Devices and Desires (15 page)

The first party of scouts hadn’t seen anything. The second party reported a body of horsemen, apparently shadowing the army
on the other side of a hog’s back; somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred and twenty of them, a third- or half-squadron,
therefore quite possibly a routine patrol. The third party were late, and when they came in they had a shamefaced look about
them; they’d been intercepted by Vadani cavalry who’d apparently materialized out of thin air in front of them on the road,
and given them a message to take back. Duke Valens sent his greetings and sympathy on their unfortunate experience. It occurred
to him that the army might be short of food, clothes, doctors, whatever. If there was anything they needed, anything the Vadani
could do to help (except, of course, military action of any kind), all they had to do was ask.

Orsea’s first instinct was to refuse. While he was trying to come up with a sufficiently polite form of words, he found himself
wondering why; true, it would be galling to be in Valens’ debt, but food, at least a dozen more doctors, best of all a guide
or two to show them the easiest way — that could be enough to save lives. He sent a reply thanking Valens very much indeed,
and listing everything he could think of. The offer wasn’t kindly meant, he had no illusions on that score, but he was in
no position to take account of intentions.

The Vadani doctors came with the supply-wagons, perched among sacks and barrels and wearing bemused, scared expressions, like
helpless peasants abducted by the fairies. Maybe the Vadani told the same sort of stories about the Eremians as Orsea had
heard about them, during the war — they can’t be trusted, don’t take prisoners, they string you up by the ankles and use you
for javelin practice; at any rate, they seemed anxious to help and please, and the Vadani had always had a good reputation
for medicine. Orsea amused himself by wondering where they’d been press-ganged from; they’d arrived so fast, they could hardly
have been given time to grab their boots and their bags. They asked permission to take some of the worst cases away with them
(these men need proper care in a hospital, and so forth), but he couldn’t allow that. If there was one thing the Vadani were
better at than curing people, it was taking hostages.

Once or twice as the day wore on, he caught himself thinking about the Mezentine fugitive, and his extraordinary offer. But
that would have to wait until he got home; the decision would have to be taken in the proper way, with the opinions of the
council guiding him. Better, therefore, that he kept his mind open and didn’t think about it at all until then.

They stopped for the night an hour before sunset, a long way short of where they’d hoped they’d reach. This journey was taking
forever. Orsea was tired but not exhausted, and his wound hadn’t burst like everybody had said it would; there was a little
blood showing through the bandage, but nothing spectacular. A Vadani doctor came to examine and dress it; a short, stout man
with a fringe of straight white hair round a glowing bald head, very quiet, as though each word was costing him thirty shillings.
Orsea guessed that it was the first time he’d had anything to do with the effects of a battle. Some people reacted like that,
shutting the doors and windows of their minds to keep the intrusive information out. He said the wound was knitting very well,
tutted to himself at the cack-handed Eremian way of winding a bandage, and left quickly. When he’d gone, Orsea poured himself
a small drink and opened the book he’d brought along to read, and hadn’t yet looked at — Pescennia Alastro’s sonnets, the
latest rescension, an anniversary present from his wife. He opened it at the first page, laid it carefully face down on his
knee, and burst into tears.

Unlike his father, the young Duke hunted three days a week, always following the same pattern. On Tuesdays he rode parforce,
with the full pack, drawing the upland coverts for roe (in season), boar, bear and wolf. On Thursdays the hunt was bow-and-stable,
the hunters on foot and stationary while the pack flushed the valley plantations and the moors on the forest perimeter. Saturday
was for hawking, unless the weather was too wet and cold, in which case they’d work the warrens with terriers, or try their
luck walking up rabbits around the orchards. The great battues were a thing of the past now; the young Duke didn’t hold with
the disturbance they caused, or the scattering of game from their regular beats.

Duke Valens took the hunt very seriously. The rule was, no business on a hunt day unless it’s a genuine emergency; and even
then, the court knew better than to expect him to be good-tempered about it. Accordingly, Chancellor Delmatius was in two
minds, possibly three, about passing on the message from the northeastern frontier. He spent a couple of tormented hours contemplating
the true meaning of the words
genuine emergency,
evaluated the risks to a hair’s weight, and was just in time to intercept Valens before he left for the stables.

“It’s probably nothing,” he said, pausing to catch his breath. “I thought I’d mention it, but I don’t think we need do anything
about it.”

Valens wasn’t looking at him; he was scowling at a square of blue sky beyond the window. “Shit,” he said (Valens very rarely
swore). “And I was hoping we’d work through the long drive this morning. Pranno reckons there’s a twelve-pointer just moved
in there.”

Delmatius didn’t sigh with relief, but only because he’d learned how not to. “Do you want to see the messengers first, or
should I call the council?”

“I suppose I’d better see the messengers,” Valens answered, looking thoughtfully at the gloves in his hand. “I don’t need
you to sit in, I’ll get Strepho to take notes for you. You get on and call the meeting. We’ll use the side-chamber off the
east hall.”

Delmatius scuttled away like a mouse who’s left half his tail in the cat’s mouth; as soon as he’d gone, Valens relaxed his
scowl and perched on the edge of the table. It was a pity; if there really was a twelve-pointer in the narrow wood, it’d be
long gone by next week, most likely heading downhill toward the lusher grass. Either the Natho clan would get it, or some
poacher who’d take the meat and bury the rest, and that superb trophy would go to waste.

Even a twelve-pointer, however, didn’t justify spitting in the face of opportunity. He’d already heard about the battle itself,
of course. The scouts (his personal unit, not the regulars who reported to the chiefs of staff) had brought him the news a
fraction less than twenty-four hours after the last scorpion-bolt pitched. By the time the joint chiefs and the council knew
about it, Valens had already read the casualty reports (both sides’ versions, naturally). Predictably, they were split into
two irreconcilable factions: attack now, kill them all, worry about the treaty later; or leave well alone and hope the wolves
tidy up the stragglers.

Instead, Valens had given orders for a modest relief column: food, blankets, doctors of course. The council were used to him
adopting the one course of action they were sure he wouldn’t take, and listened meekly to their assignments. As usual when
he gave an incomprehensible order, Valens didn’t stop to explain the rationale behind it. The most favored theory was that
he wanted the doctors to bring him back extremely detailed reports of what state the Eremians were in, the exact strength
of the vanguard and rearguard, so he could make the attack, when it came, as effective as possible. Other theories included
an unannounced illness, a sudden conversion to some new religion that preached non-violence, or that old catch-all, lulling
the enemy into a false sense of se curity.

In fact, he was allowing himself the luxury of savoring the moment. It had been a long time coming; but now, at last, his
proper enemy and natural prey had made the mistake of bolting from cover at the first horn-call, so to speak. It’d be fatally
easy to take the obvious course of action and lay into them, kill as many as possible and scatter the rest. Any fool could
do that. Valens, on the other hand, knew the value of waiting just a little longer and doing a proper job. He’d heard a saying
once; maybe it was from a Mezentine diplomat, boasting insufferably about how wonderful his people were at making things.
The easiest way to do something is properly.
When he’d heard it first, he’d been unable to make up his mind whether it was terribly profound or utterly banal. The moment
of revelation had been when he realized it was both.

He knew what the people said about him, of course; he was the best Duke in living memory, he was a bastard but a clever bastard,
he was ten times the ruler his father had been. Well, he knew the third one was lies. The second one he was prepared to acknowledge,
if put to it. The first one he dismissed as unlikely. It was good that they said it, however. If they admired him, they were
likely to do as they were told, just so long as he stayed successful. But there was no reason why he shouldn’t. If the hunt
had taught him anything, it was the inestimable value of thinking in three dimensions. To hunt successfully, you must know
your ground, your pack and your quarry. You must learn, by fieldwork and reconnaissance, where the quarry is likely to be
and what it’s liable to do once disturbed. You must know the capacities and weaknesses of the resources — men, dogs, equipment
— at your disposal. You must be able to visualize at all times where everybody is, once you’ve sent them to their stations
to do their assigned tasks. You must be aware of the interplay of time and distance, so you can be sure that the stops and
the beaters are in position when you loose the pack. You must be able to judge allowances — the angle to offset a drive so
as to head off the quarry from its customary line of escape, how far ahead of a running stag to shoot so as to pitch your
arrow where it’s going, not where it’s just been. Above all, at all times you must be in perfect control, regardless of whether
things are going well or badly. A brilliant mind is not required; nor is genius, intuition, inspiration. Clarity and concentration
are helpful; but the main thing is vision, the ability to draw invisible lines with the mind’s eye, to see round corners and
through walls. It’s a knack that can be learned fairly readily; slightly harder than swimming, rather easier than juggling
or playing the flute.

Well; if he wasn’t going to hunt today, he’d better go to the council meeting. Nothing useful would be achieved there — he
would do all the work himself, it’d take him just under half an hour — but it was necessary in order to keep his leading men,
his pack, alert and obedient. He’d been at pains to train them over the last few years, encouraging, rewarding, culling as
needed, and they were shaping well; but time had to be spent with them, or they’d grow restive and willful. He swung his legs
off the table onto the ground, a brisk, almost boyish movement that he certainly wouldn’t have made had anybody been watching,
and walked quickly across the yard, composing the agenda for the meeting as he went. On the stairs he met the master cutler,
who told him the new case of rapiers had finally arrived from the City. He thanked the man and told him to bring them along
to his study an hour after dinner.

The meeting lived down to his expectations. The council had wanted to debate whether or not to launch an attack on the Eremians
while they were vulnerable and desperate. When he told them he’d already sent food and doctors, they had nothing left to say;
they hadn’t thought ahead, and so the buck had slipped through the cordon and left them standing. As it should be; it was
easier to tell people what to do if they didn’t interrupt. He delegated to them the simple, unimportant matters that he hadn’t
already provided for, and sent them away with a sense of bewildered purpose.

To his study next, where he had a map of the mountains. It was big, covering the whole of the north wall (there was a hole
for the window in the middle of the Horsehead Ridge, but that didn’t matter; the ridge was sheer rock capped with snow, and
you needed ropes and winches to get there); it was a tapestry, so that he could mark positions with pins and tapes if he chose
to, but that was rarely necessary. He fixed his eye on the place where Orsea’s army had last been seen, and calculated where
they were likely to be now.

An attack would be feasible — not straight away, there were two possible escape routes and he couldn’t get his forces in place
to block both of them before the Eremians moved on; tomorrow evening or the morning of the next day would be the right time.
He could bottle them up in the long pass between Horn Cross and Finis Montium, and it ought to be possible to wipe them out
to the last man without incurring unacceptable losses. It could be done; now he had to decide whether he wanted to do it.

That was a much bigger question, involving a complex interplay of imperatives. His father, or his grandfather, great-grandfather
and so back four degrees, wouldn’t have thought twice: kill the men, absorb the women and children, annex the land. They’d
been trying to do just that, through war, for two hundred years. The hunt had, however, moved on; thanks to the long war,
and the recent short interval of peace, Valens knew he didn’t have the resources, human or material, to control the aftermath
of victory to his satisfaction. He’d be occupying a bitterly hostile country, through which his lines of communication would
be stretched and brittle. Facts duly faced, there wasn’t actually anything in Eremia that he hadn’t already got an adequate
sufficiency of. Get rid of the Eremians and take their land, and he’d find himself with two frontiers abutting the desert
instead of just one; two doors the nomad tribes might one day be able to prise open. A preemptive massacre would cause more
problems than it solved.

He considered a few peripheral options. He could secure Orsea himself and keep him as a hostage. The advantages of that were
obvious enough, but they didn’t convince him. Sooner or later he’d either have to kill his cousin or let him go; at which
point he could expect reprisals, and the Eremians had just proved themselves capable of gross overreaction. They would send
an army; which he could defeat, of course, but then he’d be left with heavy casualties and the same undesirable situation
he’d have faced if he’d taken this opportunity to wipe the Eremians out in the Butter Pass. Forget that, then; forget also
bottling them up in the pass and extorting concessions. A republic or a democracy might do that, trading a vote-winning triumph
in the short term against a nasty mess at some time in the future (hopefully when the other lot were in government). Valens
was grateful he didn’t have to do that sort of thing.