Evil for Evil (19 page)

(He sat down again. He’d seen a lion once, in a cage in a traveling circus. He’d watched it with a mixture of awe and compassion,
as it roared and lashed its tail; absolute ruler of five paces.)

Because the step Boioannes had practically shoved him into taking led to a question that he had no way of answering, but which
had quietly tormented him ever since he first read Vaatzes’ dossier. Previously he’d assumed that the answer wasn’t worth
finding because Vaatzes’ motivation, soul and very essence didn’t really matter very much to the future well-being of the
Republic. Now, however, it appeared that Maris Boioannes himself felt that it might have some deeper significance. In which
case, he had no option. Until he’d made some kind of headway with the problem, he couldn’t get anywhere; it was a locked gate
he had to get through, or over.

So. (He tilted the small jug on his desk, just in case an invisible goodwill fairy had refilled it in the last ten minutes.)

Ziani Vaatzes was condemned for abomination because he’d made a clockwork toy for his daughter that contained forbidden mechanical
innovations and modifications. Fair enough; but how on earth had he been found out in the first place?

Like a donkey turning a grindstone, he followed the familiar, weary circle. By its very nature, the abomination, the toy,
was a private thing, not something liable even to be seen by strangers, let alone dismantled and examined with calipers. Neither
the wife nor the daughter could have known about the transgression, since they didn’t have the mechanical knowledge to recognize
it. Surely Vaatzes hadn’t talked about it to his fellow workers, or left notes and drawings lying about. Unlikely that he’d
made himself conspicuous by stealing or scrounging materials liable to betray his illicit intentions; as shop foreman, he
could requisition pretty much anything without exciting suspicion; besides, none of the materials used had been rare or unusual.
An unexpected visitor, calling at the house late one evening and seeing components carelessly left lying about on the kitchen
table; no, because the deviations from Specification wouldn’t have been obvious out of context, and even if the visitor somehow
knew they were meant for use in a clockwork toy, he’d have needed calipers to detect the irregularity. It was, in essence,
the perfect crime.

The answer should, of course, have been right there in the dossier, in the investigators’ report. But it wasn’t. No account
of the course of the investigation, because Vaatzes had immediately pleaded guilty.

Not that it mattered, because all he had to do was ask the men who’d brought the prosecution in the first place. Which was
exactly what he’d done. He’d written to Sphrantzes, the prosecutor, and Manin, the investigating officer. No reply from either
of them; he’d written again, and also to their immediate superiors, their departmental supervisors, their heads of department
and the permanent secretaries of their division. He’d had plenty of replies from the upper echelons, all promising to look
into the matter and get him his answer. Before giving up and resolving to forget about the whole thing, Psellus had even tried
to find the two men and talk to them personally. He’d planned it all like an explorer seeking a lost city in the desert: he’d
obtained floor plans of the east wing with Sphrantzes’ and Manin’s offices clearly marked in red, he’d contrived to get hold
of copies of their work schedules so he’d be reasonably certain of finding them at home when he called. In the event, he found
their offices empty; neighbors had told him in both cases that they’d been relocated to new offices in the north wing extension,
but the corridor and staircase coordinates they gave him turned out not to have been built yet. None of that was particularly
sinister. The geography of the Guildhall was a notoriously imprecise science, and every new arrival was treated to the ancient
stories of men who nipped out of their offices for a drink of water, never to be seen again until their shriveled carcasses
were found somewhere in the attics or the archive stacks. The likeliest explanation was that the internal mail service couldn’t
find them either, which was why none of Psellus’ letters had ever been answered. Manin and Sphrantzes, he knew, were both
very much alive and active. They wrote and delivered reports, addressed subcommittees, gave evidence at tribunals and courts
corporate and mercantile. Psellus was sure he’d seen Sphrantzes not so very long ago, crossing the main quadrangle one afternoon.
The truth was that he’d been glad of an excuse to let the matter lie.

Now, apparently, that excuse had been taken from him. In which case, since he was an officer of the War Commission and therefore
a person of consequence and standing (he couldn’t help grinning as he thought that), he might as well use his seniority and
make sure he got an answer. He flipped up the lid of his inkwell, dipped the tip of his pen and wrote a memo.

To: Maris Boioannes

From: Lucao Psellus

I need to speak to Investigator Manin of Internal Intelligence, and Prosecutor Sphrantzes of the judicial office. I’ve written
to them myself, and to their superiors, but so far I have not received a reply. There’s bound to be a rational explanation
for this. However, it would be very helpful to me in carrying out the request you made of me today if I could meet both of
these men as soon as conveniently possible. Do you think you could ask one of your people to see to it? I’m sorry to bother
you with such a tiresome business, but I know how efficient your staff is.

He blotted the page and smiled. He was fairly sure his memo wasn’t going to flush Manin and Sphrantzes out of their lairs,
but the outcome, whatever it turned out to be, would almost certainly leave him better informed than he had been before; and
if he had to have someone like Boioannes in his life, he might as well make use of him. If he’d got nothing else out of the
war, it had taught him one thing. Spears and arrows and siege engines and field artillery are all very well in their way,
but people are the best weapons.

He walked to the window and looked out. In the courtyard, the scale of the great bronze water-clock ordained that it was a
quarter to seven; four hours to go before the meeting started. It was a well-kept secret, which he’d been let into only once
he’d joined Necessary Evil, that the water-clock, on which all time throughout the Republic was ultimately based, was running
slow. Tiny traces of limescale in the water were gradually furring up the outlet pipes — it was something to do with mining
works in the Suivance Hills, which meant the river that supplied the aqueduct that brought the water that fed the conduit
that filled the clock was beginning to cut into the limestone bedrock of the hills, hardening the water supply ever so slightly
— which meant that the clock’s outflow rate was down from nine gallons a day to eight-point-nine-nine-seven-something. Far
too small to notice, of course (unless you were the sort of man who carried calipers in your pocket when you paid social calls
on your friends); but the plain fact was that time throughout the Republic was gradually slowing down. Every hour was a tenth
of a second longer this year than it had been last year; in ten years’ time, given the exponential rate of the distortion,
an hour would last an hour and five seconds. Eventually, on that basis, there would finally come an hour that would never
end. Of course, the problem could be solved in a couple of minutes by a careful apprentice with a bow-drill and a fine bit,
but that could only happen if the existence of the problem could be admitted. No chance whatsoever of that.

On his desk lay the messenger tube Boioannes had brought for him; something to do with Duke Valens, he remembered, and somebody
else’s wife. He picked it up with the tips of his index fingers, one at each end. People are the best weapons. He pushed in
gently at one end, and the roll of paper slid out, like an animal flushed from cover.

Just because you own a place, it doesn’t necessarily follow that you’ve ever been there.

Miel Ducas leaned forward in the saddle and rubbed dust out of his eyes, leaving behind a silt of dirt and tears. If that
big gray thing over there was Sharra Top (and there wasn’t much else it could be) and the river he’d just crossed was the
Finewater, he was quite definitely on Ducas land. The Ducas owned everything from the Longstone, two combes beyond Sharra,
to the Finewater. It was, of course, only an insignificant part of their possessions, always referred to as (he laughed out
loud at the thought) that miserable little northeastern strip that’s no good for anything.

Miserable, yes. Not so bloody little.

He’d never been north of the Peace and Benevolence at Watershead in his life; possibly he’d seen this land, from the Watershead
beacon perhaps, or the watchtower of his hunting lodge at Caput Finitis. If so, it would have been a gray smudge, a vague
blurring of the definition of the border of sky and land. Nobody lived here; a few of his more desperate tenants drove sheep
up here occasionally to nibble round the clumps of couch grass, but he couldn’t see any sheep, or anything living at all.
He’d lost count of the days and nights since he’d escaped from the scavengers.

Nice irony: to get this far, just so he could starve to death on his own property. It would spoil the delicacy of it all to
bear in mind that, properly speaking, it all belonged to the Mezentines now, by unequivocal right of conquest.

The horse didn’t seem unduly worried about anything; the horse could eat grass.

Miel made an effort and tried to think sensibly. If that really was Sharra Top, the Unswerving Loyalty at Cotton Cross was
two and a bit days’ ride (in his condition, make that three full days) northwest. He was starving. Theoretically, he could
kill the horse and eat it, but then he’d have to walk to the Loyalty, and in the state he was in, that was out of the question.
If he made it to Cotton Cross and got something to eat (no money, of course) and then carried on toward the ruins of Civitas
Eremiae, he’d have the problem of being in regularly patrolled enemy territory, in a place where someone would be bound to
recognize him, assuming the Mezentines had left anybody alive up there …

Pointless, the whole thing. Particularly galling was the fact that he’d slaughtered two men in order to make his escape, and
absolutely nothing to show for it. That wasn’t a tragedy, that was
stupid.
The death of the Ducas could quite legitimately be tragic, but stupidity was an unforgivable crime against the family’s good
name. Nobody would know.
He
would know; and the opinion of the Ducas is the only one that matters.

In the end, the factor that decided the issue for him was the thought of how much energy he’d have to scrounge up from somewhere
just to get off the horse. If he carried on riding until he was too weary and famished to stay in the saddle, presumably he’d
just keel over and flop down among the grass tussocks and die. No effort needed. Let’s do that, then.

As a last gesture of Ducas steadfastness, he pointed the horse’s head toward Sharra before closing his eyes. Then he yawned
hugely and let his chin sink forward. Every step the horse took jolted his neck.

After a while, it seemed reasonable enough that Death should be riding beside him. No hurry (Death was an urbane, considerate
fellow), take your time, if you’ll excuse the pun. This is all perfectly natural. Everybody dies.

He lifted his head (he knew his eyes were shut and his chin was resting awkwardly on the junction of his collarbones) and
glanced round for one last look at his country; this part of his country, or a part of this part.

I’ve served Eremia all my life, he said, and now it’s killing me. That’s nice.

Death didn’t approve. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, you should be thankful that you had the opportunity to devote your
life to the common good. Come along, now, this is a solemn moment, you’d do well to act accordingly. More gratitude and less
attitude, so to speak.

Miel sighed. Oh, absolutely, he said. And look where it’s got me.

Now then, said Death. You’ve lived a life of luxury and privilege, not like those two poor devils you murdered. You’ve had
everything.

No, Miel replied. Most things. Everything that money can buy.

Death clicked his tongue. The mere fact that you’re making that distinction proves how privileged you’ve been. How many people
in this world can say they own the land they die on?

Miel laughed, though he couldn’t hear himself. You know, he said, I don’t think anybody can own land; not great big slices
of geography like this. It’s a bit like when you see a small man getting dragged along behind a great big dog. Who’s walking
who?

Death sighed. I’d love to stay here and chat, but you clearly aren’t thinking straight. Shall we go?

Not yet. Miel narrowed his eyebrows, as though he was doing long multiplication. I’ll tell you something I never had. And
it’s something that nearly everybody else gets.

Oh, you mean love, Death said. Don’t worry about that.

That’s easy for you to say, Miel replied irritably. But it’s important, it’s one of the really important things that matter
a lot. You can’t just wave a hand and say don’t worry about it.

Really?

Yes, really. I missed out on it, and it’s not fair. I can hardly remember my parents, so I missed out on that sort of love.
No wife, no kids —

You were in love with Veatriz Sirupati, Death pointed out, until she married your friend Orsea.

Doesn’t count. She never loved me back.

True, Death replied. Well, maybe when you were both kids, and everybody thought she was going to marry you, for sound political
and dynastic reasons.

You can’t call persuading yourself to make the best of a bad job love. I’m sorry, but you won’t budge me on that one. Love
is really, really important, and I missed out entirely. Unfair.

No big deal, Death insisted. Love is a confidence trick, that’s all. It’s Nature’s way of suckering a mammal with a brain
and a long, vulnerable gestation period into reproducing. Humans can think, so ordinary animal-grade maternal instinct wouldn’t
be enough to make human women go through all that, not if they stopped and thought about what’s involved. So you have love.
It’s a substitute for rational thought; look at it that way, it’s the complete antithesis of what being human’s all about.
Humans can make choices, it’s what makes them unique. Love takes all your choices away, and there you suddenly are. Worse
still, love inevitably leads to the worst pain of all, when you lose the people you love. You might as well be getting all
uptight with me because you’ve never had diphtheria.