Evil for Evil

by K. J. Parker

  Orsea grinned at him, like a dying animal baring its teeth. “She turned you down.”

  Valens smiled; empty, like a flayed skin. “She made me realize I’d been acting like a bloody fool for quite long enough; that I should never have interfered at Civitas Eremiae, and that it was time I cut my losses and started behaving like a grown-up with responsibilities. I’m very sorry,” he went on, looking away, “but I can’t risk a third time, not even for you. Nennius, if you’d be so kind.”

  The guards caught hold of Orsea’s wrists; they sort of flicked him up out of the chair and onto his feet; so accomplished at holding and controlling a man that it was impossible to tell whether Orsea was trying to struggle or not. They turned him round (no ostentatious use of force; small movements are the most efficient) and propelled him out of the tent. Nennius saluted formally and followed them. The tent flap fell back into place.

  Ziani looked up, trying to see Valens’ face without being too obvious about it, but his head was turned and in shadow. He waited for Valens to say something.

  “Well,” Valens said. “That’s another rotten job I can cross off my list. My father always used to say, when you’ve got a load of shitty jobs to get done, do two or three a day for a week and it’s not so bad.” For a moment he let his chin sink onto his chest, and then he looked up again. “Silver mines,” he said. “We were talking about air pumps for underground galleries.”

  “Were we?” Ziani shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t remember.”

  Valens clicked his tongue. “You were saying that a big double-action bellows was all right for relatively shallow shafts, but for deeper work there’s some way of using fires to suck air down into the tunnels. Sounded a bit dubious to me, but you’re the engineer.”

  Ziani took a deep breath. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “What do you think?” Valens laughed. “You Mezentines may be streets ahead of us in everything else, but when it comes to judicial murder, we’ve got you beat every time. You won’t find any condemned traitors getting away from us by jumping out of windows or carving up sentries. Count yourself lucky on that score that you didn’t have us to contend with. No, they’ll probably take him round behind one of the big supply wagons and do it there. It’s where the butchers go to slaughter chickens, out of sight of the horses so they don’t spook. It’s amazing, the way horses freak out if they see something getting killed; though not people, oddly enough, only other animals. Though we did have a few of the wagon horses go crazy during the battle; smashed up their traces and bolted, miserable bloody creatures. It makes you ask yourself: why can’t anything in this world ever hold still?” He paused, then shrugged his shoulders. “It was justice, that’s all. I can see why you probably don’t like the look of it, you having had such a close call yourself. Can’t blame you; but it’s got to be done.”

  “What about the Duchess?” Ziani asked. “Will she understand?”

  Valens scowled, then said: “No, of course not. I’ve screwed that up, for good. But that’s no bad thing. It was a distraction; all very fine and splendid when there’s nothing serious going on, but when you’re facing the annihilation of your people, you need to keep a clear head. If we’re going to get across the desert, I’ll need to be able to concentrate. Hence the clearing up of odds and ends.” He shifted suddenly in his seat, then became still again. “That Nennius is a competent man. Still a bit young, but he has the rare and valuable virtue of doing what he’s told.” He yawned; genuinely tired, as far as Ziani could judge. “Do you think I should’ve sent him back to the Mezentines?”

  “No,” Ziani said.

  Valens nodded. “It did seem like a fair compromise,” he said, “but I thought, what the hell, let’s just for once do something properly, instead of fudging the issue just in case we’ve misjudged it. My father always used to say, never ever give anybody a second chance. I always used to think he was a vicious bastard. Well, he was, but I’m beginning to understand why. Didn’t somebody say once that the tragedy of mankind is that as they get older, sons gradually turn into their fathers? Probably a young man, the one who said that. I wish I’d had the chance to know my father when I was a bit older. He died when I was at that rebellious stage, and so I’ve always been torn between hating and despising everything he stood for, and trying to be his deputy, so to speak, doing the things he’d have done if he’d lived. Of course, he’d never have gone to Civitas Eremiae; which rather puts me in my place, don’t you think?”

  Ziani stood up. “If that’s everything you wanted to see me about …” he said.

  Outside, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. They were carrying hay on pitchforks to feed the horses, or rolling barrels, or searching for strayed children, or arguing with the sentries about some camp regulation or other. Obviously Nennius had done a properly discreet job; not a good idea to spook the rest of the flock by slaughtering a duke where people could see. Well; the news would circulate quickly enough. Built into Ziani’s calculations was the assumption that Orsea’s death would be a popular move among the Vadani; they’d all sleep better at night knowing that the traitor who’d brought the Mezentines down on them was dead, and Valens would be respected for not allowing the malefactor’s exalted rank to save him. He paused to remember Orsea as he’d first encountered him — wounded in the disastrous battle, confused, tearing himself apart with guilt, still able to find a little compassion for the misfortunes of a stranger. Well; like a true nobleman, he’d lived to serve. In death he’d been useful. By now, he was just a carcass, inedible meat. One more, among so very many.

  “There you are.” He looked round and saw Daurenja loping toward him like a big, friendly dog. “I’ve been looking for you, but nobody seemed to know where you’d got to.”

  Not now, Ziani thought. “I’ve been busy,” he said. “The Duke …”

  “Won’t take a moment.” Daurenja fell in beside him, matching his pace exactly. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You remember I talked to you a while back, about this pet project of mine. The exploding sulfur compound, and making a tube to use it in.”

  “Oh, that.” Ziani frowned. “I haven’t given it any thought, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s all right,” Daurenja said magnanimously. “You’ve had other things on your mind. But I’ve been thinking about it — what you said, about forging the tube rather than casting it. Great idea, and I can see the sense in it, but there’s a few small details I’d like your opinion on. For a start —”

  “Not now,” Ziani said.

  “Oh, just while we’re walking,” Daurenja replied cheerfully. “I’m sure it’s me being thick, and you can explain what I’ve been missing in just a few words. Let’s see, now. You were talking about staves, like making a barrel; presumably you’re thinking about butt-welding them around a mandrel. But —”

  “You don’t want to take any of that too seriously,” Ziani said irritably. “I was just thinking aloud. On reflection, I’m fairly sure it wouldn’t work.”

  “Oh, I don’t agree. I think you’ve cracked it. But were you thinking about welding all the staves in turn, a separate heat for each one, or trying to do the whole lot in one heat? Only there’s distortion to think about if you’re doing them piecemeal, but if you’re going for simultaneous, you’d need to rotate the mandrel, which’d mean —”

  Ziani stopped. “Why don’t you listen?” he said. “I’m not interested in helping you with this ridiculous idea of yours. I’ve heard about what happened to your last business partner.” Daurenja pulled what he guessed was supposed to be an appeasing face, but he ignored it. “If I were you,” he went on, “I’d clear out now, while you still can. Piss off back to the Cure Doce, or Lonazep. Or the Mezentines, if you really admire them so much — if you’re Cure Doce by birth, that makes you a neutral, they’ve got no quarrel with your people. Go away, and leave me alone.”

  “I don’t think so.” Daurenja looked faintly disappointed, maybe a little hurt. “
Thanks to you, I’ve made myself very useful here. They need me. I’m afraid you can’t just chuck me out if and when you feel like it, I’m working directly for the Duke these days. Besides,” he added, “things have changed rather a lot in the last half-hour, haven’t they?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Daurenja sighed. “I happened to see my friend Major Nennius just now,” he said. “I don’t think he saw me; he was preoccupied, a job he was doing. Not,” he added quickly, “that I blame you. Had to be done, I can see that quite clearly; you had no choice. But I don’t think Duke Valens would be very happy if he knew about how it had come about, if you get my meaning.”

  It was that kind of fear that chills you to the bone; not the heart-stopping kind that forces all the breath out of you, or the immediate physical danger that loosens the bowels and the bladder. In spite of it, Ziani found he could keep quite calm. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Of course you do,” Daurenja said indulgently. “And I appreciate it’s not something you feel like discussing, especially out here in the open where people might be eavesdropping. We’ll have a nice long chat about it some time, when we’re both of us not quite so busy. I will say this, though: you’re a clever man. False modesty aside, I’ve always reckoned I’m quite smart, a cut above everybody else I’ve ever come across — you’ve got to believe that, haven’t you, or how can you justify doing the difficult, nasty stuff ? But I can see, compared to you I’m crude and ignorant. You could say, I am to you as the Vadani are to the Mezentines. Uncouth, you could call it. Unsophisticated.” He smiled warmly. “I knew you were the right man for me to tag along with; I knew it when I first heard about you. A man after my own heart, I thought. I mean, look at what you’ve achieved, and practically nothing to work with. And look at you now. Leading the Vadani to join up with the Cure Hardy and change the entire world; and all so you can go home. Quite apart from the skill of it, the sheer scope of your vision is magnificent.” He shook his head. “I know this sounds corny as hell, but I’m really proud to know you, Ziani Vaatzes. Today of all days; when it all started to come together, I mean.” He shrugged. “Look,” he went on, “I can tell you’re not really in the mood for talking about lap-welds and expansion coefficients; we’ll leave it for another time. I hope you don’t mind me saying my piece, by the way. Only, my principle’s always been, be open with people, tell them what you think. That’s got to be the right way, hasn’t it?”

  He smiled again and walked away.

  26

  Eight days of blundering through potholes and ruts. Intermittent rain; the carts bogged down twice, once in a mudslide, once in the bed of a shallow river that wasn’t on the map and hadn’t been mentioned by any of the guides. Food running low; rations had to be reduced by a third; fodder for the horses a worse problem. A mild outbreak of some kind of fever, which killed a dozen or so civilians. Ahead of them, the mountain range; beyond that, the edge of the desert. No sign, yet, of the Mezentines.

  A village, Limes Vitae; Valens had heard about it, mostly because it was proverbially the last place on earth, the very edge of the world. According to family legend, one of his father’s uncles had been there once, though why or what he thought of it wasn’t recorded. It had sent a dozen light infantry to fight in the first war against the Eremians, and had last paid taxes seventy-four years ago. If there was still a settlement there, and if they had food and hay, getting over the mountain was possible. If not; well.

  A few thin cattle on the stony plain bore witness to some level of habitation, as the carts ground up the road through the foothills. A boy, who stopped to stare and was scooped up by outriders, confirmed that the village was still where it had always been. There was food there; just enough to see the villagers through the winter, since it had been a poor year generally, and the merchants who traded root vegetables and salt fish for hides and wool hadn’t arrived; there was some rumor about a war somewhere. Hay? Enough for all the horses in the column? The boy didn’t want to commit himself on that, but the grown-ups had been saying that hay would be short that winter.

  Valens left the boy in the custody of a grim-faced woman who cooked for the soldiers, and summoned his general staff. Limes Vitae, he told them, was unlikely to welcome them with open arms, and even less likely to offer to share its reserves. Accordingly, since they couldn’t rely on being given, they were going to have to take.

  Tactically, not very much of a challenge. Two wings of light cavalry moved into position on the far side of the village shortly before dusk, taking great care not to be seen. At dawn, a double squadron of heavy cavalry advanced at a gentle pace along the main road into the village. A shepherd raised the alarm; by the time Valens’ heavy dragoons reached the village square, the place was deserted and the barns, cattle-pens, poultry runs and root cellars were empty. They made themselves at home as best they could, eventually turning up a few barrels of wheat beer that had been too heavy to load in the hurried evacuation. Nobly, they left half of the foul-tasting stuff for their colleagues in the light division, who rode in halfway through the afternoon, escorting the villagers and the carts laden with the missing supplies, which they’d ambushed as planned on the narrow road that led to the hidden valley the boy had told Valens about. Neat, flawless, bloodless, as a good operation should be.

  Valens sent Nennius to give the villagers a choice; they could leave their homes and join the column, or stay where they were and starve through the winter. It didn’t surprise Valens very much to learn that they preferred, unanimously, to stay. He couldn’t blame them. Their only contact with the central government within living memory was a callous act of theft, carried out with all the precision and élan of the better class of professional brigand. So much for Valens the Good Duke.

  A quick inventory of the supplies told him that the entire resources of Limes Vitae would supply the column, on half-rations, for ten days. Two days to the edge of the desert; eight days across it, if the dead merchant’s diary could be relied on and they managed to find the short cut. No need for a decision, now that turning back was no longer an option. Just to be sure, he told Nennius to ask the villagers if they’d seen any Mezentines; black-faced men in armor on big horses. By their reaction, the villagers must have assumed he was making fun of them.

  Climbing the mountain proved to be far harder than anybody had anticipated. Valens had assumed it would be slightly but not much more difficult than slogging up the slopes and scarps they’d tackled already; slow, painful climbing with occasional halts to fill in and rebuild crumbled road ledges or bridge storm-streams running down the hillsides. The dead merchant had managed it, with his team of mules. It had taken him two days.

  Halfway through the first day, Valens realized why the merchant had used mules rather than a cart. Quite possibly there had been a road there, once upon a time when the world was new. Now, however, there was a thin scratch that zigzagged across the face of the mountain, the sort of line Vaatzes the engineer might have scribed on a piece of metal, rubbing in blue dye to make it visible. No earthly chance of taking a cart further than the first mile.

  At a hastily convened meeting of the engineering department, Valens asked urgently for suggestions.

  “It’s a question of time,” Vaatzes said, and for the first time since he’d met him, Valens saw that he was worried. “Yes, we could widen the road by cutting into the mountain; to a limited extent, we could bank up the other side with rocks. At a rough guess, working flat out we could reach the top in under a month. In two days …” He shrugged. “Either we turn back now, or we ditch the wagons, load what we can onto the horses’ backs and walk. I don’t suppose it’ll take us that much longer on foot than it would’ve done if we could’ve taken the wagons, if that’s any consolation.”

  “Your bloody trader —” Valens interrupted.

  “If he could do it, I don’t see why we can’t,” Vaatzes replied. “I didn’t get the impression from reading the journals that he was any sort of adventur
er, blessed with superhuman strength and endurance. He regarded crossing the mountains as a chore and a pain in the bum, but no worse than that.”

  “Just suppose we do make it over the mountains,” someone said. “What then? I thought the idea was that the carts were going to be our mobile fortress. And there’s shelter to think about.”

  “The carts won’t go up the mountain,” Daurenja said. “That’s a plain fact, like something in mathematics you can demonstrate by doing a calculation. If we go back down the mountain, we’ve got eight days and then we starve. No disrespect, but I can’t see what there is to talk about.”

  They left the carts. It wasn’t the most popular order Valens had ever given. The sight of the Vadani people struggling up the road with enormous loads strapped to their backs, like city people out for a country picnic, would’ve been comic in a different context. As a gesture of solidarity, Valens made the cavalry dismount and load supplies on their horses, an initiative which at least had the merit of wiping the smirks off their faces. Cavalrymen dislike walking. Even then, it was a full-time job to stop the civilians from dumping their packs as soon as the gradient started to get tiresome; they seemed to be under the impression that there was more than enough food and forage piled up on the horses, and the Duke was making them carry stuff up a steep hill as part of a monstrously inappropriate practical joke. On the first day there were ninety-seven casualties — twelve deaths, sixteen broken legs, six non-fatal heart attacks and sixty-three debilitating sprains, falls and similar injuries — and they lost the use of fourteen horses.