Devices and Desires (4 page)

“Dad?” he said softly.

“He can’t hear you.” The doctor’s voice, very nervous and strained. “He passed out from the pain a few minutes ago. I don’t
know if he’ll wake up again.”

Valens closed his eyes for a moment. “What’s the damage?” he said.

The doctor came a little closer. “For a start,” he said, “broken skull, collarbone, three ribs, left forearm; but that’s not
the real problem. He’s bleeding heavily, inside, and he’s paralyzed, from the neck down. There’s several possible causes for
that, but I don’t yet know which it is.”

“You don’t know?” Valens repeated.

“I’m sorry.” The doctor was afraid, that was it. Understandable; but it would only get in the way. “Until I can do a proper
examination…”

“I understand,” Valens said. “And I know you’re doing everything you can. Meanwhile, we need your help.” He turned to look
at the Chancellor. “Does he know what he’s got to do?”

The Chancellor dipped his head slightly. “They all do,” he said.

“Right.” Valens looked away from the body on the table. “Then let’s get on with it.”

In the event, there was no trouble at all. Count Licinius was in bed when a platoon of his own Guards brought him the letter
and escorted him, gently but firmly, to a guest-room in the castle; it was perfectly pleasant, but it was on the sixth floor
of the tower, and two men stood guard outside it all night. Vetranio made a bit of a fuss when the Guards came for him at
his villa on the outskirts of the city. He had guards of his own, and there was an ugly moment when they started to intervene.
A sword was drawn, there was a minor scuffle; Vetranio lost his nerve and came quietly, ending up in the room next to Licinius,
though neither of them knew it until they were released a week later. By then, the doctors were pleased to be able to announce
that the Duke had come through the dangerous phase of his injuries and was conscious again.

For Valens, that week was the longest of his life. Once Licinius and Vetranio were safely locked up and everything was quiet,
he forced himself to go back down to the courtyard and into the tent. He freely admitted to himself that he didn’t want to
go. He had no wish to look at the horrible thing his father had turned into, the disgusting shambles of broken and damaged
parts — if it was a cart or a plow, you wouldn’t bother trying to mend it, you’d dump it in the hedge and build a new one.

There were many times during his vigil in the tent when he wished his father would die and be done with it. It’d be better
for everyone, now that the political situation had been sorted out. He knew, as he sat and stared at his father’s closed eyes,
that the Duke didn’t want to live; somewhere, deep down in his mind, he’d know what had happened to him, the extent of the
damage. He’d never hunt again, never walk, never stand up, feed himself; for the rest of his life, he’d shit into a nappy,
like a baby. He’d fought more than his share of wars, seen the terror in the eyes of men he’d reduced to nothing as they knelt
before him; he’d far rather die than give them this satisfaction. In fact, Valens recognized, he could think of only one person
in the world who wanted him not to die, and his reasons were just sentiment, nothing that would survive the brutal interrogation
of logic. At some point in the first twenty-four hours he’d fallen asleep in his chair; he’d had a dream, in which he saw
Death standing over the table, asking his permission to take his father’s life away, like clearing away the dishes after dinner.
It seemed such a reasonable request, and refusing it was a foolish, immature thing to do. You know I’m right, Death’s voice
said softly inside his head, it’s the right thing to do and you’re being a nuisance. He’d felt guilty when he ordered Death
to go away, ashamed of his own petulance; and meanwhile, outside the door, he could hear Licinius and Vetranio and Torquatus
and the Chancellor and everybody else in the Duchy muttering about him, how if he couldn’t even take a simple decision like
this without coming all to pieces, how on earth did he imagine he would ever be fit to govern a country? He felt the leash
in his hand, the thin line of rope that tethered his father’s life to the tangled mess of bones and wounds on the table. If
he let go, it’d all be just fine, it’d be over. He was only hanging on to it out of perversity, contrariness; they should
come in, take it away from him and give it to a grown-up…

When he woke up, his father’s eyes were open; not looking at him, but out through the tent doorway, at the sunlight. Valens
sat up, stifled a yawn; Father’s eyes moved and met his, and then he looked away.

I suppose I ought to say something, he thought; but he couldn’t think of anything.

(Instead, he thought about his prisoners, Licinius and Vetranio, locked up like dogs shut in on a rainy day. Were they pacing
up and down, or lying resigned and still on the bed? Had anybody thought to bring them something to read?)

He was still trying to find some words when the doctor came in; and he carried on trying to find them for the next four years,
until his father died, in the middle of the night, on the eve of Valens’ twenty-third birthday. But all that time Valens never
said a word, so that the last thing he told his father was a lie:
I won’t go up to the round wood with you this afternoon, I’ve got a splitting headache coming on.
Not that it mattered; if he’d been there, his father would still have ridden ahead after the boar, the outcome would have
been the same in all material respects.

Someone had thought to have the boar flayed and the hide made into a rug; they draped it over the coffin when they carried
it down to the chapel for burial. It was, Valens thought, a loathsome gesture, but Father would’ve appreciated it.

Valens was duly acclaimed Duke by the representatives of the district assemblies. There was a ceremony in the great hall,
followed by a banquet. The Chancellor (Count Licinius, restored to favor; his predecessor had died of a sad combination of
ambition and carelessness the previous spring) took him aside for a quiet word before they joined the guests. Now that Valens
was officially in charge of the Duchy, there were a few niceties of foreign policy to go through.

“Now?”

“Now,” Licinius replied emphatically. “Things are a bit complicated at the moment. There’s things you should be aware of,
before you go in there and start talking to people.”

Badly phrased; Licinius was an intelligent man with a fool’s tongue. But Valens was used to that. “You didn’t want me to have
to bother my pretty little head about them yesterday, I suppose?”

Licinius shrugged. “The situation’s been building up gradually for a long time. When it all started, you were still — well,
indisposed. By the time you started taking an interest again, it was too involved to explain. You know how it is.”

“Sure.” Valens nodded. “So now you’re going to have to explain it all in five minutes before I go down to dinner.”

Licinius waited for a moment, in case Valens wanted to develop this theme. The pause made Valens feel petty. “Go on,” he said.

So Licinius told him all about it. Count Sirupat, he said, had kept strictly to the letter of the peace treaty that had been
signed when Valens was sixteen. There hadn’t been any trouble on the borders, and there was no reason to suppose he wasn’t
entirely sincere about wanting peace. But things weren’t all wine and honey-cakes; Sirupat had seven daughters —

“I know,” Valens interrupted, a little abruptly. “I met one of them once; it was when the treaty was signed, she was here
as a hostage.”

Licinius nodded. “That was the fifth daughter, Veatriz. Anyway, shortly after your father had his accident, my predecessor
made a formal approach to Sirupat for a marriage alliance. In his reply, Sirupat —”

“Just a moment,” Valens interrupted. “Marriage alliance. Who was supposed to be marrying who?”

Licinius had the grace to look away. “One of Sirupat’s daughters. And you, obviously.”

“Fine.” Valens frowned. “Which one?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Which one of Sirupat’s daughters?”

Licinius frowned, as if this fascination with trivial details perplexed him. “The fifth or the sixth,” he said. “The older
four had already been married off, and there’s some interesting implications there, because —”

“The fifth
or
the sixth.”

“They’re both pleasant enough, so I’ve heard. Anyway, Sirupat gave his agreement in principle, as you’d expect, because it’s
the obvious logical move. Before anybody had made any definite proposals, I took over as Chancellor; which shouldn’t have
made the slightest bit of difference, obviously, but suddenly Sirupat wasn’t answering my letters. Next thing we hear, he’s
negotiating a marriage with his sister’s eldest son, Orsea.”

“Orsea,” Valens repeated. “You don’t mean my cousin Orsea, from Scandea?”

“Him,” Licinius said. “Well, you can imagine, we were a bit stunned. We all assumed it was just tactical, trying to get us
to up our offer, so we decided to take no notice. I mean —”

“I remember when he came to stay, when I was a kid,” Valens said. “I suppose he was a hostage too, come to think of it. I
just assumed he was here because he’s an off-relation. But we got on really well together. I’ve often wondered what became
of him.”

“Not much,” Licinius said. “He may be related to our lot and their lot, but really he’s nothing more than a small-time country
squire; spends his time counting his sheep and checking the boundary fences. But if he were to marry Sirupat’s daughter, that’d
make him the heir presumptive, when Sirupat goes on —”

“Would it? Why?”

Licinius pulled a face. “It’s complicated. Actually, I’m not entirely sure why; I think it’s because the first three weren’t
born in the purple, and the fourth came along while the marriage was still nominally morganatic. Anyhow, there’s a damn good
reason. So in practice, Sirupat was practically appointing him as his successor.”

“Assuming the marriage goes ahead,” Valens pointed out. “And if it’s just a bargaining ploy…”

“Which is what we’d assumed,” Licinius said. “But apparently we were wrong. They were married last week.”

For a moment, Valens felt as though he’d lost his memory. Where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, what he was talking
about; all of them on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t quite remember. “Last week,” he repeated.

“Bolt out of the blue, literally,” Licinius said. “No warning, no demands, nothing. Just a report from our ambassador, not
even formal notification from the Court — which we’re entitled to, incidentally, under the terms of the treaty.”

“Which daughter?” Valens said.

“What? Oh, right. I’m not absolutely sure. I think it was number five; which’d make sense, because they’ve got rules over
there about the order princesses get married in. But if it was number six, the effect’d still be the same. Now I’m not saying
it was meant as a deliberate provocation or an act of war, but —”

“Can you find out?” Valens said. “Which one it was, I mean.”

“Yes, all right. But like I said, it’s not really important. What matters is, Sirupat has effectively rejected our claim —
some might say the treaty itself — in favor of some nobody who just happens to be a poor relation. In basic diplomatic terms
—”

“Find out which one,” Valens cut him off. “Quickly as possible, please.”

He could see Licinius getting flustered, thinking he hadn’t got across the true magnitude of the political situation. “I will,
yes. But if you’re thinking that’s all right, I’ll just marry number six, I’ve got to tell you that’d be a grave miscalculation.
You see, under their constitution —”

“Find out,” Valens said, raising his voice just a little, “and as soon as you hear, let me know. All right?”

“I’ve already said yes.”

“That’s splendid.” Valens took a deep breath. “That’ll have to do as far as the briefing goes, we can’t keep all the guests
waiting.”

Licinius had his answer within the hour. Yes, it was the fifth daughter, Veatriz, who’d married Count Orsea. Licinius’ scribbled
note reached Valens at the dinner-table, where he was sandwiched in between the Patriarchal legate (a serene old man who dribbled
soup) and a high-ranking Mezentine commercial attaché. Consequently, he read the note quickly, tucked it into his sleeve and
carried on talking to the legate about the best way to blanch chicory.

The next day, for the first time since his father’s accident, he announced a hunt. Since everybody was unprepared and out
of practice, it would be a simple, perfunctory affair. They would draw the home coverts in the morning, and drive down the
millstream in the afternoon. The announcement caused some surprise — people had got the impression from somewhere that the
new Duke wasn’t keen on hunting — and a great deal of anxious preparation and last-minute dashing about in stables, kennels
and tack rooms. Any annoyance, however, was easily outweighed by relief that things were getting back to normal.

“The prisoner has suggested,” the advocate said, “that his offense is trivial. Let us examine his claim. Let us reflect on
what is trivial and what is serious, and see if we can come to a better understanding of these concepts.”

He was a nondescript man, by any standards; a little under medium height, bald, with tufts of white hair over each ear; a
round man, sedentary, with bright brown eyes. Ziani had known him for years, from committees and receptions and factory visits,
had met his wife twice and his daughter once. From those meetings he’d carried away a mental image of a loud, high voice,
someone brisk and busy but polite enough, an important man who knew the strategic value of being pleasant to subordinate colleagues.
He knew he was some kind of high Guild official, but today was the first time he’d found out what Lodoico Sphrantzes actually
did.

“The prisoner, Ziani Vaatzes,” the advocate went on, “admits to having created an abomination. He admitted as much to the
investigator who inspected it. He signed a deposition confessing that the thing was made by him, and agreeing in detail the
departures from Specification. In this court, he has acknowledged his signature on that deposition, and conceded that he said
those words to that investigator. But he stands to his defense. He pleads not guilty. His defense…” Advocate Sphrantzes paused
to shake his head. “His defense is that his admitted abomination was only a little one, a minor deviation. It was, he tells
us, a slight modification, an improvement.”