Evil for Evil (51 page)

He’d been briefed before he left Mezentia, needless to say. They’d told him that Valens, the Vadani duke, was a young man,
slightly built, shorter than most Vadani, with hair the color of dead leaves. The description fitted the man behind the table,
just about. He looked tired, worried, angry about something. “This him?” he said.

“We searched him at the border,” the escort leader said.

“He doesn’t look particularly murderous,” the man who might be Valens replied. “You’re Mezentine, aren’t you?” he added, without
shifting his head, so that it took the terrified man a moment to realize he was being spoken to. “I mean, a real Mezentine,
not one of the overseas mercenaries.”

“Yes,” the terrified man said, wondering whether he was supposed to add
sir
or
your highness.
Too late to do that now, so he’d better work on the assumption that a citizen of the Republic refuses to acknowledge the
superiority of any man, even by way of formal greeting. “My name is Lexao Cannanus, permanent secretary to the —”

“I’m Valens. Sit down.” Valens frowned. “No, don’t do that, wait till someone fetches a chair. I do apologize for my household’s
inexcusable lack of manners. If I’ve told them once, I’ve told them a thousand times: accredited diplomats are not to be expected
to sit on the grass.”

All this humor, Cannanus assumed, was for the servants’ benefit rather than his, though he could see it would have the additional
benefit of making him feel uncomfortable. An efficient man, then, the Vadani duke; capable of making one operation do two
jobs. If he was Mezentine, he’d probably be a Foundryman. Someone brought a chair — a silly thing, too fussily carved and
not very sturdy — and he sat on it. The four soldiers were looming over his shoulder, but he did his best to pretend they
weren’t there.

“Apparently you’ve got a message for me,” Valens said. “Or would you like something to eat or drink first? Now I’m the one
forgetting his manners.”

“No, that’s fine,” Cannanus said stiffly. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, and I’d like to do my job and go home as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Just a hint of a grin on Valens’ face? He’s making me think I’m sounding pompous and stupid, Cannanus realized.
Clever man. “Well in your own time, then.”

For a horrible moment, Cannanus couldn’t remember what he was supposed to say …

“Greetings,” he recited, in a flat, dead voice, “from the convocation of Guilds of the Mezentine Republic. This is to inform
you that unless you accede forthwith to the Republic’s legitimate demands, a state of war will exist between yourself and
—”

“Just a moment,” Valens interrupted. “What demands?”

Cannanus blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“What demands? I don’t know what you’re referring to. We haven’t had any demands, have we, Mezentius?”

The rusty-haired man, who’d joined them at some point, shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Valens sighed. “Which isn’t to say there haven’t been any,” he said. “The trouble is, this sort of thing’s the province of
my chancellor, and unfortunately he was killed only a few days ago. As a result we’re still in a bit of a tangle, not quite
back up to speed. Would you be very kind and just run through them for me? The demands,” he added, as Cannanus goggled at
him. “Just to jog my memory, really. For all I know, we might be able to clear all this business up here and now.”

Nightmare, Cannanus thought. There’ll be a war that could have been avoided, and it’ll all be my fault. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I don’t know. I’m just a messenger.”

“Oh.” Big frown. “That’s a nuisance. Mezentius, do you think you could quickly go and scout through the papers on Carausius’
desk, just in case they’re there?” The rusty-haired man nodded and stomped away. “Won’t be long,” Valens said coolly. “Now,
would you like a drink while you’re waiting? I’m having one.”

Infuriating. “Yes, thank you.” If he can be polite, so can I; we’ll see who crumbles first.

“Splendid.” Valens nodded, and someone appeared at once with a tall, plain earthenware jug and two silver mugs. They at least
were Mezentine, though ordinary trade quality. “Well, what shall we talk about? It’s not often I get a chance to talk to a
real Mezentine these days.”

A cue, if ever there was one. “Is that right? I was under the impression you had a Mezentine living here at your court.”

“A real Mezentine, I said.” Valens grinned. “If you’re thinking of my friend Ziani Vaatzes, I tend to think of him as one
of us now, rather than one of you.”

“Talking of him.” Too good to be true, surely. The Duke was suspicious, hence the slightly forced lead. It wasn’t fair, he
reflected bitterly, to send a clerk to play at top-level diplomacy. A trained diplomat would be able to interpret all these
subtleties. Instead, he had the feeling he usually only felt in dreams: playing chess against a master, and suddenly realizing
he didn’t know the rules of the game. Nevertheless, he was here now and there was nobody else. “I take it you can confirm
he’s still alive.”

Valens tilted his head slightly on one side, like a dog. “So that’s what the ambush was all about, was it? To kill poor old
Ziani. In which case, yes, you wasted your time. Pity, really. A bit of a disaster all round.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Cannanus replied. “I’m afraid the standing committee doesn’t discuss policy with the likes of me.”

“But they want to know the answer,” Valens said, smiling. “It was one of the instructions you were given: find out if Vaatzes
is still alive.”

That question clearly didn’t need an answer. “I wonder,” Cannanus said, “if it’d be possible for me to talk to him. Just for
a moment.”

At least he’d contrived to take Valens by surprise. There was a short pause before he said, “Now why would you want to do
that? I assume,” he went on, recovering a little of his previous assurance, “that you aren’t going to try and murder the poor
chap.”

“I have a message for him from the council.”

Valens raised both eyebrows, then laughed. If Cannanus didn’t know better, he’d have believed the amusement was genuine. “I’m
very sorry,” Valens said, “but I really don’t think that’d be a terribly good idea. Will it spoil your trip terribly if I
refuse?”

Cannanus shrugged. “To be honest with you,” he said, “it wasn’t part of my mission at all. I was just curious.”

“Curious?”

“I wanted to see what he looks like.”

“Oh.” It was clear from his face that the very perversity of the idea appealed to Valens on some level Cannanus probably wouldn’t
be able to understand. “No, sorry. The wretched fellow’s got enough on his plate without becoming a tourist attraction.”

“I understand.” He tried to put just the right hint of resentment into his reply, while keeping it diplomatically polite.
“I’m sorry if the request was out of line.”

“Think nothing of it,” Valens answered. “Now, if it’d been me you’d wanted to see, I’d have had no problem with it. Probably
have charged you two quarters for admission, but that’s all. Now, where’s Mezentius got to with those documents? He’s a fine
soldier, but not at his best with paperwork.”

As if he’d been waiting behind a pillar for his cue, the rust-haired man came back, scowling and slightly short of breath.
“I couldn’t see anything on his desk,” he said. “It could be anywhere in the files, of course, but it’d take days to go through
all that lot.”

Valens shrugged. “Well,” he said, “since the alternative is war with the Republic, what’s a few days scrabbling about in the
dust? Get some clerks to help you.” He turned and frowned politely at Cannanus. “You’re not in a tearing hurry to get back,
are you? Or will they dispatch a million cavalry if you’re not home by this time tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so,” Cannanus replied. He didn’t like the thought of hanging around in the Vadani capital for a moment longer
than necessary. It made his flesh crawl; not fear, in fact, but disapproval. “But I think it’d be better if I went back and
explained that the previous correspondence has been …” He scrabbled for the right word. “Mislaid. Otherwise,” he added, with
what he was sure was overdone ingenuousness, “they might just assume you’re playing for time.”

“Of course.” Valens nodded firmly. “You do that, then. If you could possibly do your best to persuade them not to invade us
till the copies have arrived, that’d be really kind.” Valens stood up, an unambiguous indication that his ordeal was over.
“Mezentius, would you mind showing our guest out? Unless he’d like to stay to dinner? No? Well, maybe next time, when you
come back with the copy of the terms, I’ll look forward to it. You’d better get a fresh horse for him,” Valens went on. “Find
him a good one, nothing but the best for our friends in the Republic.”

The rusty-haired man started to walk away, and Cannanus hurried to follow him. The four guards came forward, as though to
follow, but rust-head waved them away; the dreaded Mezentine apparently wasn’t such a threat after all.

They walked about ten yards down the cloister, rust-head leading at a brisk pace that Cannanus found it irksome to match.
Then he stopped dead and dropped a couple of documents. Looking down, Cannanus saw they were blank sheets of paper.

“I thought you hadn’t seen my signal,” Cannanus said.

“Quiet,” rust-head snapped, not looking up. “Keep your voice down. Quick, look like you’re helping me with these papers.”

Cannanus knelt down beside him and picked up one of the blank sheets. “Sorry about not giving you any notice,” he said quietly.
“But it’s an emergency, no time to warn you in advance.”

“I’d gathered. And yes, I saw your signal, thank you very much. It’s supposed to be a subtle hand-gesture. The way you were
carrying on, you could’ve put someone’s eye out.”

Just stress and irritation talking; besides, there wasn’t time. “I’ve got a letter,” Cannanus said. “For the abominator, Vaatzes.
Make sure he’s alone when he gets it, all right?”

“I’m not completely stupid. Well, where is it, then?”

“In my shoe.”

“Oh for crying out loud.”

“Well,” Cannanus muttered, fumbling with his shoe-buckle, “I knew I’d be searched at the frontier. You want to upgrade your
security procedures. If it’d been a Mezentine checkpoint, inside the shoe’s the first place we’d have looked.”

“What minds you people must have.” Rust-head took the small, square packet from him and tucked it firmly into his sleeve.
“Now let’s get you out of here before anything goes wrong,” he said. “And next time …”

“I know. We’re sorry.”

Rust-head sighed and stood up. “It’s going to be much harder for me from now on,” he said. “Chances are I’m going to be promoted,
now that there’s so many jobs that need filling, so I’ll have to be that much more careful. Whose idea was that, by the way?
The sneak attack, I mean.”

Cannanus shrugged. “They don’t tell me stuff like that.”

“No, I suppose not. Anyway, you tell them from me. Next time I want plenty of advance warning, or the deal’s off. Can you
do that? They know I’m far too valuable to piss off.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it,” Cannanus said.

“Do that.” Rust-head glanced up and down the cloister. “And while you’re at it, you can tell them that the evacuation’s been
brought forward again, in spite of the attack. And your abominator’s been keeping very busy indeed, bashing out great big
iron sheets. Nobody knows what it’s all in aid of; rumor has it they’re mass-producing armor, since they can’t buy ready-made
off your lot anymore, but it’s not true. I’ll try and find out from Valens what’s going on, ready for when you come back.”

“It probably won’t be me on the return trip …” Cannanus tried to tell him, but he’d started walking again. Meeting over.

The horse they’d given him was beautiful, a Vadani mountain thoroughbred, intended to make him feel guilty and in their debt.
He felt the guilt in spite of himself, but not the gratitude; it’d be impounded by the messengers’ office as soon as he got
back and given to some colonel in the mercenary cavalry. Just as well; it wouldn’t be right to keep something the enemy had
given him.

The fine, handsome, morally questionable thoroughbred cast a shoe almost as soon as he crossed the Eremian border, a few miles
after his Vadani escort had turned back and left him on his own. That, he couldn’t help thinking, was probably a judgment
on him for his ingratitude, or else for being tempted to keep the horse. It gave him a certain amount to think about as he
walked, leading the gift-horse by its reins, along the dusty, stony track that passed for the main road to Civitas Eremiae.

Other concerns, too; less high-minded and abstruse, rather more immediate. One of them was the fact that he’d forgotten to
fill his water bottle back at Valens’ palace; rather, he’d assumed that one of the Duke’s countless servants would have done
it for him while he was busy with the meeting. Another was the emptiness of his ration sack: the scrag end of a Mezentine
munitions loaf, turned stale by the dry mountain air, a bit of cheese-rind and a single small onion.

He could, of course, ride the horse; but that would lame it, maybe cripple it for good on these horrible stony roads, and
it was such a very fine horse, with its small, graceful head, arched neck and slim, brittle legs … Walking it lame would be
as bad as damaging government property, for which he was personally responsible. That, he reckoned, was the Vadani for you:
they bred exquisite horses, but their farriers couldn’t nail a shoe on properly.

As if on purpose, the track started to climb steeply. Being a highly trained courier, Cannanus wasn’t used to walking, and
it wasn’t long before he felt an ominous tightness in the back of his calves. He tried to picture in his mind the maps of
the Eremian border country that he’d glanced at before he started out. The big stony thing he was struggling up was tall enough
to count as a mountain, worth marking on a map and giving a name to; but there were so many mountains in Eremia that that
was no great help. He gave up and started looking about him, but all he could see on the plain below was empty, patchy green
blemished here and there with outcrops and bogs. Not a comfortable environment for a city boy at the best of times.