Devices and Desires (73 page)

Eventually she found him in a small room near the top of the old clock tower. When she burst in he was sitting facing the
narrow window, a pile of papers on a small table beside him, a book open on his lap. She noticed that it was upside down.

“Orsea, you’ve got to do something,” she said breathlessly, wondering as she said it why he hadn’t turned his head to look
at her. “There’s this crazy rumor going around that Miel’s been arrested and he’s going to be executed or something. If people
start believing that, there’ll be panic and chaos and God knows what. You’ve got to tell them it’s not true. Maybe the two
of you could go out on the balcony and make a joint statement or something.”

Still he didn’t turn toward her. “Who says it’s just a rumor?” she heard him say.

That didn’t make sense. “Orsea,” she said.

“Actually, the part about having him executed is a bit premature,” he continued, in a voice that sounded like his, but very
far away. “There’d have to be a trial first, and we can’t allow that; at least, not till the war’s over, assuming we survive
it, and maybe not even then. In fact, definitely not. So no, we won’t do that. Have to think up something else instead.”

That was more cryptic gibberish than she could take. She lunged forward and grabbed at his shoulder; he avoided her, like
a good fencer. “Are you completely out of your mind?” she said. “He’s just won a battle, for pity’s sake. He’s your best friend.
You can’t —”

Now he turned and looked at her, and she took a step back. He searched for something on the table, found it; a small square
of closely folded parchment. He pointed it at her as though it was a weapon.

Oh, she thought.

“He had it,” Orsea said. “At least, it was hidden in a room in the Ducas house, in a place only he knew about. And it so happens
I can verify that myself, because when we were kids he stole my lucky penknife and hid it there — a little sort of crack in
the wall, behind a tapestry; but I was watching through the keyhole, though he didn’t know. It was his secret place. If he
put it there, it was because he didn’t want it found.”

“How did you —?” Veatriz started to say. She cut the question short, but the damage was done.

“How did I find out?” Orsea laughed. There was something frightening in his voice. “Extraordinary thing. That Mezentine, Vaatzes,
the one who builds the war engines; he scheduled a meeting with me, I thought it was just about production schedules, but
as soon as we were alone he took it out of his pocket and handed it to me. I was stunned; I sat there staring at it, trying
to figure out what the hell it was. I could read the words; but for ages I simply couldn’t figure out what it could possibly
mean. And also I kept thinking, why the hell would Miel be hiding a letter, written to you by the Duke of the bloody Vadani?
How in God’s name did you come into it? And then —”

“Orsea, don’t,” she heard herself say; but she might as well have been in the audience at a play, watching a drama written
two hundred years ago. She could protest all she liked, but there was nothing she could do to alter the words that were due
to come next.

“And then,” Orsea went on, “I remembered that extraordinary speech of yours, about how we should run away and throw ourselves
on the mercy of Duke Valens.” He shook his head. “Really, Triz, I don’t know; have I been really stupid, not seeing the bloody
obvious when it’s right under my nose, or what? I didn’t know you’d ever met him, even, let alone —”

“Once,” she shouted. “Once, when we were kids, practically. I talked to him for five minutes at some horrible boring reception.”

He looked at her and said nothing; his silence killed something inside her. “And Miel fits in, of course, I can see that now,”
he went on eventually. “He was always in love with you. You and he would’ve been married, only you had to marry me instead,
because of politics. So of course he’d help you. The one thing I still can’t figure out is who he’s been betraying me to.
I mean, this proves he’s been working for the Vadani; then he goes and throws the battle, lets the bastards escape when he
could’ve finished them off, so is he working for the Mezentines as well? Or is it just anything to screw me, because I took
you off him?” He shrugged; big, melodramatic gesture. “I suppose I should care, because it matters politically, but I can’t
even be bothered to work it out. All I want is for the Mezentines to come quickly and finish us all off, before I find out
anything else about what’s been going on here.”

She realized that her legs were giving way; she took two wobbly steps back and leaned against the wall. “It’s not like that
at all,” she said. “Will you just listen to me?”

He looked at her. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It’ll just make me feel worse if you lie to me.”

That just made her feel murderously angry; if she’d had a knife, she’d have wanted to cut him with it. “Orsea,” she said,
“it was just letters. He wrote to me about something, or I wrote to him, I can’t bloody remember which; and we just carried
on, like friends. That’s absolutely all it was, I swear. And God knows how Miel got hold of that letter, but he was nothing
at all to do with it, I promise.”

“You swear and you promise,” Orsea said gravely. “There, now.”

“Orsea, don’t be —”

“Stop it, Triz,” he said. “It’s obvious. It’s so obvious a bloody Mezentine who’s only been in the country five minutes knows
all about it; I suppose everybody knew but me. It’s so
horrible.
” He clenched his fists; it was a weak, petulant gesture, something a little boy might have done. “Would you please go away
now,” he went on. “I really don’t want to talk to you anymore right now.”

She tried to take a step toward him, but her feet wouldn’t take her weight. “Orsea,” she said. “Read the bloody letter. It’s
just harmless stuff, it’s just
chat.
It doesn’t —”

He laughed, and her mind was suddenly full of poison. “Just chat,” he repeated. “Do you really think I’m so stupid? Well yes,
apparently you do. Fine. I must be. Now would you please go away? I’ve got a war to run.”

“Orsea. Will you please just listen?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Right now, if you told me my name I wouldn’t believe you.”

She wanted to fall on her knees and beg. She wanted to smash his face in. She couldn’t do either. “At least talk to Miel,”
she said.

“No.” He turned his back on her, sat down, picked up the book. It was
King Fashion and Queen Reason.
She could have burst out laughing. Instead, she leaned against the wall for balance and left the room.

The Mezentine army duly presented itself at the foot of the mountain road. Scouts reported that they numbered thirty thousand
infantry, five hundred scorpions and a small garnish of light cavalry. They sat down and waited, like an actor waiting for
his cue. Two days; nothing happened.

On the third morning, the baggage train arrived. It was suitably long and impressive; enough food and matériel for a long,
thorough siege, enough plant and equipment for a devastating assault. Most of the machinery visible from the scouts’ viewing
point was so unfamiliar that they could only guess what it was supposed to be for; some reckoned it was heavy artillery for
bashing down the walls, others were certain it was lifts and cranes for scaling ladders and siege towers, while a vocal minority
insisted it was earth-moving equipment for undermining the main gate.

Just for the hell of it, Orsea sent an embassy under a flag of truce to ask why he was being invaded, and if there was anything
he could do by way of reparation or apology. The embassy didn’t come back. That, it was generally agreed inside the city,
wasn’t promising. On a more positive note, the Mezentine Vaatzes reported that all the scorpions were installed on the wall,
fully operational, with good supplies of ammunition. If the enemy were stupid enough to come within range, he said, he could
lay down a barrage that’d take out ten thousand of them before they had time to set up and load a single scorpion.

Certain death at the hands of an implacable and invincible enemy on the one hand; a stone-cold certain guarantee of victory
on the other. Forced to choose between them, the Eremians in general made the obvious compromise and believed in both equally.
It was easy enough to do; look down the valley at the enemy and abandon all hope, look up at the rows of war engines on the
battlements and feel nothing but pity for the poor Mezentines, lambs to the pointless slaughter. Presumably the same ambivalence
was what was keeping the enemy at a safe distance down in the valley; and there seemed to be no reason why they shouldn’t
stay there forever and ever.

As was only proper for such a noble and ancient house, there were plenty of precedents for the treatment and privileges of
a Ducas arrested for high treason. It had been established over two centuries ago that he should be held in the East Tower
of the inner keep, a substantial and self-contained space where he could enjoy the view out over the long cover, and the sun
sparkling on the distant water of the Ribbon Lake. It was held that this would afford him peace and tranquillity in his darkest
hour; further or in the alternative, it would remind him of the start of the falconry season, and by implication everything
he’d forfeited by his foolish and presumptuous behavior. He should be brought food and fresh clothing three times a day direct
from the Ducas house (tasting the food to make sure it wasn’t poisoned was a special perquisite of the guard captain) together
with books, writing materials, playing cards, chess sets and other basic necessities of civilized life. Each day two of his
hounds should be brought to see him, so that the pack wouldn’t pine for their master, and in the season he should be permitted
to fly a peregrine falcon from his window at the doves roosting in the eaves of the bell-tower. His daily exercise should
consist of a walk along the battlement of the curtain wall morning and evening, and shortly before noon either twelve ends
of archery (with a child’s bow and blunts) or sparring with wooden wasters in the courtyard behind the main guardhouse at
the top of the tower. His valet should come to shave him at sunrise and sunset, under supervision of the guard captain. The
Ducas steward, bailiff, treasurer, head chamberlain, private secretary, housekeeper, head keeper and huntsman were permitted
to call at any time during the hours of daylight, or after dark when urgent business required the Ducas’ attention; other
visitors were at the guard captain’s discretion and subject to review by a supervisor appointed directly by the Duke. In the
event that the Ducas was unmarried, he should be permitted after thirty-eight consecutive months’ detention, or if condemned
to death, to marry a woman of good family nominated by the Duke solely for the purpose of begetting an heir. During any one
calendar year, his personal expenditure was limited to sixty thousand thalers, and he was not permitted to buy land in excess
of three hundred acres (except in completion of contracts entered into prior to his arrest) or participate in a mercantile
venture to the value of more than two hundred and fifty thousand thalers (except for contracts for the supply of food, textiles
or lumber to the army or the ducal household). He was permitted to stage a masque at midsummer and midwinter, employing no
more than sixteen paid actors and thirty-six musicians, and to be staged in the main guardhouse; and to hold a banquet for
no more than a hundred and twenty guests on the occasion of his birthday, the Duke’s birthday and the anniversary of the Battle
of Cantelac. He could have his portrait painted once every six months.

From the southern balcony of the East Tower, Miel could just see the extreme edge of the Mezentine camp: a section of the
perimeter ditch, which they’d dug on the first night and second morning, a corner of the enclosure they’d built to pen up
the wagon horses, and, if he leaned out and twisted his neck as far as it would go, the arms of the tallest of the giant long-range
war engines that were being assembled from prefabricated components in a specially fortified stockade. Beyond that, he had
to rely on observations made for him by members of his household; they told him about the arrival of the supply train, various
comings and goings of auxiliaries and engineers, and the lack of any other significant activity.

In a curious way, much of the time he didn’t feel like a prisoner. Running the everyday affairs of the Ducas — rent reviews,
planting schedules, repairs and renovations to tenanted properties, adjudicating in tenants’ disputes, all the duties he’d
carried out all his adult life without a second thought — felt more or less the same, regardless of the fact that he was doing
them in a slightly different setting. They’d brought up some of the tapestries and smaller paintings from the rent-room at
the Ducas house, since it would’ve been unreasonable to expect the Ducas to receive his dependents and tenants in anything
less than the proper surroundings; his sitting-room in the East Tower was, if anything, slightly larger than the rent-room,
and not quite as drafty.
Once I’ve been acquitted,
he told his visitors,
I’ve got a good mind to ask Orsea if I can stay here.
Most of them smiled the first few times he said it.

He wrote to Orsea four times a day: once before breakfast, usually a quick, personal note asking for a meeting as soon as
possible; a longer, more formal appeal composed during the morning; another similar during the afternoon; an expanded but
more informal summary of all three, usually written in the early hours of the morning. All were delivered personally by his
private secretary, all were read, none were answered. At least once a day he wrote to Veatriz, between three and ten pages,
all of which he burned once he’d finished them. People brought him presents; mostly books ( Jarnac gave him a brand-new copy
of
King Fashion,
profusely illuminated and illustrated by a leading artist) and fruit, as though he was ill.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to have done, or who had accused him, or what evidence, if any, there was against him.
The general consensus of opinion among his visitors was that it was something to do with the cavalry raid; it was cowardice
or incompetence, or else deliberate collusion with the enemy, because he could have killed far more of them from the position
he’d been in but had instead chosen to withdraw. His steward, a gloomy man called Evech, reckoned it was all the Mezentine
Vaatzes’ fault; he’d never forgotten how Miel had wanted to have him executed as a spy, and now he was in a position of power
and influence, he was getting his revenge. Cousin Jarnac refused to offer any opinion whatsoever. He simply couldn’t understand
it, but Orsea had refused to see him or answer his letters, so he could shed no light on the matter. Miel’s valet reckoned
the Duke was after the family wealth, to help pay for the war. Nobody said anything about Veatriz being involved in any way,
but she hadn’t been to see him or written a letter. His housekeeper reckoned it was all a nasty plot by the Phocas, whom she
always blamed for everything.