Devices and Desires (56 page)

It was necessarily slow going down the mountain. The thin young woman looked nervous as she leaned back in the saddle, as
if she expected to vanish backward over the horse’s tail at any moment. Her aunt, the woman in the red dress, spread her ample
seat comfortably, as though her knees were stitched tight to the girths. She yawned once or twice, not bothering to cover
her mouth.

At the crossroads the party turned east along the rutted, dusty track that followed the top of the ridge until it joined the
Edge-way, which in turn led to the Butter Pass. The guards, riding in front and somewhat close together, talked for a while
about cockfighting, horse-racing and the chances of war with Mezentia, which they decided was most unlikely. The muleteers
were busy keeping the mules moving. The merchant and her niece rode side by side most of the time, but didn’t talk to each
other. They rested for an hour at noon, in the shade of a knot of canted, scrubby thorn trees that marked the point where
the Butter Pass began. They picked the pace up gradually in the afternoon, and by nightfall they were close enough to the
border to see the lights of the Vadani frontier post. Shortly after midnight they crossed into Vadani territory, following
a narrow path along the bed of a steep-sided gully that kept them well out of sight of the border guards. It would have been
an awkward ride in the dark, except that they and their horses knew the way very well indeed, and didn’t need to see the hazards
in order to avoid them.

At some point in the small hours they rejoined the road, a little way beyond a village by the name of Gueritz, and spent the
rest of the night there, recovering from the stresses of their prosaic little adventure. At first light they rode on as far
as Schantz, where they stopped at the inn for breakfast, and to have one of the guards’ horses reshod. Two of the muleteers
entertained the Schantz ostlers and grooms with an account of Duke Orsea’s hunt, which they’d heard from one of Jarnac’s men
in an inn in Civitas Eremiae the night before they left. Such parts of the account as were not invented were greatly exaggerated:
Miel Ducas had been savagely mauled by the boar and it was uncertain whether he’d recover; the Mezentine exile Vaatzes was
also hovering at death’s door, having been picked up bodily on the boar’s snout and hurled down a rock-lined goyle into a
riverbed; the Ducas had killed the boar that mangled him, after wrestling it to the ground and cutting its throat with his
short knife.

The road from Schantz to Pasador was broad, flat and easy; they had the river on their right all the way, and they stopped
several times to water the horses. Even so, they made Pasador by noon and sat in out of the heat in a ruined barn, while two
muleteers who wanted to stretch their legs walked into the village and bought bread, cheese, figs and white wheat beer for
the midday meal. When the edge had gone off the sun, they carried on briskly and peacefully as far as the crossroads, where
they picked up the Silver Pass, leading direct to Civitas Vadanis. It was only the delay caused by having the guard’s horse
shod that stopped them reaching the city gate before dark; as it was, they had to ride the last hour and a half by moonlight,
which was no great hardship. In fact, they were happy to enter the city in the dark, since it made them less conspicuous.
Since the sheep-driving season was over for the year, they were able to pen the mules in a small paddock in the main stockyard,
handy for the inns. The guards and the muleteers limped off to go drinking; the merchant and her niece washed up in the back
yard of the Convention before setting off for Duke Valens’ castle, in the northeast corner of the city.

The story of Orsea’s hunt was told many times that evening in the stockyard inns, each containing a slight development on
its predecessor. By the time it was recited in the Gold & Silver-men’s Hall, a large and popular inn on the edge of the assay
court, both the Ducas and Vaatzes had been killed, though not before the Ducas had given the boar its death-wound with the
shattered truncheon of his spear.

One of Valens’ austringers left the Gold & Silver shortly after that and headed up the hill to the castle. He was aware that
he’d had rather more to drink than he’d have liked, since his duty was to seek an immediate audience with the Duke himself.
The news of the Mezentine exile’s death, however, shouldn’t really be left till morning, and besides, he knew a couple of
other people who’d want to hear about it straight away. He had to tell the Duke first, of course, he realized that; but afterward,
time would be of the essence with his other customers, who wouldn’t want to pay him if they’d already heard the news from
someone else.

“He’s dead,” Psellus announced at the general staff meeting. He paused, then added: “Apparently, he was killed by a pig.”

There was an element of shock in the silence that followed; also the tension of strong, serious men trying not to laugh. Eventually,
a senior officer of the Coppersmiths’ said, “A pig?”

“A wild pig,” Psellus said. “It appears that he was invited to go hunting with the Duke and his courtiers. A wild pig killed
him — apparently they are quite ferocious animals, capable of inflicting serious injury. One of the courtiers was killed also.”

A different kind of silence; thoughtful, reticent. The Coppersmith broke it to say: “This changes nothing. But I am surprised
to hear that he was invited to hunt with the Duke and his court. My understanding is that only persons of high social standing
attend on these occasions.”

Psellus nodded. “As participants,” he said. “But please bear in mind that the hunters are accompanied by a substantial number
of assistants. There are men who look after the dogs, others who drive the animals out of hiding by making a noise, and of
course there are porters, to carry equipment and the carcasses. My understanding is that the hunters usually hire casual labor
for some of these tasks. It’s highly possible that he was there in that capacity, rather than as a guest.” Psellus hesitated.
“Unfortunately, my sources — I must stress, these are preliminary reports only — my sources weren’t able to furnish any details,
so the theory remains uncorroborated. Nevertheless…” He hesitated again. “If these reports are accurate, Vaatzes is dead.
I think we can safely assume that, contrary to what my colleague has just said, the position has changed significantly. In
fact, I would ask the commission to consider whether the war is still necessary.”

“On what grounds?” Tropaeus, needless to say, defending the infant war as though it was his cub. “If there has been a change,”
he went on, “it’s for the worse. Let us put your theory on one side for a moment and assume that Vaatzes was there as a guest.
In that case, logic suggests that he was on good terms with the Eremian aristocracy — a Mezentine, a representative of the
nation that wiped out the flower of their army. There can only be one explanation, just as Vaatzes had only one commodity
to sell in order to buy their favor. In other words, we must conclude that Vaatzes had already betrayed the technical secrets
entrusted to him by virtue of his position at the ordnance factory, or was preparing to do so.”

Psellus coughed mildly. “Assuming,” he said, “the wretched man was there as a guest. If not, if he was simply a day-laborer,
surely it implies the opposite; that he was destitute, or at least forced by necessity to take any work he could get, and
therefore that either he made no attempt to sell our secrets, or he had tried and failed. I should add,” he went on before
Tropaeus could interrupt, “that I have seen minutes of a meeting of the Eremian council at which an offer to introduce new
skills and methods of metalworking were offered to the Duke by an unnamed Mezentine, and refused. Unless our security is even
worse than we’ve been supposing, I can only assume that the man refused by the council must be Vaatzes.”

“We’ve all seen that report,” someone objected — he was sitting too far back for Psellus to see his face; he thought the voice
was familiar but he couldn’t put a name to it. “But you’re missing the point, both of you. It doesn’t matter. So Vaatzes is
dead; so we have evidence to suggest that the Eremians refused to listen to him. What are you suggesting? Are you trying to
argue that we shouldn’t go on with the invasion?”

Psellus stiffened. “I don’t recall proposing that,” he said. “And I fully accept the argument that we need to make sure there’s
no possibility of leakage of restricted Guild knowledge.”

“Which means the Eremians must be wiped out,” the unseen man broke in. “We’ve discussed all this. So, unless you’re saying
we should reopen that decision — which, personally, I’m not inclined to do unless you can produce some pretty strong new arguments
that we haven’t considered previously — I don’t see what difference Vaatzes’ death makes to anything. We’ve got the soldiers,
right here, kicking their heels and waiting to go. I won’t remind you how much they’re costing us per day. I’m not aware of
any significant strategic or tactical considerations which would keep us from launching the invasion immediately. Gentlemen,
we’re wasting time and money. Let’s get on and do what we’ve already agreed has to be done.”

Loud rumble of approval. Very unwillingly, Psellus got to his feet once more. “I’m not opposing that view,” he said, “or arguing
against the invasion. All I’m trying to ask is whether it’s quite so urgent now that Vaatzes himself is dead —”

“If he
is
dead,” someone else put in. “A moment ago you said it was unconfirmed.”

“It is,” Psellus said raggedly. “But let’s assume it’s right. If Vaatzes is dead, he won’t be giving away any more secrets.
We know from the Eremian council minutes that they turned him down. So we’re left with any secrets he passed on to someone
else, private citizens rather than the Eremian government, before his death. And I can’t help wondering —”

“It changes nothing,” said another voice, off to his left. “Even if Vaatzes said nothing, or nobody listened to him, it’s
all beside the point. We’ve got to be sure; and the only way we can be sure is to invade. It’s how we’ve managed to keep our
total monopoly for well over a hundred years; and if it means we have to go to war, then we’ve got to do it. I propose that
Commissioner Psellus receive our thanks for updating us on these new developments; I further propose that we set a definite
date for the launch of the invasion, namely ten days from now. Do I have a seconder for that?”

Motion carried; orders issued to the commander in chief, requisitions to the Treasurer’s office and other parties concerned;
vote of thanks to Commissioner Psellus, as minuted.

What was I doing, Psellus asked himself, as he climbed the stairs back to his office; was I trying to stop the war? Somebody
thought so, and now we’ve got a firm date. I didn’t think that was what I was trying to do. I don’t know anymore. It’s as
though this war’s alive now. It’s crawled in from wherever wars come from, like bees getting in through a thin place in the
thatch, and already it’s too big and too clever to be stopped.

The sooner it starts, the sooner it’ll be over and I won’t have to think about it anymore.

“Where the hell have you been?” Cantacusene said, as Ziani limped through the factory gate. He’d been measuring out timber
for the scorpion frames; a boxwood rule in one hand, a nail in the other. “They’ve been saying you’re dead.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Ziani replied, and Cantacusene wondered what’d made him so cheerful. “If you think a wild pig could
succeed where the Guild tribunal and the compliance directorate failed, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for. How’s it
going? Did they get that problem with the sear-plate bolts sorted out?”

Cantacusene nodded. “We’re ahead of the book,” he said, with more than a hint of pride. “You said run four shifts, so I’ve
been keeping them going flat out. Haven’t been home since you’ve been away.”

“Fine. Good.” Ziani wished he’d put a bit more sincerity into that, but too late now. “The good news is, the Duke has just
doubled the order. He wants a hundred.”

“That’s all right,” Cantacusene said. “At this rate, he can have them in a week.”

“At this rate maybe,” Ziani said, and he set off for the long gallery. Cantacusene dropped the rule and dashed after him.
“But this rate’s too bloody slow. Day after tomorrow at the very latest, he’ll be back asking for two hundred in a fortnight.
I’m planning for two hundred and fifty in ten days.”

Cantacusene stopped. He had a stitch and he was out of breath. “Impossible.”

“No.” Ziani hadn’t stopped. Cantacusene set off again. “Perfectly possible. We just need more men. I stopped off at Calaphates’
place and told him to get his men out recruiting. Also, he’s seeing to materials; we’re all right for timber, but we’ll need
more quarter-inch iron plate. It can be done, you’ll see.”

“Why two hundred and fifty?”

“Because that’s what it’ll take to defend this city,” Ziani replied, as though it was perfectly obvious. “Two hunded and fifty
is the minimum number, we should have seventy-five more but I’ve got an idea about that. If only we’d had time to build a
rolling mill, I wouldn’t be relying on bloody merchants for my quarter plate.” He shook his head. “Everything’s going quite
well,” he said. “You never know, we might just get there.”

He left Cantacusene at the gallery door, and headed straight for the forge, where the springs were being tempered. It was
the stage in the process where things were most likely to go wrong, he knew perfectly well; ideally, that was where he needed
to be for the next week or so, judging each spring by eye as it lifted orange off the fire. The lead-baths took all the skill
out of drawing the temper, but he was still obliged to trust Eremians for the hardening pass. The thought of that worried
and annoyed him, but he had no choice.

The heat in the forge was overwhelming. As instructed, they’d laid in an extra half-dozen double-action bellows, which meant
ten fires were running on a hearth designed for five. There was water all over the floor, and a pall of black smoke from the
tempering oil wreathed the roof-beams like summer morning mist in a forest. He watched them for quarter of an hour; one man
on each fire worked the bellows, another splashed water from a ladle around the hearth-bed and tue-iron to keep them from
overheating, while the third used tongs to draw the spring slowly backward and forward through the tunnel of ash and clinker
that covered the roaring red heart of the fire. When the orange heat had soaked all the way through the whole spring, so that
it seemed to glow from the inside, the tong-worker fished it out like an angler landing a fish and dipped it full-length in
the upright oil-filled pipe. The oil lit, raising a sheet of flame as long as a man’s arm, and almost immediately put itself
out; as soon as the oil had stopped bubbling, out it came; a rod up through the middle of the coil to carry it by, and across
the room it went to the great iron trough full of molten lead, where another man picked it off the rod with tongs and dunked
it under the scum of the lead-bath to temper.