Devices and Desires (58 page)

“I hear what you’re saying,” Stellachus replied cautiously. “But it’s the party politics that makes them do a lot of apparently
pointless or inexplicable things — inexplicable to outsiders, who don’t know the finer points of their infighting.”

There was a degree of truth in that, Valens conceded. “Still,” he went on, “it seems a strange way to carry on, because surely
it’s to their disadvantage to stamp on the Eremians too hard.”

“You mean the Cure Hardy,” Stellachus said.

“Exactly. They need Eremia as a buffer. That’s why they helped broker the peace between us and the Eremians, because they
need both of us as a first line of defense. Weaken the Eremians too much, or wipe them out completely, and that just leaves
us between them and the people they’re most afraid of. Now, how can that possibly make any sense?”

Stellachus got up, poured two cups of wine, put one in front of Valens, sat down again. Valens sipped his cup, to be polite.
“I don’t know,” Stellachus said. “All I can do is theorize. Would that help?”

Valens lifted his hands. “Go ahead.”

“Well.” Stellachus took a long pull at his wine (
I must watch that,
Valens thought;
I guess he’s been under pressure recently
). “Two possibilities come to mind. First, it’s like you say, something to do with Mezentine politics. Actually,” he added
with a slight frown, “make that three possibilities. As I was saying; Mezentine politics. There’s a power struggle between
two factions, and for some reason one of them wants a big war, to help with whatever their agenda may be. They’re looking
round for someone to hit; Eremia’s the best target, because they’re unpunished aggressors and they’re small. That’s the first
possibility. Number two. Let’s consider the size of this army of theirs.” He hesitated. “Now we can’t do that properly, because
I haven’t got you the full data yet; but we’ll forgive me for that and move on. It’s a very large army, costing them a lot
of money, causing them all sorts of logistical problems which presumably they’ve figured out how to handle. Query: is this
the biggest army Mezentia’s ever put in the field? Don’t know, but we’ll find out. Anyway, it’s big; and the Mezentine policy’s
always been to defend themselves with clever machines rather than big armies. A defensive strategy, in other words.”

Valens dipped his head in acknowledgment of a valid point. “They’ve changed, then,” he said. “From machines to men; from defensive
to offensive.”

“It’s a hypothesis,” Stellachus said, “but no proof. Possibility two is that they’ve been taking a long-term approach to the
Cure Hardy problem, and this invasion of Eremia’s just a prelude to them taking the offensive against the Cure Hardy. Now
why they’d want to do that is another issue; the Cure Hardy live a long way away and have never caused the Mezentines any
bother — which isn’t to say they wouldn’t if they could, and through sheer force of numbers they’re the only power we know
of that could give the Mezentines a bad time. The way they think — if I’m right about that — a threat in being simply isn’t
acceptable. As long as the Cure Hardy exist, the Mezentines can’t sleep at night. You’d have to look at all sorts of factors
— economics, cash reserves, manpower levels — and see if there’s a pattern that’d suggest that the Mezentines have been working
toward this point for some time, where they’re strong enough to go on the offensive against the Cure Hardy. If so, crushing
Eremia might make sense as a preparatory move. Personally, in their shoes, I’d want them as allies — us, too — if I was considering
something like that, but the Mezentines’ minds work differently to ours. Quite possibly they’d see wiping out the Eremians
as a necessary preliminary chore; clearing away the brushwood, if you like, before you start felling.”

Valens nodded again. “And number three?”

“Number three,” Stellachus repeated. “You said earlier that sometimes they do things because of reasons that go right down
under the politics to something absolutely basic, something that’s so deeply ingrained in their mindset that even they won’t
bicker and bitch about it. In which case,” he went on, “I don’t suppose they’d stop to consider the effects on the balance
of power or regional stability; not if it’s — well, a matter of principle. Actually, of the three this one fits best what
we know about this business.”

“Which isn’t as much as we should,” Valens said quietly.

“Granted.” Stellachus looked away. “But we’ll put that right, I promise. It seems to me, though, that the Mezentines have
moved very quickly, very
decisively,
on this; by their standards, I mean. And what I’m getting at isn’t what we’ve heard but what we haven’t heard. I mean, normally
we’d expect to be hearing reports and rumors about major ructions and debates in the Guilds long before any armies landed.
Instead, practically the first thing we know about it is soldiers getting off ships. Therefore, I suggest, we’ve got a cause
of war that doesn’t need to be endlessly argued over and politicked about; and I think I know what it might be.”

Valens smiled. “The defector,” he said.

Really, it was a shame to disappoint him, after he’d worked toward his grand finale so artfully. “Yes,” Stellachus said, “the
one they wanted information about.”

“The one who’s just died,” Valens pointed out.

“Indeed. Now we know how the Republic thinks about defectors; it’s legendary, they’re hunted down and killed, no messing.
But this particular one, who was not only a defector but a murderer and possibly a political dissident as well; and a big
wheel at one of their factories, so he must’ve known a lot of sensitive stuff about engineering —”

“Foreman at the ordnance factory,” Valens said. “You should read your own reports.”

Stellachus didn’t wince visibly; he was growing a thick hide, Valens noted with approval. “This one’s obviously worse than
usual,” he said. “And as soon as he escaped he headed straight for Eremia and Duke Orsea. Like, let’s say, a homing pigeon.”

Valens smiled. “Nicely put,” he said. “So Orsea’s implicated, in their minds at least. Hence open war rather than the usual
covert assassination.”

“Mezentine defectors traditionally don’t get very far,” Stellachus said. “The price on their heads is too tempting, and of
course a brown face is pretty hard to overlook. Nobody wants anything to do with them, because it’s too dangerous. But this
one —”

“Ziani Vaatzes.”

“Vaatzes,” Stellachus said, “makes a clean getaway and goes straight to Duke Orsea, who takes him back to Eremia on his way
home from having the shit kicked out of him by the Mezentine war engines. Vaatzes used to work in the factory where those
engines were made. Now, some of it may be coincidence, but —”

Valens held up a hand. “The Eremians couldn’t make copies of the war engines,” he said. “You’d have to start from scratch,
build the machines that make the machines that make the special steel, and all that. It’d mean years of expensive investment.
And besides,” he added, “I happen to know, Vaatzes suggested it and Orsea turned him down. And if I know that, the Mezentines
do too.”

“Doesn’t signify,” Stellachus said emphatically. “It creates a possibility, you see; something else besides the Cure Hardy
for the Mezentines to lie awake worrying about. If I’m right, the moment Orsea and Vaatzes met, under those rather special
circumstances, this invasion was inevitable. In which case,” he went on, “it won’t just be an invasion.”

For a moment, Valens was silent. “That’s a rather large undertaking,” he said.

“Hence,” Stellachus replied, “the rather large army. We know they don’t do things by halves. No skin off their noses, of course;
that’s the charm of using mercenaries. Every casualty’s a saving on the wage bill rather than a dead citizen.”

It was Valens’ turn to look away. “Have you ever been to Civitas Eremiae? Me neither. But by all accounts it’s the perfect
defensive position, massively fortified —”

“War engines,” Stellachus said. “Why send a man where you can send a large rock, or a big steel spike? Probably just the sort
of technical challenge your red-blooded Mezentine engineer relishes.”

The Mezentines aren’t savages,
Valens reminded himself, but it didn’t sound so reassuring this time. “Storming Civitas Eremiae,” he said slowly, “would
be an impressive achievement.”

“The Cure Hardy.”

“Quite.” Valens frowned. “Assuming it’s possible to impress them, or that they care. But I can see how the Mezentines would
view it as a pleasant fringe benefit, to scare the wits out of the Cure Hardy.”

“And it’d make a first-class frontier post,” Stellachus added, “assuming they don’t level it to the ground in the process.
Anyway,” he said briskly, “that’s three possibilities. There could well be others; those were just the first things that came
to mind.”

Valens grinned. It’d be wise to keep an eye on Stellachus’ drinking, and he was as lazy as a fat dog, but he was still most
likely the best man for his job. “Think about it some more,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll let you get back to your paperwork.”

Stellachus inclined his head, like a fencer admitting a touch. “I’ll have the stuff you need about the Mezentine army as soon
as possible,” he said.

“Good. See you later, at the meeting.”

As he retraced his steps back to his reading room, Valens wondered how on earth he was going to reply to her letter now, with
his mind full of what Stellachus had suggested. Perhaps she didn’t know there was going to be a war; perhaps Orsea didn’t
know… He lifted his head and stared blankly out of the window, at the billowing curtain of thin, slanted rain. If the defector
was dead, surely the problem had solved itself; no Vaatzes, no risk to the Republic, no war. Somehow, he knew it wouldn’t
work like that.

I’m not in control of this situation,
he told himself suddenly.
I wonder who is.

He sat down, laid his sheet of parchment flat on the tabletop, looked at it. At that moment it put him in mind of the very
best tempered steel armor; warranted impossible to make a mark on it, no matter how hard you tried.

Valens Valentinianus to Veatriz Sirupati, greetings.

He put the pen down, lined it up carefully with the edge of the desk. Precision in all things, like a Mezentine.

(I’ll have to tell her, he thought. Maybe, if I can make her understand, I can get her to promise; as soon as the Mezentines
get too close, she’ll come here — she can bring him too, if she likes, just so long as she’s safe, here, with me…)

He closed his eyes. I might as well soak the palace in lamp-oil and set light to it, he told himself. I’ve just been thinking
how stupid Orsea is, and I’ve proved I’m worse than him. To bring the war
here;
unforgivable. I shouldn’t even think it, in case they can read minds; they seem to be able to do pretty much everything else.

He sighed. No point hating the Mezentines; you might as well hate the winter, or lightning, or disease, or death. As far as
he knew — he actually paused and thought about it for a moment — he didn’t hate anybody; not even Orsea, though at times he
came quite close. Hate, like love, was an indulgence he didn’t need and refused to waste lifespan on —

(Correction, he admitted; I hated Father sometimes. But that was inevitable, and besides, I should be proud of myself for
the elegant economy of effort. Hatred and love only once, and both for the same person.)

In any event; hate and anger wouldn’t make anything better. His fencing instructor had taught him that; they make the hand
shake, they spoil your concentration. The most you can ever feel for your opponent, if you want to defeat and kill him, is
a certain mild dislike.

He picked the pen up.

You never got my last letter
[he wrote].
So that settles that, and we needn’t discuss it.

I don’t know where the wet oak leaves business comes from; can’t have been anything I said. As a matter of fact, I despise
getting wet, particularly in the morning. The smell of damp cloth drying out depresses me and gives me a headache. I like
bright sunlight, cool breezes, tidy blue skies without piles of cloud left scattered about, moonlit nights — I like to be
able to see for miles in every direction. Not quite sure where I stand on the issue of forests; I like them because that’s
where the quarry tends to be, and every bush could be hiding the record buck or the boar the farmers have been telling me
about for weeks. But I don’t like the tangle, or the obstruction. You can’t go fast in a forest, and you can’t see. I like
to flush my quarry out into the open. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work like that.

Veatriz, I need to ask you something. Do you think there’s going to be a war? I don’t know how much Orsea’s told you, or even
how much he knows himself; but the Mezentines have raised a large army, and it looks horribly like they mean to use it against
Eremia. I’d like to say don’t be scared, but I can’t. If you haven’t talked to Orsea about it, maybe you should. And — I’m
going to have to be obnoxious for a bit, so bite your tongue and don’t yell at me — the truth is, I have my doubts about how
Orsea’s likely to handle this. I think Orsea is a good man, from what I’ve heard about him. He’s brave, and conscientious,
he cares very much about doing his job and not letting his people down. That’s why I’m worried. You see, I believe that if
the Mezentines invade, Orsea would rather die than run away and desert his people; which is all very well, and I’d like to
think I’d do the same in his shoes, though I wouldn’t bet money on it. I’m not a good, noble man, like he is. If I’d been
good and noble, I’d be dead by now.

I’m still writing this letter; you haven’t read it yet; so the waves of furious anger and resentment I can feel coming back
at me off the paper must just be my imagination. Yes, I know. How dare I criticize Orsea, or suggest… We both know what you’re
thinking. But listen to me, please. Your place is at your husband’s side, yes, right. But

Valens stopped writing. He knew that if he finished the sentence, he could be condemning the Vadani to war and death. Why
would he want to do something like that?