Evil for Evil

by K. J. Parker

  After he’d gone, Psellus realized that he was shaking slightly. This surprised him. He hoped it hadn’t been visible enough for Boioannes to notice.

  He got up, with a vague idea of going down to the buttery and getting something strong to drink, but once he was on his feet the idea ceased to appeal. He went back carefully over the interview, assessing it in the way a judge at a fencing match awards points to the contestants, and came to the surprising conclusion that it had either been a draw or else he’d come out of it with a very slight lead. True, Boioannes had beaten him up pretty conclusively, but he hadn’t heard anything about his own shortcomings that he hadn’t already known for some time. On the positive side, he’d finally been given something to do, which made a pleasant change, and he’d forced Boioannes to tell him an unplanned and largely unprepared lie. A lie, he’d learned long ago, is often the mirror image of the truth; by examining it carefully, you can reconstruct the fact that lie was designed to conceal. That was a step forward, but not necessarily one he’d been anxious to take …

  (He sat down again. He’d seen a lion once, in a cage in a traveling circus. He’d watched it with a mixture of awe and compassion, as it roared and lashed its tail; absolute ruler of five paces.)

  Because the step Boioannes had practically shoved him into taking led to a question that he had no way of answering, but which had quietly tormented him ever since he first read Vaatzes’ dossier. Previously he’d assumed that the answer wasn’t worth finding because Vaatzes’ motivation, soul and very essence didn’t really matter very much to the future well-being of the Republic. Now, however, it appeared that Maris Boioannes himself felt that it might have some deeper significance. In which case, he had no option. Until he’d made some kind of headway with the problem, he couldn’t get anywhere; it was a locked gate he had to get through, or over.

  So. (He tilted the small jug on his desk, just in case an invisible goodwill fairy had refilled it in the last ten minutes.)

  Ziani Vaatzes was condemned for abomination because he’d made a clockwork toy for his daughter that contained forbidden mechanical innovations and modifications. Fair enough; but how on earth had he been found out in the first place?

  Like a donkey turning a grindstone, he followed the familiar, weary circle. By its very nature, the abomination, the toy, was a private thing, not something liable even to be seen by strangers, let alone dismantled and examined with calipers. Neither the wife nor the daughter could have known about the transgression, since they didn’t have the mechanical knowledge to recognize it. Surely Vaatzes hadn’t talked about it to his fellow workers, or left notes and drawings lying about. Unlikely that he’d made himself conspicuous by stealing or scrounging materials liable to betray his illicit intentions; as shop foreman, he could requisition pretty much anything without exciting suspicion; besides, none of the materials used had been rare or unusual. An unexpected visitor, calling at the house late one evening and seeing components carelessly left lying about on the kitchen table; no, because the deviations from Specification wouldn’t have been obvious out of context, and even if the visitor somehow knew they were meant for use in a clockwork toy, he’d have needed calipers to detect the irregularity. It was, in essence, the perfect crime.

  The answer should, of course, have been right there in the dossier, in the investigators’ report. But it wasn’t. No account of the course of the investigation, because Vaatzes had immediately pleaded guilty.

  Not that it mattered, because all he had to do was ask the men who’d brought the prosecution in the first place. Which was exactly what he’d done. He’d written to Sphrantzes, the prosecutor, and Manin, the investigating officer. No reply from either of them; he’d written again, and also to their immediate superiors, their departmental supervisors, their heads of department and the permanent secretaries of their division. He’d had plenty of replies from the upper echelons, all promising to look into the matter and get him his answer. Before giving up and resolving to forget about the whole thing, Psellus had even tried to find the two men and talk to them personally. He’d planned it all like an explorer seeking a lost city in the desert: he’d obtained floor plans of the east wing with Sphrantzes’ and Manin’s offices clearly marked in red, he’d contrived to get hold of copies of their work schedules so he’d be reasonably certain of finding them at home when he called. In the event, he found their offices empty; neighbors had told him in both cases that they’d been relocated to new offices in the north wing extension, but the corridor and staircase coordinates they gave him turned out not to have been built yet. None of that was particularly sinister. The geography of the Guildhall was a notoriously imprecise science, and every new arrival was treated to the ancient stories of men who nipped out of their offices for a drink of water, never to be seen again until their shriveled carcasses were found somewhere in the attics or the archive stacks. The likeliest explanation was that the internal mail service couldn’t find them either, which was why none of Psellus’ letters had ever been answered. Manin and Sphrantzes, he knew, were both very much alive and active. They wrote and delivered reports, addressed subcommittees, gave evidence at tribunals and courts corporate and mercantile. Psellus was sure he’d seen Sphrantzes not so very long ago, crossing the main quadrangle one afternoon. The truth was that he’d been glad of an excuse to let the matter lie.

  Now, apparently, that excuse had been taken from him. In which case, since he was an officer of the War Commission and therefore a person of consequence and standing (he couldn’t help grinning as he thought that), he might as well use his seniority and make sure he got an answer. He flipped up the lid of his inkwell, dipped the tip of his pen and wrote a memo.

  To: Maris Boioannes

  From: Lucao Psellus

  I need to speak to Investigator Manin of Internal Intelligence, and Prosecutor Sphrantzes of the judicial office. I’ve written to them myself, and to their superiors, but so far I have not received a reply. There’s bound to be a rational explanation for this. However, it would be very helpful to me in carrying out the request you made of me today if I could meet both of these men as soon as conveniently possible. Do you think you could ask one of your people to see to it? I’m sorry to bother you with such a tiresome business, but I know how efficient your staff is.

  He blotted the page and smiled. He was fairly sure his memo wasn’t going to flush Manin and Sphrantzes out of their lairs, but the outcome, whatever it turned out to be, would almost certainly leave him better informed than he had been before; and if he had to have someone like Boioannes in his life, he might as well make use of him. If he’d got nothing else out of the war, it had taught him one thing. Spears and arrows and siege engines and field artillery are all very well in their way, but people are the best weapons.

  He walked to the window and looked out. In the courtyard, the scale of the great bronze water-clock ordained that it was a quarter to seven; four hours to go before the meeting started. It was a well-kept secret, which he’d been let into only once he’d joined Necessary Evil, that the water-clock, on which all time throughout the Republic was ultimately based, was running slow. Tiny traces of limescale in the water were gradually furring up the outlet pipes — it was something to do with mining works in the Suivance Hills, which meant the river that supplied the aqueduct that brought the water that fed the conduit that filled the clock was beginning to cut into the limestone bedrock of the hills, hardening the water supply ever so slightly — which meant that the clock’s outflow rate was down from nine gallons a day to eight-point-nine-nine-seven-something. Far too small to notice, of course (unless you were the sort of man who carried calipers in your pocket when you paid social calls on your friends); but the plain fact was that time throughout the Republic was gradually slowing down. Every hour was a tenth of a second longer this year than it had been last year; in ten years’ time, given the exponential rate of the distortion, an hour would last an hour and five seconds. Eventually, on that basis, there would finall
y come an hour that would never end. Of course, the problem could be solved in a couple of minutes by a careful apprentice with a bow-drill and a fine bit, but that could only happen if the existence of the problem could be admitted. No chance whatsoever of that.

  On his desk lay the messenger tube Boioannes had brought for him; something to do with Duke Valens, he remembered, and somebody else’s wife. He picked it up with the tips of his index fingers, one at each end. People are the best weapons. He pushed in gently at one end, and the roll of paper slid out, like an animal flushed from cover.

  7

  Just because you own a place, it doesn’t necessarily follow that you’ve ever been there.

  Miel Ducas leaned forward in the saddle and rubbed dust out of his eyes, leaving behind a silt of dirt and tears. If that big gray thing over there was Sharra Top (and there wasn’t much else it could be) and the river he’d just crossed was the Finewater, he was quite definitely on Ducas land. The Ducas owned everything from the Longstone, two combes beyond Sharra, to the Finewater. It was, of course, only an insignificant part of their possessions, always referred to as (he laughed out loud at the thought) that miserable little northeastern strip that’s no good for anything.

  Miserable, yes. Not so bloody little.

  He’d never been north of the Peace and Benevolence at Watershead in his life; possibly he’d seen this land, from the Watershead beacon perhaps, or the watchtower of his hunting lodge at Caput Finitis. If so, it would have been a gray smudge, a vague blurring of the definition of the border of sky and land. Nobody lived here; a few of his more desperate tenants drove sheep up here occasionally to nibble round the clumps of couch grass, but he couldn’t see any sheep, or anything living at all. He’d lost count of the days and nights since he’d escaped from the scavengers.

  Nice irony: to get this far, just so he could starve to death on his own property. It would spoil the delicacy of it all to bear in mind that, properly speaking, it all belonged to the Mezentines now, by unequivocal right of conquest.

  The horse didn’t seem unduly worried about anything; the horse could eat grass.

  Miel made an effort and tried to think sensibly. If that really was Sharra Top, the Unswerving Loyalty at Cotton Cross was two and a bit days’ ride (in his condition, make that three full days) northwest. He was starving. Theoretically, he could kill the horse and eat it, but then he’d have to walk to the Loyalty, and in the state he was in, that was out of the question. If he made it to Cotton Cross and got something to eat (no money, of course) and then carried on toward the ruins of Civitas Eremiae, he’d have the problem of being in regularly patrolled enemy territory, in a place where someone would be bound to recognize him, assuming the Mezentines had left anybody alive up there …

  Pointless, the whole thing. Particularly galling was the fact that he’d slaughtered two men in order to make his escape, and absolutely nothing to show for it. That wasn’t a tragedy, that was stupid. The death of the Ducas could quite legitimately be tragic, but stupidity was an unforgivable crime against the family’s good name. Nobody would know. He would know; and the opinion of the Ducas is the only one that matters.

  In the end, the factor that decided the issue for him was the thought of how much energy he’d have to scrounge up from somewhere just to get off the horse. If he carried on riding until he was too weary and famished to stay in the saddle, presumably he’d just keel over and flop down among the grass tussocks and die. No effort needed. Let’s do that, then.

  As a last gesture of Ducas steadfastness, he pointed the horse’s head toward Sharra before closing his eyes. Then he yawned hugely and let his chin sink forward. Every step the horse took jolted his neck.

  After a while, it seemed reasonable enough that Death should be riding beside him. No hurry (Death was an urbane, considerate fellow), take your time, if you’ll excuse the pun. This is all perfectly natural. Everybody dies.

  He lifted his head (he knew his eyes were shut and his chin was resting awkwardly on the junction of his collarbones) and glanced round for one last look at his country; this part of his country, or a part of this part.

  I’ve served Eremia all my life, he said, and now it’s killing me. That’s nice.

  Death didn’t approve. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, you should be thankful that you had the opportunity to devote your life to the common good. Come along, now, this is a solemn moment, you’d do well to act accordingly. More gratitude and less attitude, so to speak.

  Miel sighed. Oh, absolutely, he said. And look where it’s got me.

  Now then, said Death. You’ve lived a life of luxury and privilege, not like those two poor devils you murdered. You’ve had everything.

  No, Miel replied. Most things. Everything that money can buy.

  Death clicked his tongue. The mere fact that you’re making that distinction proves how privileged you’ve been. How many people in this world can say they own the land they die on?

  Miel laughed, though he couldn’t hear himself. You know, he said, I don’t think anybody can own land; not great big slices of geography like this. It’s a bit like when you see a small man getting dragged along behind a great big dog. Who’s walking who?

  Death sighed. I’d love to stay here and chat, but you clearly aren’t thinking straight. Shall we go?

  Not yet. Miel narrowed his eyebrows, as though he was doing long multiplication. I’ll tell you something I never had. And it’s something that nearly everybody else gets.

  Oh, you mean love, Death said. Don’t worry about that.

  That’s easy for you to say, Miel replied irritably. But it’s important, it’s one of the really important things that matter a lot. You can’t just wave a hand and say don’t worry about it.

  Really?

  Yes, really. I missed out on it, and it’s not fair. I can hardly remember my parents, so I missed out on that sort of love. No wife, no kids —

  You were in love with Veatriz Sirupati, Death pointed out, until she married your friend Orsea.

  Doesn’t count. She never loved me back.

  True, Death replied. Well, maybe when you were both kids, and everybody thought she was going to marry you, for sound political and dynastic reasons.

  You can’t call persuading yourself to make the best of a bad job love. I’m sorry, but you won’t budge me on that one. Love is really, really important, and I missed out entirely. Unfair.

  No big deal, Death insisted. Love is a confidence trick, that’s all. It’s Nature’s way of suckering a mammal with a brain and a long, vulnerable gestation period into reproducing. Humans can think, so ordinary animal-grade maternal instinct wouldn’t be enough to make human women go through all that, not if they stopped and thought about what’s involved. So you have love. It’s a substitute for rational thought; look at it that way, it’s the complete antithesis of what being human’s all about. Humans can make choices, it’s what makes them unique. Love takes all your choices away, and there you suddenly are. Worse still, love inevitably leads to the worst pain of all, when you lose the people you love. You might as well be getting all uptight with me because you’ve never had diphtheria.

  I’m not listening, Miel said.

  You are, you know. Think how utterly lucky you are. You’ll die, and nobody will suffer unspeakable pain because you’re not around anymore. Nobody loves you, even your best friend had you thrown in jail. You can die knowing you won’t be hurting anybody. Now that’s a real privilege.

  I don’t think I’ll die after all, Miel answered, and opened his eyes.

  It was getting dark. He considered stopping for the night, in case the horse stumbled and fell, but decided against it. If he was going to reach Cotton Cross before the last dregs of nutrient drained out of his blood, he needed to keep going. I have decided to go on living, he realized, out of pique, just to be difficult. Well.

  He could have been lucky, or perhaps the horse was really a fire-dragon or the spirit of one of his ancestors, briefly assuming equine
shape in order to keep him alive. In any event, it didn’t trip and stumble in the dark, and when the sun rose he was appreciably closer to Sharra Top. Not nearly close enough, though.

  In a dip of dead ground was a pool. The water was brown, so dark it was almost black (peat water, seeping up out of the saturated ground at this time of year). The horse put its head down to drink, and he couldn’t be bothered to pull it up. He quite fancied a drink himself, in fact he was desperate for one; but that would mean dismounting, and he knew that if he did that, he’d never be able to get back on the horse. The point was academic because he was going to die, but his stubborn streak had worn through onto the surface, like cheap silver plating on a copper dish. I shall die of thirst instead of hunger, he decided, and then all of you who betted on starvation will lose your money. Serves you right. Ghouls.

  The horse was still noisily sucking up water. He pulled on the reins to drag its head up, but it jerked back, snatching them out of his hands. He swore, leaned forward to retrieve them, and felt himself slipping, forward and sideways, out of the saddle. He writhed, trying to pull himself back, but it was too late. He’d passed the balance point.

  Hell of a stupid way to die, he thought, as he fell. It seemed to take him a very long time to travel the few feet, long enough for him to feel disgust at the ridiculously trivial way his life was ending, and then for the disgust to melt into amusement. If he fell in the water in his state, he probably wouldn’t have the strength to swim. Drowning, now; nobody would’ve bet on that.