Evil for Evil (35 page)

“You again,” he said.

“I’ve brought your sulfur,” Miel said quickly.

Framain stared at him. Not anger, or fear, hatred or suspicion. Horror. “What do you know about sulfur?” he said quietly.

“What’s he doing here?” Miel hadn’t noticed the girl, in the shadows at the back of the barn. She came forward like an animal
preparing to defend her young from a predator, and Miel had taken a step back before he realized he’d done it.

“The sulfur you asked for,” he said to her. “I brought it, just like I said I would.”

Framain didn’t say anything, but the silence wasn’t hard to interpret. Now it was the girl’s turn to look horrified.

“You brought it,” she repeated.

“Yes.” Miel grinned. Too late now to worry about being popular. “Not the three cartloads you asked for, I’m afraid, because
there wasn’t that much to be had, but there ought to be enough to be going on with.”

“You asked him to get us sulfur?” Framain said.

“I didn’t think he’d actually …”

Just a slight adjustment of his shoulders, but Framain conveyed with exquisite precision the information that as far as he
was concerned, his daughter no longer existed. “That was very kind of you,” he said, his eyes fixed, as far as Miel could
gather, on his throat. “But really, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” he went on, in a voice that made Miel want
to get out of there as quickly as possible. “My daughter is inclined to prattle away when we have visitors, says the first
thing that comes into her head. People who know us have learned to ignore her. I suppose I should have warned you, but I was
hoping you wouldn’t run into her.”

Miel had to remind himself that in his time he’d faced down charging boar and Mezentine heavy cavalry. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I didn’t mean to intrude. But I was sure you’d be glad of the sulfur. I assume you need it for making the glaze.”

There was a knife on the bench, about eight inches from Framain’s hand. It was short, with a blade hooked like an eagle’s
beak and a plain bone handle. Miel watched Framain look down at it and think for a moment.

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“The glaze,” Miel repeated, his eyes fixed on the knife. “I know what it is you’re doing here. She didn’t tell me,” he added
quickly, “I figured it out for myself. You’re trying to work out the formula for the glaze the Mezentines use on their translucent
white pottery, the stuff that sells for twice its weight in silver.” As well as the knife, he could see Framain’s hand on
the bench. It was perfectly still. “I’m guessing that you discovered a deposit of the right kind of china clay somewhere on
the lower slopes of Sharra. That’s why you stayed here, even when the war came and anybody with any sense cleared out. Nobody
anywhere in the world can make that stuff except the Mezentines, because they control the only source of the clay. If you’ve
found another deposit, or something that’ll do instead, I can well understand why you wouldn’t leave here, no matter what
the risk. But of course it’s no good being able to make the pottery if you can’t glaze it, and that’s what you haven’t quite
figured out yet; which is why you’re still tinkering with ingredients rather than churning the stuff out by the cartload from
that huge, expensive kiln you had built out the back there.”

“Actually, I built it myself.” Framain had a crooked smile on his face. “Just me and my son, who’s dead now, and the man who
used to be my business partner. It took us five years. I don’t think there’s a better one anywhere, not even in the Republic.”

Miel nodded toward the knife. “Are you going to kill me or not?” he asked.

Framain slumped a little against the bench, and sighed. “It crossed my mind,” he said. “Actually, it was quite close for a
moment. If the knife had been longer or a bit closer to hand, I’d definitely have been tempted. But I weighed up the relevant
factors. You’re younger than I am, probably quicker and better at fighting; and by then, I realized killing you would undoubtedly
cause more problems than it’d solve, because if you managed to get sulfur you must have friends, probably among the Vadani,
and …” He shrugged. “I contemplate a lot of things I never actually do,” he said. “I’m not sure whether it’s a strength or
a weakness.”

Miel could feel the moment draining away, and allowed himself to relax a little. “So I was right, then,” he said. “Good. I’d
have felt rather stupid if I’d made that speech and it turned out I’d jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion.”

The girl took a step forward, but Framain shifted just a little and she stopped, as if the line of his shoulder was a barrier
she knew she wasn’t allowed to cross. She stepped back, and her father’s shadow obscured her face. “Quite right,” Framain
said. “And you’re right about the other thing, too. It’s an obsession with me, I admit it. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t
recognize my name; I’d have thought the Ducas would know such things.”

“Sorry,” Miel said.

Framain smiled. “That puts me in my place. We were never nobility, you understand. My father was really just a farmer, though
he’d have hated to admit it.” He leaned forward until his elbows were resting on the bench, his head hanging down as if in
shame. “When he died we lost the farm as well; there was some money left, enough for a reasonable man, but not for me. My
father had a Mezentine dinner service; it was about the only decent thing he had left, at the end. When I sold it, I was amazed
at how much it was worth; I found out how valuable the stuff was, and I thought, if only I could discover how it was made,
I could get some money and buy back our inheritance. Typical muddle-headed thinking, just what you’d expect from a spoiled
middle-aged man suddenly taken poor; nothing would’ve come of it, except that I met a man who told me he’d worked out the
formula and found a deposit of the clay.” Framain scowled, and waited for a moment, as though he had heartburn. “When he was
able to prove he was telling the truth, we became partners; we came here, built this place, everything was going beautifully
well. Within a few months we’d fired our first batch. It came out perfect; all we needed was the glaze, and we’d be in business.
But …” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We gave up trying to find the glaze formula and built the kiln; we were
still experimenting, of course, but failure was so frustrating that we felt the need to accomplish something tangible, and
building a kiln was hard work but at least we could do it. And then …” He stopped. The girl turned away. “My partner and my
son quarreled about something; it was trivial, a technical matter to do with our experiments. I’d always known my partner
was a vicious man with a murderous temper, but I was sure he’d learned to control it. Apparently not. He killed my son and
nearly killed me, and then he went away. Unfortunately …” Framain smiled. “Unfortunately, he was the clever one, the scientist.
He taught me a great deal, a very great deal, but probably not enough; either that or I simply don’t have the spark of genius
that he had, and all the hard work in the world won’t make up the deficiency. My daughter, however, shows promise, even if
she hasn’t learned discretion — for which, of course, I have only myself to blame.” Framain yawned, and Miel got the impression
that it had been a long time since he’d talked so much; he seemed tired, the sort of fatigue that comes from unaccustomed
exertion. “And there you have it,” he said. “You can understand why it’d be plain foolishness to kill you, just to preserve
a secret that isn’t really worth anything.”

“And the sulfur,” Miel said quietly. “It’s one of the ingredients for the glaze.”

“Not even that.” Framain grinned sourly. “We’ve been using it as a kind of flux, to draw impurities out of the compound. I
found a deposit of the stuff not far away, many years ago, but it’s all used up now. I told my daughter; apparently she got
the idea that without it we couldn’t continue our work, but that’s not really true. There are better fluxes. It’s quite possible
that using sulfur’s been holding us back, even.” He lifted his head. “But I’m sure you aren’t interested in technical details.
I have an idea you’d already worked out our secret before you came here. What are you going to do?”

Miel looked at him. “I don’t know,” he said.

Framain shook his head. “It could well be that the Mezentines would give you safe conduct in return for it,” he said. “I confess,
I’ve assumed so, ever since the start of this ridiculous war. I told myself that if the worst came to the worst and they happened
to find us, or if we were betrayed, I could save myself and my daughter. To be honest, I’m not so sure. The clay makes good
fabric, you need to know what you’re looking for in order to tell it apart from the real thing; but I’m sure you know how
fussy they are about their precious specifications. It could be that using a different clay would count as a mortal sin, and
they’d never countenance it. Or else it’d cost too much to mine it and cart it to make it worth their while; I really don’t
know.”

“I could stay here,” Miel said, “and join you.”

There was a long silence. Eventually the girl said, “Doing what?”

Framain turned his head and said, “Be quiet.”

“But Father,” she said, “he’d be no use, he doesn’t know anything about it, and we can’t spare the time to teach him, he’s
useless. He’d just get under our feet.”

Framain looked Miel in the eye and grinned a rather sardonic apology. “My fault,” he said. “I taught her metallurgy when I
should have been teaching her manners.”

“She’s right,” Miel said. “I don’t know the first thing about making glazes. I don’t really know much about anything, apart
from how to fight wars and manage an estate. But …” He pulled a sad, ridiculous face. “There must be something I can do to
help, digging peat or shoveling clay or sweeping the floors. I probably wouldn’t do it very well, because I haven’t had much
experience, but I could try. I’m no use to anybody else, myself included.”

“That still doesn’t explain —” the girl started to say, but Framain shut her up with a gesture.

“It’s entirely up to you,” he said. “Stay here, if you want to. There’s usually plenty of food, and no doubt you can find
somewhere to sleep in the house. In fact, you can have it; we don’t use it very much, as you’ve probably gathered for yourself.
And if you really feel that fetching and carrying and cleaning for us is what you want to do, I’m sure we can accommodate
you. In fact, you could start by chipping the soot out of the furnace hearth. It needs doing, and I’ve been putting it off
for months.”

“Fine,” Miel said. “If that’d help.”

“Father,” the girl said angrily, then fell silent.

“That’s settled, then,” Framain said. “Though if I were you, I’d have something to eat and drink first, and change into some
scruffy old clothes, if you’ve got any. It’s pretty filthy work, chipping soot.” He shrugged. “You can borrow some of my things,
I’m sure they’ll fit you. Mahaud’ll find you something.”

The girl scowled, then walked quickly past them both and out of the barn, slamming the door behind her. As soon as she was
gone, Framain seemed to relax.

“I find her very wearing sometimes,” he said, “but there you are. It’s natural enough, I’m sure, for fathers and daughters
to get on each other’s nerves if they’re cooped up together for too long.” He paused, then looked at something on the opposite
wall. “I assume she’s why you came back.”

Miel didn’t reply.

“In which case,” Framain went on, “you have my blessing; which, together with a tin cup full of water, is worth the cup. You
have friends at Duke Valens’ court?”

“Yes,” Miel said. “For now, anyway. My cousin Jarnac …”

“Lines of supply,” Framain said carefully, “have been a concern to me over the years. We always used to buy our food from
two local farmers — I believe they thought I was either an outlaw or a lunatic hermit of some kind, but I paid well, in cash.
They moved out when the Mezentines took Civitas Eremiae; sensible fellows, I don’t blame them at all. Since then, I’ve bought
supplies through the innkeeper at the Unswerving Loyalty, but that’s a very dangerous arrangement. If your Vadani friends
or your followers in the resistance could supply us, it’d be a great weight off my mind. And then there are certain materials.”
He straightened his back, like a man lifting a heavy weight. “Over the last month or so I’ve seriously considered giving up
because of the difficulties the war has caused me; none of them insuperable on its own, but taken together …” He turned back
and looked at Miel, as if trying to decide whether or not to buy him. “In return, you can have pretty much anything you want
from me. It’s quite simple, really. If I succeed and find the formula, and start producing pottery in quantity, there’ll be
so much money, we won’t know what to do with it. If we fail, what does any of it matter? In any case,” he went on, with a
slight shrug, “I think I’m past the point where I care about wealth and getting back what I’ve lost. The life I wanted to
recapture has gone forever, thanks to the war. It’d be nice to be a rich man, I’m sure, but all I really want to do is solve
the glaze problem, just so I can say I’ve done it. As I think I told you, I’m quite resigned to the fact that I’m obsessed
with this ridiculous business. Lying to yourself just makes everything so dreadfully tiresome, don’t you find?”

Miel found looking at him made him feel uncomfortable. “I just want something to do,” he said. “And working here, helping
you, would make a nice change from the war.”

Framain considered him for a moment, then laughed. “Don’t be so sure,” he said. “When you’ve known her as long as I have,
you’ll probably wish you were back in the cavalry.”

Framain was right about one thing. Cleaning out the furnace hearth was a filthy job. Miel worked at it until the lamp ran
low and started guttering, at which point he realized he was too tired to carry on anyway. He’d been attacking the dense crusts
of soot as though they were the enemy of all mankind, chipping and flaking them away with an old blunt chisel Framain had
given him, stopping every hour or so to sweep away the spoil. As far as he could tell, the job was going to take the rest
of his life in any event; his first savage onslaught had hardly made an impression on it. Like fighting the Mezentines, he
thought, as he slumped against the wall and caught his breath; you get rid of a whole sackful, and still there’s an infinite
quantity left to do. Perhaps it was better that way. Leading the resistance, Framain’s fruitless search for the formula, hacking
soot out of the hearth; people doing pointless, impossible things because they felt they had to, for reasons that didn’t stand
up when you looked at them logically. It was pretty clear that Framain believed he was in love with the girl (Mahaud; a grim
name, he’d always thought). It was entirely possible that he was right about that, but even then it was only part of the explanation.
Somehow, he had no idea why, he felt at home here, in the secret house in the hidden combe in the middle of nowhere. For some
reason, he felt it was the right place for him to be. As for Framain and his obsession, that was exactly right, too. Pottery,
of all things; tableware. Plates, cups, vases, scent-bottles, little dishes and saucers — perfectly true, in the world he’d
left behind (no idea whether it still existed), rich men like the Ducas had paid ludicrous prices for the stuff, not because
they liked it or because it did a job better than wood or metal, but simply because of what it was. In the old world, it’d
be like finding a vein of silver; just dig it out of the hillside and take it away and suddenly you’d be rich, and all your
troubles would be over. A small thing like the world changing behind your back could easily be overlooked; and besides, what
harm did fine pottery ever do anybody, compared with war and weapons, Vaatzes’ scorpions, politics and diplomacy and the destruction
of great cities? A man whose business that sort of thing had been might well do worse than the pottery trade. You could go
to sleep at night knowing that even if you succeeded, nobody was going to die as a result (but then he thought of the look
on Framain’s face as he tried to decide whether or not to reach for the knife. Obsession is just another kind of love, after
all).