Devices and Desires (10 page)

“Fine. Don’t let me keep you.”

The doctor grinned. “I was all finished anyway. I’ll look at it again this evening. Remember, nothing energetic. They’ve put
together a litter to carry you.”

The doctor left before he could argue, which was annoying. He wanted to protest; how could he let himself be carried about
on a litter when there were wounded men —
seriously
wounded men — who were going to have to hobble and crawl, and who might well not make it all the way? But, as the tent-flap
dropped shut behind the doctor’s back, he realized it was pointless. They wouldn’t allow it, because he was the Duke and he
wasn’t allowed to die of impatience and nobility of spirit. If he tried to dismiss the litter-bearers and walk up the mountain,
it’d only lead to fuss and delay while Miel and the others told him not to be so bloody stupid; if he protested, he wouldn’t
impress the doctor, and nobody else would be listening to him. With a sigh, he decided to reclassify himself as a cumbersome
but necessary piece of luggage. The galling thing, of course, was that they could manage perfectly well without him; better,
probably. After all, he was the one who’d got them all into this appalling situation.

They came and dismantled the tent around him; brisk, efficient men in muddy clothes who seemed to have the knack of not seeing
him. They left him on his pile of cushions and sacks under a clear blue sky, in a landscape crowded with activity. He watched
them loading the carts with folded tents, barrels, sacks, unused arrows still in their sheaves, boxes of boots, belts and
spare side-plates for helmets, trestle tables and wounded men. Finally his litter came. Two Guards captains hauled him onto
it; the porters lifted it on their shoulders like a coffin, and joined the queue of slow-moving baggage threading its way
onto the narrow path. From his raised and lordly position he could see a long way over the heads of his people (wasn’t there
an old saying about that, how we’re all dwarves on the shoulders of giants; we’re lesser men than our fathers, but because
we inherit their wisdom and experience, we can see further). First he looked back in case there were any signs of pursuit.
It was impossible to make out much on the featureless plain, but he convinced himself he could see the battlefield and the
thorn hedge. The gray blur in the air; would that be a huge flock of crows picking at the dead, or smoke from fires where
the tidy Mezentines were burning up the litter? He could see the heads of the army, flashes of light on helmets that were
beginning to rust, since nobody could be bothered with scouring them down with sand twice a day. On the way out they’d marched
in ranks and files, smart and neat as the hedges round formal gardens. Now they trudged in knots and bunches, and the gaps
between each group looked like bald patches in a frayed coat.

(Invade Mezentia, they’d told him; clever men who’d chafed at the old Duke’s timid caution, because they knew that the longer
the job was left, the harder it would be. Attack them now, while there’s still time. It’s us or them; not aggression but simple,
last-ditch self-defense. The old Duke had had the perfect excuse: the long, bitter, unwinnable war against their neighbors,
which drained away every spare penny and every fit man. But that war was over now. They’d had to grin and bear painfully humiliating
terms — land and water-rights and grazing-rights on the eastern mountains given away instead of fought over to the death —
but it had been worth it because it made possible the preemptive strike against the real enemy, and thanks to the last fifty
years of relentless campaigning and slaughter they had an army of hardened veterans who’d drive the Mezentine mercenaries
into the sea. The alternative, biding still and quiet while the Republic strangled them to death at their leisure, was simply
unthinkable. Besides, with an army of twenty-five thousand, how could he possibly lose?)

They were taking the Butter Pass up the mountain. Not through choice. They’d come down into the plain, five days ago, by way
of the main cart-road, a relatively gentle gradient and firm going for the horses. But they were a whole day east, thanks
to the fear of the Mezentine cavalry, and they didn’t have enough water left to go round the foot of the mountain. The Butter
Pass was a different proposition altogether. It was adequate for its purpose; once a month, hundreds of hill-farmers’ sons
trudged down it with yokes on their shoulders, each carrying a hundredweight of butter and cheese to the cluster of tents
where the Mezentine buyers were waiting for them. Going back up the mountain, they had a much lighter load: a few copper pennies
or a roll of cotton cloth (third or fourth quality), at most a keg of nails or a rake and a hoe. Taking an army up the Butter
Pass was the sort of stupid thing you only did if you had to. It was slow going. To get the carts up without smashing wheels
or shearing axles, they had to stop every fifty yards or so to shift boulders, fill in potholes, cut away the rock or improvise
embankments to widen the path. Boulders too big to lever aside had to be split, with hammers and wedges or by lighting a fire
to heat them up and then quenching them with buckets of precious, scarce water. It was a vast, thankless expenditure of effort
and ingenuity — no praise or glory, just a sigh when the obstacle was circumvented and a grim shrug as the next one was addressed
— and all Orsea could do was watch, as his bearers lowered him to the ground, glad of the excuse for a rest. It was all wrong;
he should be paying off his debt by leading the way. In his mind’s eye he saw himself, dusty and bathed in sweat, leaning
on a crowbar or swinging a big hammer, exhausted but cheerful, first man to the job and last man off it, and everyone feeling
better for knowing he was there with them — instead, he watched, as if this was all a demonstration by the corps of engineers,
and he was sitting in a grandstand, waiting to award prizes. Miel Ducas was doing his job for him, and doing it very well.
He thought about that, and felt ashamed.

There was still an hour’s light left when they gave up for the night, but everybody was too exhausted to carry on. There had
already been unnecessary accidents and injuries, and Miel had called a halt. Instead, men stumbled about on a sad excuse for
a plateau, struggling to pitch tents on the slope, wedging cartwheels with stones to stop them rolling; the whole tiresome
routine of unpacking and setting up, lighting fires without proper kindling, cooking too little food in too little water.
They pitched his tent first (were they doing it on purpose to show him up? No, of course they weren’t); the doctor came, looked,
prodded and failed to announce that the wound had miraculously healed and he’d be fit for duty in the morning. One by one
the survivors of his general staff dropped by. They were genuinely anxious about his health, but they didn’t want his orders
or even his advice. Finally, Miel Ducas came, slow and clumsy with fatigue, squatting on the floor rather than wait for someone
to fetch him a chair.

“Slow going,” he reported. “I’d sort of counted on making it to the hog’s back tonight, so we could get on the southwest road
by noon tomorrow. As it is, we might just get there by nightfall; depends on conditions. And if it decides to rain, of course,
we’re screwed.”

Orsea hadn’t even considered that. “Who said anything about rain?” he said. “It’s been blue skies all day.”

Miel nodded. “Talked to a couple of men who make the Butter run,” he said. “According to them, it’s the time of year for flash
storms. Clear sky one minute, and the next you’re up to your ankles in muck. That’s if you’re lucky and you aren’t swept away
in a mudslide. Cheerful bastards.”

Orsea couldn’t think of anything to say. “Let’s hope it stays dry, then.”

“Let’s hope.” Miel yawned. “Once we reach the hog’s back, of course,” he went on, “it’s all nice and easy till we get to the
river; which, needless to say, is probably in spate. I have absolutely no idea how we’re going to get across, so I’m relying
on inspiration, probably in the form of a dream. My ancestors were always being helped out of pots of shit by obliging and
informative dreams, and I’m hoping it runs in the family. How about your lot?”

Orsea smiled. “We don’t dream much. Or if we do, it’s being chased by bears, or having to give a speech with no clothes on.”

“Fascinating.” Miel closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Sorry,” he said. “Not respectful in the presence of my sovereign.
How’s the leg?”

“Oh, fine. It’s that miserable bloody doctor who’s making me lounge around like this.”

(Stupid thing to say, of course. The leg wasn’t fine; the doctor most likely hadn’t had more than a couple of hours’ sleep
since the battle; and of course the Ducas family received supernatural advice in their dreams, since they were genuine old
aristocracy, unlike the jumped-up parvenu Orseoli…)

“Do as he says,” Miel replied sternly. “Your trouble is, you don’t know a perfectly valid excuse when you see one. You were
the same when we were kids. You’d insist on dragging yourself into classes with a raging temperature, and then we’d all catch
it off you and be sick as dogs just in time for the recess. You will insist…” He hesitated. “Just for once, stay still and
make the most of it. We’re all going to have a high old time of it soon as we get home.”

Orsea looked away.
You will insist on doing the right thing, even if it’s guaranteed to result in misery and mayhem;
or something to that effect. “All right,” he said. “It’s just so bloody stupid. Getting shot with one of our own arrows.”

“At least our side got to draw blood,” Miel replied. “Hello, what’s all that fuss they’re making outside?”

Orsea hadn’t noticed; now Miel mentioned it, he could hear shouting. “They’ve attacked,” he said.

“Don’t think so, or they’d be doing more than just yelling. Hold still, I’ll go and see.”

He came back again a moment later, grinning. “Would you believe it,” he said, “they caught a spy.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I saw him. Genuine Mezentine spy, brown face and everything. I told them to string him up.”

Orsea frowned. “No, don’t do that,” he said. “I want to know why they’re so interested in us. Maybe they didn’t know about
this path before. If they’re looking for a back way up the mountain, that could be very bad.”

Miel shrugged. “It’s your treehouse. I’ll have him brought in, you can play with him.”

The prisoner was a Mezentine, no question about that; with his dark skin and high cheekbones, he couldn’t be anything else.
But that raised a question in itself. Mezentine officers commanded the army, but the men they gave orders to were all mercenaries;
southerners, usually, or people from overseas.

Besides, it was hard to see how a member of the victorious Mezentine expedition, which hadn’t come within bowshot or lost
a single man as far as Orsea was aware, could have got in such a deplorable state. He could barely stand; the two guards were
holding him up rather than restraining him. He had only one shoe; his hair was filthy and full of dust; he had several days’
growth of beard (the Mezentines were obsessive about shaving their faces) and he smelled disgusting.

Orsea had never interrogated a prisoner before; of all things, he felt
shy.
“Name,” he snapped, because it was as good a starting-point as any.

The man lifted his head, as though his name was the last thing he’d been expecting to be asked. “Ziani Vaatzes,” he said,
in a feeble whisper.

That didn’t need expert interpretation. “Get this man some water,” Orsea said, then realized that for once there weren’t any
attendants or professional bustlers-about on hand. Miel gave him a rather startled, what-me expression, then went outside,
returning a little later with a jug and a horn cup, which the prisoner grabbed with both hands. He spilled most of it down
his front.

Orsea had thought of another question. “What unit are you with?”

The prisoner had to think about that one. “I’m not a soldier,” he said.

“No, you’re a spy.”

“No, I’m not.” The prisoner sounded almost amused. “Is that what you think?”

Miel shifted impatiently. “You sure you want to bother with him?” he asked.

Orsea didn’t reply, though he noticed the effect Miel’s words had on the prisoner. “Really,” the man said. “I’m not a soldier,
or a spy or anything.” He stopped, looking very unhappy.

“Right,” Orsea said. “You’re a Mezentine, but you’re nothing to do with the army out there on the plain. Excuse me, but your
people aren’t known for going sightseeing.”

“I’m an escaped prisoner,” the man said; he made it sound like a profession. “I promise you, it’s true. They were going to
kill me; I ran away.”

Miel laughed. “This one’s a comedian,” he said. “He’s broken out of jail, so naturally he tags along behind the army. Last
place they’d look for you, I guess.”

The look on the man’s face; fear, and disbelief, and sheer fury at not being believed. Any moment now, Orsea thought, he’s
going to demand to see the manager.

“You must be the enemy, then,” the man said.

This time, Miel burst out laughing. “You could say that,” he said.

“All right.” Orsea was having trouble keeping a straight face. “Yes, we’re the enemy. Do you know who we are?”

The man shook his head. “Not a clue, sorry. I don’t know where this is or what the hell’s going on. I didn’t even know there’s
a war on.”

“The army,” Miel said softly. “Wasn’t that a pretty broad hint?”

Now the man looked embarrassed. “To be honest,” he said, “I assumed they were after me.”

Orsea looked at him. “Really.”

The man nodded. “I thought it was a bit over the top myself,” he said. “But we take renegades very seriously. I assumed —”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Miel interrupted. “But your army out there’s been fighting us.”

“Oh, right.” The man frowned. “Who won?”

“You did.”

“I’m sorry.” Now he looked more bewildered than ever. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

“The Grand Army of Eremia, what’s left of it,” Orsea replied. “So, if you’re not a soldier or a spy, and you didn’t know about
the war, why were you following the army?”