Devices and Desires e-1

by K. J. Parker

  Back into the cover of the trees, back down the deer-trails they should have taken the first time, back to the forest road, and they were safe. The archers joined them almost immediately. Their captain rode over and announced that his losses were fewer than twenty killed, a handful injured. Miel thanked him and rode on; he hadn't actually thought about it, or asked for a similar report from the captains of the knights and the lancers. That reminded him that he hadn't given any thought to the fate of the other half of his army, the men who'd blocked the far end of the canyon. Before he could ask anyone or send a scout, they appeared out of the trees in front of him. He could see riderless horses being led by their reins-how many? A dozen? Twenty? But their captain seemed in good spirits.

  'How'd it go?' he asked.

  'Wonderful,' Jarnac replied, his voice comically muffled as he lifted off his helmet. 'Couldn't have gone better if we'd rehearsed it with them beforehand. Your end?'

  Miel nodded. 'I think we should get out of here,' he said. 'I'm not inclined to push my luck any further today'

  Jarnac grinned at him. 'Quite right,' he said. 'It never does to be greedy, and the rest'll keep for another day. I couldn't see it all, of course, but I'm fairly sure our score's up into four figures. If only we'd brought another three squadrons, we could've had the lot.'

  Miel nodded and drew away from his cousin. He felt exhausted, angry and very sick. He cast his mind back to another massacre, when the scorpion bolts had curtained off the sun and it had been Eremians rather than Mezentines carpeting the dirt. That had been easier to bear, somehow.

  The exuberance of his men had worn off by the time they reached the city; they were quiet as they rode in through the gate, too tired to care about much more than getting out of their armour, washing off the smell of blood and going to sleep. Even Jarnac (who'd insisted on riding beside him for much of the way) had stopped singing; instead he was whistling softly, and Miel couldn't make out the tune. There were a hundred and sixteen dead to own up to; mostly lancers, but of the twelve knights, one was the younger brother of the lesser Phocas (a brash, arrogant boy whom Miel had always disliked). The guilt of a victory is different from the guilt of a defeat, but no less depressing.

  He gave the necessary orders to dismount, stand down and dismiss the army; a quick run-through his mental checklist, and he concluded that he'd done everything that was required of him and the rest of the day was his own. He went home; the streets were nearly empty, and there were only a few old women and drunks to stop and stare at the blood-spattered horseman in full armour, plodding up the cobbled street with his reins long and his horse's head drooping. Grooms were waiting at the gate to help him down and take the horse inside. The housekeeper and one of the gardeners helped him out of his armour.

  'Where's Bucena?' the gardener asked; and Miel realised that he hadn't seen Bucena Joac, his squire, the head gardener's nephew, since shortly before the ambush. He didn't know whether the boy was alive or dead, so he couldn't answer the question. The two servants drew their own conclusions from his silence; they didn't say anything, which made for an awkward atmosphere. At any other time, Miel would've run out and looked to see if Bucena had come home; if not, he'd have found out what had become of him before stopping to shed his armour or wash his face. Instead, he told the housekeeper, 'I need a bath. Soon as possible.'

  He fell asleep in his bath, and woke up shivering in the cold water. Someone was banging on the door, which wasn't a suitable level of behaviour for the Ducas house. He demanded to know who was making that abominable noise. It was the porter, and he had the butler, the sergeant and the housekeeper with him. Some men had come from the palace to talk to the Ducas. They had a piece of paper with a big red seal at the bottom. Apparently, they wanted to arrest him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The debate that followed the attack on Melancton's expeditionary force was unexpectedly subdued, as if neither major faction was sure what to make of it. Tactically, as the Drapers were quick to point out, it had been a disaster. Melancton had walked into a trap and been utterly humiliated; the enemy had come and gone with hardly a scratch. Strategically, as the Foundrymen immediately replied, it was something and nothing; the fact that the Eremians had committed so few men to the attack and had withdrawn so quickly, neglecting opportunities for slaughter that could have been exploited at affordable cost, argued that they had no stomach for the war and a deep-seated timidity that more or less guaranteed success to the invasion. The body-count could be taken either way. The Drapers said that Melancton had wasted three thousand lives through sheer fecklessness. The Foundrymen said that three thousand was still well within budget, given that the harrying attacks they'd anticipated as the army advanced through the hostile terrain of Eremia hadn't materialised; indeed, if the pre-invasion casualty estimates were compared with actual reported losses, the invasion was comfortably in credit. Furthermore, the expeditionary force had been left in full possession of the field, and had resumed its march on Civitas Eremiae. By virtue of forced marches, Melancton had made up the lost time and was currently slightly ahead of schedule. Both sides were perfectly correct in their assertions, and neither faction even tried to dispute the other's arguments or statistics. A motion from the Clockmakers to dismiss Melancton wasn't even put to a vote, since (as Chairman Boioannes had pointed out in his opening remarks) there was no alternative candidate for overall command of the expedition who would be acceptable to the men themselves. A motion of censure was passed by a narrow majority, but it was agreed that it would be counterproductive and damaging to morale to publish it until the war was over and safely won, at which point it would be irrelevant; accordingly, it was agreed that it should lie on the file indefinitely.

  Eventually she found him in a small room near the top of the old clock tower. When she burst in he was sitting facing the narrow window, a pile of papers on a small table beside him, a book open on his lap. She noticed that it was upside down.

  'Orsea, you've got to do something,' she said breathlessly, wondering as she said it why he hadn't turned his head to look at her. 'There's this crazy rumour going around that Miel's been arrested and he's going to be executed or something. If people start believing that, there'll be panic and chaos and God knows what. You've got to tell them it's not true. Maybe the two of you could go out on the balcony and make a joint statement or something.'

  Still he didn't turn towards her. 'Who says it's just a rumour?' she heard him say.

  That didn't make sense. 'Orsea,' she said.

  'Actually, the part about having him executed is a bit premature,' he continued, in a voice that sounded like his, but very far away. 'There'd have to be a trial first, and we can't allow that; at least, not till the war's over, assuming we survive it, and maybe not even then. In fact, definitely not. So no, we won't do that. Have to think up something else instead.'

  That was more cryptic gibberish than she could take. She lunged forward and grabbed at his shoulder; he avoided her, like a good fencer. 'Are you completely out of your mind?' she said. 'He's just won a battle, for pity's sake. He's your best friend. You can't-'

  Now he turned and looked at her, and she took a step back. He searched for something on the table, found it; a small square of closely folded parchment. He pointed it at her as though it was a weapon.

  Oh, she thought.

  'He had it,' Orsea said. 'At least, it was hidden in a room in the Ducas house, in a place only he knew about. And it so happens I can verify that myself, because when we were kids he stole my lucky penknife and hid it there-a little sort of crack in the wall, behind a tapestry; but I was watching through the keyhole, though he didn't know. It was his secret place. If he put it there, it was because he didn't want it found.'

  'How did you-?' Veatriz started to say. She cut the question short, but the damage was done.

  'How did I find out?' Orsea laughed. There was something frightening in his voice. 'Extraordinary thing. That Mezentine, Vaatzes, the one who builds the wa
r engines; he scheduled a meeting with me, I thought it was just about production schedules, but as soon as we were alone he took it out of his pocket and handed it to me. I was stunned; I sat there staring at it, trying to figure out what the hell it was. I could read the words; but for ages I simply couldn't figure out what it could possibly mean. And also I kept thinking, why the hell would Miel be hiding a letter, written to you by the Duke of the bloody Vadani? How in God's name did you come into it? And then-'

  'Orsea, don't,' she heard herself say; but she might as well have been in the audience at a play, watching a drama written two hundred years ago. She could protest all she liked, but there was nothing she could do to alter the words that were due to come next.

  'And then,' Orsea went on, 'I remembered that extraordinary speech of yours, about how we should run away and throw ourselves on the mercy of Duke Valens.' He shook his head. 'Really Triz, I don't know; have I been really stupid, not seeing the bloody obvious when it's right under my nose, or what? I didn't know you'd ever met him, even, let alone-'

  'Once,' she shouted. 'Once, when we were kids, practically. I talked to him for five minutes at some horrible boring reception.'

  He looked at her and said nothing; his silence killed something inside her. 'And Miel fits in, of course, I can see that now,' he went on eventually. 'He was always in love with you. You and he would've been married, only you had to marry me instead, because of politics. So of course he'd help you. The one thing I still can't figure out is who he's been betraying me to. I mean, this proves he's been working for the Vadani; then he goes and throws the battle, lets the bastards escape when he could've finished them off, so is he working for the Mezentines as well? Or is it just anything to screw me, because I took you off him?' He shrugged; big, melodramatic gesture. 'I suppose I should care, because it matters politically, but I can't even be bothered to work it out. All I want is for the Mezentines to come quickly and finish us all off, before I find out anything else about what's been going on here.'

  She realised that her legs were giving way; she took two wobbly steps back and leaned against the wall. 'It's not like that at all,' she said. 'Will you just listen to me?'

  He looked at her. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'It'll just make me feel worse if you lie to me.'

  That just made her feel murderously angry; if she'd had a knife, she'd have wanted to cut him with it. 'Orsea,' she said, 'it was just letters. He wrote to me about something, or I wrote to him, I can't bloody remember which; and we just carried on, like friends. That's absolutely all it was, I swear. And God knows how Miel got hold of that letter, but he was nothing at all to do with it, I promise.'

  'You swear and you promise,' Orsea said gravely. 'There, now.'

  'Orsea, don't be-'

  'Stop it, Triz,' he said. 'It's obvious. It's so obvious a bloody Mezentine who's only been in the country five minutes knows all about it; I suppose everybody knew but me. It's so horrible.' He clenched his fists; it was a weak, petulant gesture, something a little boy might have done. 'Would you please go away now,' he went on. 'I really don't want to talk to you any more right now.'

  She tried to take a step towards him, but her feet wouldn't take her weight. 'Orsea,' she said. 'Read the bloody letter. It's just harmless stuff, it's just chat. It doesn't-'

  He laughed, and her mind was suddenly full of poison. 'Just chat,' he repeated. 'Do you really think I'm so stupid? Well yes, apparently you do. Fine. I must be. Now would you please go away? I've got a war to run.'

  'Orsea. Will you please just listen?'

  He shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Right now, if you told me my name I wouldn't believe you.'

  She wanted to fall on her knees and beg. She wanted to smash his face in. She couldn't do either. 'At least talk to Miel,' she said.

  'No.' He turned his back on her, sat down, picked up the book. It was King Fashion and Queen Reason. She could have burst out laughing. Instead, she leant against the wall for balance and left the room.

  The Mezentine army duly presented itself at the foot of the mountain road. Scouts reported that they numbered thirty thousand infantry, five hundred scorpions and a small garnish of light cavalry. They sat down and waited, like an actor waiting for his cue. Two days; nothing happened.

  On the third morning, the baggage train arrived. It was suitably long and impressive; enough food and materiel for a long, thorough siege, enough plant and equipment for a devastating assault. Most of the machinery visible from the scouts' viewing point was so unfamiliar that they could only guess what it was supposed to be for; some reckoned it was heavy artillery for bashing down the walls, others were certain it was lifts and cranes for scaling ladders and siege towers, while a vocal minority insisted it was earth-moving equipment for undermining the main gate.

  Just for the hell of it, Orsea sent an embassy under a flag of truce to ask why he was being invaded, and if there was anything he could do by way of reparation or apology. The embassy didn't come back. That, it was generally agreed inside the city, wasn't promising. On a more positive note, the Mezentine Vaatzes reported that all the scorpions were installed on the wall, fully operational, with good supplies of ammunition. If the enemy were stupid enough to come within range, he said, he could lay down a barrage that'd take out ten thousand of them before they had time to set up and load a single scorpion.

  Certain death at the hands of an implacable and invincible enemy on the one hand; a stone-cold certain guarantee of victory on the other. Forced to choose between them, the Eremians in general made the obvious compromise and believed in both equally. It was easy enough to do; look down the valley at the enemy and abandon all hope, look up at the rows of war engines on the battlements and feel nothing but pity for the poor Mezentines, lambs to the pointless slaughter. Presumably the same ambivalence was what was keeping the enemy at a safe distance down in the valley; and there seemed to be no reason why they shouldn't stay there for ever and ever.

  As was only proper for such a noble and ancient house, there were plenty of precedents for the treatment and privileges of a Ducas arrested for high treason. It had been established over two centuries ago that he should be held in the East Tower of the inner keep, a substantial and self-contained space where he could enjoy the view out over the long cover, and the sun sparkling on the distant water of the Ribbon Lake. It was held that this would afford him peace and tranquillity in his darkest hour; further or in the alternative, it would remind him of the start of the falconry season, and by implication everything he'd forfeited by his foolish and presumptuous behaviour. He should be brought food and fresh clothing three times a day direct from the Ducas house (tasting the food to make sure it wasn't poisoned was a special perquisite of the guard captain) together with books, writing materials, playing cards, chess sets and other basic necessities of civilised life. Each day two of his hounds should be brought to see him, so that the pack wouldn't pine for their master, and in the season he should be permitted to fly a peregrine falcon from his window at the doves roosting in the eaves of the bell-tower. His daily exercise should consist of a walk along the battlement of the curtain wall morning and evening, and shortly before noon either twelve ends of archery (with a child's bow and blunts) or sparring with wooden wasters in the courtyard behind the main guardhouse at the top of the tower. His valet should come to shave him at sunrise and sunset, under supervision of the guard captain. The Ducas steward, bailiff, treasurer, head chamberlain, private secretary, housekeeper, head keeper and huntsman were permitted to call at any time during the hours of daylight, or after dark when urgent business required the Ducas' attention; other visitors were at the guard captain's discretion and subject to review by a supervisor appointed directly by the Duke. In the event that the Ducas was unmarried, he should be permitted after thirty-eight consecutive months' detention, or if condemned to death, to marry a woman of good family nominated by the Duke solely for the purpose of begetting an heir. During any one calendar year, his personal expenditure was limi
ted to sixty thousand thalers, and he was not permitted to buy land in excess of three hundred acres (except in completion of contracts entered into prior to his arrest) or participate in a mercantile venture to the value of more than two hundred and fifty thousand thalers (except for contracts for the supply of food, textiles or lumber to the army or the ducal household). He was permitted to stage a masque at midsummer and midwinter, employing no more than sixteen paid actors and thirty-six musicians, and to be staged in the main guardhouse; and to hold a banquet for no more than a hundred and twenty guests on the occasion of his birthday, the Duke's birthday and the anniversary of the Battle of Cantelac. He could have his portrait painted once very six months.

  From the southern balcony of the East Tower, Miel could just see the extreme edge of the Mezentine camp: a section of the perimeter ditch, which they'd dug on the first night and second morning, a corner of the enclosure they'd built to pen up the wagon horses, and, if he leaned out and twisted his neck as far as it would go, the arms of the tallest of the giant long-range war engines that were being assembled from prefabricated components in a specially fortified stockade. Beyond that, he had to rely on observations made for him by members of his household; they told him about the arrival of the supply train, various comings and goings of auxiliaries and engineers, and the lack of any other significant activity.

  In a curious way, much of the time he didn't feel like a prisoner. Running the everyday affairs of the Ducas-rent reviews, planting schedules, repairs and renovations to tenanted properties, adjudicating in tenants' disputes, all the duties he'd carried out all his adult life without a second thought-felt more or less the same, regardless of the fact that he was doing them in a slightly different setting. They'd brought up some of the tapestries and smaller paintings from the rent-room at the Ducas house, since it would've been unreasonable to expect the Ducas to receive his dependents and tenants in anything less than the proper surroundings; his sitting-room in the East Tower was, if anything, slightly larger than the rent-room, and not quite as draughty. Once I've been acquitted, he told his visitors, I've got a good mind to ask Orsea if I can stay here. Most of them smiled the first few times he said it.