Evil for Evil (47 page)

Valens tried to raise himself on one elbow. Not his brightest idea ever. “When did you get here? What time is it?”

“About ten o’clock in the morning, and around midnight,”Mezentius replied. “Since when I’ve been chasing round looking for
something to do, apart from inspecting dead bodies. That young Guards captain’s done a good job, by the way. I’ll have him
for the Seventh when you’ve finished with him.”

Valens nodded. “Everything’s under control, then.”

“In the circumstances.” Mezentius was frowning. “I told the Seventh and the Fifth to get here as soon as possible, but we’ve
had patrols out, no sign of any more of them. It’s looking like a single raiding party who knew exactly who they were after
and where to find them. Which,” he added quietly, “is rather more disturbing than a full-scale assault, if you care to look
at it that way. You’ve heard the casualty list?”

Valens nodded. “It hasn’t really sunk in,” he said. “But the impression I got was, nobody’s left except me.”

“More or less,” Mezentius replied, and the way he said it made Valens wince. “I’ve talked to all the survivors who’re up to
answering questions; basically, nobody on our side made a fight of it except you and that weird engineer, the one who looks
like some kind of insect.”

Valens had forgotten about him. “That’s right,” he said. “Did he make it?”

“A few cuts and bruises,” Mezentius replied. “Twisted ankle. Fought like a maniac, so I gather. Amazing, really. He didn’t
strike me as the type, the one time I met him.”

“Go on,” Valens said.

“Well,” Mezentius continued, “apparently he came charging up just as one of the bad guys was about to take out Duke Orsea;
he jumped up, dragged Orsea off his horse at the last moment, grabbed the lance out of the bad guy’s hands and stuck him with
it; then Orsea’s wife came rushing over, apparently she’d seen Orsea go down; four of them close in on her, but this Daurenja
holds them off single-handed, does for two of them — did one of them with his teeth, apparently, bit his throat out like a
dog. Then more of them join in, and then you showed up, and you know the rest. No, it sounds like the engineering department
pretty well saved the day, one way and another. Oh, and the uncles as well, I expect you’ve heard about that. The rest of
the embassy’s kicking up one hell of a fuss, as you’d expect.”

Valens kept his sigh to himself. “What are they saying?”

“Well, they’re still on our side,” Mezentius said, with a crooked grin. “The old chap was the one I spoke to. Basically, he
wants to wipe the Mezentines off the face of the earth. Man after my own heart, really.”

“That’s good,” Valens said. “It’s always good to have something in common with your in-laws. I suppose I’d better see him.”

Mezentius shook his head. “I’ve told him you’re fragile as an egg and not to be disturbed for at least a week,” he said. “Only
way I could keep him from bursting in here and waking you up.”

Valens nodded. “Who is he, by the way? I’ve been talking to him all this time, but nobody’s actually told me where he fits
in.”

“Oh.” Mezentius frowned. “He’s sort of the grand vizier, prime minister, the head man’s chief adviser. He reckons he pretty
much runs the show, though I don’t know whether the rest of them would agree. Anyway, he’s pretty high-powered; and he’s really
pissed off about the uncles getting killed. Probably some background there I wasn’t briefed on.”

“It’ll keep, I expect,” Valens said with a yawn.

They discussed other things — a new civil authority, which posts could be filled by co-option and which would have to wait
for formal elections; suitable candidates for offices, the balance of power between the old families and the mining companies;
the effect recent events (Valens smiled to himself; call them
recent events
and you cauterize the wound?) would have on the marriage alliance, plans for the evacuation, the war. Exhaustion came up
on him suddenly, like an ambush. He stopped Mezentius in the middle of a sentence and said, “You’d better go now, I’m tired.”
Mezentius nodded.

“I’ll send the doctor in,” he said.

“No, I just want to get some sleep,” Valens mumbled. His eyes were already closing. He heard the sounds of movement, someone
standing up, the legs of a chair grating on a stone floor. He felt cold, but couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.
He listened to his own breathing for a moment or so, and realized that he was back on the edge of the marsh, watching the
ducks flying in. It had been a disaster, a wretched mess, all because of that fool Orsea. Standing next to him, King Fashion
and Queen Reason were talking about the day’s hawking. He was surprised to hear the King say that it hadn’t been too bad after
all: three dozen mallard, a few teal, three brace of moorhens, but it was a shame they hadn’t managed to pull down the heron.
Perhaps they should have flown lanners instead of sakers. As they talked, they were watching the sky, waiting for the hawks
to come back. They didn’t seem worried, but Valens knew that the hawks were gone for good; dead or scattered, not that it
mattered a great deal. After a long silence, the King shrugged, and called to his master falconer to make up the bag. They
were laying them out on the ground, in pairs, a male and a female; Sillius Vacuo and his wife, Lollius Pertinax and Syra Terentia,
Carausius and the eldest Fabella girl, a hen to every cock-bird. He counted them: eighteen brace, just as the King had said.
He almost expected to see himself among them as the falconers passed loops round their necks and hung them in their pairings
from the top rail of the fence; but of course, he wasn’t there, the heron had got away.

Queen Reason was talking to him. She was asking him if he was awake.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “I’m dreaming, of course I’m not awake.”

He realized that he’d spoken the words aloud, and that he wasn’t asleep anymore. He opened his eyes.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

He blinked, just in case. She was still there.

“I was just dozing,” he said. He was struggling to remember which one she was; whose duchess, his or Orsea’s. But then it
all came back to him; he remembered now. There had been some sort of ghastly mix-up, and he’d married the wrong one, and this
was the fool’s wife he was talking to: Veatriz, who used to write him letters.

“Are you all right?” he said.

She nodded. “How about you?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Just skiving, so someone else has got to clear up the mess. Soon as everything’s been sorted out,
I’ll make a miraculous recovery.”

She smiled: thin, like lines scribed on brass with a needle. “I thought I ought to thank you,” she said. “It’s becoming a
habit with you.”

Something about the way she’d said that. “You wrote to me,” he said. “You wanted to talk.”

“Yes, but that was before the wedding.” She hesitated. Not fair to bully a sick man. “It was very brave of you …” she started
to say. She made it sound like an accusation. He didn’t want to hear the rest of it.

“It sort of rounded off a perfect day,” he grunted.

“Not quite the honeymoon you’d have chosen?”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he said. “But, since you mention it, better than the one I had planned.”

She frowned. “I should go,” she said. “Shall I let your wife know you’re awake and receiving visitors?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he sighed. The pillow was suddenly uncomfortable, and his arm itched. “I heard about Daurenja,” he
said.

“Who?”

“The man who saved your life. And Orsea’s too,” he added maliciously. “How is he, by the way?”

“In bed. They were worried about the bang he got on his head, but they think he’ll be all right now.”

“Ah. So that’s all right, then.” He looked away, up at the ceiling. “Daurenja’s the long, spindly man with the ponytail who
rescued both of you. Maybe you should look in on him too.”

“I will. He was very brave.” He wasn’t looking at her, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face. “Isn’t he something
to do with Vaatzes, the engineer?”

“That’s right.” His head was starting to hurt, making it a painful effort to think. Nothing came to mind: no bright, interesting
observations to found a conversation on. He’d prefer it, in fact, if she went away. (Interesting, he thought; does this mean
love is dead? He couldn’t decide.)

“I’m sorry Orsea spoiled your hunt,” she was saying. “He didn’t want to come. I think he was afraid he’d show himself up,
one way or another. But he reckoned it’d have been rude to refuse the invitation.”

“Oh well,” Valens replied. “As things turned out, it wasn’t the end of the world.”

“The people who were killed.” She sounded as though every word was an effort, like lifting heavy blocks of stone. “Were they
… ?”

“Most of the government,” he said. “My friends. People I grew up with. It’s going to be very strange getting used to the idea
that they won’t be around anymore. I mean, so many of them, and so sudden.” He paused, reflecting. “But you’d know all about
that, of course,” he said. “At least they didn’t burn down my home.”

She laughed, brittle as ice. “I never liked it much anyway,” she said.

“Is it better here?”

“No, not much.” A pause. It seemed to go on for a ridiculously long time. “The thing is,” she said, “I’ve been shunted about
like a chess piece ever since I was fourteen years old; you know, move to this square here, then back, then sideways to cover
the white knight. After a while, places just don’t matter very much anymore. And it’s not like I’ve ever done anything. At
least,” she added, “I’ve caused a lot of trouble for thousands of people, but I never asked anybody to do any of that. Unless
you count writing letters about poetry and things I could see from my window.”

Valens shrugged. “I think if I’d had to live your life, I’d have gone mad, or run away. Haven’t you got a sister who’s a merchant?”

“Yes. She’s a horrible cow and I haven’t seen her for years. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. I never had any brothers or sisters. What’s it like?”

“Noisy. There’s always someone slamming doors in a huff. Why the sudden interest?”

“I was just making conversation. It’s something we never got around to discussing, and it was always on my mind to ask you
about it.”

She stood up. “Some other time, maybe,” she said. “I really ought to go. You look tired.”

He yawned. “I was born tired,” he said. “Rest just spoils my concentration.” She turned and walked away; reached the door
and hesitated.

“Should I ask the doctor to come in?” she said.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye. I’m sorry,” he added.

“Are you? What for?”

He closed his eyes, just to make her go away.

“Everybody’s dead,” the woman in the red dress complained bitterly. “Which is hell for business. I’ve got a hundred yards
of silk damask, beautiful sort of bluey-green, and I can’t shift it. No customers. All the money in the duchy’s tied up in
probate, and what there is has all gone on estate sales, all the heirs selling up at the same time. It’s a bugger for luxury
goods. I should’ve stuck to bulk commodities, like my old mother told me to. You could kill off every bloody aristocrat this
side of the mountains, and people’ll still want quality lumber.”

Ziani nodded. “For coffins,” he said, “if nothing else.”

She sighed; not in the mood for comedy. “And what’s going to become of the marriage alliance, that’s what I’d like to know.
If that goes out the window, that’s our venture in the salt trade well and truly stuffed.” She tilted the jug, but it was
empty. “Bastard thing,” she said, a trifle unfairly in Ziani’s opinion, since she’d been the one who’d emptied it. “And I
don’t know what you’re being so fucking calm and superior about. It’s your money as well, remember.”

Ziani shook his head. “It’s not going to muck up the alliance,” he said soothingly. “Quite the opposite. From what I can gather,
the Cure Hardy are fighting mad, because of the uncles getting killed. Blood vengeance is a big thing with them, so I’ve heard.”

She shook her head. “You’re getting them confused with the Flos Gaia,” she told him. “They’re the ones who carry on blood
feuds for sixteen generations. In fact, it’s a miracle there’s any of the buggers left. This lot are pretty sensible about
that sort of thing, for savages.”

“Not where royalty’s concerned,” Ziani replied. “And don’t forget, there’s a whole lot of young braves back home who’d love
a chance to have a crack at the Republic, as a change from cattle-raiding against the other tribes. It’ll be fine, you’ll
see. Blessing in disguise, even.”

She scowled, tried to get up to fetch a bottle from the cupboard, gave that up as too much effort. “That’s not going to help
me get shot of my silk damask, though, is it? Genuine Mezentine, cost me two thalers a yard and I had to fight like a lunatic
to beat them down to that. I’d been hoping to shift it for clothes for the wedding, but it didn’t get here in time, what with
having to come the long way round to stay out of trouble. This bloody war’ll be the ruin of us all, you’ll see.”

Ziani smiled. “You want to hang on to that cloth,” he said. “Take the long-term view. Once the savages are coming here all
the time, money in their pockets from the salt deals, there’ll be a demand for prestige goods, and who else is going to be
carrying any stock to sell them?”

She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again and thought for a moment; slow but sure, like a cart drawn by
oxen. “That’s a thought,” she said. “All the rest of ’em will be getting out of luxuries and buying into staples; and you’re
right about the savages, they won’t want to go home empty-handed.”

Ziani stood up. “You’ve got the idea,” he said. “If I were you, once your colleagues start selling out their fine ware at
sacrifice, you want to be in there buying. After all,” he added, “you know something they don’t. Only,” he added, “for crying
out loud be a bit discreet about it. We don’t want anybody putting two and two together.”