Evil for Evil (11 page)

“That’s right,” Gyges replied.

The man nodded. “It’s good to be able to put a face to the name at last. I’m Miel Ducas.”

Not good.

“You’ve heard of me, then?” the man went on.

Gyges nodded. He hadn’t been expecting anything like this.

“I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself like this,” Ducas said, “but we’ve been fighting each other long enough that
I feel I’ve known you for ages. Ironic, isn’t it, that we should both end up here.”

Gyges breathed out slowly. “Where’s here, exactly?” he said.

Ducas grinned. “Haven’t you figured that out yet? These people — our hosts, I should say — are the hard-working souls who
clear up our messes. They bury the dead, salvage clothing and equipment, and ransom the survivors. We owe them our lives,
by the way, so don’t go getting judgmental. In my case …” He shrugged. “Well, why not? A little melodrama won’t hurt. Your
showing up here’s probably signed my death warrant.” He frowned. “I could’ve put that better, I suppose, but not to worry.
You see, they’ve been trying to decide what to do with me: ransom me back to the resistance or sell me to the Mezentines.
As far as I can tell, there can’t have been much in it either way, but now you’ve appeared on the scene they’ve come to a
decision. Since they’re going to have to take you back to your camp anyway, they may as well send me along with you. Simple
economy of effort, really; saves them having to make two journeys, and they’ve only got the one cart. While it’s away ferrying
the likes of you and me around, they can’t make collections or deliveries. It’s perfectly rational once you see the thinking
behind it. Are you thirsty? I can fetch you some water if you like.”

Gyges looked at him. Miel Ducas, his enemy. “Thank you,” he said; and Ducas stood up and went away.

But that’s absurd, he thought. These people are Eremians; he’s the rebel leader. They wouldn’t hand him over to us. He thought
about that some more. People who made their living by robbing the dead might not be able to afford finer feelings. Besides,
the Eremians were a treacherous people. Hadn’t one of them opened the gates of Civitas Eremiae? Presumably money had changed
hands over that; he hadn’t heard the details, or not a reliable version, at any rate. Besides, money wasn’t the only currency.
The Mezentines’ stated objective was the obliteration of the Eremian nation, and large-scale treachery could well be the price
of a blind eye turned to a few survivors. The thought made him uncomfortable; it was something he hadn’t really considered
before.Wiping out an entire people; it must be strange to have a mind that could process ideas like that. Meanwhile, the last
vain hope of the Eremians had just gone to fetch him a drink of water.

“There you are,” Ducas said, handing him a short horn cup. “There won’t be anything to eat until the rest of the men get back.
Probably a sort of sticky soup with barley in it. It’s an acquired taste, and I haven’t, yet. Am I annoying you, by the way,
or are you usually this quiet? The thing is, there’s not many people about here to talk to.”

Both hands around the cup; he managed to get two mouthfuls, and spilled the rest. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not really up
to talking much. But you go ahead.”

Ducas laughed. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll buzz off and leave you in peace, let you get some rest. They said you’d had
a nasty bump on the head. Maybe later, if you feel like a chat. We could talk about some of the battles you lost. I’d like
that.”

The water tasted of something nasty he couldn’t quite place. “If you’re here,” he said, “who’s in charge of your army?”

“Who finally beat you, you mean.” Ducas’ smile widened. “I don’t know,” he said. “Wish I did. Whoever it is seems to be doing
a good job; better than me, anyhow. It comforts me to know that the war is in better hands than mine.” He frowned. “I never
really expected to be a soldier,” he said. “Oh, I was trained for it, of course, because it was one of the things a man in
my position needs to know how to do. War, administration, good manners and chasing animals, and it doesn’t hurt if you can
play a musical instrument. On balance, I’m a slightly better rebec player than I am a general, but I wouldn’t want to have
to earn a living doing either; not if I had to compete with professionals.” He shrugged. “You’d better get some rest now,”
he said. “The men will be back soon, and they’ll have spent the hottest part of the day burying the dead, they may not be
in the best of moods. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

So, Miel thought, as he turned his back and walked away, that’s Phrastus Gyges. Younger than I’d expected; otherwise, pretty
much like I’d imagined he’d be. And now, I suppose, I’d better think about leaving. I guess that means stealing the horse.

Standing against the middle of the wall was a big old wooden feed bin. He’d noticed it earlier, and what was inside it. Presumably
such things were so familiar to them that they no longer noticed them; careless but understandable. Casually, he lifted the
lid and peered inside.

Mostly it was sidearms, assorted various; he could see the scabbard chape of a Mezentine Type Fifteen, the scent-bottle pommel
and wire-bound grip of a good-quality Eremian double-fullered backsword, the brass stirrup-guard and horn scales of a village-made
hunting hanger. Any of them would do, since he wasn’t proposing to use it; just something to wave in the face of anybody who
tried to stop him. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t fight him to keep him from getting away, just in case he managed to hurt
someone — that’d mean a man off work, possibly for a long time or even permanently, and they couldn’t afford to carry the
loss. The horse, on the other hand; horses, he knew from eavesdropping and his own experience, were a serious problem in this
war. Not enough of them to go round; if, after a battle, you had to choose between rounding up the spare horses and seeing
to your immobilized wounded, you had to go for the horses whether you liked it or not. They might well fight him for the horse.
Unfortunately, he needed the head start. If he tried to get away on foot, with his recent injuries and vague knowledge of
the local geography, he wouldn’t really stand a chance. He wished that, at the very least, he had some money, so he could
leave them enough to buy another horse. Come to think of it, he’d never stolen anything before. Never needed to, of course.

The stupid thing is, he thought, I don’t really want to leave. I’d be happier staying here, learning to patch up chainmail
and bury corpses. Now there’s an interesting comment on my life so far.

Nobody seemed to be watching; just in case, though, he turned his back so as to mask what he was doing, and slid his arm
in under the lid of the bin until his fingers connected with something. By the feel of it, the stirrup-guard hanger — not
his first choice, but he was hardly in a position to be picky. He fished it out, got it over the edge of the bin, nearly dropped
it, point downwards, on his foot, and shut the lid as quietly as he could. He didn’t look down at the short sword dangling
by its guard from his little finger; instead, he drew it flat against his stomach and walked slowly away, waiting for someone
to yell at him. No yell. His first act of theft — his first crime — successfully carried out.

The idea was to steal a weapon now, while the place was empty and there was nobody about to see. He couldn’t leave until much
later, because the men hadn’t brought the horse back yet. Once they’d come home he was going to have to wait a couple of hours,
at least, until they’d finished their work for the day; also, the horse would be tired too, and not in the mood for further
strenuous exercise. What he needed now, therefore, was somewhere to hide the sword until it was time to make his move. He
hadn’t realized how complicated a life of crime could be.

He looked round. His pretext for leaving the barn would be going outside for a leak. Nearly everybody went round the south
side of the barn, simply because it was sheltered from the wind. If you went round the east side, you ran a substantial risk
of coming back in wearing what you’d gone out to dispose of. Fair enough. He wandered over to the door, doing his very best
to look like a man with a mildly full bladder. He had no illusions about his abilities as an actor, but nobody seemed interested
in him anyway, so that was fine. Once outside, he turned left, round the corner, and looked carefully about. When he was sure
nobody could see him, he reached up and shoved the sword into the loose, ragged thatch of the eaves, until only the little
rectangular knob of a pommel was showing. It’d be dark when he came out to retrieve it, but he’d be able to find it by touch.

He paused and frowned, noticing how he’d been feeling ever since he lifted the lid of the feed bin. I’m afraid, he thought,
and that surprised him. It had been quite a while since he’d been afraid of anything — haven’t had the time or the attention
to spare, he realized. When he’d been leading his men into an ambush there was simply too much else to think about. Now, with
nobody to consider but himself, he could afford to be self-indulgent. Stupid, he thought; all I’m doing is stealing a twenty-shilling
horse, not cutting up a column of Mezentine cavalry at odds of three to one. Maybe, if I manage to get away with this, I can
find the time to develop a sense of perspective. It’d be nice to have one of those for a change.

Perspective, he thought, as he went back inside the barn (it was pleasantly cool indoors; nice to be back). Perspective is
mostly about value; what things are really worth, in context. Not so long ago (he sat in the corner nearest the door and stretched
his legs out), I was a wealthy nobleman. If someone had come up to me and asked me how many swords and how many horses I owned,
I’d have had to ask the steward; and he wouldn’t have known offhand, he’d have had to check the house books. Now, when I actually
need them, I’m reduced to stealing them from men who have next to nothing.

(Outside, heavy wheels were grinding on stones; the cart was coming home.)

So, Miel thought, I’ve come down in the world. So what? When I was a boy, I used to worry about that all the time. What’d
become of me if we suddenly lost all our land and our money? I used to have nightmares about it; I’d be in my room and nasty
men would come bursting in to take away the furniture; they’d throw me out into the street, and all the poor people and ugly
beggars and cripples would jeer at me and try and take my shoes. Apparently I used to wake up screaming sometimes; the servants
used to ask what on earth the matter was, and of course I refused to tell them.

Any moment now, the door would open and the men would come in. Once they did that, everything would become irrevocable. Someone
would tell Juifrez Stratiotes about their latest acquisition, and Juifrez (a pleasant enough man, and painfully shy when talking
to his ex-landlord) would make the inevitable business decision, based on cost-efficiency and the availability of the horse.
Miel thought about that. If he was Juifrez, he’d tell a couple of his men to keep an eye on the Ducas, just in case he’d put
two and two together; don’t be obvious about it, he’d say, but don’t let him too far out of your sight. He considered the
practical implications of that for a moment, decided on a plan of action and put it out of his mind. I wish I didn’t have
to go, he thought. But it’s not up to me. That made him smile. The pleasure, the release, had been in not being in control
of his own destiny for a while; but because he was the Ducas, as soon as he stopped being his own master he turned into valuable
property, with potentially lethal consequences. He therefore had no choice. His holiday was over, and the best he could hope
for was getting away from this place in one piece, preferably without having to hurt anybody. Beyond that, he didn’t want
to speculate; didn’t care.

The door opened. In came the men; silent, too tired to talk. The woman, Juifrez’s wife, had gone with them. It occurred to
him that he’d have liked to say goodbye to her, but clearly that was out of the question. Now she’d remember him as the man
who’d stolen their horse.

If he hadn’t already known what they’d been doing all day, he’d have had no trouble at all figuring it out from the smell
they brought in on their clothes and boots. He’d done many things in his time, but no digging. He’d always drawn the line
at it, even in the kind of military crisis where rank and status were unaffordable luxuries, and even the Ducas was no more
than another pair of hands. Digging, in his mind, was about as low as you could sink; miserable hard work, exhausting, tedious,
repetitive, the epitome of his old morbid fears of poverty and destitution. Digging graves for strangers in the thin, stony
soil of the northeastern hillsides would, by that reasoning, have to be the worst job in the world, and he was fairly sure
he wouldn’t be able to do it. Half an hour at the most and his soft, aristocratic hands would be a squishy mess of blisters,
his back would be agony, and everybody would be jeering at him. He’d rather face a platoon of Mezentine heavy cavalry on his
own than dig a hole. He watched them sitting, slowly unlacing boots, resting their forearms on their knees and their backs
against the barn wall, their minds empty, their bodies finally at rest. If they had cares and troubles beyond aches and fatigue,
they gave no sign of it. Whatever else they might be, they were firmly anchored in the present, with nothing more or less
than the people and possessions within easy reach of their seats. It would be so very easy to envy them, Miel realized.

Food and drink went round: cheese, an old store apple each, half a dense, gritty loaf. Miel knew all about that kind of bread.
It was made from flour ground from the last of the previous year’s grain, the two or three inches left over in the bottom
of the bins when they had to be cleared out to make way for this year’s newly threshed corn. Perfectly wholesome, of course;
but because it was dredged off the bin floor, it was inevitably full of dust, grit, shreds of stalk and husk. Sensible estate
managers bought it cheap for poultry feed and to make bread for the seasonal casual workers. You could break a tooth on it;
the old joke said it was better than a stone for sharpening scythe-blades. The Ducas, of course, had outlawed its use on his
estate, and made a point of giving away the bin-end grain to the poor (outcasts, beggars, men who dug for a living). The silly
thing was that, apart from the grit, it didn’t taste too bad at all.