Evil for Evil

by K. J. Parker

  “Orsea?” he interrupted.

  “No, sir. Both he and the Duchess survived.”

  Valens nodded, and the recital continued. Orsea had survived — well, of course he had, it went without saying. The sky could cave in and flatten the earth, mile-wide fissures could open and gobble up the city, but Orsea would survive, somehow or other. “What about Ziani Vaatzes, the engineer? Did they get him?”

  Captain Brennus shook his head. “No, sir, he was the one who raised the alarm. If it hadn’t been for him …”

  Valens groaned; he hadn’t meant to, but the pain popped up suddenly and ambushed him. “What sort of a state am I in?” he asked.

  “Well, sir …” Brennus hesitated. “Maybe I should get the doctor, he can tell you more.”

  Valens felt his chest tighten. “That bad?”

  “No, sir. I mean —”

  “Oh for crying out loud. Am I going to die, or not?”

  It was almost amusing to see Brennus pull himself together. “You got a bad cut to your left arm; they’ve stitched and dressed it, but there may be some permanent damage. The arrow —”

  Valens’ eyebrows shot up. “I was hit by an arrow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I never even noticed. Where?”

  “In the right thigh,” Brennus said, his voice wavering. “The shaft was already snapped off when the surgeons treated you; they had to cut it out, but they don’t think there’ll be any lasting effect.”

  Valens smiled. “Is that it?”

  “Concussion,” Brennus said, “from the fall. They were quite worried, because you were unconscious for so long.”

  “Was I?” Valens pulled a face. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that, I’ve been asleep.” That seemed to bother Brennus a lot; was he supposed to laugh at the Duke’s feeble, scrambled-brain jokes, or should he ignore them? Best, Valens decided, if I don’t make any more. “So apart from that I’m all right?” he said.

  “The doctors said you shouldn’t even think about getting up for at least two days,” Brennus said apprehensively, obviously anticipating a storm of angry refusal. Valens nodded.

  “Suits me,” he said. “For one thing, it feels like I’ve pulled every muscle in my body.” He winced, remembering some of the things he’d done. His own worst enemy and all that. “All right, then,” he said briskly, “who’s in charge? It doesn’t sound like there’s many of us left.”

  He didn’t like the pause that followed; not one little bit. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Valens said.

  Brennus swallowed something. “I was the duty officer,” he said, as though admitting that he’d planned the whole thing, suborned by Mezentine gold. “I’ve sent messages to the divisional commanders, someone ought to be here before sunset, but until then I suppose, theoretically …”

  Valens smiled. “You carry on,” he said. “You appear to be doing a fine job.” He paused, then added, “Is anybody at all left out of the civil administration? Anybody higher up than, say, a permanent secretary?”

  It was meant as one of those jokes he’d resolved he wouldn’t make, but then there was another pause. Valens frowned. That wasn’t good.

  “I see,” he said. “In that case, I’m putting the military in charge until we can get everything sorted out. You’re it, in other words.”

  Brennus looked as though he’d just been sentenced to death by bastinado. “Like I said, sir, I’ve notified the divisional commanders, I’m sure one of them’ll be here very soon, and then …” Pause, while he pulled himself together again. “I’ve given orders to close the gates, and I’ve sent out patrols; there’s no sign of the enemy in a ten-mile radius of the city. What else should I be … ?”

  Valens closed his eyes. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d leave it at that. Just concentrate on keeping everybody calm and quiet until the army gets here. I’m sure you can manage — every confidence.”

  He could feel himself sliding away into sleep; no reason why he shouldn’t. “The Duchess, sir,” Brennus was saying. “Should I — I mean, would you like to see her now?”

  Valens opened his eyes and smiled. “No,” he said, and went back to sleep.

  The next time he opened his eyes, it wasn’t thin, pale Captain Brennus.

  “Mezentius? Is that you?”

  The familiar face of his chief of staff grinned down at him: the point of a nose and two small, pale eyes in a shrubbery of beard. “This is a right mess,” he said.

  Valens tried to raise himself on one elbow. Not his brightest idea ever. “When did you get here? What time is it?”

  “About ten o’clock in the morning, and around midnight,”Mezentius replied. “Since when I’ve been chasing round looking for something to do, apart from inspecting dead bodies. That young Guards captain’s done a good job, by the way. I’ll have him for the Seventh when you’ve finished with him.”

  Valens nodded. “Everything’s under control, then.”

  “In the circumstances.” Mezentius was frowning. “I told the Seventh and the Fifth to get here as soon as possible, but we’ve had patrols out, no sign of any more of them. It’s looking like a single raiding party who knew exactly who they were after and where to find them. Which,” he added quietly, “is rather more disturbing than a full-scale assault, if you care to look at it that way. You’ve heard the casualty list?”

  Valens nodded. “It hasn’t really sunk in,” he said. “But the impression I got was, nobody’s left except me.”

  “More or less,” Mezentius replied, and the way he said it made Valens wince. “I’ve talked to all the survivors who’re up to answering questions; basically, nobody on our side made a fight of it except you and that weird engineer, the one who looks like some kind of insect.”

  Valens had forgotten about him. “That’s right,” he said. “Did he make it?”

  “A few cuts and bruises,” Mezentius replied. “Twisted ankle. Fought like a maniac, so I gather. Amazing, really. He didn’t strike me as the type, the one time I met him.”

  “Go on,” Valens said.

  “Well,” Mezentius continued, “apparently he came charging up just as one of the bad guys was about to take out Duke Orsea; he jumped up, dragged Orsea off his horse at the last moment, grabbed the lance out of the bad guy’s hands and stuck him with it; then Orsea’s wife came rushing over, apparently she’d seen Orsea go down; four of them close in on her, but this Daurenja holds them off single-handed, does for two of them — did one of them with his teeth, apparently, bit his throat out like a dog. Then more of them join in, and then you showed up, and you know the rest. No, it sounds like the engineering department pretty well saved the day, one way and another. Oh, and the uncles as well, I expect you’ve heard about that. The rest of the embassy’s kicking up one hell of a fuss, as you’d expect.”

  Valens kept his sigh to himself. “What are they saying?”

  “Well, they’re still on our side,” Mezentius said, with a crooked grin. “The old chap was the one I spoke to. Basically, he wants to wipe the Mezentines off the face of the earth. Man after my own heart, really.”

  “That’s good,” Valens said. “It’s always good to have something in common with your in-laws. I suppose I’d better see him.”

  Mezentius shook his head. “I’ve told him you’re fragile as an egg and not to be disturbed for at least a week,” he said. “Only way I could keep him from bursting in here and waking you up.”

  Valens nodded. “Who is he, by the way? I’ve been talking to him all this time, but nobody’s actually told me where he fits in.”

  “Oh.” Mezentius frowned. “He’s sort of the grand vizier, prime minister, the head man’s chief adviser. He reckons he pretty much runs the show, though I don’t know whether the rest of them would agree. Anyway, he’s pretty high-powered; and he’s really pissed off about the uncles getting killed. Probably some background there I wasn’t briefed on.”

  “It’ll keep, I expect,” Valens said with a yawn.

 
They discussed other things — a new civil authority, which posts could be filled by co-option and which would have to wait for formal elections; suitable candidates for offices, the balance of power between the old families and the mining companies; the effect recent events (Valens smiled to himself; call them recent events and you cauterize the wound?) would have on the marriage alliance, plans for the evacuation, the war. Exhaustion came up on him suddenly, like an ambush. He stopped Mezentius in the middle of a sentence and said, “You’d better go now, I’m tired.” Mezentius nodded.

  “I’ll send the doctor in,” he said.

  “No, I just want to get some sleep,” Valens mumbled. His eyes were already closing. He heard the sounds of movement, someone standing up, the legs of a chair grating on a stone floor. He felt cold, but couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. He listened to his own breathing for a moment or so, and realized that he was back on the edge of the marsh, watching the ducks flying in. It had been a disaster, a wretched mess, all because of that fool Orsea. Standing next to him, King Fashion and Queen Reason were talking about the day’s hawking. He was surprised to hear the King say that it hadn’t been too bad after all: three dozen mallard, a few teal, three brace of moorhens, but it was a shame they hadn’t managed to pull down the heron. Perhaps they should have flown lanners instead of sakers. As they talked, they were watching the sky, waiting for the hawks to come back. They didn’t seem worried, but Valens knew that the hawks were gone for good; dead or scattered, not that it mattered a great deal. After a long silence, the King shrugged, and called to his master falconer to make up the bag. They were laying them out on the ground, in pairs, a male and a female; Sillius Vacuo and his wife, Lollius Pertinax and Syra Terentia, Carausius and the eldest Fabella girl, a hen to every cock-bird. He counted them: eighteen brace, just as the King had said. He almost expected to see himself among them as the falconers passed loops round their necks and hung them in their pairings from the top rail of the fence; but of course, he wasn’t there, the heron had got away.

  Queen Reason was talking to him. She was asking him if he was awake.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “I’m dreaming, of course I’m not awake.”

  He realized that he’d spoken the words aloud, and that he wasn’t asleep anymore. He opened his eyes.

  “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  He blinked, just in case. She was still there.

  “I was just dozing,” he said. He was struggling to remember which one she was; whose duchess, his or Orsea’s. But then it all came back to him; he remembered now. There had been some sort of ghastly mix-up, and he’d married the wrong one, and this was the fool’s wife he was talking to: Veatriz, who used to write him letters.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  She nodded. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Just skiving, so someone else has got to clear up the mess. Soon as everything’s been sorted out, I’ll make a miraculous recovery.”

  She smiled: thin, like lines scribed on brass with a needle. “I thought I ought to thank you,” she said. “It’s becoming a habit with you.”

  Something about the way she’d said that. “You wrote to me,” he said. “You wanted to talk.”

  “Yes, but that was before the wedding.” She hesitated. Not fair to bully a sick man. “It was very brave of you …” she started to say. She made it sound like an accusation. He didn’t want to hear the rest of it.

  “It sort of rounded off a perfect day,” he grunted.

  “Not quite the honeymoon you’d have chosen?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he said. “But, since you mention it, better than the one I had planned.”

  She frowned. “I should go,” she said. “Shall I let your wife know you’re awake and receiving visitors?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” he sighed. The pillow was suddenly uncomfortable, and his arm itched. “I heard about Daurenja,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “The man who saved your life. And Orsea’s too,” he added maliciously. “How is he, by the way?”

  “In bed. They were worried about the bang he got on his head, but they think he’ll be all right now.”

  “Ah. So that’s all right, then.” He looked away, up at the ceiling. “Daurenja’s the long, spindly man with the ponytail who rescued both of you. Maybe you should look in on him too.”

  “I will. He was very brave.” He wasn’t looking at her, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face. “Isn’t he something to do with Vaatzes, the engineer?”

  “That’s right.” His head was starting to hurt, making it a painful effort to think. Nothing came to mind: no bright, interesting observations to found a conversation on. He’d prefer it, in fact, if she went away. (Interesting, he thought; does this mean love is dead? He couldn’t decide.)

  “I’m sorry Orsea spoiled your hunt,” she was saying. “He didn’t want to come. I think he was afraid he’d show himself up, one way or another. But he reckoned it’d have been rude to refuse the invitation.”

  “Oh well,” Valens replied. “As things turned out, it wasn’t the end of the world.”

  “The people who were killed.” She sounded as though every word was an effort, like lifting heavy blocks of stone. “Were they … ?”

  “Most of the government,” he said. “My friends. People I grew up with. It’s going to be very strange getting used to the idea that they won’t be around anymore. I mean, so many of them, and so sudden.” He paused, reflecting. “But you’d know all about that, of course,” he said. “At least they didn’t burn down my home.”

  She laughed, brittle as ice. “I never liked it much anyway,” she said.

  “Is it better here?”

  “No, not much.” A pause. It seemed to go on for a ridiculously long time. “The thing is,” she said, “I’ve been shunted about like a chess piece ever since I was fourteen years old; you know, move to this square here, then back, then sideways to cover the white knight. After a while, places just don’t matter very much anymore. And it’s not like I’ve ever done anything. At least,” she added, “I’ve caused a lot of trouble for thousands of people, but I never asked anybody to do any of that. Unless you count writing letters about poetry and things I could see from my window.”

  Valens shrugged. “I think if I’d had to live your life, I’d have gone mad, or run away. Haven’t you got a sister who’s a merchant?”

  “Yes. She’s a horrible cow and I haven’t seen her for years. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. I never had any brothers or sisters. What’s it like?”

  “Noisy. There’s always someone slamming doors in a huff. Why the sudden interest?”

  “I was just making conversation. It’s something we never got around to discussing, and it was always on my mind to ask you about it.”

  She stood up. “Some other time, maybe,” she said. “I really ought to go. You look tired.”

  He yawned. “I was born tired,” he said. “Rest just spoils my concentration.” She turned and walked away; reached the door and hesitated.

  “Should I ask the doctor to come in?” she said.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Goodbye, then.”

  “Goodbye. I’m sorry,” he added.

  “Are you? What for?”

  He closed his eyes, just to make her go away.

  “Everybody’s dead,” the woman in the red dress complained bitterly. “Which is hell for business. I’ve got a hundred yards of silk damask, beautiful sort of bluey-green, and I can’t shift it. No customers. All the money in the duchy’s tied up in probate, and what there is has all gone on estate sales, all the heirs selling up at the same time. It’s a bugger for luxury goods. I should’ve stuck to bulk commodities, like my old mother told me to. You could kill off every bloody aristocrat this side of the mountains, and people’ll still want quality lumber.”

  Ziani nodded. “Fo
r coffins,” he said, “if nothing else.”

  She sighed; not in the mood for comedy. “And what’s going to become of the marriage alliance, that’s what I’d like to know. If that goes out the window, that’s our venture in the salt trade well and truly stuffed.” She tilted the jug, but it was empty. “Bastard thing,” she said, a trifle unfairly in Ziani’s opinion, since she’d been the one who’d emptied it. “And I don’t know what you’re being so fucking calm and superior about. It’s your money as well, remember.”

  Ziani shook his head. “It’s not going to muck up the alliance,” he said soothingly. “Quite the opposite. From what I can gather, the Cure Hardy are fighting mad, because of the uncles getting killed. Blood vengeance is a big thing with them, so I’ve heard.”

  She shook her head. “You’re getting them confused with the Flos Gaia,” she told him. “They’re the ones who carry on blood feuds for sixteen generations. In fact, it’s a miracle there’s any of the buggers left. This lot are pretty sensible about that sort of thing, for savages.”

  “Not where royalty’s concerned,” Ziani replied. “And don’t forget, there’s a whole lot of young braves back home who’d love a chance to have a crack at the Republic, as a change from cattle-raiding against the other tribes. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Blessing in disguise, even.”

  She scowled, tried to get up to fetch a bottle from the cupboard, gave that up as too much effort. “That’s not going to help me get shot of my silk damask, though, is it? Genuine Mezentine, cost me two thalers a yard and I had to fight like a lunatic to beat them down to that. I’d been hoping to shift it for clothes for the wedding, but it didn’t get here in time, what with having to come the long way round to stay out of trouble. This bloody war’ll be the ruin of us all, you’ll see.”

  Ziani smiled. “You want to hang on to that cloth,” he said. “Take the long-term view. Once the savages are coming here all the time, money in their pockets from the salt deals, there’ll be a demand for prestige goods, and who else is going to be carrying any stock to sell them?”