Evil for Evil

by K. J. Parker

  Daurenja’s sparrowhawk came back, with a thrush in its claws. That, Orsea reckoned, more or less put the seal on the whole sorry business.

  No sign of his peregrine. He knew the drill: if his hawk hadn’t come back within a certain time, he was obliged to notify the master falconer, who’d organize the search for it. Orsea wasn’t looking forward to that. Knowing his luck, the peregrine would turn out to be a bird the master had trained himself, sitting up with it for four days and nights without rest or sleep; he wouldn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes would be enough to kill a dragon. There’d be plenty of other people nearby, of course, waiting in line to report their own missing hawks; they’d be looking at him too, and not saying anything. Twenty yards or so away, he saw Veatriz, talking to her majesty, the new duchess. He could guess what they were saying. Excuse me, but do you happen to know who that bloody fool was who ruined everything? Well, yes, actually that’s my husband.

  Valens had joined them; Veatriz backed up her horse and moved a few steps away. He considered riding over and joining her, but decided that that would be unkind. A duck rocketed low over his head, returning to the water. Its cry sounded just like an ordinary quack, but Orsea knew it was laughing at him, and he could see the joke.

  No need for clocks, sundials or counting under his breath. Orsea could feel the moment come and go, marking the time limit for the hawks to have come back before they were officially considered strayed. People were starting to look round for the master falconer. He heard Valens say, in a loud, carrying voice, “Well, I suppose we’d better forget about it for today.” People murmured back, and muttered to each other. Yes, Orsea thought, just about perfect.

  “That was a bit of a shambles, wasn’t it?” Daurenja had materialized next to him, his sparrowhawk hooded and perfectly aligned on his wrist (no sign of the dead thrush; slung, presumably, into some bush). “What went wrong? I wasn’t looking.”

  “It was all —” Orsea stopped. He’d caught sight of a couple of riders coming round the edge of the reeds. At first he assumed that they were the falconer’s men, assembling to begin the search for the strayed hawks. Then he noticed that they didn’t look right; not dressed for hawking, more like soldiers, in armor, with shiny steel helmets and lances. Also, their faces were very dark; like Ziani’s.

  “Who the hell are they?” someone said, close by.

  Orsea looked over his shoulder, to see if Valens had noticed them, and saw five more just like them, coming up from the opposite direction. Strange, he thought; they’re almost dark enough to be Mezentines, except that —

  One of them nudged his horse into a slow canter, heading straight for a fat man in dark blue and his wife, who were both looking the other way. Someone shouted to them — Orsea couldn’t quite catch the words — but they hadn’t heard or took no notice. The dark-faced rider came up between them; the fat man’s horse shied sideways, just as the dark-faced stranger lifted a hand with a sword held in it and slashed him across the back of the neck. The fat man slumped forward immediately, as though he’d been held up by a string which the sword had cut; the woman turned her head just as the dark-faced man brought his arm up and backhanded a thrust into her face. She fell sideways; her horse broke into a trot, dragging her by one stirrup, so that her head bounced up and down on the ground like a ball.

  A woman screamed. The rest of the dark-faced men — Orsea didn’t have time to count them, but at least two dozen — were moving forward too; the ones with lances were couching them, while the others were drawing swords. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a man called out in an outraged voice, as if he’d caught them stealing apples.

  Orsea remembered: the war. The one he’d brought here with him.

  “Are those men Mezentines?” Daurenja’s voice, frankly puzzled, groping for an explanation. For some reason, the sound of it stung Orsea like a wasp. I’ve got to do something, he thought; but that was stupid. They were soldiers, in armor; he was unarmed, in his pretty clothes, attending a wedding.

  One of them crossed in front of him, no more than five yards away, stopped, and turned his head to stare at him. There was no malice in the man’s dark eyes, just a flicker as he identified a legitimate quarry. He tugged lightly on his left rein, turning his horse’s head.

  Coming for me, Orsea thought; and then, Oh well. Then he remembered something, though even as he thought of it he doubted its relevance. He was a nobleman; except on a very few specific occasions, a nobleman doesn’t leave his bedchamber without some kind of sidearm, even if it’s just something decorative and stupid, such as the mimsy little stagshorn-handled hanger he’d hurriedly threaded on his belt as an afterthought, just before dashing out of the door. He felt for it and found it, as the dark-faced man closed with him. He’d actually managed to draw it halfway when something slammed very hard into the side of his head, squeezing all the light down into a pinprick.

  15

  Out of their minds, Valens thought, as he dragged his horse’s head round. Completely, suicidally insane, to mount an attack three miles from the city gate. They must know that, as soon as the alarm’s raised, they’ll be surrounded, outnumbered a hundred to one, annihilated in a matter of seconds. Nobody could be that stupid; therefore it can’t be happening.

  Without needing to look down, he found the hilt of his sword; then remembered that, since this was a hawking expedition in the safest place in the world, all he had with him was a stupid little hanger, adequate for clearing brambles but not a lot of use against armor. They’ll all be killed, yes; but by then they’ll have slaughtered the entire Vadani government. Maybe not so crazy after all.

  He realized he was looking for her; well, of course. Two of them had seen him; they were slowing down, turning toward him, but he couldn’t be bothered with them right now. He caught a glimpse of her — alone, separate from the main party, which was being cut down like nettles round a headland. Stay there, he begged her, and turned his attention to the immediate threat, because he couldn’t do anything to help her if he was dead.

  The funny little sword was in his hand. He kicked his horse into a canter and forced it straight at the right-hand Mezentine (a lancer, spear couched, coming in fast). At the last moment, when he felt his horse slow up in order to shy away from a direct collision, he pulled over hard to the right. His horse stumbled — he’d expected that — but recovered its stride with its next pace, as the Mezentine, going too fast to stop or swerve, drew level with his left shoulder. Valens threw himself to the left, almost pulling himself out of the saddle, crossing his right arm over his chest and shoulder, the hanger held as firmly as he could grip it; as the Mezentine rushed past him (neither hand free to fend off with), his neck brushed against the last inch and a half of Valens’ sword-blade, and that was all there was to it.

  Wrenching himself back up straight in the saddle, Valens hauled his horse through a half-circle, in time to see the dead man topple slowly backward over his horse’s tail. Looking past him, he watched the second lancer come around, level up and address him, the look in his eyes confirming that the same ploy wouldn’t work twice. Tiresome; but he still had the advantage in defense. A lancer trying to spear one particular target in the open is like a man trying to thread a moving needle. He kicked on, riding straight at the lancer; let him underestimate his enemy’s imagination. As the distance between them dwindled into a blur, Valens could see him getting ready to anticipate the coming swerve; he’d make a swerve of his own, and hold his lance wide to sideswipe him out of the saddle. Fine. Valens kicked his poor, inoffensive horse as hard as he could, driving him into the Mezentine like a nail. At the moment when he knew the horse would refuse and pull away right, he jerked the left rein savagely, bringing the horse to a desperate standstill. The force of deceleration threw him forward, but he knew the Mezentine’s outstretched lance would be there to stop him flying forward over the horse’s ears. As he felt himself slam into the lance-shaft, he let go of the reins and grabbed with his left han
d, closing his fingers around the shaft. There was a moment of resistance before the lance came away. My lance now, he thought, and sheathed the hanger.

  The Mezentine, unarmed and only vaguely aware of what had just happened, was slowing up for his turn, leaving a tiny wedge of opportunity. Valens kicked on; the horse sprang straight into the canter, giving Valens just enough time to grab the reins with his right hand and poke the lance out with his left. The point caught the Mezentine just below the left shoulder blade, shunting him forward onto his horse’s neck. Valens let go of the lance just in time, and legged hard right to swerve round him.

  That chore out of the way, he reined in and looked to see if she was still where he’d left her. She wasn’t. Swearing loudly, Valens stood up in his stirrups, making himself ignore the rich detail of the slaughter going on all around him (people he’d known all his life were being killed everywhere he looked, but he simply hadn’t got time to take note of that; it’d have to wait), and eventually caught sight of her. For some reason she was riding straight toward a knot of them, four horsemen or was it five, engaged with some opponent on the ground he couldn’t see. Furious because he wasn’t being allowed any time to plan ahead, he dropped his painfully won lance, drew the ridiculous hanger and kicked forward. Out of his mind, he thought wryly; must be catching.

  By some miracle, the one he reached first hadn’t seen or heard him coming. Valens drewcut the back of his neck as he passed him, in the gap between the bottom of his aventail and his shoulders, and hoped he’d done enough, since he had no time to look and make sure. The second one thought he was ready for him, but raised his shield a couple of inches too high in his anxiety to cover his face and chest. Another drawcut, just above the knee; useful arteries there. Even so, he managed to land a cut before Valens was clear of him; he felt the contact, and something like a very severe wasp-sting, which could be anything from a flesh wound to death in a matter of seconds. Nothing he could do about it, so he didn’t waste valuable time looking to see where he’d been cut. Ducking low as the third Mezentine swung at him, he punched his sword arm forward as he passed. He felt the point grate and turn on bone, dragged his horse round to address the fourth, and found he wasn’t there anymore. Small mercies.

  The luxury of a moment to pause and take in the situation. One Mezentine was still in the saddle, but he was leaking blood from his leg like a holed barrel, and could be safely ignored. Two riderless horses; one Mezentine riding away: one man, at least, with a bit of common sense. She was sitting motionless on her pretty little horse. Her dress was soaked with blood, but not hers; the Mezentine’s. She was staring at the dying man, watching the spurt and flow ebb as he quickly ran dry. Quite likely the most horrible thing she’s ever seen in her life, Valens reflected; and true love did that, riding yet again to her rescue.

  There was someone else involved, he realized: a man, someone he recognized. Reasonably enough — once seen, never forgotten, the bizarre, spider-like character, Vaatzes’ assistant. What the hell was he doing here, anyway?

  Answer: he was standing astride a dead horse, holding the front half of a broken lance, which he’d just pulled out of a dead Mezentine. He too was bloody to the elbows; his eyes were impossibly wide and he was gasping for breath as though he’d just been dragged out from under the water. That was impossible, because he had no call to be there, certainly he had no business fighting, heroically … Valens forced him out of his mind and looked round a second time. Three Mezentines were heading for him, lances couched. One damn thing after another.

  The ugly, spidery man had seen them too; he swung round from the hip to face them, holding out his half-a-spear as though bracing himself to receive a charging boar. Immediately, Valens understood; it was all in King Fashion, after all. He turned his horse’s head and rode away, forcing himself not to look back.

  The lancer who detached himself from the pack of three to come after him hadn’t seen the breakaway maneuver he’d used on the first Mezentine he’d killed, so the ploy was worth risking again, and succeeded quickly and efficiently. Even so, time was very tight. Valens wheeled round, almost too scared to look, but it was all right, just about. One lancer had charged Vaatzes’ man, who’d dropped on one knee, spear-butt braced against his foot (pure King Fashion), and allowed the lancer’s horse to skewer itself through the chest. That left one Mezentine to be the boar engaged with the pack. Valens rode in on him from the side and cut half through his neck before he’d figured out what was going on. Then there was just the unhorsed Mezentine on the ground; he was dazed from the fall, and probably never knew what hit him.

  But it was all a waste of time, Valens realized, as he looked up again and took in the shape of the engagement. Hardly anybody left alive, apart from a full dozen Mezentines, taking a moment or so to form up and surround them. A little spurt of anger at the unfairness of it flashed through Valens’ mind. He’d done his best — done pretty well, in the circumstances — but he was going to lose anyway, in spite of his efforts. If only there’d been time, he’d have complained to somebody about it.

  The Mezentines had completed their ring; all they had to do was close it up in good order and they could finish the job without further loss or fuss. Instead, they seemed to be hesitant about something. What, though? One man with a toy sword and a freak with a sharp stick? Maybe he was missing something. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the most beautiful sight.

  (Perhaps, he thought later, that was how she felt, when the Vadani cavalry swooped down through the fire and slaughter at Civitas Eremiae to carry her to safety. He doubted it, somehow. She’d only have seen the disgusting spectacle of killing, too horrible for her to differentiate between heroes and villains. He, on the other hand, could feel ecstatic joy at such a sight, because he knew it meant that his enemies were going to die and he wasn’t.)

  One platoon of the household cavalry; only thirty men, but enough to make all the difference in the world. They were standing to a furious gallop; Valens sketched it all out in his mind, and found that there would be time for the Mezentines to close in and kill her, and him, but only if they couldn’t care less about being slaughtered a moment or so later. The fact that they were hesitating told him what decision they were going to make, whole seconds before they made it. They wheeled and galloped away. All over.

  Valens felt the strength empty out of his body as the pain broke through. He struggled to draw a breath; he thought, I’ve been cut up before now, this is something else, but he couldn’t think what. His mind was clogging up, with pain, with repressed fear, shock, all manner of nuisances and all of them the more intense for having been kept waiting, like petitioners left for too long in an anteroom. He looked at her, and the blank horror in her face was too much to bear. She’s disgusted just looking at me, he realized, and he could see why. It was not what he’d done, but how he’d done it — quickly, with the smooth efficiency and minimal effort that comes only from long practice. Whenever she saw him now, she’d see the slaughterman.

  The hell with that, he thought resentfully — he could feel himself starting to slide off the horse, but it was too much effort to fight for balance. His mind was almost clotted now, but something was nagging at the back of it, shrill, like the pain of toothache. He remembered: his wife. Was she dead or alive? As if it mattered.

  A shift in balance, and the ground was rushing up to meet him. It hit his shoulder and hurt him, but it was too big to fight.

  Someone was standing over him, telling him something. His eyes hurt.

  “Syra Terentia and her two daughters, Lollius Pertinax, Sillius Vacuo and his wife, and they cut off their daughter’s arm at the elbow …”

  He struggled to place the voice. All he could see was light, and a blur. “What’s the …” he heard himself say, but he didn’t know how to finish the question.

  “Sir?” Ah, Valens thought, someone who calls me sir. Not many of them whose names I know. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “Nolentius Brennus, sir
,” the voice said. “Captain of the Seventh Company, Household Cavalry.” A short, nervous pause. “Sir, do you know what’s just happened? Can you remember?”

  The temptation, wicked and seductive, was to lie back and pretend to be asleep; but no, he couldn’t do that. The young soldier was scared, on the edge of panic and, very probably, in charge. He needed his duke’s help. “Yes, it’s all right,” Valens muttered, opening his eyes wide and making an effort to resolve the blur into the soldier’s face. Never seen him before: a long, thin nose, weak mouth and a round bobble for a chin. If anybody’s having a worse day than me, Valens thought, it’ll be this poor devil. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t take any of that in. This is the casualty list, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.” He saw the young man — Brennus, he knew the family but not this particular specimen — take a deep breath, ready to start the whole painful rigmarole over again. He felt sorry for him, but it had to be done.

  “First things first,” Valens said. “The Duchess. Is she … ?”

  “She’s fine, sir. At least, as well as can be expected.”

  “Her uncles?”

  The fear in Captain Brennus’ eyes made the words superfluous. “Both dead,” he said. “They died defending the Duchess, but they had nothing to fight with.”

  “Yes, all right. Who else?”

  The cataract of names. He wasn’t counting; the list seemed to go on forever. There’d be two he’d never heard of, then three he’d known since he was a boy, then another stranger, then another old friend or cousin. Carausius was dead; that shocked him so much he missed the next five names.