea of Eremia, given that the two nations hate each other like poison?

  Vaatzes smiled. A man after his own heart, Duke Valens, though he'd probably dislike him intensely if they ever met face to face. He both admired and resented the way he could put into words things that he himself could only feel. Presumably Cantacusene felt the same way when he'd been humiliated in his own workshop by a superior craftsman. He dismissed the resentment (after all, Valens was working for him now, just as Cantacusene was, and a good supervisor respects his valuable employees). It was most definitely a letter he couldn't have written himself; cut from solid instead of painstakingly pinned, brazed, fabricated out of scrounged components. No wonder she was in love with him.

  (He closed his eyes and tried to recall the memory of her face, glimpsed briefly at the meet before the Duke's boar-hunt. Not beautiful; pretty in an everyday sort of way. He loved her too, of course, but only because she was his best and most effective weapon. She was going to smash open the gates of Mezentia for him; he'd walk into the city on a siege-mound of corpses she'd raised for him. In the circumstances, the very least he could do was love her. Also, she reminded him of someone who was with him all the time.)

  He read the rest of the letter, folded it carefully and put it in his inside pocket. Until everything was ready and he needed it, it was only fitting that he should carry it next to his heart, as lovers are supposed to do.

  It was some time before Miel Ducas remembered that he was still in his bathrobe, and the hot water was going cold. Not that that mattered-he was the Ducas, and he could do what he liked in his own house-but the last thing he wanted to do was make a scene. The eccentricities of the nobility were valuable commodities in the town. The usual fabricated variety commanded a high enough price in alcohol, entertainment or sexual favours; he didn't like to think about the market value of a genuine Ducas story. Needless to say, Orsea wouldn't set any store by tavern gossip, but he was probably the only person in the duchy who didn't.

  He opened the solar door slowly and carefully, and walked out into a corridor crammed with servants, all of them standing perfectly still and looking at him. It was worse than the scorpion bombardment, far worse than facing the wounded boar, because all his princely qualities of valour and dash were useless; he couldn't grab a falchion off the wall and massacre the lot of them. All he could do was walk straight past them, pretending he hadn't seen them. As soon as he turned the corner, he broke into a run.

  As he'd anticipated, his bathwater was cold. He lowered himself in, washed briskly, clambered out and scrubbed himself dry with the towel (he couldn't remember having seen it before; it was a pale orange colour with embroidered lilies and snowdrops, one of the most revolting things he'd ever seen. He remembered that the Duchess had recently sent him some linen as a thank-you present for arranging the hunt, but he couldn't believe for an instant that she could deliberately have chosen to buy something like that. Thinking about Veatriz reminded him of the letter; he closed his eyes and shuddered, as though a surgeon was pulling an arrow-head out of his stomach).

  There had to be a perfectly rational explanation. He'd considered hiding it there, but had changed his mind or never got round to doing it. It had fallen out of the crack and was lying on the floor, hidden by the hem of the tapestry. He'd put it there, but changed his mind, moved it, and forgotten he'd done so. It had been completely devoured by moths.

  Or someone had found it and taken it. He noticed something strange, and experimented by holding his arm straight out in front of him. His hand was shaking.

  Should've burnt it; should've given it to Orsea straight away; should have given it to her. But he hadn't. He'd tethered it, it had slipped the hobbles and escaped, and now it was loose. He tried to think who might have taken it, but his mind couldn't grip on the question, like cartwheels on thick ice. Nothing ever disappeared in the Ducas house, even though it was jammed and constipated with the accumulated valuable junk of generations. A light-fingered servant could steal a fortune in gold and silver plate, fabrics, ornaments, and be over the border free and clear before anybody noticed, but it had never happened in living memory; so why should anybody steal a small piece of parchment? Half the servants couldn't even read (but if they'd been told what to look for, that didn't signify). Maybe someone had taken it to light a fire (but why go looking for kindling behind the tapestry nobody was allowed to touch, when there was a cellar full of dried twigs and brush?). The truth had him at bay, and he had nowhere to run to. Someone had known what to look for and where to look. It was self-evident; but it was also impossible, because nobody else in the house knew about that place.

  He could burn the house down; but it stood to reason that the thief would've got rid of the loot as quickly as possible, so that wouldn't achieve anything.

  Without knowing what he was doing, he dressed in the clothes laid out for him. The only sensible course of action would be to go to
Orsea, straight away, and tell him the whole story. But if Orsea hadn't been given the letter yet, he'd refuse to believe it; he'd fly into a rage and burst into tears, and everything would get worse. He should go to Veatriz (and what would he tell her? I intercepted your letter. Why did you do that, Miel?). He should leave Eremia tonight and defect to the Mezentines. It depressed him utterly to think that that was probably the best idea he'd had so far.

  He realised he was looking in a mirror. It was an old one, spattered with patches of dark grey tarnish, and in it all he could see was the face of an idiot. But that was all very well. It was also a reasonably lifelike portrait of the Ducas; and if it came to his word against somebody else's, who was Orsea going to believe?

  He looked away; because on any other subject there could be no possibility of a doubt, but where Veatriz was concerned, he had to admit that he simply didn't know. Orsea had a memory too; he could remember when it was unthinkable that the Sirupati heiress would marry anybody except the Ducas, and wasn't it a bizarre but wonderfully convenient coincidence that the Ducas should be completely besotted with the girl? He knew Orsea better than anybody else, far better than she did. It was highly unlikely that a day passed when Orsea didn't remember that.

  Or he could kill himself, and slide out of the problem that way. On balance, it'd be better than defecting to the enemy, but he didn't want to. Besides, what became of him really didn't matter; it wasn't nearly as simple as that. He couldn't think of escaping, by treachery or death or running away and joining a camel-train to the Cure Hardy, if it meant leaving her in mortal peril.

  (Mortal peril; hero language again. He cursed himself for an idiot. Heroism wouldn't help here, because this wasn't a last-ditch battle against the forces of evil, it was a bloody stupid mess. You can't defeat messes with the sword, or by feats of horsemanship, endurance or strategy. You've got to slither your way out of them, and slithering simply wasn't part of his armoury of skills.)

  Or I could simply wait and see what happens; and as and when the letter shows up, I can tell the truth.

  He stared at that thought for a long time; it was also a mirror, in which he saw himself. I'm Miel Ducas. I tell the truth, because I'm too feckless to lie. He shook his head; that was too easy, and he didn't believe it. I can't lie in the same way a fish can't breathe air. I was bred to do the right thing, always.

  The right thing would be to tell Orsea the truth, if the letter comes into his hands. But the right thing would mean that the disaster falls on Veatriz, who did the wrong thing, and that can't be allowed to happen. I did the right thing concealing the letter-it'd have been wrong to burn it straight away, because that would have been a betrayal of Orsea. Bloody shame I hid it where someone could find it, but that's simply incompetence, not a moral issue.

  I'm Miel Ducas, and for the first time in my life I don't know what to do.

  She found him in the cartulary, of all places. He was standing on a chair, tugging at a parchment roll that had got wedged between two heavy books. If he tugged any harder, she could see, half the shelf would come crashing down.

  'Orsea,' she said.

  He jumped, staggered and hopped sideways off the chair, which fell over. She wanted to laugh; he'd always had a sort of catlike grace-in-clumsiness, an ability to fall awkwardly off things and land on his feet. As he turned and saw her, he looked no older than sixteen.

  'You startled me,' he said.

  'Sorry' She smiled; he grinned. He'd never quite understood why she seemed to like him most when he did stupid things. He felt like a buffoon, nearly falling off a chair, but her smile was as warm as summer. 'What were you doing up there, anyway?'

  He frowned. 'Your father had a map of the Cleito range,' he said. 'I remember him showing it to me once, years ago. I thought it might be in here somewhere.'

  The Cleito; that was where Miel had ambushed the Mezentines. 'It wouldn't be here,' she replied. 'Have you looked in the small council room? He always used to keep his maps there.'

  The expression on his face told her it hadn't occurred to him to do that. 'Thanks,' he said. 'That's where it'll be. Good job you told me, or I'd have pulled the place apart looking for it.'

  That had come out sounding like an accusation rather than praise, but they both knew what he'd meant by it. She carried on smiling, but she was doing it deliberately now. 'Have you got a moment?' she asked.

  'Of course.' As he looked at her his face was completely open; and she was planning on leading him-not into a trap exactly, but to a place he probably wouldn't want to go. For a brief moment she hated herself for it. 'Let's go into the garden,' he said, as she hesitated. 'I think it's stopped raining.'

  He led the way down the single flight of stairs. He always scampered down stairs, there was no other word for it. A duke shouldn't scamper, of course. She smiled again, at the back of his head, without realising she was doing it.

  The garden glistened after the rain, and she could smell wet leaves. That was almost enough to choke her.

  'So?' he asked briskly. 'What's up?'

  'Oh, nothing.' The answer came out in a rush, instinctive as a fish lunging at a baited hook. 'Only,' she went on, rallying her forces into a reserve, and paused for effect. 'Orsea, I'm worried. About the war.'

  The look on his face was unbearable; it was guilt, because he'd let war and death come close enough to her to be felt. He was going to say, 'It's all right,' but he didn't, because he didn't tell lies.

  'Me too,' he mumbled. 'That's why I was looking for that stupid map. General Vasilisca thinks-'

  The hell with General Vasilisca. 'Orsea,' she said (she used his name like a rap across the knuckles). 'What's going to happen to us if they get past the scorpions?'

  He took a deep breath, put on his serious face, which always annoyed her. 'In order to do that,' he said, slowly, looking away; he always looked so pompous doing that, 'they'd have to mount a direct assault, with artillery support. But our artillery would take out their artillery before they could neutralise the walls, which means their infantry would have to attack in the face of a scorpion bombardment. Basically, we'd be killing them until we ran out of bolts. It'd be thousands, maybe tens of thousands-' He stopped. He looked like he wanted to be sick. 'Their army wouldn't do it, for one thing. They're mercenaries, not fanatics. They'd simply refuse.'

  'Orsea,' she said.

  'And even if they were crazy enough to do it,' he went on, ignoring her, 'they'd still have to conduct a conventional assault-scaling ladders and siege towers, against a full garrison, and the best defensive position in the world. There's every likelihood that we'd beat them off, provided they don't have artillery control. It's simple arithmetic, actually, there's tables and formulas and stuff in the books; the proper ratio of attackers to defenders necessary for taking a defended city. I think it's five to one, at least. And of course, we've got much better archers than they have.'

  'Orsea,' she said again, and the strength leaked out of him. 'What'd happen to us, if they won?'

  He looked away, and she knew he was beaten already, in his mind. Part of her was furious at him for being so feeble, but she knew him too well. He didn't believe they could win, because he was in command. In a secret part of her mind, she offered thanks to Providence for Miel Ducas, who was twice the man Orsea was, and who (on balance) she'd never loved. 'I don't know,' he said. 'That's the really horrible thing about this war, I don't actually know why they're doing it. You'd think they might have the common good manners to let us know, but apparently not.'

  (He knew why, of course. The huntsman doesn't send heralds or formal declarations of war to the wolf, the bear or the boar. Their relationship is so close, there's no need to explain.)

  She came closer to him, but there was no tenderness in it. Instead, she felt like a predator. 'I want you to listen to me,' she said.

  He looked bewildered. 'Sure,' he said.

  'If the war goes badly,' she said, and stopped. Her mouth felt like it was full of something soft and disgust
ing. 'If things go wrong, I don't want to stay here and be killed. I don't. I was a hostage all those years, because Father had to play politics to keep us going when the Vadani were closing in all the time, and every day when I woke up and realised where I was, I knew that if something went wrong, I could be killed and that'd be that. I was just a child, Orsea, and I had to live with that all the time. I was frightened. I can't stand being frightened any more. It's not noble and strong to be brave when you can't fight and defend yourself. I was brave all those years, for Father and the Duchy, and I won't do it again. If the Mezentines are going to take the city, I don't want to be here. I want to run away, Orsea, do you understand? Me getting killed won't make anything better for anybody. I want to escape. Can you understand that?'

  He was staring at her, and she thought of the old fairy-tale where the handsome young hunter marries a strange, wild girl from outside the village, and on the wedding night she turns out to be a wolf-spirit disguised as a human. 'You want to leave,' he said, very quietly. 'Fine.'

  Most of all she wanted to hit him, for being so annoying. 'I want us to leave,' she shouted at him. 'You don't think I'd go without you? Don't be so stupid. I want us to get out of here before it's too late. Leave the Ducas and the Phocas and the great lords to defend the city, if they really feel they have to. I care about the people, of course I do, but there's nothing you or I can do to help them, and if we're killed, we're dead. That'd be pointless.' She took a deep breath, ignoring the look on his face. 'Orsea, I want you to care about us for once, for you and me. Two more dead bodies rotting in the sun won't make any difference to the world, but we could escape, go somewhere. I don't care about not being the Duchess any more. I don't care what I do. But staying here just because-'

  'Because it's the right thing to do,' he said.

  She closed her eyes, because she wanted to scream. Fine,' she said. 'Just suppose we do the wrong thing, for once in our lives. Well, that'd be awful, wouldn't it? We might get into trouble for it, something bad might happen to us. Something worse than getting killed by the Mezentines.'