Evil for Evil (17 page)

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 Carausius,
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.”

Valens sighed. What he really wanted to do was run away. “For pity’s sake,” he said peevishly. “They don’t even live in proper
houses. Do you really see me with a wife who insists on camping out in a tent in the pear orchard?”

Another smile. Carausius was indulging himself. “The princess — her name, I believe, begins with an A — has spent the last
four years being educated in Tannasep; I believe she’s been studying music, astronomy, poetry, needlework and constitutional
and civil law. Presumably while she was there, she slept in a bed and learned how to use a knife and spoon. I gather she’s
also interested in —”

“I couldn’t care less what the bloody woman does in her spare time,” Valens snapped. “I don’t want to get married, and I most
definitely don’t want to get married to a savage, thank you all the same. Maybe when the war’s over, or at least once we’re
settled somewhere …”

Carausius teased his napkin out of his collar and folded it precisely. “Logically,” he said, “given our immediate plans, a
wife who’s used to living under canvas has to be a most suitable choice.”

Valens closed his eyes. When Carausius started making jokes, it was time to assert his authority. “Thank you for raising the
issue with me,” he said, “and I shall give it careful thought. Meanwhile, if that’s the only reason why these Cure Hardy are
coming here, maybe it’d be better if you saw them instead of me. I’m sure you can handle the diplomatic stuff, and I have
rather a lot of work to do.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Carausius said smugly. “Perhaps I forgot to mention it, but among the gifts they’re bringing
with them are four hundred mounted archers. Not a loan,” he added firmly. “To keep, for our very own. Just for meeting you.
I imagine that if they’re fobbed off with a substitute, they may think better of their generosity.”

Valens opened his eyes wide. “They’re serious, then,” he said.

“I believe so.” Carausius had had his moment of revenge. His voice was back to normal, soft, businesslike and anxious to please.
“My understanding is that they’re very keen indeed to make an alliance with a settled nation. Their chieftain is something
of a visionary. He believes that the nomadic life is all very well, but it’s time his people bettered themselves. In the long
term, I imagine he wants to cross the desert and settle on this side; the tragic fate of the Eremians means that there’s now
empty land for the taking. Naturally he needs an ally, but his choices are clearly limited. Not the Mezentines, for obvious
reasons; similarly, not the Eremians. That means the Cure Doce — but they’re too far away from the land he’s got his eye on
— or us. If you care to consider what that could mean to us: a powerful, friendly neighbor with practically unlimited manpower
…”

Valens nodded. “All right,” he said. “And thank you, you’ve done well. But all the same; marrying one …”

“It’s their principal means of securing alliances,” Carausius said firmly. “Without a marriage, as far as they’re concerned
it’s not a proper treaty; once it’s done, it means we can rely on them absolutely. They take it very seriously. It’s not like
the political alliances we’re used to. I’m not sure they even have politics where they come from, or at least not in any sense
we’d understand.” He leaned forward a little, lowered his voice. “They aren’t complete barbarians,” he went on, “they understand
that strategic and dynastic marriages aren’t necessarily the perfect union of heart and mind. If you hate the girl that much,
you won’t have to see her more than absolutely necessary, she’ll understand that. If that’s the reason —”

Valens frowned. “I hope you know me better than that,” he said. “I understand how things are. I’m just a bit concerned about
ending up with a wife who dresses in animal bones and feathers. Which,” he added quickly, before Carausius could say anything,
“I’d be perfectly prepared to do if I was sure it’d help the war or put our economy straight. But I’m not; so either come
up with some better arguments or drop the whole thing.”

Carausius looked at him. He knows me too well, Valens reflected. “There’s something else,” Carausius said.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Carausius frowned. “Can I ask what it is?”

“No.” As soon as he said the word, he knew he’d lost. “But I will meet these savages of yours, and yes, I’ll be civil to them,
so don’t nag.” He shrugged, rather more floridly than usual. “Four hundred cavalry, just for being hospitable. I think I can
handle that. Tell me, did the offer come from them, or did you have to haggle?”

“Their idea,” Carausius said. “I don’t think the Cure Hardy understand bargaining in quite the same way as we do. I don’t
know if it’s true, but someone told me once that their word for trade literally means ‘to steal by purchase.’ I gather they’re
a fascinating people, once you get to know them.”

“I’m sure,” Valens said. “Now, by rights I ought to threaten you with awful retribution if you ever ambush me with something
like that again. But I don’t need to do that, do I?”

“Certainly not.”

“Splendid. I’m a strong supporter of the old tradition that every dog’s allowed one bite. I hope it was worth it.”

For the rest of the meal they talked about barrel-staves, canvas, salt and rope. Carausius said he was sure they’d be able
to get what they needed for the evacuation from the merchants; he’d sounded out the likeliest suppliers, in very general terms
so as not to raise suspicions, and the consensus was that it was a buyers’ market at the moment; supply wouldn’t be a problem,
and an acceptable price could easily be agreed as soon as they were in a position to discuss firm orders. “Which means,” Carausius
went on, “they don’t yet know where to lay their hands on what we want, in the quantities we want it in, but they’re happy
to go away and find out. Luckily, none of the supplies we’re after has ever been a Mezentine monopoly, so we should be all
right.” He paused, just for a moment, then went on, “Have you decided on a date yet? Or are we still working on the basis
of six to nine weeks?”

Valens pulled a face. “If you’d asked me that question this time yesterday, I’d have given you a definite answer,” he said.
“Six weeks, I’d have said, and no messing. Unfortunately, it’s not going to be quite as straightforward as I thought, so you’ll
have to leave it with me.”

“Longer than nine weeks?”

“No.” The second time in one evening that he’d been backed into saying that. “Work on that assumption, if you like. You won’t
be far out.”

There was music after dinner. Harp, rebec, flute, oboe, pipes, guitar and a singer. It went without saying that they’d been
practicing day and night for weeks to be ready for their big chance, playing to the Duke and his court. Everywhere he went,
in everything he did, he saw people doing their best, because it was him. He left before the music started.

There was a meeting of Necessary Evil that night. The defense committee had taken to gathering at strange hours — eleven at
night or four in the morning — and nobody seemed to know why, though most people assumed it was something to do with their
legendary and indefinable flair. The agenda had arrived on his desk shortly after noon; he’d read it through a dozen times,
but all his political skill and experience couldn’t tease a single shred of significance out of it.

1. Minutes of previous meeting

2. Chairman’s report

3. Any other business

Psellus raised his eyebrows, rolled up the paper and slotted it neatly back into the thin brass tube it had come in. All committee
correspondence came in message tubes these days, sealed at both ends, never the same seal twice. If he didn’t know better,
he could well believe that someone on the committee had a sense of humor.

The same messenger had brought him the latest dispatches from Eremia. Two rolls, one brass and one silver; the brass tube
was for the official report, the silver one was the truth. He opened the silver one first, which said something about him.
He was pretty sure he was the only man on Necessary Evil who read dispatches in that order.

Not good, apparently. There had been successes: villages burned, six; isolated farms and crofts burned, twenty-seven; civilians
confirmed killed, a hundred and nine; material seized, various, to include thirteen mail shirts, nine bascinets, three sallets
with bevor, five sallets without bevor, nine leg harnesses (nine; an odd number. Had they managed to kill a one-legged man,
maybe?), four spears, nine swords, two bows, thirty-two arrows, eight knives, fourteen lengths of wood capable of being used
as bludgeons …

(Psellus smiled, as an image drifted into his mind of soldiers sent into the forest to cut poles in order to bulk out the
captured-material schedule. He wouldn’t put it past them, assuming anybody on the expeditionary staff had that much imagination.)

There had also been failures. Dead, forty-six; wounded and unfit for duty in the medium to long term, thirty-eight; horses
killed, seven; horses lost, nineteen; wagons lost or damaged beyond repair, eight; issued equipment lost or damaged, see separate
schedule. The most serious reverse was an ambush by insurgents at some place he hadn’t heard of. While attempting to pursue
a small body of insurgent cavalry apparently in retreat, Fifteenth Squadron had come under attack from insurgent archers concealed
in a spinney. Casualties …

Psellus marked the place with his finger and looked back up the page. That explained where they’d got the thirty-two enemy
arrows from. Whether pulling them out of the bodies of the dead counted as capturing, he wasn’t sure.

Not that it mattered. There were plenty of men, both in and outside Necessary Evil, who stoutly maintained that every soldier
lost was a mercenary who wouldn’t need to be paid. Psellus felt there was a flaw in that line of reasoning; nevertheless,
reports from the recruiting stations back in the old country assured him that they were still queuing up for a chance to sign
on. What bothered him more was the double column of figures at the bottom of the page, the monthly payment and expenditure
account. He glanced down at the total and winced.

The news in the brass tube was much better. The forces of the Republic had destroyed six major rebel strongholds, raided a
further twenty-seven installations, and killed over a hundred rebel fighters, as well as recovering a substantial quantity
of weapons. Losses remained within acceptable parameters, and the war was coming in under budget. In his monthly briefing,
Field Marshal Megastreuthes stressed that —