Evil for Evil (17 page)

The thin man's smile didn't fade at all. "I told the porter I had an appointment to see you, and it was secret government business. He didn't believe me to begin with," the man added with a frown, "but when I showed him this, he changed his tune pretty quickly."

This
was a plain wooden box, slightly larger than a man's head. "Oh," Ziani said.

"You made it, then."

"Of course. And I knew you'd want to see it right away; hence my rather unorthodox approach to getting an appointment with you."

Ziani smiled. "It's a good approach," he said. "I use it myself." He sat down on the bed, breathed in slowly and out again. "All right," he said, "let's see it." The thin man rose and put the box down beside him, rather in the manner of a midwife introducing a mother to her newborn child. "The box is lemonwood," he said, "with brass hinges and a six-lever lock."

Ziani knew that tone of voice. "All made by you, of course."

"I'd finished the main job and I had some time on my hands," the thin man replied, wearing his modesty as a knight wears full plate armor. "Did I mention that cabinet-making—"

"Yes." Ziani held out his hand for the key. He had to admit, it was a beautiful piece of work in itself; stoned and buffed to a deep gloss, and decorated with neatly filed curlicues. He opened the box, trying to remember what it was he'd set the thin man to make for him.

"A small portable winch," the thin man said, right on cue. "To be suspended from a hook in a rafter, capable of lifting heavy sections of material, operated by the pressure of two fingers on the reciprocating crank here."

Ziani reached into the box and lifted it out. For a moment, he was confused; stunned, even. He'd spent his life making machines, designing them to do the jobs they were meant for as efficiently as possible. He understood function as well as a human being can understand anything. Beauty, however, tended to unsettle him. It was something he could recognize; he could even create it, if he had to. But he'd never understood it, maybe because he'd never been quite sure how it worked, and he'd never been able to bring himself to trust it, except once.

The machine he took out of the box was beautiful. That was an absolute fact, not a matter of opinion or taste. The struts that held together the top and bottom plates of the frame had been turned to the most graceful contours imaginable. Each component was immaculately finished and decorated with restrained, elegant file-carving or shallow-relief engraving. The whole thing had been fire-colored a deep sea blue, from which a few twists of perfectly chaste gold inlay shone like watch-fires in the dark. Almost afraid to touch it, Ziani rested a finger on the crank and pressed, until he heard the smooth, soft, crisp click of the sear engaging the ratchet.

"You made this?" he said.

"Yes."

He closed his eyes and opened them again; it was still there. "Does it work?"

"Yes."

He didn't know what to do with it. The heads of the screws and pins, he noticed, were engraved with floral designs, alternating roses and cardoons, each pin-hole and slot surrounded by a border of acanthus-and-scroll work. He didn't want to let go of it, not until he'd examined every component, figured out how it had been made and what it did, but somehow touching it made his flesh crawl. "You made this," he repeated.

"Most certainly," he heard the thin man's voice say. "With respect, it's not the sort of thing I could simply have bought in the market; not even in Mezentia. And you specified the work yourself, so it can't be something I bought somewhere else a long time ago. I also took the precaution of having a notary watch me file the ratchet teeth; I have a duly signed and sworn deposition to that effect here, which of course you are most welcome to have authenticated."

He couldn't resist it; he had to lift it up to the light, so he could see the detail of the spindle bushes. "All right," he said. "So where did you find a lathe in this godforsaken place?"

"I didn't. So I made one."

"You made one. And the milling?"

"No milling. All hand work."

"All—" Ziani had to think how to breathe for a moment. "What, the flats on the spindles and everything? The dividing of the teeth on the main gear?"

"Well…" The thin man sounded as though he was making a shameful confession.

"I had to build a jig for that; a simple pair of centers, with a handle. But the flat work was just done by eye, checked against a square. I hadn't got a square, so I—"

"Made one." It was as though he'd turned a corner in a busy street in broad daylight and met a unicorn, or a basilisk or a chimera, some mythical animal that quite definitely didn't exist. He could just about believe that work like this—
hand
work, for crying out loud—was theoretically possible. But that this strange, bizarre clown could have made it…

"I don't know what you want from me, then," he said. "I couldn't do anything like this."

"I know." The thin man's voice cut him like a jagged edge. "But," he went on, his voice reverting to its usual tone, "when all is said and done, it's just drilling and filing, primitive stuff. The Perpetual Republic knows better ways of doing things that make hand work irrelevant; better techniques,
secrets
." He made the word sound obscene.

"That's what you can teach me; and in return, if my poor services…" He paused, obviously waiting for some expected reply. Ziani wasn't in the mood.

"All right," he said; and as soon as he'd said it, he felt the little spurt of anger that comes with knowing you've walked into an obvious trap or fallen for the oldest trick in the book. But the machine in his hands was perfect.

"Thank you," the thin man said. "I promise you, you won't regret it. Anything I can do for you, anything at all."

"Fine," Ziani snapped. Talking to him was like stroking the fine hairs on the legs of a spider. "As it happens, I can use someone like you. I still can't really see what you expect to get out of it, but if you really want a job, I can give you one." He hesitated; the thin man either wasn't listening, or else he wasn't interested, to the extent that what he was saying was glancing off him, like arrows off fluted armor.

"Obviously we need to discuss money—"

"With respect." The thin man cut him off. "As I think I may have mentioned at our first meeting, I have my own resources, and my position is tolerably comfortable. What I want…" He'd raised his voice, and immediately regretted it. "If and when you have the time to consider it," he continued smoothly, "I'd be most grateful for any advice you may care to give me about a small project of my own. However," he added quickly, "there is absolutely no hurry in that regard, it can wait for as long as necessary, until it's entirely convenient."

"Really?" Ziani pulled a face. "You may have a pretty long wait, in that case, because the job the Duke's given me is going to take up all my time; yours too, if you're serious about wanting to work for me. If you've got a project of your own and the money to develop it with, you'd be far better off just getting on with it yourself. Still, it's up to you. Don't say I didn't warn you."

If that was supposed to get rid of the thin man, it had failed. He was still there, tense and eager as a dog watching its master, so that Ziani felt an overpowering urge to throw a stick for him to fetch. He made an effort and resolved not to worry about him anymore. If he wanted to work for nothing, that was his problem.

"Your first assignment," Ziani said briskly, as he stood up and crossed to the door, where his coat hung from the coathook. He felt in the sleeve and pulled out a roll of paper. "This is a list of everything I think we'll need to recruit and train fifty exiled Eremian craftsmen to do work to an acceptable standard. I want you to read it through, let me know if you think there's anything I've missed out, then copy it out neatly and give it to the Duke's secretary after dinner tonight." He paused. "Where do you live?"

"I have rooms in the ropewalk," the thin man replied instantly. "A workshop; I sleep and eat there as well. I can be ready to move in less than an hour, if—"

"No, that's fine, I just need to know where to find you."

For some reason, the thin man frowned. "The best way is to leave a message for me with the innkeeper at the Patient Virtue. I have an arrangement with him," he added awkwardly. "Any message you leave there will reach me within minutes."

"All right." Ziani shrugged. "Meet me here in the morning, two hours after dawn."

"Certainly. I can get here earlier if you wish."

Ziani couldn't be bothered to reply to that.

The attack came during the salad course, and it took Valens completely by surprise. Thinking about it later, he could only assume it was because he was still preoccupied with what Vaatzes had said to him earlier. That didn't make it any better.

"Oh for crying out loud," he complained hopelessly. "We've been into all this already."

"With respect." There was no respect at all in Chancellor Carausius' face; fear, yes, because all the high officers of state were afraid of him, with good reason. "We haven't actually discussed the matter properly, as you well know. Not," he added with feeling, "for want of trying. But you either change the subject or lose your temper; your prerogative, it goes without saying, but no substitute for a rational discussion." Carausius paused and wiped butter off his chin. "If you have a good, reasoned argument against it, naturally I'll be delighted to hear it." Valens sighed. "Well," he said, "for one thing, this is hardly the time. We're at war with the Mezentines, we're about to evacuate the city and go lumbering round the countryside in wagons, we're going to collapse all the silver mines, so we won't have any money at all for the foreseeable future. Be reasonable, will you? This really isn't the best moment to be thinking about weddings."

Carausius shook his head slowly, and the napkin tucked into his collar billowed a little as he moved. "On the contrary," he said. "At a time of national emergency such as this, what could possibly be more important than the succession? I mean it," he added, with a faint quaver in his voice that caught Valens' attention. "Face the facts. As you say, we're at war. You have no heir. If you die, if you're killed in the fighting or—I don't know, if you're swept away while crossing a river with the wagons, or if you fall off your horse when you're out hunting and break your stubborn neck, nobody knows who's to be the next duke. You don't need to be told why this is an unacceptable state of affairs."

Valens looked at him. It wasn't like Carausius to be brave unless he was in severe danger of being found out about something, and for once he had every right to a clear conscience. The only explanation, therefore, was that he was sincere. "All right," he said gently, "maybe you've got a point. But you know the reason as well as I do. There's no suitable candidates. I can't just go marrying some girl with a nice smile. We've got to find someone who's got something we need. Right now, that's either money or high-quality heavy infantry. If you can give me three names right now, I promise I'll listen."

A split second of silence, and Valens knew he'd walked into a snare.

"Not three," Carausius said; he'd taken the risk and won, and he was enjoying the moment. "Just one, I'm afraid. But, given the urgency…"

Valens put down his knife and folded his arms. "I'm listening," he said. Carausius composed himself. "Her name," he said, then he smiled. It wasn't something he did very often, sensibly enough. "Actually," he said, "I can't pronounce her name. However, I understand that it translates as White Falcon Soaring."

Just as well Valens had put his knife down, or he'd have stabbed himself in the knee. "You're joking," he said. "No, really, you can't be serious."

"I think it's a charming name."

"You know perfectly well…" Valens breathed out slowly. He was determined he wouldn't play the straight man to Garausius, even if he had walked into a painfully obvious trap. "A name like that's obviously Cure Hardy," he said. "Presumably this female of yours is something to do with the delegation we're meeting. And no, not even if it means we win the war and conquer Mezentia and ascend bodily to heaven on the backs of eagles. Not Cure Hardy."

Carausius took a moment to butter a scone. "In your own words," he said,

"money or soldiers. The Cure Hardy have both."

"I said heavy infantry," Valens pointed out. It was a bit like trying to sink a warship with a slingshot, but he was determined to fight to the last. "And the Cure Hardy don't even use money."

"They have gold and silver, which amounts to the same thing. Also, I don't agree that we necessarily need heavy infantry. Light cavalry, which is the Cure Hardy's traditional strength—"

"We've got the best cavalry in the world."

"Acknowledged," Carausius said through his scone. "Heavy cavalry, and not nearly enough. The Cure Hardy are faster, more mobile, better suited for informal and irregular campaigning; most of all," he added, "they're one thing our men most certainly aren't. They're expendable."