Devices and Desires (11 page)

“I reckoned they must have water,” he said. “Or at least they’d lead me to a river or something. I’ve only been following
them for a day. I tried to steal some food, but the sentries spotted me and I had to run. When I stopped running, I realized
I was lost. Then I saw your lot, and thought I’d try my luck. Nothing to lose. It was that or lie down and die somewhere.
Just my luck I had to run into a war.”

Brief silence; then Miel said, “If he’s lying, he’s very good at it.”

“I’m not, I’m telling the truth.”

“Cocky with it,” Orsea said. “So, you’re an escaped convict. What did you do?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Indulge me.”

The man looked at him. “I killed a couple of prison warders,” he said. “And maybe the secretary of the tribunal, I’m not sure.”

Miel leaned over the man’s shoulder. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be a spy?” he said. “I don’t know what they tell you
about us in the City, but murder’s against the law out here, too.”

“Leave him alone, Miel, this is interesting. So,” Orsea went on, “if you killed a couple of warders, you were in prison already,
yes?”

The man nodded. “I’d just been tried. But I got away and the warders caught me.”

“So you’d done something else before you killed the warders?” “Yes.” The man hesitated.

“What?”

“It’s complicated.”

Orsea raised an eyebrow. Whatever it was, this strange, scruffy man seemed to think it was worse than killing prison officers;
he was afraid to say what it was. “I’m game if you are,” he said.

The man took a deep breath. “I was charged with mechanical innovation,” he said. “It’s very serious, in the City.”

“Worse than killing people?”

“I suppose so.”

“Were you guilty?”

The man nodded. “Apparently,” he said.

Miel stood up. “Now can we hang him?” he said. “I mean, he’s just confessed to murder.”

Orsea frowned. “You still reckon he’s a spy?”

“To be honest, I don’t care much.” Miel yawned. “What it boils down to is we can’t very well let him go if he’s really a convicted
murderer, and I really can’t be bothered making the arrangements to send him back. Also, he’s seen the Butter Pass, and maybe
he’s thinking he could do a deal for the information. Either that, or I’m right and he’s a spy. No offense, Orsea, but he’s
running out of play value. Let’s pull his neck and get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.”

That didn’t sound much like Miel, Orsea thought; so this must be a ploy to get the prisoner scared and make him confess. On
the other hand, the poor devil was unquestionably a Mezentine; lynching one would probably do wonders for the army’s morale.
Maybe that was why Miel was making such uncharacteristically brutal noises.

He made up his mind, suddenly, without being aware of having thought it through. If Miel was reminding him of his duty toward
the army and the country, fine; he still wasn’t prepared to string up someone who looked so unspeakably sad. In spite of the
battle and the iron pins from the sky and his own unforgivable mistakes, Orsea still had faith in the world; he believed it
might still be possible to make it work, somehow or other. The Mezentine, on the other hand, clearly felt that the world was
a cruel, nasty place where bad things always happened. Lynching him would only serve to prove him right, and that would be
a betrayal; and if Orsea believed in anything, it was loyalty.

“He’s not a spy,” he said. “And if he’s committed crimes in Mezentia, that’s really none of our business. I can’t go hanging
civilians without a trial, in any event. Find him a meal and somewhere to sleep, and in the morning give him three days’ rations
and a pair of shoes, and let him go. All right?”

Miel nodded. He didn’t seem at all put out about having his advice ignored. “I’ll get the duty officer to see to it,” he said,
and went out.

Orsea was about to tell the guards to take the prisoner somewhere else when a thought struck him. He looked at the man and
frowned. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“In the battle today,” Orsea said, “we did really badly. Your lot slaughtered us, and we never got close enough to see their
faces. One minute we were advancing in good order, and then the sky was full of sharp steel bolts, about so long and so thick,
and that was that. I was wondering,” Orsea went on. “Can you tell me anything about that?”

The man looked at him. “You mean, what sort of weapon was it?”

Orsea nodded. “Obviously it must be a deadly secret; at any rate, it was a complete surprise to us. So I imagine you’d get
in all sorts of trouble for disclosing restricted information to the enemy. On the other hand…”

The man smiled. “It’s a simple mechanical device. Well,” he added, “fairly simple. A powerful steel leaf-spring is drawn back
by a ratchet. There’s a steel cable fastened to the ends of the spring, just like the string of a conventional bow. When the
sear is tripped, the force of the spring acting on the cable shoots the bolt up a groove in the bed. It’s called a scorpion.”

Orsea raised an eyebrow. “You know a lot about it.”

“I should,” the man replied. “I used to make them.”

There was a long pause. “Is that right?” Orsea said.

“I was the foreman of the machine shop at the ordnance factory,” the man said. “I was in charge of production. We’ve got a
building about a hundred yards long by thirty, just for the scorpions. On average we turn out a dozen a day; eighteen if we
work three shifts.” He looked Orsea in the eye. “Are you going to have me killed now?”

“I’m not sure. Do you want me to?”

He smiled again. “No,” he said. “But it’s not up to me, and if you’re looking for someone to blame —”

“Already got someone, thanks,” Orsea said. “Now, there was no need for you to tell me that, and you don’t strike me as the
sort who blurts things out without thinking.”

The man nodded. “Scorpions aren’t the only thing we make at the ordnance factory,” he said. “And besides, from what little
I know about the outside world, I get the impression that you’re a long way behind us as far as making things is concerned.”

“To put it mildly,” Orsea said. “As you very well know.”

The man’s dirty, battered face was closed, and his eyes were very bright. “I could teach you,” he said.

“Teach us what?”

“Everything.” His whole body was perfectly still, apart from the slight movements caused by his quick, shallow breathing.
“Everything I know; and that’s a lot. Basic metallurgy; foundry and forge work; machining and toolmaking; mass production,
interchangeable components, gauges and tolerances. It’d take a long time, you’d be starting from scratch and I’d have to train
a lot of people. I don’t know how you’re fixed for raw materials, iron ore and charcoal and coal. We’d probably have to start
off by damming a river, to build a race for a decent-sized waterwheel. You’d be lucky to see so much as a nail or a length
of wire for at least five years.” He shrugged. “And it’d mean a lot of changes, and maybe you’re perfectly happy as you are.
After all,” he added, “I’m hardly the best advertisement for an industrial society.”

Orsea frowned. “Leave the bad side to me. You carry on telling me about the advantages.”

“You don’t need me to do that,” the man replied. “You know as well as I do. First, you wouldn’t depend on us for pretty well
every damned thing you use. Second, you could trade. Undercut the Mezentines and take over their markets. That’s why our government
won’t let people like me leave the City. You could transform your whole society. You could be like us.”

“Really. And why would we want to?”

He raised one dust-caked eyebrow. “As I understand it, you just lost thousands of lives trying to wipe us out, and you never
even got close enough to see the color of our eyes. You must’ve had some reason for wanting to annihilate us. I don’t know
what it is, but maybe that’s the reason why you should turn into us instead.”

Orsea tried to think. There was a great deal to think about, great issues of security, prosperity and progress that had to
be addressed before taking such a radical decision. Orsea knew what they were, but when he tried to apply his mind to them
it was like trying to cut glass with a file. Really he wanted someone to decide for him; but that was a luxury he couldn’t
afford. He knew it was the wrong approach, but he couldn’t help thinking about the battle, the field bristling with the steel
pins. It’d be a greater victory than winning the battle; and it’d be the only way of making sure something like that never
happened again. But if Miel was here, what would he say? Orsea knew that without having to ask. Of course the Ducas were an
old family, you’d expect one of them to have an intuition for this kind of problem, so much more effective than mere intelligence.
Miel would know, without having to think, and no amount of convincing arguments would make him change his mind. But Miel (who
always got the girls) hadn’t married the old Duke’s daughter, and so it wasn’t up to him. The dreadful thing was, Orsea knew,
that nobody could make this choice for him. It was more important that
he
chose than that he made the right decision.

“The men you killed,” he said. “Tell me about that.”

The man hadn’t been expecting that. “How do you mean?” he said. “Do you want to know how I did it?”

“That’s not important,” Orsea said. “And you did it because you had to escape, or they’d have executed you for whatever it
is you did that’s too complicated for me to understand. No, what I’m asking is, did you have to kill them or else they’d have
killed you on the spot or dragged you off to the scaffold? Or did you have the option of just tying them up or something but
you killed them anyway?”

The man seemed to be thinking it over carefully. “The two guards had caught me trying to get out of the Guildhall grounds,”
he said. “They took me to the stables to kill me. It was two to one, and I was lucky to get away with it. And I was clever,”
he added, “it wasn’t just luck. But it was them or me. The other man, the tribunal secretary — he was the judge, really —
I don’t know if I killed him or not. I hit him very hard with a lampstand, to get past him so I could jump out of the window.
I hit him as hard as I could; but it was so I could escape, not to punish him or get my own back on him for wrecking my life.”
He paused. “If he was here now, and you said to me, Go ahead, if you want to bash his head in I won’t stop you, I’m not sure
what I’d do. I mean, he did destroy my life, but killing him wouldn’t change anything; and as far as he was concerned, he
was doing the right thing.” He looked at Orsea. “Does that answer your question?”

“I think so. At any rate, it was what I thought I needed to know; assuming I believe you’re telling the truth.”

The man shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

“It’s all up to me,” Orsea replied. “I wish it wasn’t, but it is. There’s another thing, too. If I was in your shoes, I don’t
know how I’d feel about what you’re proposing to do. Really, it’s betraying your country.”

The man nodded, as though showing he understood the point Orsea was making. “Why would I do that,” he said, “except out of
spite, because of what they did to me? Which means, if I’m capable of spite, maybe I killed the guards and the judge for spite
too.”

“That thought crossed my mind,” Orsea said.

“Naturally.” The man was quiet for a while. “I can’t be sure,” he said, “but I don’t think that’s the real reason. I think
maybe my reason is that if they can order me to be killed when I really didn’t do anything wrong, then perhaps the whole system
needs to be got rid of, to stop them doing it again. And also,” he added, with a slight grin, “there’s the fact that I’ve
got a living to make. I need a job, I’m an engineer. Not many openings for someone in my line outside the City, unless I make
one for myself. And we hadn’t discussed it, but I wasn’t really thinking of doing all that work for free.”

Orsea laughed. “There’s always that,” he said. “And I suppose, if you betray your people for money, that’s better than doing
it for revenge. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever met an engineer before. Are they all like you?”

“Yes,” the man said. “It’s a state of mind more than anything. You can’t help thinking in mechanisms; always in three dimensions,
and always five stages ahead. It takes a little while to learn.”

Orsea nodded. “And what about you? Are you married? Children?”

“One daughter,” the man replied. “I won’t see either of them again, I don’t suppose.”

“And will anything bad happen to them, if your people find out you’ve betrayed them?”

“It’ll happen anyway, because of what I’m supposed to have done.” The man was looking away, and his voice was perfectly flat.
“If I was going to take revenge for anything, it’d be that.”

“At least you’re honest,” Orsea said. “Or you come across as honest.” He closed his eyes, rubbed them with his thumb and middle
finger. “Tell you what,” he said. “You come back home with me, stay with me as my guest till I’ve made my decision. I’m sure
we can find something useful for you to do, if you decide you want to stay with us, of course.”

“Naturally.” The man’s face slumped into a long, narrow grin. “You do realize,” he said, “I haven’t got the faintest idea
where your country is, or what it’s called, or what you do there, or anything. In the City we have this vague concept of the
world as being like a fried egg, with us as the yolk and everywhere else slopped out round the edges.”

“Interesting,” Orsea said. “Well, my country is called Eremia Montis, and it’s basically a big valley cradled by four enormous
mountains; we raise sheep and goats and dairy cattle, grow a bit of corn; there’s a good-sized forest in the eastern corner,
and four rivers run down the mountains and join up to make one big river in the bottom of the valley. There’s something like
a quarter of a million of us — less now, of course, thanks to me — and till recently we had this ghastly long-standing feud
with the duchy on the other side of the northern mountain, but that was all patched up just before I became Duke. We’ve got
loads of fresh air and sky, but not much of anything else. That’s about it, really. And I’m Orsea Orseolus, in case you were
wondering; and you did tell me your name, but I’ve forgotten it.”