Evil for Evil (45 page)

“More than likely,” Orsea muttered. Any pleasure he might have wrung out of the afternoon was being leached out by Daurenja’s
insufferable commentary. He wished he could think of some perceptive or erudite comment to make, so he could show Daurenja
that he knew much more about the subject than he did. Nothing came to mind, however, and the peregrine was starting to shift
about on his wrist. He yawned, and wished he was somewhere else.

“You’ve got to hand it to Valens, though,” Daurenja was saying, “he definitely — hello, we’re moving.” Sure enough, the master
falconer was waving his free arm in a circle, and the rest of the column was breaking formation. Orsea realized he hadn’t
been paying proper attention, and didn’t know where he was supposed to go. Of course it’d be just typical if he ruined everything
by being out of position …

He swallowed his pride. “Excuse me,” he asked Daurenja, “but did you happen to notice … ?”

“Where he wants us?” Daurenja nodded. “Over there, either side of that scrubby little thorn bush. Not a bad spot; we won’t
get any action as they’re heading out, but we should get a couple when they start coming back in, if we’re lucky.”

“Thanks,” Orsea replied, trying not to resent the
us
part of it. He legged his horse round and followed Daurenja, splashing through a shallow pool of brown water. He looked up;
if Daurenja was right about the likely sequence of events, the sun would be in his eyes at the critical moment. Somehow, he
wasn’t in the least surprised.

He reached what he guessed was his assigned position, settled himself in his saddle and looked round to see what was going
on. The hunting party was encircling the pool where he’d seen the ducks, standing off from it about twenty yards. He couldn’t
see the birds over the curtain of reeds, but he could hear the occasional reassuring quack. The stillness and quiet was familiar,
at any rate, and gradually he could feel the excitement build inside him, as suspense and impatience tightened his chest.
He found himself anticipating the possible flight lines of ducks leaving the pool, drawing lines and calculating angles in
his mind. On these occasions he felt like a component in a machine, some part of a complicated trap, his movements directed
and dependent upon the movements of the rest of the mechanism. That made him think of Ziani Vaatzes, who claimed to be able
to see complicated designs in his mind; he glanced round for a sight of him, but couldn’t pick him out. He looked down at
the hawk on his wrist and saw it properly for the first time. His job was simple enough, though with plenty of scope for error.
As soon as the ducks got up, he’d unbuckle the hood-straps and the jesses and throw the hawk, so that by the time it struck
its first wingbeat, it would already have the necessary speed and be following the right line. On his day, he knew, he was
very good at it. If it wasn’t his day, he was perfectly capable of messing it up beyond all recovery. He hoped very much that
nobody would be watching him. Then it occurred to him that he didn’t know where Veatriz was. He looked round for her, and
therefore was facing entirely the wrong way when a splash told him that the spaniels were in the water.

He lifted his head, trying to figure out where the angry quacking was coming from. He could hear the slapping of wingtips
on water, someone was shouting angrily at a dog, the sun was blinding him and he was trying to undo the peregrine’s hood-straps
by feel, without looking down. One of the other sort of days, he decided, as the first duck shot directly over his head like
an arrow.

Shouting, on all sides. Some of it was anger, some just loud communication. The loop under the buckle of the hood-strap was
stuck; he had nothing to lever with, and his carefully trimmed fingernail was too short to pick it out. The falcon was objecting,
not unreasonably, to his harsh and clumsy handling of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daurenja making his cast —
a sparrow-hawk could never bring down a duck; well, a teal, perhaps, or maybe the spaniels had put up some stupid little birds
while they were crashing about among the reeds. Ducks were streaming overhead, most of them directly over him, and he was
missing them all …

“Orsea, for crying out loud.” He recognized Valens’ voice; the agonized rage of a man who’s planned a perfect treat for other
people, and has to watch them waste it. “What’s the matter with you? Get that bloody hawk in the air, before they all get
away.”

The hood came off — for a single, terrifying moment he thought he’d pulled the falcon’s head off with it — and he fumbled
with the jesses. Fortunately, they were more cooperative. Finding itself suddenly in a world of light and movement, the falcon
spread its wings and bated, jerking sharply against the half-released jesses. One last furious fumble and he’d freed them.
He started to move his arm for the cast, but the falcon had had enough. It hopped off his wrist into the air, struck a powerful
beat and began to climb.

As he watched it disappear into the sky, Orsea felt overwhelming relief, as though he’d just been let out of prison. He looked
round, and saw that everybody else was loosing their own hawks. I wasn’t the last, then, he consoled himself, until he realized
with a feeling of horror that, since he was at least nominally still a duke, protocol demanded that everybody else apart from
Valens couldn’t fly their hawks until he’d released his. He winced. Two or three ducks were still in the air; the rest were
long gone. He’d contrived to spoil it for everyone, yet again.

Moving his head to look away, he caught Valens’ eye, and winced again. It wasn’t the contempt, so much as the complete lack
of surprise. It occurred to him that, when they were assembling in the courtyard, they hadn’t brought him a hawk; the peregrine
had been entrusted to Ziani, who’d passed it on. Now he could see why.

He heard yelping: the dogs, running in to pick up ducks grounded by the falcons. That suggested that, in spite of his best
efforts, it hadn’t been a complete washout. He looked up at the sky. One or two ducks were coming back to the water, but he
could see precious few hawks. He knew what that meant. Flown after quarry that had already gone too far, the hawks had gone
looking for prey on their own account, and were unlikely to come back any time soon. The falconers would be spending the rest
of the afternoon looking for them; if they’d killed and roosted, it’d mean someone would have to sit out all night under the
roosting-tree, and then climb up at first light to catch the hawk before it woke up. All things considered, he couldn’t have
ruined Valens’ wedding-day hunt more efficiently if he’d planned it all in advance.

Daurenja’s sparrowhawk came back, with a thrush in its claws. That, Orsea reckoned, more or less put the seal on the whole
sorry business.

No sign of his peregrine. He knew the drill: if his hawk hadn’t come back within a certain time, he was obliged to notify
the master falconer, who’d organize the search for it. Orsea wasn’t looking forward to that. Knowing his luck, the peregrine
would turn out to be a bird the master had trained himself, sitting up with it for four days and nights without rest or sleep;
he wouldn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes would be enough to kill a dragon. There’d be plenty of other people nearby,
of course, waiting in line to report their own missing hawks; they’d be looking at him too, and not saying anything. Twenty
yards or so away, he saw Veatriz, talking to her majesty, the new duchess. He could guess what they were saying. Excuse me,
but do you happen to know who that bloody fool was who ruined everything? Well, yes, actually that’s my husband.

Valens had joined them; Veatriz backed up her horse and moved a few steps away. He considered riding over and joining her,
but decided that that would be unkind. A duck rocketed low over his head, returning to the water. Its cry sounded just like
an ordinary quack, but Orsea knew it was laughing at him, and he could see the joke.

No need for clocks, sundials or counting under his breath. Orsea could feel the moment come and go, marking the time limit
for the hawks to have come back before they were officially considered strayed. People were starting to look round for the
master falconer. He heard Valens say, in a loud, carrying voice, “Well, I suppose we’d better forget about it for today.”
People murmured back, and muttered to each other. Yes, Orsea thought, just about perfect.

“That was a bit of a shambles, wasn’t it?” Daurenja had materialized next to him, his sparrowhawk hooded and perfectly aligned
on his wrist (no sign of the dead thrush; slung, presumably, into some bush). “What went wrong? I wasn’t looking.”

“It was all —” Orsea stopped. He’d caught sight of a couple of riders coming round the edge of the reeds. At first he assumed
that they were the falconer’s men, assembling to begin the search for the strayed hawks. Then he noticed that they didn’t
look right; not dressed for hawking, more like soldiers, in armor, with shiny steel helmets and lances. Also, their faces
were very dark; like Ziani’s.

“Who the hell are they?” someone said, close by.

Orsea looked over his shoulder, to see if Valens had noticed them, and saw five more just like them, coming up from the opposite
direction. Strange, he thought; they’re almost dark enough to be Mezentines, except that —

One of them nudged his horse into a slow canter, heading straight for a fat man in dark blue and his wife, who were both looking
the other way. Someone shouted to them — Orsea couldn’t quite catch the words — but they hadn’t heard or took no notice. The
dark-faced rider came up between them; the fat man’s horse shied sideways, just as the dark-faced stranger lifted a hand with
a sword held in it and slashed him across the back of the neck. The fat man slumped forward immediately, as though he’d been
held up by a string which the sword had cut; the woman turned her head just as the dark-faced man brought his arm up and backhanded
a thrust into her face. She fell sideways; her horse broke into a trot, dragging her by one stirrup, so that her head bounced
up and down on the ground like a ball.

A woman screamed. The rest of the dark-faced men — Orsea didn’t have time to count them, but at least two dozen — were moving
forward too; the ones with lances were couching them, while the others were drawing swords. “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?” a man called out in an outraged voice, as if he’d caught them stealing apples.

Orsea remembered: the war. The one he’d brought here with him.

“Are those men Mezentines?” Daurenja’s voice, frankly puzzled, groping for an explanation. For some reason, the sound of it
stung Orsea like a wasp. I’ve got to do something, he thought; but that was stupid. They were soldiers, in armor; he was unarmed,
in his pretty clothes, attending a wedding.

One of them crossed in front of him, no more than five yards away, stopped, and turned his head to stare at him. There was
no malice in the man’s dark eyes, just a flicker as he identified a legitimate quarry. He tugged lightly on his left rein,
turning his horse’s head.

Coming for me, Orsea thought; and then, Oh well. Then he remembered something, though even as he thought of it he doubted
its relevance. He was a nobleman; except on a very few specific occasions, a nobleman doesn’t leave his bedchamber without
some kind of sidearm, even if it’s just something decorative and stupid, such as the mimsy little stagshorn-handled hanger
he’d hurriedly threaded on his belt as an afterthought, just before dashing out of the door. He felt for it and found it,
as the dark-faced man closed with him. He’d actually managed to draw it halfway when something slammed very hard into the
side of his head, squeezing all the light down into a pinprick.

Out of their minds, Valens thought, as he dragged his horse’s head round. Completely, suicidally insane, to mount an attack
three miles from the city gate. They must know that, as soon as the alarm’s raised, they’ll be surrounded, outnumbered a hundred
to one, annihilated in a matter of seconds. Nobody could be that stupid; therefore it can’t be happening.

Without needing to look down, he found the hilt of his sword; then remembered that, since this was a hawking expedition in
the safest place in the world, all he had with him was a stupid little hanger, adequate for clearing brambles but not a lot
of use against armor. They’ll all be killed, yes; but by then they’ll have slaughtered the entire Vadani government. Maybe
not so crazy after all.

He realized he was looking for her; well, of course. Two of them had seen him; they were slowing down, turning toward him,
but he couldn’t be bothered with them right now. He caught a glimpse of her — alone, separate from the main party, which was
being cut down like nettles round a headland.
Stay there,
he begged her, and turned his attention to the immediate threat, because he couldn’t do anything to help her if he was dead.

The funny little sword was in his hand. He kicked his horse into a canter and forced it straight at the right-hand Mezentine
(a lancer, spear couched, coming in fast). At the last moment, when he felt his horse slow up in order to shy away from a
direct collision, he pulled over hard to the right. His horse stumbled — he’d expected that — but recovered its stride with
its next pace, as the Mezentine, going too fast to stop or swerve, drew level with his left shoulder. Valens threw himself
to the left, almost pulling himself out of the saddle, crossing his right arm over his chest and shoulder, the hanger held
as firmly as he could grip it; as the Mezentine rushed past him (neither hand free to fend off with), his neck brushed against
the last inch and a half of Valens’ sword-blade, and that was all there was to it.

Wrenching himself back up straight in the saddle, Valens hauled his horse through a half-circle, in time to see the dead man
topple slowly backward over his horse’s tail. Looking past him, he watched the second lancer come around, level up and address
him, the look in his eyes confirming that the same ploy wouldn’t work twice. Tiresome; but he still had the advantage in defense.
A lancer trying to spear one particular target in the open is like a man trying to thread a moving needle. He kicked on, riding
straight at the lancer; let him underestimate his enemy’s imagination. As the distance between them dwindled into a blur,
Valens could see him getting ready to anticipate the coming swerve; he’d make a swerve of his own, and hold his lance wide
to sideswipe him out of the saddle. Fine. Valens kicked his poor, inoffensive horse as hard as he could, driving him into
the Mezentine like a nail. At the moment when he knew the horse would refuse and pull away right, he jerked the left rein
savagely, bringing the horse to a desperate standstill. The force of deceleration threw him forward, but he knew the Mezentine’s
outstretched lance would be there to stop him flying forward over the horse’s ears. As he felt himself slam into the lance-shaft,
he let go of the reins and grabbed with his left hand, closing his fingers around the shaft. There was a moment of resistance
before the lance came away. My lance now, he thought, and sheathed the hanger.