Evil for Evil (48 page)

Moving his head to look away, he caught Valens' eye, and winced again. It wasn't the contempt, so much as the complete lack of surprise. It occurred to him that, when they were assembling in the courtyard, they hadn't brought him a hawk; the peregrine had been entrusted to Ziani, who'd passed it on. Now he could see why. He heard yelping: the dogs, running in to pick up ducks grounded by the falcons. That suggested that, in spite of his best efforts, it hadn't been a complete washout. He looked up at the sky. One or two ducks were coming back to the water, but he could see precious few hawks. He knew what that meant. Flown after quarry that had already gone too far, the hawks had gone looking for prey on their own account, and were unlikely to come back any time soon. The falconers would be spending the rest of the afternoon looking for them; if they'd killed and roosted, it'd mean someone would have to sit out all night under the roosting-tree, and then climb up at first light to catch the hawk before it woke up. All things considered, he couldn't have ruined Valens' wedding-day hunt more efficiently if he'd planned it all in advance.

Daurenja's sparrowhawk came back, with a thrush in its claws. That, Orsea reckoned, more or less put the seal on the whole sorry business.

No sign of his peregrine. He knew the drill: if his hawk hadn't come back within a certain time, he was obliged to notify the master falconer, who'd organize the search for it. Orsea wasn't looking forward to that. Knowing his luck, the peregrine would turn out to be a bird the master had trained himself, sitting up with it for four days and nights without rest or sleep; he wouldn't say anything, but the look in his eyes would be enough to kill a dragon. There'd be plenty of other people nearby, of course, waiting in line to report their own missing hawks; they'd be looking at him too, and not saying anything. Twenty yards or so away, he saw Veatriz, talking to her majesty, the new duchess. He could guess what they were saying. Excuse me, but do you happen to know who that bloody fool was who ruined everything? Well, yes, actually that's my husband.

Valens had joined them; Veatriz backed up her horse and moved a few steps away. He considered riding over and joining her, but decided that that would be unkind. A duck rocketed low over his head, returning to the water. Its cry sounded just like an ordinary quack, but Orsea knew it was laughing at him, and he could see the joke.

No need for clocks, sundials or counting under his breath. Orsea could feel the moment come and go, marking the time limit for the hawks to have come back before they were officially considered strayed. People were starting to look round for the master falconer. He heard Valens say, in a loud, carrying voice, "Well, I suppose we'd better forget about it for today." People murmured back, and muttered to each other. Yes, Orsea thought, just about perfect.

"That was a bit of a shambles, wasn't it?" Daurenja had materialized next to him, his sparrowhawk hooded and perfectly aligned on his wrist (no sign of the dead thrush; slung, presumably, into some bush). "What went wrong? I wasn't looking."

"It was all—" Orsea stopped. He'd caught sight of a couple of riders coming round the edge of the reeds. At first he assumed that they were the falconer's men, assembling to begin the search for the strayed hawks. Then he noticed that they didn't look right; not dressed for hawking, more like soldiers, in armor, with shiny steel helmets and lances. Also, their faces were very dark; like Ziani's.

"Who the hell are they?" someone said, close by.

Orsea looked over his shoulder, to see if Valens had noticed them, and saw five more just like them, coming up from the opposite direction. Strange, he thought; they're almost dark enough to be Mezentines, except that—

One of them nudged his horse into a slow canter, heading straight for a fat man in dark blue and his wife, who were both looking the other way. Someone shouted to them—Orsea couldn't quite catch the words—but they hadn't heard or took no notice. The dark-faced rider came up between them; the fat man's horse shied sideways, just as the dark-faced stranger lifted a hand with a sword held in it and slashed him across the back of the neck. The fat man slumped forward immediately, as though he'd been held up by a string which the sword had cut; the woman turned her head just as the dark-faced man brought his arm up and backhanded a thrust into her face. She fell sideways; her horse broke into a trot, dragging her by one stirrup, so that her head bounced up and down on the ground like a ball.

A woman screamed. The rest of the dark-faced men—Orsea didn't have time to count them, but at least
two
dozen—
were
moving forward too; the ones with lances were couching them, while the others were drawing swords. "What the
hell
do you think you're doing?" a man called out in an outraged voice, as if he'd caught them stealing apples.

Orsea remembered: the war. The one he'd brought here with him.

"Are those men Mezentines?" Daurenja's voice, frankly puzzled, groping for an explanation. For some reason, the sound of it stung Orsea like a wasp. I've got to do something, he thought; but that was stupid. They were soldiers, in armor; he was unarmed, in his pretty clothes, attending a wedding.

One of them crossed in front of him, no more than five yards away, stopped, and turned his head to stare at him. There was no malice in the man's dark eyes, just a flicker as he identified a legitimate quarry. He tugged lightly on his left rein, turning his horse's head.

Coming for me, Orsea thought; and then, Oh well. Then he remembered something, though even as he thought of it he doubted its relevance. He was a nobleman; except on a very
few
specific occasions, a nobleman doesn't leave his bedchamber without some kind of sidearm, even if it's just something decorative and stupid, such as the mimsy little stagshorn-handled hanger he'd hurriedly threaded on his belt as an afterthought, just before dashing out of the door. He felt for it and found it, as the dark-faced man closed with him. He'd actually managed to draw it halfway when something slammed very hard into the side of his head, squeezing all the light down into a pinprick.

15

Out of their minds, Valens thought, as he dragged his horse's head round. Completely, suicidally insane, to mount an attack three miles from the city gate. They must know that, as soon as the alarm's raised, they'll be surrounded, outnumbered a hundred to one, annihilated in a matter of seconds. Nobody could be that stupid; therefore it can't be happening.

Without needing to look down, he found the hilt of his sword; then remembered that, since this was a hawking expedition in the safest place in the world, all he had with him was a stupid little hanger, adequate for clearing brambles but not a lot of use against armor. They'll all be killed, yes; but by then they'll have slaughtered the entire Vadani government. Maybe not so crazy after all.

He realized he was looking for her; well, of course. Two of them had seen him; they were slowing down, turning toward him, but he couldn't be bothered with them right now. He caught a glimpse of her—alone, separate from the main party, which was being cut down like nettles round a headland.
Stay there
, he begged her, and turned his attention to the immediate threat, because he couldn't do anything to help her if he was dead.

The funny little sword was in his hand. He kicked his horse into a canter and forced it straight at the right-hand Mezentine (a lancer, spear couched, coming in fast). At the last moment, when he felt his horse slow up in order to shy away from a direct collision, he pulled over hard to the right. His horse stumbled—he'd expected that—but recovered its stride with its next pace, as the Mezentine, going too fast to stop or swerve, drew level with his left shoulder. Valens threw himself to the left, almost pulling himself out of the saddle, crossing his right arm over his chest and shoulder, the hanger held as firmly as he could grip it; as the Mezentine rushed past him (neither hand free to fend off with), his neck brushed against the last inch and a half of Valens' sword-blade, and that was all there was to it.

Wrenching himself back up straight in the saddle, Valens hauled his horse through a half-circle, in time to see the dead man topple slowly backward over his horse's tail. Looking past him, he watched the second lancer come around, level up and address him, the look in his eyes confirming that the same ploy wouldn't work twice. Tiresome; but he still had the advantage in defense. A lancer trying to spear one particular target in the open is like a man trying to thread a moving needle. He kicked on, riding straight at the lancer; let him underestimate his enemy's imagination. As the distance between them dwindled into a blur, Valens could see him getting ready to anticipate the coming swerve; he'd make a swerve of his own, and hold his lance wide to sideswipe him out of the saddle. Fine. Valens kicked his poor, inoffensive horse as hard as he could, driving him into the Mezentine like a nail. At the moment when he knew the horse would refuse and pull away right, he jerked the left rein savagely, bringing the horse to a desperate standstill. The force of deceleration threw him forward, but he knew the Mezentine's outstretched lance would be there to stop him flying forward over the horse's ears. As he felt himself slam into the lance-shaft, he let go of the reins and grabbed with his left hand, closing his fingers around the shaft. There was a moment of resistance before the lance came away. My lance now, he thought, and sheathed the hanger.

The Mezentine, unarmed and only vaguely aware of what had just happened, was slowing up for his turn, leaving a tiny wedge of opportunity. Valens kicked on; the horse sprang straight into the canter, giving Valens just enough time to grab the reins with his right hand and poke the lance out with his left. The point caught the Mezentine just below the left shoulder blade, shunting him forward onto his horse's neck. Valens let go of the lance just in time, and legged hard right to swerve round him.

That chore out of the way, he reined in and looked to see if she was still where he'd left her. She wasn't. Swearing loudly, Valens stood up in his stirrups, making himself ignore the rich detail of the slaughter going on all around him (people he'd known all his life were being killed everywhere he looked, but he simply hadn't got time to take note of that; it'd have to wait), and eventually caught sight of her. For some reason she was riding straight toward a knot of them, four horsemen or was it five, engaged with some opponent on the ground he couldn't see. Furious because he wasn't being allowed any time to plan ahead, he dropped his painfully won lance, drew the ridiculous hanger and kicked forward. Out of his mind, he thought wryly; must be catching.

By some miracle, the one he reached first hadn't seen or heard him coming. Valens drewcut the back of his neck as he passed him, in the gap between the bottom of his aventail and his shoulders, and hoped he'd done enough, since he had no time to look and make sure. The second one thought he was ready for him, but raised his shield a couple of inches too high in his anxiety to cover his face and chest. Another drawcut, just above the knee; useful arteries there. Even so, he managed to land a cut before Valens was clear of him; he felt the contact, and something like a very severe wasp-sting, which could be anything from a flesh wound to death in a matter of seconds. Nothing he could do about it, so he didn't waste valuable time looking to see where he'd been cut. Ducking low as the third Mezentine swung at him, he punched his sword arm forward as he passed. He felt the point grate and turn on bone, dragged his horse round to address the fourth, and found he wasn't there anymore. Small mercies.

The luxury of a moment to pause and take in the situation. One Mezentine was still in the saddle, but he was leaking blood from his leg like a holed barrel, and could be safely ignored. Two riderless horses; one Mezentine riding away: one man, at least, with a bit of common sense. She was sitting motionless on her pretty little horse. Her dress was soaked with blood, but not hers; the Mezentine 's. She was staring at the dying man, watching the spurt and flow ebb as he quickly ran dry. Quite likely the most horrible thing she's ever seen in her life, Valens reflected; and true love did that, riding yet again to her rescue.

There was someone else involved, he realized: a man, someone he recognized. Reasonably enough—once seen, never forgotten, the bizarre, spider-like character, Vaatzes' assistant. What the hell was he doing here, anyway?

Answer: he was standing astride a dead horse, holding the front half of a broken lance, which he'd just pulled out of a dead Mezentine. He too was bloody to the elbows; his eyes were impossibly wide and he was gasping for breath as though he'd just been dragged out from under the water. That was impossible, because he had no call to be there, certainly he had no business fighting, heroically… Valens forced him out of his mind and looked round a second time. Three Mezentines were heading for him, lances couched. One damn thing after another.