Evil for Evil (81 page)

"That sounds a bit dramatic."

"Does it? I'm sorry. Oh, I nearly forgot. I gather you had some trouble with some of the carts, but Daurenja managed a temporary fix. I'd better have a word with him about that. Do you happen to know where he is?"

Before he went looking for Daurenja, Ziani returned to the cart he'd ridden in on and opened the lid of the link box. Inside was a weatherbeaten canvas satchel. He looped the strap round his neck and shut the lid.

Daurenja was where Valens had said he'd be. They'd set up a makeshift forge, and half a dozen smiths were beating nails out of scraps of cart-armor offcut; Daurenja was drilling holes in a rectangular piece, to make up a heading plate. The drill-bit was getting hot and binding, so he paused every now and then to spit into the hole. Ziani waited until he'd finished before interrupting.

"You're back." Daurenja seemed overjoyed to see him. "Nobody knew where you were, I was worried."

"Never mind about me. Where were you?"

Daurenja frowned. "Absent without leave, I'm sorry to say. There was a bit of private business I wanted to clear up; I thought it'd only take a day, at most, and it was pretty urgent, it wouldn't wait. You've probably heard, I jeopardized the whole column by not being on hand when I was needed. I'm sorry: error of judgment on my part."

Ziani grinned. "I heard about it," he said. "And I gather Miel Ducas is under guard somewhere as a result. Is that right?"

Daurenja nodded. "Not that I'm worried, he won't do anything while I'm—"

"That's not the point." Ziani scowled. "I'm just anxious not to run into him unexpectedly, that's all. He and I don't get on."

"I see. Well, you're all right for the moment." Daurenja smiled. "They brought in a bunch of the scavengers; you know, the gang that's been stripping all the dead bodies. Apparently he knows one of them, I'm not sure of the details. Anyhow, he's in with them at the moment, so he'll be out of your way and mine for a while." He wrinkled his forehead. "I didn't know you and—"

"Nothing to do with you. What's all this about the plate mountings on the small carts?"

When he'd finished with Daurenja, he wandered about for a while until he was fairly sure he wouldn't be interrupted, then found an empty cart on the edge of the camp. There he opened his satchel and took out a dog-eared, much-folded piece of parchment. It was a map. He looked at it for a while, then took a pair of dog-leg calipers from his pocket and measured some distances, muttering calculations under his breath. When he'd finished, he folded the map carefully and put it away again before climbing down out of the cart.

It took him a minute or so to find a Vadani officer with nothing to do.

"Go and find Duke Orsea," he said, "and then come and tell me where he is." The officer looked at him. "On whose authority?"

"Mine. Oh, and round up half a platoon for guard duty."

The officer didn't know what to make of that; still, he decided, better orders from a Mezentine civilian of dubious status than no orders at all. "Where will I find you?"

"Either around here somewhere or with Duke Valens."

The officer nodded. "How long will you be needing the men for?"

"Indefinitely."

So much to do, Ziani thought, as the officer hurried away, so little time and no help. It was so much easier back at the ordnance factory. Better organized, and reliable, civilized people to deal with. Never mind, he consoled himself. Getting there. Halfway there, at least, and most of the hard work done already. (Briefly he considered the clerk, Psellus. He'd been a stroke of luck, though whether the luck was good or bad he wasn't quite sure yet. And something else to think about, as if he hadn't got enough on his mind already.)

There were a few other documents in the satchel; he checked they were still there, but didn't bother getting them out or reading them. Then the mine superintendent from Boatta found him, with a query about billeting arrangements. Vexing; but he'd taken a lot of trouble to make sure that the Boatta contingent answered directly to him. A small private army, just in case he needed it.

"Oh, and that other business." The superintendent looked round as he spoke, deplorably conspicuous, as many straightforward people are when they're trying to act furtive. "My boys found her all right; they've just got back." Ziani nodded calmly. "They brought the body?"

"It's in the small chaise," the superintendent replied, "under a pile of sacks. I told one of the lads to keep an eye on it, make sure nobody goes poking about."

"Fine, thanks." Ziani yawned, a feigned gesture that became genuine as his weariness asserted itself. He hated having to concentrate when he was tired. "I'll need you in a little while," he said. "Where will you be?" The superintendent shrugged. "I've got duty rosters to fill out," he said. "I was going back to our wagons."

"All right, just so long as I know where you are."

"You're sure this is all…?"

"Don't worry about it."

When he was alone again, he made a conscious effort and emptied his mind of everything except the map. The other business could all fall through and no real harm done, if the worst came to the worst. The map—especially now that the Cure Hardy princess was dead. More luck (good or bad).

He could hear hammers: Daurenja's blacksmiths, doggedly making nails to mend the damaged carts with. It seemed like a lifetime ago, when he'd spent his days quietly, efficiently making things, while wise men, properly qualified in such matters, shaped policy far away in the Guildhall. Now, though, he knew that the policy-makers were men like Psellus the clerk; his inferior in every conceivable respect, an implement. Too late now to settle down somewhere and get a job. Still, the sound of hammers hurt him, like birdsong heard in the early morning, on the way to the gallows. A day's useful work and a quiet evening at home was all he'd ever asked for. And love, which had spoiled everything.

(The Cure Hardy, he thought. How much had that stupid woman in the ridiculous red outfit really known about the Cure Hardy? The map; his ludicrous venture into the salt trade. The map. And having to rely for so much on the detailed cooperation of the enemy…)

He glanced up and noted the position of the sun. Time to go and find Duke Valens.

He found him sitting on the ground, his back to a cartwheel, making notes on a wad of scrap paper and doing calculations one-handed on a portable counting-board. He looked up, squinting into the sun, then said, "There was something you wanted to talk tome about?"

"If you've got a moment. I can see you're busy."

Valens laughed. "Wasting my time," he said. "I'm trying to work out how long we've got, even with what you brought in, before we starve to death. I figure we might just make it to the supply dump, provided the Mezentines haven't found it already. And assuming you can fix up the carts."

Ziani shook his head. "You don't need me for that, it's just basic joinery. Besides, Daurenja's appointed himself chief engineer; I saw him at that forge he's rigged up, making nails. I'd only be in the way."

"If you say so." Valens picked up one of the casting counters and fiddled with it.

"But you can see why I said it's a waste of time doing all these stupid calculations. I'm afraid we aren't going to get there. The margin's too tight." He flipped the counter like a coin and caught it backhanded, without even looking. "Oh, I've thought it through. I've considered sending the fast wagons ahead to get the supplies and fetch them back here, but that's just begging the Mezentines to have another go at us. They're bound to have scouts out watching every move we make. I might as well draw them a map, with the depot marked on it in red ink."

Talking of maps… "This may sound stupid," Ziani said, "but do we have to go to Choris Andrope? Yes, I know that's where the depot is; but even if we make it and the food's still there, it won't have solved anything, just postponed it. Excuse me if I'm speaking out of turn, but I get the impression you haven't got anywhere in particular in mind as a destination; you're just planning to wander about until the Mezentines go away."

"That's right." A slight frown on Valens' face. He opened his hand and stared at the counter, then glanced away, as if he'd been looking into the sun. "Just like you told me to."

Ziani shrugged. "If I said that, I can't have been expressing myself clearly; in which case, I apologize. But anyway, things have changed since then. I don't think wandering about is a viable option."

"Agreed." Valens winced. "But what choice is there?"

"Withdrawal to a place of safety."

"No such thing."

"Yes there is." Ziani dropped down on his knees beside Valens and lowered his voice. "With the Cure Hardy; the Aram Chantat. You remember, they suggested it themselves."

Valens pulled a face. "So did my dear wife," he said. "She told me I should take my people across the desert. Acceptable losses, she said. With hindsight, we'd have been better off doing that. But we can't do it now. We've lost too many people already."

"We can cross the desert," Ziani said.

Valens scowled at him. "That's it, is it? Your brilliant idea?"

"We can cross the desert," Ziani repeated evenly, "because there's a way. A string of oases, each of them no more than two days on from the last one." He pulled the map out of his satchel and laid it flat on the ground, weighing the corners down with small stones. "I learned about it from a merchant, the widow of a man who used to trade salt. You can cross the desert in three days." Valens smiled. "She sold you this map."

"It wasn't like that." Ziani heard fear in his own voice. "We were going to go into partnership, to revive her husband's old salt run. This was our secret weapon, if you like."

"I see. And you were going to put up the money. Did she try and sell you any public buildings while she was at it?"

Just at the last minute, when you've built a machine, there's one crucial component, and it won't fit; or it binds and the wheel won't turn or the key jams halfway down the keyway. You tell yourself it only needs a few moments of fettling with files and stones. The essential thing is not to try and force it. "I know it's there," he said.

"You've been there? Tried it out for yourself?"

Ziani shook his head. "I read the dead husband's journals," he said. "Logs and daybooks, schedules of expenses. He used the route for seven years."

"Really. And then he just stopped."

"Yes. But for a very good reason. He died."

Valens flipped the counter again. This time he dropped it. "How sad. So, why didn't his widow sell the secret to someone else, if she didn't like running the route herself?"

Ziani grinned. "Nobody would've bought it. Not safe, you see."

"Not safe. You're doing a wonderful job of persuading me."

"Not safe," Ziani said doggedly, "because one of his contacts had given away the secret to a Cure Hardy bandit chief. That's how the husband died; the Cure Hardy ambushed him. Once they'd started infesting the route, who'd want to buy it?" Valens sighed. "Sorry if I'm being unreasonably skeptical," he said, "but if the Cure Hardy knew about a short cut across the desert, why did my dear wife and her party come the long way round, with half of them dropping dead along the way?" But when the component finally fits, there's a soft, firm click and the wheel begins to run. "I believe the secret was lost when the bandit chief and his raiding party got themselves wiped out. They'd kept it to themselves, for obvious reasons. Nobody else knew about it, apart from my merchant's husband."

"You're speculating."

"Not really," Ziani said. "The bandit's name was Skeddanlothi, and you killed him."

Valens picked another counter off the board, gripping its rim between thumb and forefinger. "The name rings a bell," he said.

"Skeddanlothi and his gang were raiding quite deep in Vadani territory; near here, in fact. Just over those mountains, and—"

"Thank you, yes, I remember." Valens frowned. "It's true, I couldn't for the life of me figure out how they'd managed to get this deep into our space without being picked up on the border; come to that, why it was worth their while coming all the way out here, across the desert, just to steal a few goats." He switched the counter from his left hand to his right. "Have you got all these papers; the journals, and all that stuff?"

Ziani shook his head. "But I did see them. I read them, every word. They bear out the map. I can describe each of the oases for you, if you like. At the first one, there's a row of wooden sheds, where the merchant's husband kept a stockpile of salt. There's a pen for the horses, and a stone silo for grain and forage. The roof blew off it in a sandstorm, so it's patched up in places. He had to take two mules loaded with slates to make good the damage. There's probably still some grain left in the bins, though it'll be six years old at the very least. I don't know if grain keeps that long."

"If it's dry and dark," Valens said absently, "and the rats haven't got in. But of course I can't check any of this unless I actually go there."