Evil for Evil (32 page)

I think love and hate are really the same thing. They’re what you feel when someone matters more to you than anything else;
more than yourself, even. I know you can love someone and hate them at the same time. My father was always the most important
person in my life. I loved him and hated him, and there wasn’t room for anybody or anything else. Then he cheated by dying.
He left before I could get the better of him, and I’ve been trapped by his death ever since. I think what’s shaped my life
is the fact that I lost you and him so close together. Now I think about it, I realize I’m still the seventeen-year-old boy
whose father died unexpectedly. I’m pinned to that moment, like a man whose horse has fallen on him.

Well, that’s me about finished. For the first time since he died I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what to do. I shall
be very grateful indeed for any suggestions.

He put the pen back in the inkwell, knowing that if he started to read what he’d just written, he’d tear it up and burn the
pieces. Instead, he folded the paper up small into a packet, melted wax and sealed it, tucked it up his sleeve and left the
room.

It took him a long time to find the person he needed: a woman in a red dress, who curtseyed very politely, offered him some
mead spiced with cinnamon and pepper (he refused) and asked him to sit down.

“It’s been quite a while since you needed me,” she said. “I was beginning to think —”

“Please,” he interrupted, “don’t waste my time or try my patience. You’re to deliver this to her personally when she’s alone.
I suggest you do exactly as I say, because if you don’t I’ll have you killed. You know me well enough to realize I don’t make
empty threats.”

She blinked. “I see,” she said. “Can I refuse?”

“I’m afraid not, no.”

“Very well then.” She took a deep breath, and smiled. “Can we talk about money now, please?”

“A hundred silver thalers when you come back and tell me you’ve delivered it,” Valens said. “All right?”

She thought about that for a moment. “That’ll be fine,” she said. “Also, I’d quite like a border pass, open, no dates, and
there’s a silly misunderstanding about an excise license which I’d like sorted out, if that’s no trouble.”

Valens sighed. “It’s a point of honor with you people, isn’t it? Taking a mile.”

She laughed. “My mother told me, never accept anything you’re offered, always insist on one little thing more. Of course,
I’m in no position to bargain.”

“Deal,” Valens said. “If you can get it done today, there’ll be an extra fifty thalers.”

“So sorry.” She shook her head. “Can’t be done. Not even for fifty thalers. I have to apply to the senior lady-in-waiting
for an appointment. A bribe will get me one, but she always makes me wait a full day. If I insist on seeing the Duchess today,
it’d look suspicious, the lady-in-waiting will get frightened and tell Duke Orsea, and — well, I don’t need to tell you what
that’d lead to.”

Valens frowned. “Double the bribe,” he suggested. “I’ll pay.”

“That’d just make things worse,” she replied sadly. “There’s a very strict protocol about bribing court officers. If you mess
about with it, there’ll be trouble. And please don’t tell me how to conduct my business. I happen to be very good at it.”

Valens held up his hands. “Heaven forbid,” he said. “Thanks. I’ll see myself out.”

After leaving her he walked down through the town to the river. People stopped and stared but nobody spoke to him or came
near him. It was well known in Civitas Vadanis that when the Duke came into town on his own, without guards or secretaries,
he wanted to be left alone. It was, of course, a tribute to the way he ran his country that he could walk about the city on
his own whenever he wanted to. Like all the best privileges, of course, it had to be used sparingly.

He stopped at a saddler’s stall down by the west gate; a rather fine set of jesses and a hood, in dark tan leather, embossed
with ivy leaves. A nice, considerate present for his wife-to-be, whose name he couldn’t pronounce even if he could remember
it. The stallholder noticed him looking at them and moved across.

“How much?” he asked.

“One thaler the set,” the stallholder replied. “Genuine Mezentine.”

That was a lie, of course; about the only thing the Mezentines didn’t make was falconry accessories. “You mean Cure Doce,”
Valens said.

“All right, genuine Cure Doce. You want them, or what?”

Valens nodded, looked round for someone who wasn’t there. He frowned, and felt in his pockets, which were, of course, empty.

“No money,” he said.

The stallholder looked at him. “Is that right?”

“It’s all right,” Valens said. “Hold on to them for me, I’ll send someone.”

“Will you now?”

A little spurt of anger fired in Valens’ mind. “You don’t know who I am.”

The corners of the stallholder’s mouth tightened a little. “That’s very true, I don’t.”

“Forget it.” Valens walked away. He could feel the stallholder’s eyes on the back of his head. Of course, in a few weeks that
man would be out of business for good, on the decision of his duke, who he hadn’t even recognized. There was something wrong
with the way the world was run, Valens thought. He had half a mind to write to somebody about it.

Four stalls down from the saddler there was a cutler. As Valens passed, the man looked up and saw him; his eyes seemed to
double in size and his mouth dropped open. He gave the boy standing next to him a vicious nudge in the ribs, and pointed with
his chin. The boy grunted and carried on polishing something.

Oh well, Valens thought. “Good morning,” he said.

The cutler seemed to flicker, like a candle-flame in a draft. “Your majesty,” he said. “Yes, what beautiful weather, for the
time of year.”

Depends on your idea of beauty, Valens thought. Nothing on the man’s stall had caught his eye, but he was snared now, as though
he’d put his foot in a wire. He stepped up to the cutler’s table and looked round for something to admire.

There was a hanger; a plain thing, two feet of curved blade, lightly and crudely fullered, with a brass knuckle-bow and backstrap
and a stagshorn grip. Valens picked it up, one hand on the hilt, the other near the tip, and flexed the blade. It felt adequate.

“Nice piece,” he exaggerated.

“Thank you,” the cutler said. “Genuine Mezentine, of course. You can see the armory mark there on the ricasso.”

Sure enough, someone had scratched a little animal on the squared-off section just below the hilt. Unfortunately, the Mezentine
stamp was a lion, and the scratched mark was quite definitely a cow. “You’re right,” Valens said, “so it is.” He sighed. It
was good, sturdy, munitions-grade stuff, functional enough to cut briars with. One of the assistant huntsmen would be pleased
to have it.

“How much will you take for it?” he asked.

The cutler swelled like a bullfrog. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” he said. “Please, take it. As a mark of …”

He didn’t seem able to make up his mind what it was a mark of, but the general idea was clear enough. “Don’t be silly, man,”Valens
said, “you’re a businessman, not the poor relief.” He estimated how much it was really worth, then doubled it. “Two thalers.”

“No, really.” The man was close to tears. “I’d be honored if you’d take it.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “My eldest
son was at Cynosoura,” he said. “It’d be for him.”

“Right,” Valens said, trying to remember what the hell had happened at Cynosoura. “Well, in that case, I’ll be pleased to
have it. Thank you.”

“Thank
you,
” the cutler said. “There’s a scabbard with it, of course.” He looked round; there were no scabbards of any kind to be seen
anywhere. “Thraso, you idiot, where’s the scabbard for this hanger, it was here just now …” He nudged the boy again, who scowled
at Valens and crawled under the table. “I’m really sorry about this,” the cutler said, “it’s my son, he moves things when
my back’s turned, and I never know — ah, here we are.” He pulled a sad-looking scabbard out of a wooden box by his feet; softwood
with thin black leather pasted on, by the look of it. “I’ll just find some silk to wrap it in, please bear with me a moment.”

“That’s fine, really,” Valens said, “please don’t bother.” He smiled as best he could. “I only live just up the hill there,
so I haven’t got far to go.”

The cutler stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, as though that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his
life. “Of course, that’s right,” he said, and slid the hanger into the scabbard. It stuck, about halfway down, and had to
be taken out and put back in again. Valens managed not to notice. “There you are, then, your majesty, and I hope it brings
you all the good luck in the world. Thank you,” he added, just in case there was still any doubt about the matter.

“Thank
you,
” Valens replied, and fled.

All the good luck in the world, he thought, as he walked back up the hill. A fine example of the lesser irony there; because
of who he was, he couldn’t buy what he wanted but he was obliged to accept a free gift he had no real use for. (That made
him think about Veatriz and the other girl, the one whose name escaped him.) He carried the hanger low at his left side, hoping
nobody would see him with it.

“Where did you get to?” Carausius demanded, pouncing on him as he crossed the courtyard in front of the Great Hall. “You were
supposed to be meeting the uncles to talk about the marriage settlement.”

Valens frowned. Not in the mood. “You covered for me.”

“Yes, of course, but that’s not the point. I could tell they weren’t happy.”

Valens stopped. “It’s obvious, surely. I’m a young man of great sensibility, very much in love. The last thing I want to talk
about is crass financial settlements. Right?”

Carausius sighed audibly. “So you went shopping instead.”

“What? Oh, this.” He glanced down at the object in his left hand, as though wondering how it had got there. “That reminds
me. What happened at Cynosoura?”

“Where?”

“Cynosoura. Look it up. I want a detailed account on my desk in half an hour.”

Carausius gave him his business nod, meaning that it would, of course, be done. “Where are you going now?” he said. “Only
there’s a reception …”

“I know, in the knot garden,” he replied, remembering. “Forty minutes.”

“It starts in a quarter of an hour.”

“Then I’ll be late. Cynosoura,” he repeated, and walked away.

To the stables. Nobody about at this time of day. He walked in, shut the door firmly and looked around for something substantial
to bash on. Just the thing: there was a solid oak mounting-block. He remembered it from childhood; he’d got in trouble when
he was eight for hacking chunks out of it with a billhook he’d liberated from the groom’s shed. Offhand he couldn’t remember
why he’d done that, but no doubt he’d had his reasons.

In the corner was a good, sturdy manger. He lifted the block onto it and tested it with his hand to make sure it wouldn’t
wobble about or fall down. Then he drew the hanger, took a step forward and slashed at the block as hard as he could. The
blade bit in a good inch and vibrated like a hooked fish thrashing on the end of a line. The point where the knuckle-bow met
the pommel pinched his little finger. He had to lift the block down again and put his foot on it before he could get the blade
out, but when he held it up to the light it was still perfectly straight, and the cutting edge wasn’t chipped or curled. Not
bad, at that.

He put the block back on the manger, breathed in, and smacked the flat of the blade viciously against the thick oak six times,
three smacks on each side. That was the proper way to proof a sword-blade, preferably someone else’s. There was now a red
blood-blister on the side of his little finger, but the hanger had survived more or less intact; blade still straight, hilt
still in one piece, no cracks in the brazed joints, no rattle of loosened parts when he shook it. That was really quite impressive,
for cheap local work. Once more for luck; he stepped back and took another almighty heave at the block — no fencing, just
the desire to damage something, the block or the sword, not bothered which. The cut went in properly on the slant, gouging
out a fat chip of wood from the edge. As the shock ran up his arm and tweaked his tendons, it occurred to him to imagine that
the cut had been against bone rather than wood, and he winced. Of course it was a hunting sword, not a weapon of war; even
so.

Got myself a bargain there, then, he told himself; also, all the good luck in the world. Genuine Mezentine. Doesn’t anybody
but me remember we’re at war with the fucking Mezentines?

The report was there on his desk when he got back to the tower room, needless to say. Nothing much had happened at Cynosoura,
which turned out to be a very small village in the northern mountains. A routine cavalry patrol consisting of a platoon of
the Seventeenth Regiment had stumbled across a Cure Hardy raiding party. Recognizing that they were outnumbered and in no
fit state to engage, they’d withdrawn and raised the alarm, whereupon Duke Valens and two squadrons of the Nineteenth had
ridden out (I remember now), engaged and defeated the enemy and captured their leader, one Skeddanlothi, who provided the
Duke with valuable intelligence about the Cure Hardy before dying under interrogation. As for the encounter at Cynosoura,
there was only one casualty, a cavalry trooper shot in the back at extreme range as the patrol was withdrawing; he died later,
of gangrene.

Valens read the report, nodded, and left it on the side of his desk for filing. He took the hanger out of its scabbard and
wiped it on his sleeve — oak sap leaves a blue stain on steel, unless it’s cleaned promptly — before sheathing it and propping
it up in the corner of the room. Then he went to the reception to be polite to the Cure Hardy.

Ziani Vaatzes, returning to Civitas Vadanis at the head of his wagon train after the successful decommissioning of the silver
mines, encountered a heavily laden cart going the other way on the northeast road. Because the road was narrow and deeply
rutted, with dry-stone walls on either side, the driver of the cart tried to pull into a gateway to let Ziani’s convoy pass.
In doing so, unfortunately, he ran his offside front into the stone gatepost, knocking off the wheel and swinging his cart
through ninety degrees, so that it completely blocked the road.