Evil for Evil (67 page)

Miel had seen so many men killed in his life — some by others, some by himself — that the sight had gradually lost its meaning,
to the extent that he could no longer remember the first one he’d seen, though he’d been sure at the time he’d see it in his
mind every time he shut his eyes for the rest of his life. Now it was just a process, like threshing wheat or dressing game.
But the sound — a crack like a thick dry branch breaking, carrying implications of such a terrible strength exerted with such
purpose — shocked him so much that he felt his guts spasm; he’d have been sick if the Mezentines had bothered to feed him,
but his stomach was empty. Instead, he felt acid fluxing in his throat and into his mouth, so that he nearly choked. He couldn’t
have moved if someone (not Daurenja, obviously; not Framain) hadn’t grabbed a handful of his shirt and tugged him so hard
he overbalanced, and had to take a step forward to keep from falling. Once he was moving, he kept going, except that he shied
like a horse when his toe thudded into a soft heap on the ground, and he had to be dragged again, standing on something that
yielded at first to his weight and then resisted; springy, like green branches, or ribs. “What’s the matter with you?” her
voice hissed accusingly in the darkness. Fortunately, he could safely assume she didn’t want a reply.

Daurenja was pulling the stable door open. There was light inside; it gushed out and stained the yard yellow for a moment,
so Miel could see a tall, thin man who must be Daurenja slipping inside. A muffled voice, cut off short, as Framain followed
him in.

Three horses stood saddled and bridled, feeding placidly from a long manger of barley and oats. They didn’t seem bothered
about the man’s body slumped on the ground in front of them, like a drunk’s clothes on the floor. In the pale lamplight, Miel
could see a bizarre creature, long and thin and bony, more of an insect than a man apart from the absurd ponytail of black
hair dangling down his back. He was in the act of lifting a saddle off its peg.

“Bridle,” he said, and Miel realized he was being spoken to. “There, look. You do know how to bridle a horse, don’t you?”

Strange voice; educated, you’d begin to say it was cultured but then think better of it. Hardly the voice you’d expect to
hear from the long, thin insect. Hardly the voice of the man who’d just killed four strangers with his bare hands for the
crime of getting in the way. Miel looked round for the bridle, and saw her holding it, looping the reins over her forearm.
Daurenja had lowered the saddle onto the back of a nondescript bay gelding. In the middle of a desperate and bloody escape,
for some reason they were stopping to tack up a horse.

For me, Miel realized. But I don’t want help from the likes of him …

The horse lifted its head to avoid the bridle; he saw Daurenja’s arm snake out, just like the last time, and for a moment
he firmly expected to see the horse strangled. Instead, Daurenja took the bridle and gently eased the bit into the horse’s
mouth. As soon as he touched it, the horse became completely calm and lowered its head to the optimum height for fitting a
bridle. Miel had seen grooms who could do that. A rare gift, apparently, vouchsafed to only a few.

Daurenja was handing him the reins. He took them and watched the other three mount up. Daurenja mounted like water poured
from a bottle, seen in reverse. It was, Miel couldn’t help thinking, the way you’d imagine the hero of the story would do
it — assured, graceful, quick, and once he was mounted he seemed to merge with the horse, controlling it with the same thoughtless
ease you use when moving your own leg or arm. He’d be the perfect hero, if only he wasn’t a monster.

“Come
on,
” she said, as if chiding him for using up all the hot water. He grabbed the reins and the cantle of the saddle, and made
a complete botch of mounting, losing both stirrups and flopping forward onto the horse’s neck.

Back in the yard again; there were men with lanterns; somebody shouted at them as they rode past. Miel’s horse broke into
a canter before he was ready, and the saddle hammered the base of his spine. Twenty years of riding; he couldn’t remember
what to do. It was just as well that the horse was inclined to follow the tail in front.

Only a complete idiot or a hero gallops in the dark. After a few strides, Miel lost his nerve completely. Instead of standing
to the pace, he sat and flumped painfully, gripping the pommel of the saddle like a scared child. Escaping from the Mezentines
was washed completely from his mind. All he could think was,
I’m going to fall off, help.
He could feel the horse extending its stride to keep up. All the fear he’d so skillfully reasoned away in the pigsty flooded
back, drowning his mind. He was going to be killed, and he didn’t want to be.

How long the ride lasted he had no idea, but after a lifetime the gallop decayed into a trot, then a walk; they were climbing,
but he had no strength left in his knees or back to lean forward. He heard the horse wheeze, and apologized to it under his
breath. Every movement it made jarred his pulled muscles. He just wanted the journey to end; a little pain was all it took,
apparently, to shake him out of his high-minded resolve. Not even proper torture; discomfort. He was pathetic.

The first smear of lighter blue in the sky took him by surprise. It must’ve got there while his attention was distracted.
Daylight, though; they’d have to stop when the sun came up. Hunted fugitives lay up during the day to avoid being seen, it
was the rule.

They didn’t stop. The sun came up, a red mess on the horizon. They were climbing a heather-covered moor, pimpled with white
stones about the size you’d use for wall-building. The outline of Sharra directly behind him told him all he needed to know
about where he was. In the middle of nowhere, precision is a waste of effort.

“We’ll stop here.” Daurenja’s voice, so unexpected as to be arbitrary. Actually, the choice was good. They were high enough
up to have a good view all round, but hidden by a little saucer of dead ground under the top of the ridge. With the bulk of
the rise behind them, they could sneak out unobtrusively as soon as they saw pursuers approaching, and the direction of their
escape would be masked by the gradient. Clever, resourceful Daurenja; a proper old-fashioned sort of hero, not like the tortured,
ineffective types you got in all the modern romances.

“Get off,” he went on, “we’ll rest the horses for an hour.”

Miel realized he’d forgotten how to get off a horse. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and tried swinging his leg over
the animal’s back. He must have done something wrong, because he slithered and ended up breaking his fall with his kneecap.

“Would somebody mind telling me who the hell that is?” Daurenja said.

“He’s nobody.” Her voice. “You
bastard.
”

“Don’t start,” Daurenja snapped. “This really isn’t the time.”

Miel lifted his head, mostly to see if Daurenja looked as weird in daylight as he had under the lamp. He saw him facing her,
a let’s-all-be-reasonable look on his extraordinary face. Behind him, Framain was coming up slowly; the exaggerated strides
of someone who’s not used to it trying to move without making a noise. He had a rock in his hands.

“How dare you …” she was saying; then she caught sight of her father. There was a split second before she realized she had
to keep Daurenja’s attention distracted; he must have picked up on it, because he swung round, reached out his ludicrously
long arm and punched Framain on the side of the head. Framain collapsed like a shoddily built rick. Daurenja turned back as
though he’d just swatted a fly. She sprang past him and threw herself on top of Framain; clearly she was afraid Daurenja had
killed him, but he groaned and pushed her away.

“Excuse me,” Miel said.

Framain looked up and saw him. His expression showed that he’d forgotten about Miel. He wiped a dribble of blood off his chin.

“I’d like you to meet my business partner,” Framain said. “Daurenja, this is Miel Ducas. He’s going to hold your arms while
I smash your head in.”

Daurenja glanced quickly at Miel; he was judging distances, doing mental geometry. He took two long strides, sideways and
back, placing himself out of distance of all three of them.

“You,” he said, looking at Miel for the briefest time required to make eye contact, then returning the focus of his attention
to Framain, “get lost. Nothing to do with you. Get on your horse and go away.”

It would’ve been very easy to obey. Daurenja had a foreman’s voice, the kind that makes you do as you’re told without stopping
to think. Besides, he was right: none of the Ducas’ business, therefore no obligation to intervene. Since it seemed pretty
evident that the three of them together would be no game at all for Daurenja in a fight, there didn’t seem to be anything
Miel could usefully do.

“If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I’ll hang around for a bit. I mean, I haven’t got a clue where we are, for a start,
and —”

“Do what he says,” Framain growled at him. “I don’t need you.”

“I know. I just —”

“Go
away.
” So she didn’t want him there either. It was just as well, Miel decided, that he wasn’t a democrat.

“Fine.” Miel stood up. “Can I keep the horse?”

No reply; he no longer existed. He gathered the reins and led the horse away. It didn’t want to move, so he twitched its head
sideways; at least that still worked. “I’ll head this way,” he called back without looking round. “And thank you for rescuing
me.”

Once he was over the lip of the saucer, he stopped and glanced back; then he found the heaviest rock he could lift, put the
reins under it to keep the horse there, and walked as quietly as he could manage back the way he’d just come. Just under the
cover of the lip he stopped, crouched down and listened.

He could hear Framain’s voice, shouting, but couldn’t make out the words. After a while she joined in, shrill, practically
hysterical. Framain interrupted briefly, and then she resumed. He’d never heard so much anger, so much passion in any voice,
male or female. Then there was a sound like a handclap, but extremely loud, and her voice stopped abruptly. Framain roared,
and then he heard Daurenja say, “No” — not shouting, just speaking extremely clearly. At some point while he was eavesdropping,
a stone had found its way into his hand. It fitted just right into his palm and nestled there comfortably, like a dog curled
up at your feet. He crawled up to the top of the lip and looked down.

She was lying on her face. Framain was kneeling beside her, hugging his ribs, finding it hard to breathe. Daurenja stood a
long stride away from him — long distance, in fencing terms. He had his arms folded too; he looked impatient and mildly annoyed.
The knuckles of his right hand, gripping his left elbow, were scuffed and bleeding slightly.

Absolutely none of my business, Miel thought, taking aim.

The stone hit Daurenja just above the ear; not hard enough to knock him down but sufficient to make him stagger. Not the right
time for sophistication, Miel decided. He ran down the lip, just managing to keep his balance, and crashed into him. The two
of them fell together, and before they hit the ground, Miel could feel fingernails digging into his neck.

His weight helped. Landing on Daurenja was like falling into the brash of a fallen tree; his ribs, like branches, gave and
then flexed. The grip on Miel’s neck didn’t slacken and he felt panic surging through him. The palm of his hand was on Daurenja’s
face, he was pushing away as hard as he could, but all that achieved was to tighten the grip. At that moment, death lost all
its serenity and grace. He was the prey in the predator’s jaws, wriggling and kicking a futile protest against the natural
order of things. In his mind, dispassionately, like a neutral observer, he realized that he was losing the fight — not over
yet, but he certainly wouldn’t bet money on himself. It was, he decided, a pity but no tragedy. Mostly he felt resentful,
because in the final analysis this thin freak was beating him, which inevitably made him the better man.

He didn’t hear anything, but Daurenja’s grip suddenly loosened and he stopped moving; then his body was hauled out of the
way and Miel saw Framain looking down, though not at him. He realized that he was exhausted, too physically weary to move.
Death, he decided, simply didn’t want him, like the fat boy who never gets asked to join the gang.

“My business partner,” Framain said. “It’s all right, he’s not dead. We need him, unfortunately. He’s going to take us to
join the Vadani duke. It’s his way of making it up to us.” Framain stopped, made a sucking noise and spat, very carefully,
on Daurenja’s upturned face. “I suppose I ought to thank you, but you should’ve done as you were told. This is a family matter,
nothing to do with you.”

“Would you help me up, please?” Miel said.

Framain frowned, as if he didn’t understand, then reached out, caught hold of Miel’s wrist and hauled him upright. He nearly
fell down again, but managed to find his feet.

“Are you all right?” Framain didn’t sound particularly interested.

“I think so. Just winded.”

“We need some rope, or something we can tie his hands with,” Framain said. “Got to be careful with him, it’s like tying up
a snake.” That made it sound like he’d done it before; regularly, even. “He hit my daughter, you know,” he added. “Punched
her face. She’s all right, but …” He sighed. “We need him, at least until we reach the Vadani. It’ll be awkward killing him
there, but you know what they say. Nothing worth while is ever easy.”

No rope on the horses’ saddles; they had to take Daurenja’s shirt off and plait strips of it. Framain was fussy and impatient
at the job, fretting in case Daurenja came round before they were ready. She helped at the end. Her mouth was swollen and
purple, and her left eye was closed. Daurenja was in scarcely better shape. Whatever Framain had hit him with had left a long
gash on his bald scalp. It had bled copiously, as scalp wounds do, so that his neck and ponytail were caked in blood. They
propped him against the slope and Framain tied his hands and feet together, working edgily, at arm’s length. “I’m surprised
we managed it, actually,” Framain observed casually, as they stood up and looked at him. “Just the three of us. Of course,
it helped that he was taking care not to damage us. In some respects he’s quite predictable.”