by K. J. Parker
(He keeps looking at somebody, someone in the third row observed to his neighbor, but I can’t quite see who. It’s like he’s taking a cue, or looking for approval.)
“Note, in passing, the malignant subtlety of the abominator Vaatzes; and, by the same token, the culpable simple-mindedness of your colleague, Commissioner Psellus. As an inducement to persuade us to allow him to return home, Vaatzes offered Psellus information about the likely itinerary of the Vadani convoy. It was in his power, Vaatzes claimed, to persuade Duke Valens to change course and head across the desert, making for the home territory of the Cure Hardy. He was aware of a safe route, made passable by a string of oases. He gave Commissioner Psellus a copy of a map showing the route, together with further notes and commentaries that would allow a substantial force of cavalry to cross the mountains at the edge of the desert with relative ease while avoiding observation by the Vadani. Meanwhile, he would lead Duke Valens and the convoy over the mountain by another, harder route, thereby forcing them to abandon their armored wagons and much other essential equipment, and reduce their food supplies to an inadequate level. Softened up by these privations and taken unaware in the middle of the desert by our forces — who would have been realistically provisioned and adequately briefed on matters of geography and topography — the Vadani would prove easy prey, and could be eliminated once and for all.”
Pause; or was it hesitation?
“Commissioner Psellus,” he went on eventually, “would seem not to be familiar with the expression, too good to be true. Arguably, it was not his fault that Vaatzes had already arranged through other contacts for our forces to ambush the convoy at an earlier stage; as we all know, the ambush was beaten off with heavy losses, as Vaatzes fully intended it should be. The fact remains that, had Commissioner Psellus reported his deal with Vaatzes promptly and to the right quarters, the first ambush could have been countermanded and valuable lives saved. What is both indisputable and unforgivable, however, is the Commissioner’s simple stupidity — you may care to regard it as willful blindness — in not appreciating the quite appalling implications of Vaatzes’ proposal—namely, that a safe and practical route across the desert exists, and that, should the Cure Hardy become aware of it, the security of the Republic would be hopelessly compromised forever.”
Even Philargyrus, with his dreary delivery and unfortunate style, couldn’t fail to get a frisson of horror out of his audience with that. It was, of course, the only point that mattered, and the only thing on anybody’s mind, ever since the news broke. It was what Psellus had been brought here to be condemned to death for; the question was …
“You may argue,” Philargyrus went on, perhaps a shade too quickly, “that since Vaatzes had come across this terrible information, it was inevitable that he should convey it to Duke Valens in the hope that he would pass it on to the Cure Hardy, to use against us; that Psellus’ part in this debacle was not wholly instrumental in bringing this disaster down on us. I beg to differ. As a result of Psellus’ criminal stupidity, we have sent an army into the desert, demonstrated to the Cure Hardy — a vicious and irrational race — that we too know the secret passage across the supposedly impassable barrier; we have sent an army that has engaged and been completely destroyed by Cure Hardy forces. It is highly likely, given the paranoid mentality of the barbarians and bearing in mind their reaction to our forces’ incursion, that they will choose to view what has occurred as an act of war. In short; even if it was done innocently and without malice, Commissioner Psellus has left us at the mercy of the only power on earth with the capability and the will to inflict serious damage on the Republic, perhaps even — it has to be said — to destroy it. There can only be one possible response on the part of your Commission; you must find Commissioner Psellus guilty as charged and impose the severest penalty available in law.”
“Well,” said one commissioner to another during the recess, “he got there in the end.”
His friend looked round before replying. “If you care to tell me what that performance was in aid of, I’ll be very greatly obliged to you. Who was sitting at the end of the fourth row? I couldn’t see; that stupid fountain was in the way.”
“I couldn’t see either. But you’re right, he did keep looking up and glancing in that direction.” A deep frown and another glance round. “You didn’t happen to notice where Boioannes was sitting? I can’t remember seeing him.”
Before his friend could reply, the bell rang for the votes to be cast. That didn’t take very long; and, after the sentence had been passed and the prisoner led away, the usher called them back into the cloister for an announcement.
This time everybody knew where Boioannes was; he was standing right in the middle, holding a crumpled piece of paper. His eyes were very wide, and he spoke entirely without expression.
“I have just been informed by the Chief of Staff,” he said, “that the council of delegates representing the officers of our mercenary forces have unilaterally canceled the contract of employment between themselves and the Republic. Their grounds …” He had to repeat the words several times before he could make himself heard again. “Their grounds for so doing are that they were engaged to fight the Eremians and the Vadani, not the Cure Hardy; and the arrival at our newly established frontier station at Limes Vitae of an emissary from the Aram Chantat bringing a formal declaration of war —”
It took the ushers several minutes to restore some sort of order.
“We have pointed out to the council of delegates that, under the penalty clause in the contract, a unilateral breach of this kind entitles us to withhold any and all further payments, in money or kind, including all arrears and agreed bonuses. I have to inform you that the council of delegates accepts that the contract has been forfeited and that they will receive nothing from us, but refuse to change their minds. In short, at noon tomorrow the Republic will no longer have an army, and must look for its defense to its own citizens, at least until some alternative source of manpower can be —”
* * *
They could hear the shouting down in the cells.
“I can see why he was reprieved,” the tall, thin commissioner said to his short, stout colleague. “And reinstated, come to that. Though if you ask me, he shouldn’t have been convicted in the first place. After all, what’d he done, except follow orders? It was all there in writing …”
“Ah yes.” The short, stout commissioner nodded wisely and helped himself to cinnamon and grated cheese. “It was all there in the copy in the minute book they found in Boioannes’ office when they searched it. What we got shown at the hearing was something quite other. Besides, I don’t seem to remember you voting for acquittal. It was unanimous.”
“Well of course.” The tall man shrugged. “But that’s by the bye. The thing is, the only point at which Psellus exceeded his authority was once he’d found out about the existence of this confounded secret way across the desert; and of course, he does the only possible thing he can do in the circumstances. He tries to have the Vadani column wiped out to the last man before they can reach the savages and tell them about it. Didn’t work, as we know. In all probability, he was set up by Vaatzes, just as they say he was. Doesn’t matter. Simple fact is, the only thing that could possibly have saved us was wiping out that column before they met up with the Cure Hardy; he tried to do it, gave it his best shot; give him his due, it nearly worked, only a day or so in it. At least he tried.”
The short man smiled as he stirred his cup. “So you’ll be supporting him in the ballot, then?”
“Not sure I’m prepared to go that far,” the tall man replied thoughtfully. “To be honest with you, I’m not really sure what to do. No precedent; I mean, a ballot for chairmanship of Necessary Evil …”
“I don’t see how we have any choice, frankly,” the short man replied. “With the mess we’re in, it’s like the whole structure of politics in this town’s melted away like ice in springtime. Boioannes gone, the Guilds actually talking to each other
— actually listening to each other, which is more disturbing still, if you ask me. Nobody knows where the hell they are or who’s running anything. Why not have a ballot? The state we’re in, what harm could it actually do?”
The tall man sipped his drink, but it was still a little too hot for comfort. “Well, quite,” he said. “And by the same token, why not Psellus? One thing you can say for him, he’s guaranteed a hundred percent clean. Poor fellow was so obviously out of the loop at all times, stands to reason he can’t have been in with one faction or the other. If it’s compromise and conciliation we’re after, we could do a lot worse. It’s just a shame he’s an idiot.”
The short man sighed. “I don’t think anyone’s come out of this looking particularly smart,” he said. “For a start, when it all came out about how Boioannes had been manipulating the war, and none of us had a clue what he’d really been up to —”
“Speak for yourself.” The tall man smiled. “There were a few of us who had our suspicions, believe me.”
“Easy to say after the event.”
“True. Guaranteed bloody fatal to say before the event. Though whether it’s better to be clever and a coward is a moot point, I suppose. Doesn’t matter. Boioannes is out of the picture — did you hear, by the way, the Foundrymen’ve issued a formal notice of expulsion from the Guild?”
The short man (who was a Fuller and Dyer) chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll be cut to the quick if he ever hears of it, wherever the hell he’s gone. Last rumor I heard said he was back in the old country.”
“Unlikely.” The tall man shook his head. “Too many widows and orphans over there who’d like to discuss the conduct of the war with him. Personally, I think he’s in Lonazep. In which case,” he added, “let’s hope Compliance live up to the standard they’ve set themselves recently and fail to find him. Last thing we need is Boioannes on trial and making trouble for everybody.”
“Agreed.”
Cool enough to drink by now; there was a brief pause. Then the short man said, “Do you really think we’ve had it this time, like everybody’s saying?” As the tall man started to scowl, he added quickly, “I know, I wouldn’t have raised the subject, except I happened to overhear them talking at the finance meeting this morning; they’re offering the Jazyges five times the basic rate, but so far they’ve shown no interest at all.”
“Is that right?”
The short man shrugged. “It’s what they were saying.”
“But the Jazyges are — well, if you ask me, they’re no better than the Cure Hardy. In fact, we might as well be sending recruiters out there, try and get some of the other tribes to come in with us against the Aram Chantat. It’d make as much sense as —”
“I’ve heard they’re considering that,” the short man said.
That shut the tall man up for a long time.
“Well in that case,” he said eventually, “yes, I think we’re probably screwed. In fact, the only hope I can see for us is if we all vote for Psellus and he manages to persuade his friend Vaatzes to lead the entire Aram Chantat out into the desert and lose them there. Other than that …”
“Don’t go saying things like that where anybody’s likely to hear you,” the short man replied grimly. “Otherwise, there’s a real risk they might try it.”
Both of them seemed to have lost their appetite for mead mulled with spices. They put their cups down on the little brass table and avoided each other’s eye.
“It’s a thought,” the tall man said at last.
“Don’t joke about it.”
“I think we’ve reached the stage where black comedy’s our likeliest source of inspiration,” the tall man said. “There’s a joke doing the rounds, don’t know if you’ve heard it: what’ve common sense and Ziani Vaatzes got in common? Answer: they’ve both gone out the window. Puts it rather well, if you ask me. So yes; why the hell not? After all, Boioannes was prepared to negotiate with the man. If he can get us out of this …”
The short man pulled a sour face. “Everywhere I go,” he said, “people are talking about Vaatzes as though he’s some sort of supernatural entity, instead of a foreman who got caught playing with things he shouldn’t have. What earthly reason do you have for supposing he could make the Aram Chantat suddenly disappear in a puff of smoke, even if he wanted to?”
“He made our army disappear.”
The short man seemed unwilling to pursue that argument. “If I vote for Lucao Psellus,” he said after a while, “and I’m not saying I’m going to; but if I do, it’s because he’s the man least likely to trust that arsehole Vaatzes ever again.” He made a violent gesture, rocking the table and almost upsetting the cups. “I still find it impossible to believe that one individual could have such an effect on the safety of the Republic,” he said. “In one of the savage countries maybe; they have kings and dukes, they positively invite that sort of thing. But one man — a foreman, for pity’s sake. I just can’t see it.”
“Most of it must’ve been luck,” the tall man replied soothingly. “Finding out about the way across the desert; sheer luck. Even we can’t legislate for that sort of fluke.” He stood up. “I’d better be making tracks,” he said. “I don’t want to be late for my afternoon meeting. Something tells me that the dear old leisurely ways of doing things may well prove to be yet more casualties of the massacre in the desert.”
Hardly the most important meeting of the year; no more than the monthly review of performance and production at the ordnance factory. As always the manager, deputy manager, department heads, supervisory managers and their staffs were there waiting for him; the man he was rather looking forward to meeting again, however, was the new foreman — new; Falier had already taken over the job by the time he’d first met him, but everybody still called him the new foreman; as though time had somehow stopped running; as though everybody was subconsciously waiting for Ziani Vaatzes to come back. It was Vaatzes, of course, he wanted to discuss with Falier, in the light of his discussion at lunch …
* * *
His footsteps in the porch; the scrape as he dragged his boots off without bothering to untie the laces. It was a silly, childish habit, and bound to spoil good, expensive boots in the long run.
“I’m home,” he called out. That annoyed her too. She knew he was home as soon as she heard the area gate creak. From there to the front door, always exactly nine seconds; precise as a machine.
She didn’t bother to answer, as she scraped burned milk off the bottom of the pan with the back of a wooden spoon. “I said I’m home,” he called out. “Where are you?”
“In the kitchen.”
He bustled through, grimy-handed, brushing against the door-frame. “Hell of a flap at work today,” he said. “You know that government bloke who kept on dragging you in to talk about — well, you know. Apparently, he’s been put on trial, for treason or something.”
If she’d been a cat, she’d have given herself away by putting her ears back. “Serves him right,” she mumbled. “Sit down, dinner’s nearly ready.”
“It gets better,” he continued — she had her back to him and didn’t know if he was looking at her or not. “Apparently he was convicted, and then they let him off.”
“Pity.”
“And now,” he went on, “they’re talking about making him something high up in the Guilds; and you’ll never guess why.”
“Because he’s horrible?”
“Because while he was doing some secret mission or other, he actually met Ziani. Right there in the heart of enemy territory. Met him and talked to him.”
The pan handle was too hot, but she couldn’t seem to let go of it. “So he’s still alive, then. The last I heard, he was meant to be dead.”
“Honey.” He sounded upset about something.
“Well, that’s what I heard. They sent a cavalry army or something specially to get him. Don’t say they made a mess of that too.”
“Apparently.” She could feel him willing her to turn round. Instead s
he rested the pan carefully on the stove top and let go. “Honey, you aren’t worried about anything, are you?”
“Of course I’m worried, if that horrible man Psellus is going to be running the Guilds,” she snapped. “He’s strange, I don’t like him. He wants something from me and I don’t know what it is.”
“Fine.” Now he was going to lose his temper. “So what am I supposed to do about it? Challenge him to a duel or something?” He paused; when he spoke again, his voice was colder. “Are you thinking, that’s what Ziani would’ve done, if someone was bothering me like that? Well, maybe you’re right. As we both know, he was crazy in the head.”
“I really don’t want to talk about him,” she said, loud and quick. She scooped the beans out of the pan, added them to his plate and stabbed the fire with the poker as if it had been Lucao Psellus.
“All right,” he said. “I just thought you’d be interested.”
“Well I’m not.”
That night, when he’d gone to bed, she opened the triangular cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and took out a packet of cardamom seeds, which she emptied into a bowl. Then, with a small peeling knife, she carefully slit the edges of the packet and smoothed the coarse parchment out into a sheet. It was a bit too shiny, so she took a minute or so to smooth it down with the kitchen pumice, until the surface was dull. From his study she took the brass inkwell and a new goose quill — he’d miss it, but that couldn’t be helped; he was always losing things, so it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. She sharpened the quill with her peeling knife, taking care to scoop up all the shavings and put them on the fire. As a final precaution, she wedged the door with the kitchen chair.