Devices and Desires (83 page)

It was Miel’s turn to shake his head. “I wasn’t talking about that,” he said. “I ought to kill you for what you did to her.
And to Orsea, my best friend.”

Vaatzes considered that. “You’d have a stronger case on those grounds, certainly,” he said. “But that wouldn’t be the real
reason, just an excuse. No,” he went on, getting painfully to his feet, “you won’t do anything to me. For all sorts of reasons.
Saving my life, for instance. That took some arranging, by the way.”

Miel had thought he was beyond surprise by now. “Arranging?”

Vaatzes smiled and nodded. “On reflection,” he said, “it was worth the effort. It got me into your house for an extended stay,
which meant I was able to make contact with your housekeeper and various other members of the household. It was hard work,
though; hours and hours reading those ridiculous books —
King Fashion
and the
Mirror;
and teaching myself to shoot a bow and arrow. All that, just so I could talk to a few domestic servants without making them
suspicious.”

“I don’t understand,” Miel said weakly.

“What? Oh, right.” Vaatzes leaned against the doorframe. “I read in one of the books,
King Fashion,
I think, about the dangers of boar-hunting. It said that a boar who’s been shot in the back leg with an arrow is particularly
dangerous; it can’t run away, which is what its instincts tell it to, but it can still use its front legs to drag itself along
and get at you, so you can pretty well guarantee it’ll attack. So I made myself a bow and I practiced until I could hit a
target the size of a boar’s back leg every time. I knew there’d be no guarantee that the perfect opportunity would arise,
but it was worth going along just in case it did. And I got lucky; and it all worked out perfectly after all. That benign
providence again, I suppose. On balance, I’d have preferred it if you’d shown up about five seconds earlier; I’d have got
away with some nasty cuts and bruises, and I could’ve faked broken bones and internal injuries instead of having to put up
with the real things. But, like I said, it all came out just right. I got into your house like I wanted; also, because of
your personal code of chivalry, it turned me into one of your responsibilities, someone you had to help and look out for thereafter.
Naturally, that made my life much easier, by putting me above suspicion.” He smiled slowly. “I won’t deny I’ve had one or
two really big slices of luck, but at least I’ve made the most out of them. A bit like a man killing a pig; nothing goes to
waste, it all turns out to be useful.”

Miel looked at him. “Get out,” he said. “And if I ever set eyes on you again, I will kill you. For the reasons stated.”

Vaatzes nodded, thanked him for the wine and left. He’d have liked to stay longer and explain further, but as always he was
racing a deadline. Soon — he wasn’t sure when, of course, he was basing all his timings on estimates, little more than guesses
— soon the Mezentines would be creeping up through the maintenance tunnels, heading for the gate. That would be a problem,
of course; when he’d sent his letters to Falier, the first of them months ago, with the instructions enclosed, he hadn’t foreseen
the destruction and walling up of the gateway. It remained to be seen what effect it would have on the overall working out
of the design; from here on, for a while, it was all out of his hands. He felt a degree of apprehension about that, quite
naturally, and also a certain relief. He was far more tired than he’d anticipated he would be at this point, and that in itself
was a reason to feel apprehensive.

Now, at least, he didn’t have anything in particular to do. He daren’t go back to his room at the factory and fall asleep;
the factory was too near the gate, for one thing, and he would need to be fairly close to the palace. He didn’t relish the
prospect of wandering aimlessly about for an hour, or three hours, however long it was going to be. The sensible thing to
do would be to find somewhere light and sheltered, and read the book he’d brought with him.

(Ludicrous, he thought; who else but me would remember to bring a book to read while waiting for a massacre to start? But,
he reflected, all his life he’d had a peculiar horror of being bored, and he’d been saving this particular book for when he
needed to take his mind off something. So; it was just a perfectly reasonable act of preparation.)

He wandered out into the courtyard, just below the tower. Since he was already inside the restricted area, and the guards
knew who he was and why he was here, nobody was likely to bother him. They kept torches burning all night here — visibility
was important, prisoners can escape better in the dark — and there was a bench he could sit on. Light to read by, and it wasn’t
uncomfortably cold, just fresh enough to help him stay awake. He sat down, curled his coat tails round his knees, and opened
his book.

The candidate
[he read]
is not expected to understand the theoretical basis of perfection; nor is he encouraged to consider such matters in any further
detail than that included in the syllabus. It is sufficient for him to be aware that, in a necessarily imperfect world, perfection
is most immediately and tangibly represented in the various established specifications ordained by each Guild for its members.

However, some observations on the basic principles of this subject will prove useful to the candidate, and should be committed
to memory. First, perfection can be expressed as the smallest degree of tolerance of error or divergence from Specification
that can be obtained in the circumstances prevailing in each instance. Thus, a standard tolerance of one thousandth of an
inch is allowed for in specifications of lathe work and most milling operations. In casting, a tolerance of ten thousandths
is permitted; in general carpentry, twenty thousandths, although in fine joinery and cabinet-making this is reduced to ten
thousandths.

None of these divergences can be taken to express perfection; a perfect artifact must conform to Specification exactly. Given
the inevitability of error, however, the Guild recognizes the need for strictly regulated tolerance, and such tolerance is
therefore included in the specification. The question arises, therefore, whether an artifact that is perfect, i.e. one that
contains no error whatsoever, can be in accordance with Specification; since it differs from the prescribed form by omitting
the permissible degree of error, is it not therefore out of Specification, and therefore an abomination?

This issue was addressed by the seventh extraordinary assembly of the united Guilds, who declared that a perfect artifact
is permitted provided that in its creation there was no inherent intent to improve upon Specification by reducing error beyond
permitted tolerance. Evidence of such intent would be, among other things, modification of other components to allow for or
take advantage of perfection in any one component. Thus, if a mechanism is found to have only one perfect component, intent
is not found; whereas if more than one component is perfect, and if the perfection of one component is ancillary to or dependent
upon the perfection of another (for example, where two parts fit together), there is a rebuttable presumption of such intent,
and the accused must prove beyond reasonable doubt that no such intent was in his mind when he produced the components.

He rested the book on his knees for a moment, then turned the page.

Perfection is most often attained, or, more usually, aspired to, through the destruction or removal of material. Such destroyed
or discarded material is referred to as waste. Waste can be created by separation (for instance, by sawing off surplus material)
or by attrition (e.g. filing, turning). The creation of waste can therefore be partly or wholly destructive. It is policy
that wherever possible, partial destruction is preferred to total destruction, since surplus material that is only partially
destroyed — offcuts, for example — can often be put to good use. However, this preference should not be allowed to interfere
with the imperatives of precision. Thus, where a more exact result can be obtained by a wholly destructive process, e.g. filing
or milling, than by a partially destructive one such as sawing or chain-drilling, total destruction is preferred. Acceptable
levels of waste are, of course, allowed for in all Specifications, and any attempt to reduce waste beyond the specified levels
is prohibited. As the report of the ninth general review committee puts it, waste is part and parcel of any properly conducted
procedure; material is there to be cut and destroyed in the furtherance of the design.

He closed his eyes for a moment. There wasn’t, as far as he was aware, a specification for the cutting and piercing of flesh,
the bending and breaking of bone and sinew; there was no established tolerance through which perfection in this sphere could
be expressed. In the absence of anything of the sort, it was impossible to establish what represented a permissible degree
of waste. However, the basic rule must still apply: where a more exact result can be obtained by total destruction, it is
preferred. He closed his hands around his face, and tried to find the absolution those words ought to bring. It was only logical.
The mechanism he’d built wasn’t some whim of his own. It was the only possible device that could be capable of achieving his
only objective, and that objective had been forced on him by the men who’d taken him away from his house, his family, the
only things in the world that mattered to him. So he’d followed the design to its logical end, accepting the inevitability
of a high level of wholly destructive waste; in effect, he’d been following the design specified by the actions of his betters
in the Guild, and it was the imperatives of precision that had destroyed Miel Ducas and Duchess Veatriz and Duke Orsea, and
were even now threading their nervous way through the tunnels in the rock under his feet, heading for a gate that shouldn’t
have been blocked, with a view to the laying waste, by cutting and attrition, of an entire city.

He was glad that it was all outside his control for a while.

They had no idea what to expect as they lifted the heavy trapdoor. They weren’t supposed to know that the whole plan was the
work of the traitor-abominator Vaatzes, but the deputy chief of staff had felt obliged to tell them, just in case it was all
a trap. It wasn’t the sort of information that inspires confidence, particularly when taken together with the obvious mistake
about the gate.

Nevertheless, a color-sergeant by the name of Pasargades lifted the trapdoor, took a deep breath and scrambled out of the
tunnel into the sweet night air. He may have ducked his head involuntarily, as though anticipating a cut or a blow, but nothing
like that happened. He jumped out, looked round quickly and dropped to his knees to help the next man out.

The first thing they noticed was how quiet it was. No voices, which was encouraging; no boots grinding on the cobbles, no
scrape of heels or spear-butts. There was a certain degree of light, from a lantern hanging off a bracket five yards or so
away. So far, the abominator had done them proud.

Thirty-six men followed Color-Sergeant Pasargades out of the tunnel: two infantry platoons, one squad of engineers and the
commanding officer, Captain Boustrophedon. They were light enough on their feet — minimum armor, sidearms only, and the engineers’
tools. All they had to do was breach the rubble blocking the gate. The army would do the rest.

The captain led the way, as was only right and proper. One platoon of infantry followed him, then the engineers, then the
second infantry unit. They had a fair idea of where to go. The last Mezentine diplomat to visit the city had briefed them
on the layout of the gatehouse, not that there was much to tell. Through the archway into a large empty room, and there was
the gate.

Or there it wasn’t. Instead, blocking a ragged-sided hole in the wall, there was a heap of wicker baskets, piled on top of
each other, each one filled with rubble. In front of the heap someone had made a start on a brick wall, but as yet it was
only three courses high. You could step over that without any bother. Propping up the heap of baskets were half a dozen beams
— they looked like rafters, or something of the sort. Presumably the idea was that if there was another battering-ram attack,
the beams would to some extent brace the baskets against the impact; either that, or the bricklayers were afraid that the
heap was unsteady and might come crashing down on them at any moment. All in all, it was a fairly unconvincing piece of fortification.
Once the brick wall was finished, of course, it’d be better, though not much. Not that it mattered. Even if the gate was wide
open, the Mezentines didn’t have the manpower for a direct assault, not if their entry was resisted.

Simple, thought Captain Boustrophedon: knock away the beams, get a grappling-hook into a few of those baskets, and pull. Of
course, you wouldn’t live to enjoy being a hero. The rubble would come down on you like a rockslide in the mountains, you’d
be a bag full of splintered bones when you died.

Someone was calling out; an inquiry rather than a challenge, but it had to go unanswered. More voices, which meant choosing
a course of action quickly and hoping it’d work. Well, the captain thought, if we can’t have the rubble collapsing inward,
we’ll have to try pushing instead. He wasn’t particularly happy about it, but there wasn’t time to draw diagrams and calculate
angles.

“Get hold of those beams and push,” he ordered.

The back platoon were already engaged. He heard a shout or two, then a yell as someone got hurt — them or us, hardly matters.
So long as this gateway’s opened up in the next fifteen seconds.

They pushed. A couple of arrows skittered off the side wall, someone was yelling, “In there!” They pushed again, and in the
split second it took for Boustrophedon to realize he’d made the wrong decision, the Eremian guards swept away the nine men
of the back platoon who were still standing, and charged into the gatehouse.