Evil for Evil (31 page)

He sucked his lip until his mouth was full of blood, then spat. It was surprising how much it hurt, a little scratch like
that. “Are you all right?” Orsea was saying. He nodded.

“Which isn’t to say,” he said, “that it won’t be awkward, so close to the wedding. Don’t suppose I’ll be getting much kissing
done with a mouth full of stitches.”

If a man could die of embarrassment … Then Orsea would be dead, and no need to murder him. Valens started to smile, but the
pain checked him. Snap off the button and stab him through the neck; well. Accidents can happen.

“I really am sorry,” Orsea was bleating. “I did tell you, I’m absolute rubbish at fencing.”

“You were,” Valens amended. “Now you’re slightly better at it.” He reached out and pulled the damaged foil from Orsea’s hand.
“Might as well ditch the pair of them,” he said. “This one’s not worth mending, and the other one on its own’s no good. I
never liked them much anyway.”

Orsea opened his mouth; he didn’t need to speak, it was obvious what he’d been going to say. His first impulse had been to
offer to pay for a replacement pair, but then he’d remembered that he hadn’t got any money, apart from the allowance Valens
made him. Buying a man something with his own money would be a uniquely empty gesture. “It can’t be fixed, then?” he said
instead.

Valens shook his head. “You’d need to re-temper the whole blade,” he said. “Forget about it. One less piece of junk to agonize
over leaving behind.”

(As he said that, he tried to remember if Orsea knew about the evacuation. But yes, he did; he’d been at the staff meeting.
Of course, there was no guarantee that he’d been paying attention.)

“Suppose I’d better go and get cleaned up,” he said. “I’m supposed to be meeting the princess in about ten minutes.”

He walked out of the stable, not noticing whether Orsea followed him or not. As he crossed the yard, he realized he was still
holding his foil. He stuck it point downward in a stone urn full of small pink flowers and made his way into the main hall.
Ten minutes; he sent someone to find the surgeon, and sat down on a bench.

“Don’t ask,” he said, when the surgeon arrived.

“I wasn’t going to. Was it clean?”

Valens nodded. “Hurry up,” he said, “I’ve got a date with a girl.”

“This is going to hurt a lot,” the surgeon said, threading his needle. “Don’t bother being brave just for my benefit.”

“I won’t,” Valens said.

He managed not to scream, even so (the Duke is always brave, always for his own exclusive benefit). The surgeon snipped off
the end of the thread with a little silver knife. “Taking them out won’t be much fun either,” he said. “But there shouldn’t
be much of a scar. Be more careful next time.”

His clothes were covered in blood, of course. He dragged himself back up to the tower room, changed and slumped down again.
He was late for his appointment (whatever the right word was for half an hour of diplomatically mandated flirtation) and the
cut was hurting like buggery. Still, it’d be a good way to get the conversation going.

“You’ve hurt your mouth,” she said, as soon as she saw him. It was practically an accusation.

“Yes,” he replied. “My own silly fault.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “I got careless handling the goshawk you gave me, and she swiped me.”

She frowned. “You should bathe the cut in distilled wine,” she said, “to stop it getting infected. I’m surprised, though.
I had hoped I’d trained her better than that.”

“Not her fault,” Valens said. “I’m just lucky she didn’t strike for the eyes.”

“That would have been very bad,” she said. “You should have her killed.”

“Certainly not,” Valens said. “She’s a very fine hawk.”

“Yes. Even so.”

He smiled. It hurt to smile at her, not entirely because of the stitches. “Besides,” he said, “that’d be a poor way to treat
a wedding present.”

She frowned again. She seemed to be finding him rather hard going. “The hawk isn’t my wedding present to you,” she said. “My
official present is two divisions of light cavalry, and my personal gift will be a suit of lightweight scale armor, a riding
sword and a warhorse.”

“Oh,” Valens said. “You’ve spoiled the surprise.”

She looked at him as though he was talking a language she didn’t know. “The gifts are specified in the marriage contract,”
she said. “I’m sorry, I assumed you’d have read it.”

“That’s right, I remember now.” He could still taste blood in his mouth. It made him feel hungry. “Anyway, let’s talk about
something else. This is the herb garden.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do. That one over there’s mint; that’s rosemary, and oregano.”

“Basil.”

“Sorry, basil, you’re quite right. You know your herbs, then.”

She nodded. “I read a book about them. We don’t use herbs much at home, they’re too hard to get hold of. Most of our meat
is salted to preserve it, or smoked or dried. As well as common salt, we use wild honey and saltpeter, both of which are fairly
abundant in our territory.”

“I see,” Valens said. “Interesting,” he lied. “You must find the meat here pretty bland, in that case.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Tell me …” He racked his brain for something to ask her about. “Tell me what sort of food you eat in your country.”

She raised her thin, long eyebrows. “Well,” she said, “we are, as you know, a nomadic society. Accordingly, most of our food
is provided by our livestock. We eat beef and mutton, cheese and other dairy products, and game, of course.”

“How about bread? Vegetables?”

“We gather a wide variety of fruit,” she went on, as though he hadn’t interrupted, “and wild honey, which we use for a great
many things besides preserving. We get a certain amount of flour from the Mezentines in trade, but it’s still very much a
luxury; for one thing, it’s heavy and bulky to carry in any quantity. Nuts and berries —”

“And what you mostly trade with is salt,” he broke in. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

She paused, as though his interruption had made her lose her place. “Salt, some hides and furs,” she said. “But salt mostly.”

“That’s …” Valens couldn’t think of a suitable word, so he shook his head. “Changing the subject rather,” he went on, “there’s
one thing I’m a bit curious about. How did you actually find out about us, in the first place, I mean? Because, to be honest,
I’d never heard of your people, except as a name.”

Disapproval all over her face; clearly not diplomatic. “You’d have to ask my uncles,” she said. “Similarly, I’d never heard
of the Vadani until I was told I was to marry you. However, I trust I have now made amends for my ignorance. I have put a
considerable amount of effort into my studies.”

“I can see that,” Valens said. “And you’ve done really well.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, then said: “Now there are three things I should like to ask you about, if that would be in order.”

Valens shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“Very well.” The way she paused reminded Valens of several experienced public speakers he’d listened to over the years. “If
any of these questions strike you as offensive or impertinent, please say so. First, I should like to know why, at your age
and in your position, you are still unmarried. Second, given that you are the absolute ruler of this country, why are you
allowing your advisers to pressure you into a marriage that clearly holds little attraction for you. Third, I would be most
interested to know your reasons for going to war with the Mezentine Republic.”

Valens shut his eyes for a moment. What the hell, he thought.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Would you like to hear the truth?”

She looked at him.

“Fine. Look, can we sit down for a moment?”

She nodded. “The pain from your injury is fatiguing you,” she said.

“Yes.” He sat down on the arm of a stone bench. She settled next to him like a bird pitching on a branch.

“The goshawk didn’t attack you, did it?” she said.

He laughed. “No. I made that up, sorry. No disrespect intended to your hawk.”

Her mouth tightened a little; if we were already married, he thought, I don’t suppose I’d be getting off so lightly. “Very
well,” she said. “What did happen?”

“I got carved up a little by a jealous husband.”

“I see. I take it the man in question will be punished.”

“Not necessary.”

She scowled. “He drew the blood of his ruler,” she said firmly. “There can be no clemency in such a case.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Valens said.

“If you wish. You were about to answer my questions.”

“So I was.” He looked away, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “When I was seventeen, I saw a girl. She was a guest here.
I fell in love with her, but not long afterward she married someone else. After that — I don’t know, there wasn’t anything
conscious about it. I stopped thinking about her as soon as I heard about her marriage. My father had just died, I had a lot
of other things on my mind. I suppose I was glad of an excuse not to have to concern myself with all that stuff.”

“That seems plausible enough,” she acknowledged. “My second question …”

“Why now, you mean? Well, various reasons, really. Mostly, to be frank, we need this alliance. We’ve — I’m sorry,
I’ve
got the country into a pretty awful mess, and it looks as though you’re our way out. Also …” He shivered. “It’s been a long
time since I was a seventeen-year-old kid. Everybody grows up eventually.”

She was looking at him again. “I don’t think I understand what you mean,” she said.

“Don’t you? Well.” He smiled. “Not entirely sure I know myself. Let’s just say it’s taken me a long time to come to terms
with it, but I got there in the end.”

She shrugged. “And the war?” she said.

“A mistake,” he replied. “A very big, bad, stupid mistake. I thought it’d make the Republic leave us alone, but it had the
exact opposite effect. Silly me.”

The frown was back. “That seems rather unlikely,” she said. “We’ve been studying your career, and the major decisions you’ve
taken since you became duke. Before your intervention at Civitas Eremiae, your political judgment was flawless. I find it
hard to believe that such a wise and resourceful man as yourself would have done something so rash and dangerous without a
very good reason.”

“There you go,” Valens said with a grin (which pulled on the stitches and squeezed out a large drop of blood). “It just goes
to show, nobody’s perfect. There are times when I surprise myself.”

She clicked her tongue. “I gather you’re not prepared to answer that question,” she said.

“No.”

“I see.” Her voice was cold; polite anger. “Obviously you’re entirely at liberty to keep secrets from me, but I trust you
understand the nature of the relationship you’re proposing to enter into with my family. A marriage alliance is a very serious
business, as far as we’re concerned.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Valens said gravely. “And you don’t need to remind me what a serious business this all is.” He sucked
the blood and spit into the back of his mouth and spat it out onto the grass, then wiped his mouth gingerly on the back of
his hand. “Well, this has been quite delightful, but I think we ought to be getting back to the others, or they’ll think we’ve
eloped.”

As soon as he’d handed her back to her uncles (the bald man wasn’t there; off discussing the minutiae of the contract with
Carausius, presumably), he hurried back to his tower room and threw up violently into the washbasin. He felt better for it,
but not much. That set his lip bleeding again, which didn’t help. He sat down at his desk, staring out of the window, then
drew a sheet of paper toward him, dipped a pen in ink and started to write.

Valens Valentinianus to Veatriz Sirupati, greetings.

This is stupid. My whole life has gone septic; everything hurts at the slightest pressure.

Isn’t love supposed to be the most wonderful thing that can happen to you? I don’t think so. I think it’s a nasty, miserable
thing that brings out the worst in people; if you don’t believe me, ask Orsea how he got all those cuts and bruises.

Losing you to Orsea all those years ago was bad enough. Now, apparently, I’ve got to lose myself as well. I’ve got no choice:
we need the alliance if we’re going to stand any sort of chance of scaring off the Mezentines; otherwise we’re all dead. Have
you met her? No, I don’t suppose you have. She’s inhuman. She might as well be one of Ziani Vaatzes’ mechanical statues. Her
loathsome family have taken her apart and made her into an artifact. I’d be desperately sorry for her if I thought she could
still feel anything. Anyway, that’s what I’ve got to marry. Count yourself lucky; you got an idiot who goes around wrecking
everything he touches and then tearing himself to bits out of guilt. I’m getting a machine. What the hell did either of us
ever do to deserve this?

When my father died, I knew my life was over too. I realized I could never be myself again. To begin with, I tried to be him,
but I couldn’t do it. Strange how sometimes you only get to know someone once they’re not there anymore. I couldn’t be him
because I can’t bring myself to be deliberately stupid. He was a stupid man. Instead, I became what he should have been. The
best joke about me is that everything I hate doing I do really well. At least I could be proud of what I’d done for this country.
I kept the peace, nobody was starving, people could leave their houses and families in the morning and be fairly sure they’d
still be there when they came back at night. Then Orsea started his war, you were in danger and I threw it all away.

I have to have something to live for. It used to be your letters. Now you don’t write to me anymore, and I’m going to be married
to that thing. I’ve been thinking about my options. I thought about getting up very early one morning, taking a horse from
the stable and riding until I reached somewhere nobody’s ever heard of me. I wish it was that simple.

I can’t do it, Veatriz. My father used to say, there’s no such word as can’t. If you can’t do it, all it means is you aren’t
trying hard enough. That used to make me so angry — quiet, speechless-with-resentment anger — that I’d find a way to do any
damn thing, just so as not to give him the satisfaction of being disappointed in me — and then he’d nod and say, told you
so, I knew you could do it if you just applied yourself. I know that deep down he believed I wasn’t up to the job of running
this country. I showed him, didn’t I? But that doesn’t work anymore. I can’t make myself do what I’ve got to do just so I
can score points off my stupid, dead father. Maybe he was right all along. Take away the hate I used to feel for him, and
what’ve I got left?