Evil for Evil (50 page)

Of course they did.

Later, back in his cold, safe office, Psellus read (for the fifth or sixth time) the dense, concise summary of instructions
he’d received from Boioannes’ clerks. Most of it was a tangled thicket of things he wasn’t allowed to offer or agree to, not
even on the strict understanding that he’d be lying through his teeth; there was always the risk that the letters might be
intercepted, by the enemy or (even worse) by friends, and some maneuvers would be too painful to have to explain away. Most
of the rest of the brief consisted of what the Republic wanted from its stray lamb — the Vadani, for instance; the heads of
Duke Valens, Duke Orsea, their heirs, counselors, ministers, families, friends, acquaintances …

Well, that was the job he’d been given, the first real work he’d had since he joined Necessary Evil. Better than spending
all day staring at the wall, or reading Vaatzes’ atrocious poetry for the umpteenth time. More to the point, here was a beautiful
kind of serendipity, such sweet timing. He picked up his pen, suddenly inspired, and started to write.

Lucao Psellus to Ziani Vaatzes, greetings.

What a bizarre thing to be doing; writing a letter to the abominator, the arch-enemy, the man who’d slaughtered the Republic’s
army at Civitas Eremiae. It was like writing a letter to Death, or Evil; it was also, he felt with a stab of guilt, a bit
like scraping acquaintance with someone you’ve always wanted to meet.

Allow me to introduce myself. I represent the standing committee on defense of the Perpetual Republic of Mezentia [
inelegantly phrased; he was writing too fast in his enthusiasm
]
and I am authorized …

Pause. Nibble end of pen. Another sheet of paper.

Lucao Psellus to Ziani Vaatzes, greetings.

I have never met you, although I suspect I know you better than anybody outside your immediate family — better, quite probably,
than most of them. I work for the Guilds. That’s all you need to know about me.

First, you ought to know that your wife — I mean your ex-wife — has married someone else. I’m sure you know the lucky man:
Falier, your successor at the ordnance factory. Well, of course you do. Wasn’t he your best friend?

I enclose a notarized copy of the marriage certificate. You know as well as I do that a Mezentine notary wouldn’t falsify
a certificate for anybody, not even the Guilds in supreme convocation. But if that’s not good enough for you, ask for whatever
proof you need and I’ll try and get it for you.

So much for personal affairs: to business. I represent the standing committee on defense [
there; that particular stylistic bear-trap neatly avoided
] and they have authorized me to offer you a free pardon, in return for your help with the war. Of course, it’s not quite
as straightforward as that. We need to be able to trust you — rather a difficult proviso, in the circumstances. Likewise,
you need to be able to trust us.

This is what I have in mind …

Yes, Psellus thought; but what do I have in mind, precisely? He frowned, as though trying to squeeze inspiration out of his
forehead by sheer clenching of the brow muscles. When it came, it was little short of horrifying.

This is what I have in mind. I will come and meet you. I should make it clear straightaway that I am a person of no importance
whatsoever. I don’t know anything that would be helpful to the Vadani, so capturing and torturing me would be a waste of effort.
Nor would the Guilds pay a ransom for me, or exchange prisoners for me. Ask anybody, assuming you can find someone who’s heard
of me.

I will meet you, face to face, at some place convenient to you within easy reach of the Eremian border. If you like, I’ll
bring with me any further proof you want of Ariessa’s remarriage. When we meet, we can figure out between us what it’ll take
for us to trust each other. I’ll come alone, of course. You’ll know as soon as you see me that you’re in no danger whatsoever
of assassination or abduction. I couldn’t hurt a fly if I wanted to; not a big fly, anyway.

If you decide you don’t want anything to do with us, that’s fine. If that’s your decision we will, of course, have you killed,
sooner or later. If we can reach some sort of agreement, on the other hand — think about that. Think about what you’ve already
lost, permanently and beyond hope of recovery, and what you may still be able to salvage from the wreckage. I feel it’s very
important that we should be completely honest with each other right from the very start; talking of which, I really like your
poetry. It’s got a very basic simplicity which I found quite moving.

Use the same courier to reply. I look forward very much to meeting you.

He had to try hard before he could get the pen back in the inkwell; his hand was shaking. But now he’d written it, there was
no way back. Of course, Vaatzes might not reply …

He shut his eyes. Dying wouldn’t be so terribly bad; but if they tortured him … He reached out for the letter, but stopped
before his fingertips touched it. Of course, Boioannes might well forbid him to do it; a member of Necessary Evil, strolling
alone and unarmed into Vadani territory. Boioannes would do no such thing. No risk whatsoever; you can’t betray what you don’t
know. His orders would be:
If they capture and torture you, here’s the misinformation you’re to feed to them, and make sure they believe you.
Best not to put that idea into his mind.

Talking of minds, I must be out of …

Yes, he thought. Yes; but I really don’t have any control over it, not now the letter’s actually been written, not now that
it exists, separate from me. It’s a fixation, a compulsion, a need that overrides everything, even fear of pain and death.
Quite possibly, being in love must be something like this; in which case, all the irrational, plain stupid things I’ve heard
of lovers doing suddenly make sense. I want … No, I don’t want, I need to meet him, to see his face and hear his voice, to
share a space with him, to understand.

(He stood up; far too restless to sit down.)

And it’ll be out of the office; that’ll be a pleasant change. I’ll be staying in inns, always wondered what that’d be like,
and eating food that hasn’t come from the Buttery. All kinds of fascinating new experiences, that I don’t actually want, that
I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.

He folded the letter, sealed it; it’d be safe now, because nobody would dare open a letter sealed by Necessary Evil. Not even
Lucao Psellus; especially him.

Lucao who? Oh, him. That clerk.

He shoved through the door, scuttled down the corridor and stopped the first clerk he met. As he gave the instructions — so
fussy about the details, repeating them over and over again — he realized that his voice was high and squeaky with excitement,
wondered if the clerk had noticed it too. He wished he’d made a copy of the letter, so he could read it again; he couldn’t
seem to remember what he’d written, but he was sure it was vilely phrased, clumsy, possibly illegible. Should’ve got a clerk
to copy it out in fair hand. Too late now; it’s sealed, and the clerk’s taken it, it’s gone.

The thought of going back to his office was hateful. How long would it take the courier to reach Civitas Vadanis? She would
be under orders to disguise her true intentions; presumably she’d go to Lonazep first, then up along the Cure Doce border,
doing her stupid little business deals as normal, haggling a little extra small change out of provincial drapers and cutlers
for run-of-the-mill Mezentine worsteds, brass buttons and table knives. Only then would she slip across the border into Eremia
(with her safe conduct carefully hidden in the luggage, for use only in the direst of emergencies); buying now rather than
selling, because the huddled pockets of Eremian refugees had no money. Gradually she’d work her way down the frontier, crossing
into Vadani territory through one of the mountain passes, after which she could head straight to the capital without arousing
suspicion. Two weeks? More likely three, and the same for the return trip. I can’t wait that long, he told himself urgently,
I’ll fret myself to death in that time. Six
weeks …

The hell with it. He bolted down the stairs, across Little Cloister, short-cut through the mosaic portico, up the main stairs,
arriving breathless and racked by stitches in the anteroom of Boioannes’ suite of offices.

No chance whatsoever of getting in to see the man himself; not without an appointment, and you had to have had your name put
down at birth for one of those. But eventually he talked his way into the presence of Boioannes’ chief assistant deputy clerk,
a godlike man with a perfectly spherical head.

“Lucao Psellus,” the clerk told him, and coming from such an authority, it had to be true. “How can I help?”

Psellus explained. Urgent Guild business, a direct commission, approved by a unanimous vote of Necessary Evil … At this point
the clerk stopped him with one upraised forefinger, and leafed through a bound folio of manuscript until he came to the minutes
of the relevant meeting.

“As you say,” he said, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Level seven authorization, no less. What can we do for you?”

The letter, written, entrusted to a courier; on reflection, the usual channels far too slow; could the courier be stopped
or called back, and the letter sent by express messenger instead?

The clerk frowned. “Express messenger?”

“Somebody fast,” Psellus explained. “Instead of going all round the houses. Like the way you send orders and dispatches to
the front line.”

The frown deepened. Set foot in that frown and you’d be sucked down into it; all they’d ever find of you would be your hat,
floating on the top. “You mean the military post.” Long, thoughtful pause, as if the clerk was doing long division in his
head. “Strictly speaking,” he said eventually, “your authorization does allow you to make use of the military post. That said,
I can’t see how it’d help, in the circumstances. It would get your letter to Civitas Eremiae, say, in forty-eight hours. It
couldn’t get it across the border, let alone into the hands of the enemy.” A sigh, full of sadness for the contrariness of
the world. “No, they’d have to find you a covert messenger at Civitas Eremiae — one of those merchant women, they’re really
the only line of communication we’ve got for cross-border work. In all honesty, I think it’d be quicker to use the normal
channels.”

Psellus could feel his jaw getting tense. “All right, then,” he said. “What about a diplomatic courier? A herald, or whatever
you call them.”

The clerk actually smiled; more than a hint of the Boioannes grin there. True what they say: after a while, dogs start to
look like their masters. “First,” he said, “you don’t have authorization. Second, we aren’t sending any diplomatic representations
to the Vadani for the foreseeable future.”

Psellus took a deep breath. “Then arrange one,” he said. “Make something up. Pretend. Write to the Duke and tell him he’s
got one last chance to surrender. Any pretext, so long as you can send a courier with my letter sewn inside his trouser leg,
or whatever it is your people do.” He stopped, feeling ridiculous. It wasn’t appropriate for a member of Necessary Evil to
beg a clerk to send a letter. “If you’d rather, we could go and ask Councillor Boioannes. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being
interrupted.”

War, fiercer than anything that had taken place in Eremia, was raging behind the clerk’s eyes. Not hard to figure out what
he was thinking. Just possibly, Psellus the forgotten man, the Republic’s leading nonentity, wasn’t bluffing and genuinely
had authorization from Boioannes himself; in which case, hindering him would be a very dangerous course of action. “We can
send your message,” the clerk said. “We’re a resourceful lot, we’ll think of something.”

A terrified man rode through the main gate of Civitas Vadanis. He was unarmed, dressed from head to foot in dusty white, and
four heavy cavalrymen flanked him at the four cardinal points, as though shielding their fellow countrymen from all possibility
of contagion.

Needless to say, everybody had stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Some, mostly mothers with young children, backed
away; others pressed forward as if they were going to attack, and the four outriders had to guide their horses to shove them
back into the crowd. A few objects, some stones but mostly fruit, were thrown, but with poor accuracy. A flying cordon of
guards advanced in reverse chevron formation from the palace door, enveloping the five riders and whisking them inside.

The terrified man, who hadn’t said a word since he rode up to the official border post at Perrhagia, looked round. He wasn’t
used to places like this: fountains, statues on plinths, cobbled yards glimpsed through archways. The nearest thing he’d ever
seen was the Guildhall, but that was bigger but plainer. This place was small, busy and almost deliberately arrogant, as if
making no secret of the fact that, in spite of its ornate extravagance, it was the house of just one man, and everybody else
here was some degree of servant. The thought appalled him; he hadn’t realized that people could actually live like that.

They stopped in front of a pair of tall wrought-iron gates; gilded but disappointingly crude by Mezentine standards. The escort
dismounted — nobody spoke to him, but he guessed he was supposed to dismount too — and the gates opened. He didn’t look round,
because he’d seen enough Vadani soldiers already for one day.

“Is this him?” A young man with a meager, thin face and hair the color of rust was talking to the escort leader, who must
have nodded, because rust-head turned and walked into the building. The four escorts edged toward him, like drovers crowding
a pig into a pen. He did his best to ignore them, and followed rust-head through the doorway, across a covered way and into
a cloister garden. It was pretty enough, if you liked flowers and that sort of thing. In the middle was a small round walnut
table — again, shoddy work once you got close enough to see — behind which sat a single man.