Evil for Evil (6 page)

Fine. If I can’t work out how a load of stupid women do it, I’ll just have to invent a method of my own. Think; think about
the ways in which one bit of something can be joined to another. There’s nails, or rivets; or how about a bolt on a door?
You push a bolt through a sort of cut-about tube into a hole that keeps it — Or a net. Now he was onto something he actually
knew a bit about. Think how the drawstring runs through the mouth of a purse-net, weaving in and out through the mesh; then,
when you pull on it, it draws the net together. If you do something similar with the thread, weave it in and out through both
layers of cloth, that’ll hold them together. Brilliant. I’ve invented sewing. I’d be a genius if only someone hadn’t thought
of it before me.

He took another look at the shirt-seam. It hadn’t been done like that. But if he went up it once, then turned it round and
went down again, he could fill in the gaps and it’d look just like the real thing. Was that the proper technique? he wondered.
Like I care, he thought.

Now for something to sew. He was looking for damage; a hole, cut or tear. He examined the shirt in his hands, but there didn’t
seem to be anything wrong with it, so he put it on the floor and took another one from the sack. This time he was in luck.
There was a big, obvious tear in the sleeve, just the sort of thing for an enthusiastic novice to cut his teeth on. He looked
for the needle, couldn’t find it, panicked, found it, picked it up carefully, carried it across to the sleeve and drove it
home like a boar-spear. It passed through the cloth as though it wasn’t there and came out the other side, but with an empty
eye and without the thread.

He looked up. She was standing over him, looking down.

“So,” she said, “which one are you?”

His mind emptied, like grain through a hole in a jar. “What?”

“Which one are you,” she said, “Miel or Jarnac?”

Oh. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re —”

“Jarnac’s the falconry nut,” she went on matter-of-factly, “but he’s supposed to be big and good-looking. I met Miel once,
but it was years ago and we were both children, so I wouldn’t recognize him again. I could probably guess, but it’s easier
if you tell me, isn’t it? Well?”

He sagged. “I’m Miel,” he said.

She nodded. “Actually, I’m impressed,” she said. “I’ve been watching you. It’s clever, how you figured it all out. But you
need to fold back a couple of inches when you thread the needle,” she added. “Otherwise it just pulls out.”

“Is that right?” Miel said. “Well, now I know.” He sighed, and let the shirt drop from his hands. “So what are you going to
do?” he said.

She shrugged. “Obviously,” she said, “either I teach you how to sew properly, or I’ll have to do all those clothes myself.
Why did you pretend to be someone else?”

“I was afraid that if you knew who I was, you’d sell me to the Mezentines,” he said. “Isn’t that what you do?”

She didn’t move or say anything for a moment. “No,” she said. “They’re the enemy. If it wasn’t for them, we’d still be at
home on our farms.” She frowned. “We don’t do this out of choice.”

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure he believed her, but he still felt ashamed. “Do you know what happened in the battle?” he asked
(but now it was just a way of changing the subject).

“No. I expect we’ll hear sooner or later. Why, don’t you?”

“I got knocked out halfway through,” he explained.

“Ah.” She smiled, crushing the scar up like crumpled paper. “I can see that’d be frustrating for you. Not that it matters.
You’re bound to lose eventually. You never stood a chance, and at your best you were nothing but a nuisance.”

“I suppose so,” Miel said quietly.

“Aren’t you going to argue with me?” She was grinning at him. “You’re supposed to be the leader of the resistance.”

“Yes.” He knew he was telling the truth, but it felt like lying. “So I’m in a good position to know, I suppose.”

“Well.” She frowned. “All right, you can’t sew. Is there anything you
can
do? Anything useful, I mean.”

He smiled. “No.”

“And you’re hardly ornamental. Do you think the Mezentines really would give us money for you?”

She walked away and came back with a cloth bag that clinked and jingled. As he took it from her, it felt heavy in his hand.
“Tools,” she said. “Two pairs of pliers, wirecutters, rings, rivets, two small hammers. Do you know what they’re for?”

He thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think so,” he said.

“I thought it’d be more likely to be in your line than sewing, and it’s easier. It must be, men can do it. Figure it out as
you go along, like you did with the sewing. When you’re ready to start …” she nodded into the corner of the barn, “I’ll help
you over there.”

“Might as well be now,” he said.

She bent down and he put his arm round her neck. Not the first time he’d done that, of course; not the first time with a redhead.
The most he could claim was, she was the first one-eyed woman he’d ever been cheek to cheek with. Her hair brushed his face
and he moved his head away.

“You’re standing on my foot,” she said.

He apologized, perhaps a little more vehemently than necessary. Her hair smelled of stale cooking oil, and her skin was very
pale. When they reached the corner, he let go and slithered to the floor, catching his knee on the way down. That took his
mind off other things quite effectively.

“It’s all right,” he gasped (she hadn’t actually asked). “I just …”

“Be more careful,” she said. “Right, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got work to do.”

When she’d gone, he pulled open the nearest sack and peered inside. It looked like a sack full of small steel rings, as though
they were a crop you grew, harvested, threshed and put in store to see you through the winter. He dipped his hands in, took
hold and lifted. At once, the tendons of his elbows protested. A full-length, heavy-duty mail shirt weighs forty pounds, and
it’s unwise to try and lift it from a sitting position.

He hauled it out nevertheless, spread it out on the floor and examined it. Mezentine, not a top-of-the-range pattern. The
links were flat-sectioned, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, each one closed with a single rivet. A good-quality
shirt, like the ones he was used to wearing, would have smaller, lighter links, weigh less and protect better. This one had
a hole in the back, just below where the shoulder blade would be, and the area round it was shiny and sticky with jellying
blood. The puncture had burst the rivets on five of the links; must’ve been a cavalryman’s lance, with the full impetus of
a charging horse behind it, to have done that. He looked a little closer, contemplating the twisted ends of the damaged links.
So much force, applied in such a small space. He’d seen wounds before, felt them himself; but there was more violence in the
silent witness of the twisted metal than his own actual experiences. That’s no way to behave, he thought.

She’d been right; it was much easier to understand than sewing, though it was harder work. He needed both hands on the ends
of the wirecutter handles to snip through the damaged links, and after he’d bent a few replacement links to fit (one twist
to open them, one to close them up again), the plier handles had started blisters at the base of both his thumbs. The only
really awkward part was closing up the rivet. For an anvil he used the face of one of his two hammers. The only way he could
think of to hold it was to sit cross-legged and grip it between his feet, face up, his calf jamming the handle into the floor.
He tried it, but the pain from his injured knee quickly persuaded him to try a different approach; he ended up sitting on
the hammer handle and leaning sideways to work, which probably wasn’t the way they did it in the ordnance factory at Mezentia.
Hauling the shirt into position over the hammer was bad enough; lining up the tiny holes in the ends of the links and getting
the rivet in without dropping it was torture. He remembered someone telling him once that there were fifty thousand links
in a really high-class mail shirt. He also remembered what he’d paid for such an item. It didn’t seem quite so expensive,
somehow.

“Is that all you’ve done?”

He looked up at her. “Yes,” he said.

“You’re very slow.”

“I’ll get quicker,” he replied. “I expect you get into a rhythm after a bit.” He picked up a rivet and promptly dropped it.
It vanished forever among the heaped-up links on his lap. “What happens to all this stuff, then?”

“We sell it,” she said. “Juifrez’ll pick it up on the cart and take it up the mountain to the Stringer pass. That’s where
he meets the buyers. Of course,” she added, “we’ve got you to thank.”

“For what?”

“For our living,” she said gravely. “For fighting your war. We’ve been tidying up after you ever since you started it. If
it wasn’t for you and your friends, I don’t know what we’d have done.”

“Oh,” Miel said.

“It was Juifrez’s idea,” she went on. “Our village was one of the first to be burned out, it was soon after you attacked the
supply train for the first time. Aigel; don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it. We ran away as soon as we saw the dust from
the cavalry column, and when we came back …” She shrugged. “The idea was to walk down to Rax — that’s the next village along
the valley — and see if they’d take us in. But on the way we came across the place where you’d done the ambush. Nobody had
been back there; well, I suppose a few scouts, to find out what had happened, but nobody’d buried the bodies or cleared away
the mess. You’d burned all the food and the supplies, of course, but we found one cart we could patch up, and we reckoned
that’d be better than walking. Then Juifrez said, ‘Surely all this stuff’s got to be worth some money to someone,’ and that
was that. Ever since then, we’ve been following you around, living off your leftovers. You’re very popular with us, actually.
Juifrez says you provide for us, like a good lord should. The founder of the feast, he calls you.” She laughed. “I hope you’ve
got someone to take your place while you’re away,” she said. “If the resistance packs up, we’re really in trouble.”

While you’re away; the implication being that sooner or later he’d go back. “He’s your leader, then,” he said, “this Juifrez?”

“I suppose so,” she replied. “Actually, he’s my husband. And while I think of it, it’d probably be just as well if you didn’t
let him find out who you are. Like I said, he thinks very highly of you, but all the same …” She clicked her tongue. “I suppose
he’d argue that the lord’s job is to provide for his people, and the best way he could do that is fetching a high price from
the Mezentines. He’s not an insensitive man, but he’s very conscious of his duty to his people. The greatest good for the
greatest number, and so forth.”

“Juifrez Stratiotes,” Miel said suddenly.

“You’ve heard of him.” She sounded genuinely surprised. “Fancy that. He’d be so flattered. After all, he’s just a little local
squire, not a proper gentleman. You’ve met him, of course, when he goes to the city to pay the rents. But I assumed he’d just
be one face in a line.”

“He breeds sparrowhawks,” Miel remembered. “I bought one from him once. Quick little thing, with rather narrow wings.”

She was grinning again. “I expect you remember the hawk,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

She was walking away. “When will he be back?” Miel asked. “I mean, the rest of them.”

“Tonight, after they’ve buried the bodies.” She stopped. “Of course,” she said slowly, “there’s a very good chance he might
recognize you, even all scruffy and dirty. And you’re the only live one they found this time, so he’ll probably want to see
you.”

“Probably,” Miel said.

She took a few more steps, then hesitated. “Can you think of anybody else who might want you?” she said. “For money, I mean.”

“No.”

“What about the Vadani? They’ve been helping you, haven’t they?”

“Yes,” Miel said, “but the Mezentines would pay more.”

“And they’re closer.” She hadn’t turned round. “But you’re good friends with Duke Orsea, aren’t you? And he’s with the Vadani
now. Juifrez isn’t a greedy man. If he could get enough for our people … Or better still, if you could arrange for us to go
there. The Vadani aren’t allowing any of us across the border, they’re afraid it’ll make the Mezentines more determined to
carry on with the war. If you could get Duke Orsea to persuade the Vadani, we’d be safe. Juifrez would see the sense in that.
Well?”

Miel shook his head, though of course she wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t quite sure when or why, but the balance between
them had changed. “Orsea doesn’t like me much anymore,” he said. “And I don’t know Duke Valens, there’s no reason why he’d
put himself out for me.”

“Don’t you care?” She sounded angry, almost. “You sound like you aren’t really interested.”

“I’m not,” he heard himself say. He’d pinpointed the shift; it had been the moment when he’d remembered her husband’s name.
“At least …” He sighed. “The best thing would be if your husband didn’t see me,” he said. “But I can’t ask you to lie to him,
or anything like that.”

“No, you can’t.” Snapped back at him, as if she was afraid of the very thought. “I’ve never lied to Juifrez.”

No, he thought; but you probably would, if I worked on you a little. But I’m not going to do that. I’m in enough trouble already
on account of another man’s wife. “Good,” he said. “Look, if you think it’s worth trying to get help from the Vadani, I’m
hardly going to argue. I’m just not sure it’ll come to anything, that’s all.”

“You sound like you want us to sell you to the Mezentines.”

“No, not really.”

The air felt brittle; he felt as though he could ball his fist and smash it, and the inside of the barn would split into hundreds
of facets, like a splintered mirror. Just the effect he had on people, he assumed. “I’m not in any position to tell you what
to do, am I?” he said, and it came out sounding peevish and bitter, which wasn’t what he’d intended. “I’m sorry,” he added
quickly, but she didn’t seem to have heard. “If it wasn’t for your people, I’d probably have died on the battlefield, or been
picked up by the enemy, which amounts to the same thing.”