by K. J. Parker
Miel reined in his horse, dismounted, reached the ground clumsily, nearly fell over. He smiled at the tall man.
“Hello, Jarnac,” he said.
Miel Ducas had never really cared much for beer: too sweet, too full of itself, and the taste stayed with you for hours afterward. After Framain’s vintage wine and dusty water, it tasted heavenly.
“We’d given up on you,” Jarnac said for the fifth time, tilting the jug in spite of Miel’s protests. “No trace of you at the scavengers’ camp; they swore blind they’d never seen you, we knew they were lying, we assumed they’d cut your throat or sold you to the Mezentines. Anyhow, they won’t be bothering anybody anymore.” He opened his face and filled it with beer, best part of a mugful. Alcohol had never affected Jarnac at all, except to magnify him still further. “Should’ve known you’d be able to take care of yourself, of course. Bunch of thieves and corpse-robbers weren’t going to keep hold of you for long.”
Miel made a point of not asking what had happened to the scavengers. Instead, “Jarnac,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could lay your hands on three wagonloads of sulfur?”
Jarnac lowered his mug and put it down on the table, like a chess-player executing a perfect endgame. “Sulfur,” he repeated. “What the hell do you want with that?”
“I need some to give to somebody.”
Jarnac shrugged. You could practically see doubt and confusion being shaken away, like a horse bucking a troublesome rider. “Should be able to get some from somewhere,” he said. “Merchants sell it, don’t they? Or we could probably requisition some from Valens’ lot. Theoretically, I’ve still got an open ticket with the Vadani quartermaster’s office.”
Miel frowned. “It’d probably be better if we bought it,” he said. “Talking of which, have you got any money?”
Big, Jarnac-sized laugh. “I’ll be honest with you,” he said, “I really don’t know. Ever since I’ve been with Valens’ lot, I haven’t actually needed any. But I’m a serving officer in the Vadani cavalry, so I guess they’re paying me. Not a problem,” he went on, before Miel could interrupt. “Three wagonloads of sulfur, as soon as we get back to headquarters. Anyhow,” he went on, “the war. Well, I’m not quite sure where to start. Strikes me, the more battles we win, the further we retreat, which I suppose is probably sensible since it’s strictly a hiding to nothing, but it makes it a bit hard to keep score, if you know what I mean. To cut a long story short, though; no easy way to say this, Valens is cutting you loose. No more support for the resistance — which is short-sighted of him if you ask me, because …”
Miel kept nodding, but he wasn’t interested. He was thinking, not for the first time, about the book he’d found on Framain’s table, and a beehive-shaped building with a chimney, a woman with soot all over her face, and sulfur. It was a strange mash of thoughts to have crammed inside his head, but as he turned it over and over again, he realized that it had grown to fill all the available space, driving out everything else — the war, Eremia, the Ducas, honor, duty, loyalty, Orsea, Veatriz …
He looked up. Jarnac was wiping beer foam out of his mustache and talking earnestly about the weaknesses in the Mezentine supply lines. Behind his head, the paneling was gray and open-grained, and smoke curled into the room from a clogged fireplace.
Surely not, Miel thought; not in the middle of all this, with the world coming to an end.
8
“They’re here, for crying out loud,” Carausius snapped, hanging in the doorway. “Valens, this is ridiculous. You’re acting like a child who’s too shy to come down to the party.”
Valens kept his back turned. “Nonsense,” he replied sternly. “I just can’t decide on which shoes to wear, that’s all.”
“Now you sound like my wife.” Carausius clicked his tongue, loud as a bone breaking. “I’m not going to plead with you. Come down or stay up here hiding, it’s your bloody dukedom.”
“All right.” Valens grabbed a shoe, stuffed his foot into it, stumbled and grabbed the side of the wardrobe. “Wrong shoe,” he explained, taking it off and transferring it to his other foot. “That kind of day, really. Hardly auspicious for meeting my future bride.”
“Two more minutes and it’ll constitute a diplomatic incident.”
“I’m coming.” Valens pulled on the other shoe, fumbled the buckle and stood up. “So, lamb to the slaughter. I feel like I’m about to lead a cavalry charge against overwhelming odds.”
“No you don’t, actually,” Carausius said with a grin. “You’d be a damn sight more cheerful if you were.”
“True. Dying only takes a moment or so and then it’s over, but marriage is forever. Promise me she isn’t wearing feathers.”
“Promise.”
“Animal bones?”
“Do you include ivory in that category?”
“Shrunken organs taken from the bodies of men she’s personally killed in battle?”
“Valens.”
He sighed, let his shoulders slump, like a boy on his way to a music lesson. “Coming,” he said.
Vadani court protocol was unambiguously clear about the manner in which the Duke should receive representatives of a richer, more powerful but less civilized and enlightened nation. It was a matter of carefully balancing gravity, recognition and affable condescension. The only possible venue was the Great Hall; however, instead of being in position when they arrived and rising politely to greet them, Valens was required to time his entrance so that it coincided precisely with theirs. That way, assuming he didn’t run or dawdle, he’d meet them in the exact center of the room, and the issue of precedence could be neatly sidestepped. They would then withdraw from the Great Hall into the formal solar; he would graciously ask them to sit first, and the ambassadors would then introduce them to him, it being permissible to assume that they already knew who he was. It was the sort of performance that tended to give him a headache; but, as with most things he hated doing, he was very good at it.
He’d chosen the wrong shoes, after all. They pinched, and after a couple of dozen steps he could feel a blister growing on the back of his left heel.
As the footman opened the hall door and stood aside to let him pass, he tried to clear his mind. He’d been reading about the Cure Hardy, of course, everything up to and including the reports he’d had compiled after Skeddanlothi’s raid. He knew that there were at least seventeen different nations in the loose confederacy of tribes, each of them radically different from the others in several important respects. He knew that the Aram Chantat — this lot — drove immense herds of cattle from summer to winter pasture in a complex nine-year transhumance cycle, but ate only cheese, butter, yogurt, cream, wild fruit and berries and the occasional green vegetable bartered with more settled neighbors; that they believed that human life was a dream dreamed by one’s equivalent in the higher world, and death was the equivalent’s waking from sleep, and that birds, quadrupeds and some species of lizard were real, but all snakes, fish and insects were illusory shapes assumed by spirits of violence when they chose to wander the earth; that Aram Chantat carpets, knitwear and leatherwork (they were stroppy about eating their cattle but perfectly happy wearing them) were of high quality and widely exported, but that they were backward in the use of both wood and metal, and relied on imported goods obtained through a complex chain of intermediaries from the Mezentines. He knew that Aram Chantat women who wore their hair long were either unmarried or widowed, whereas if a man was clean-shaven, he was either disgraced or had sworn an oath as yet unfulfilled; that seven, blue and three ravens were unlucky, five, white and an eagle with something in its talons were good omens; that the women held their horses’ reins in both hands but the men held theirs with the left hand only. About the only thing he didn’t know was why they were there and what they really wanted from him.
The door was open. He took a deep breath and advanced, like a fencer gaining his enemy’s distance.
Four of them;
easy enough to recognize, because they stood a head taller than his own people. There were two men in early middle age, bearded, wearing long quilted red gowns trimmed with black fur; an old man, bald, with a mustache but no beard (what the hell did that signify?), dressed in a plain brown robe tied at the waist with a rope belt, barefoot; a girl.
Well, he thought. No animal bones.
She was wearing a variant of the quilted gown; red, with puffed sleeves, edged with white Mezentine lace. Her hair was straight, black, glossy, and reached almost to her waist; she wore a net cap of gold thread and seed-pearls, also Mezentine. Her face was triangular, sharp; not pretty, he’d have to think about whether it was beautiful or not. Her hands were clasped in front of her waist-high, and on her left wrist she carried a hooded goshawk. Her mouth …
(As he walked toward her, he caught sight of Orsea in the left-hand reception line, and next to him Veatriz. She was watching him, but looked away.)
Her mouth was thin, very red against her pale complexion — at this range he couldn’t tell if it was powder or natural; the Aram Chantat prized pale women, on the grounds that pallor comes from staying in the shade, therefore not having to work. She had long hands, and, he noticed, big feet. He realized that he’d been holding his breath for rather longer than was good for him, and he had to make an effort to let it out slowly and not gasp or pant. She was …
They were now the proper distance apart; if they both reached out their hands, their fingers would touch. Protocol demanded a bow; apparently she knew that. He lost sight of her for a moment, caught a fleeting glimpse of his ludicrous shoes before lifting his head again. She wasn’t smiling, or frowning, but she was looking at him. Suddenly he wanted to laugh. She was looking at him as though committing the salient points to memory, so she could describe them to someone in a letter. Realizing that, he knew immediately what he must look like himself, because already in his mind he was phrasing descriptions, comparisons, all the main points of interest, for a letter he would never be able to write. For him, that was sheer force of habit. To see the same look in someone else’s face was remarkable. He felt (he hesitated, checked and confirmed) — he felt like a stranger walking in a foreign town who sees a fellow-craftsman, a practitioner of his own trade, easily recognized by his stained hands or his leather apron, or a folding rule sticking out of his jacket pocket.
“Shall we withdraw?” Someone was talking, and he wanted to yell at him to be quiet; but it was Carausius, saying the words needed to get them out of there and into the next room. He saw the bald man nod, and they took a step forward; for a moment, he couldn’t think what to do with his feet — should he retreat, still facing them, or turn his back on them and lead the way, or what the hell was he meant to do now? By the time he’d thought all that, she was next to him, and he could see that it was powder, and the red of her mouth was something put on with a brush, and her eyes were small and dark, set with a perpetual slight frown, like a hawk’s. It occurred to him that he was now supposed to half turn and walk beside her to the formal solar (he had no idea why it was called that, so she’d better not ask). She looked at him now, and dipped her head in a small, private nod, as if acknowledging the presence of someone she already knew.
It felt like a long walk to the side door of the hall. He made a point of keeping his head up slightly, looking just over the tops of the heads of the people lined up on either side. There were eyes he didn’t want to catch; guilt, a little, such as you might feel remembering a small promise forgotten, or a letter neglected and overdue.
As they walked together through the doorway, the goshawk shifted its wings a little. He couldn’t remember offhand if that was supposed to be an omen of any sort.
In the solar; he’d forgotten that the tapestries on the walls were all scenes of the kill and the unmaking, the deer paunched, skinned and jointed; not, therefore, really suitable for a race of vegetarians. She stopped. He remembered that he had to take a few steps more, then turn and face her (but no salute or assumption of a guard).
“Duke Valens.” He wondered who was talking, realized it was the bald old man. Perfect Mezentine accent, made his own sound positively rustic. “May I introduce the Princess —” And then he made some sort of uncouth noise, which went on for some time and contained sounds Valens was sure he’d never heard a human being make before. Her name, presumably. “And these are —” More noises; the two bearded men, who turned out to be her maternal uncles; and the bald man had a name too.
He remembered, just in time. “Please,” he said, and waved airily at the chairs, as though he’d only just noticed them. They sat; his people sat; he sat. That was as far as protocol was going to take him. From now on, he was on his own.
He tried to think of something to say; fortunately, Carausius was better prepared, or more articulate, than he was. “I trust you had a reasonable journey.” The bald man assured him that they had. A brief silence; Carausius appeared to have forgotten his lines, or was waiting for a cue that hadn’t come. “The roads are generally quiet at this time of year. I hope the desert crossing wasn’t too arduous.”
Valens was expecting a reply, a polite reassurance. Instead, there was dead silence, as though someone had just said something indiscreet or vulgar. Then the bald man (beautiful speaking voice) said, “The Princess hopes that this gift will be acceptable to you.”
He means the goshawk, Valens realized with a slight flare of shock. She was holding it impeccably; King Fashion would’ve clapped his hands and called people over to see. It was an outstanding bird; a hen, not a tiercel, with its full second-season plumage; bigger and darker than the passagers the merchants brought from northern Eremia. It stood perfectly still on her wrist, and her fingers were lightly closed over the ends of the jesses.
People were looking at him. “Thank you,” he said. That wasn’t going to be enough. What he wanted to say was, How come you’ve got such good taste in hawks when you don’t even eat meat? but he was here to agree a marriage, not start a war. “It’s a magnificent specimen,” he said.
“The Princess chose it herself,” the bald man said. “She also …” He hesitated, leaned across to one of the uncles, who whispered something in his ear that made him frown. “Excuse me,” he said. “I believe the term is manning a hawk, meaning to train it.”
“Quite correct,” Carausius said.
“The Princess manned it herself,” the bald man went on. “She is a highly accomplished falconer; I believe it is an interest you also share.”
“Yes, very much so,” Valens heard himself say. All lies, of course; she couldn’t have trained a hawk, it took days and nights of agonizing patience and fatigue. I couldn’t do it, so obviously she couldn’t, she’d mess up her hair or break a fingernail —
(He noticed that her fingernails were all cut short.)
“Perhaps, if time permits, we might find an opportunity to fly the bird,” the bald man was saying. He looked as though he’d expected rather more enthusiasm for the gift — I know why, Valens realized; they’ve been told that the only thing I’m interested in is hunting, which is why this poor girl’s been forced to take a crash course in advanced falconry.
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Carausius was saying.
Valens was embarrassed; they’re like parents who’ve taken their children to play with each other, but the children have taken an instant dislike to each other, and are sulking and refusing to make friends. In which case, what he really ought to say now was, Don’t want the stupid hawk.
Instead, he took a deep breath. “There’s a particularly fine heron down on the marshes,” he said. “I’ve been watching it for the past week. Perhaps —”
“Heron?” It was the first word she’d said. Her voice was as sharp as her face.
“A pair of them, actually,” Valens said (he could always find something to say about hunting, even when all the other words had dried up), “but the hen’s not up to much. I was planning to leave her and go after the cock-bird.”
“Do you hunt herons?” She frowned. “I suppose they steal fish,” she added.
Diplomatic nightmare. He couldn’t very well say that roast heron was a delicacy; and weren’t fish supposed to be incarnations of the Evil One, in which case a bird that killed them might well be sacred. Carausius was staring at something on the opposite wall. Valens couldn’t remember who else from his side was in the room.
“Herons are very rare in our country.” One of the uncles was speaking. “I’m told they taste a little like partridge, only a bit stronger. Is that right?”
Fine, Valens thought; the hell with diplomacy, and if it means starting a war, so be it. “Please forgive me if this is an awkward question,” he said, “but aren’t you people vegetarians?”
The bald man, the girl and one of the uncles looked at him blankly; the other uncle whispered a translation. The bald man looked mildly surprised. The girl raised both eyebrows.
“No,” the bald man said, “certainly not. Whatever gave you that idea?”
For a moment, all Valens could think about was the huge amount of cheese, yogurt, sour cream, curds, watercress and biscuits currently stockpiled in the kitchens. Bloody hell, what are we going to give them to eat? He also wished very much that he could remember who’d told him these people didn’t eat meat, so he could console himself by planning a sufficiently elaborate form of retribution. “Fine,” he said, “that’s all right, then. Some fool told me you eat nothing but cheese.”
“Cheese.” The girl was frowning.
“But you don’t,” Valens said quickly, “so that’s — Carausius, you’d better …”
Carausius already had; one of the minor courtiers was halfway to the door, moving well.
“I take it dinner will be late,” said one of the uncles. “Pity. We missed breakfast.”
“I’m sure we can find something,” Carausius said, his voice brittle, as if he could already feel the rasp of hemp fiber on his neck.