Evil for Evil (46 page)

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.

The ugly, spidery man had seen them too; he swung round from the hip to face them, holding out his half-a-spear as though
bracing himself to receive a charging boar. Immediately, Valens understood; it was all in King Fashion, after all. He turned
his horse’s head and rode away, forcing himself not to look back.

The lancer who detached himself from the pack of three to come after him hadn’t seen the breakaway maneuver he’d used on the
first Mezentine he’d killed, so the ploy was worth risking again, and succeeded quickly and efficiently. Even so, time was
very tight. Valens wheeled round, almost too scared to look, but it was all right, just about. One lancer had charged Vaatzes’
man, who’d dropped on one knee, spear-butt braced against his foot (pure King Fashion), and allowed the lancer’s horse to
skewer itself through the chest. That left one Mezentine to be the boar engaged with the pack. Valens rode in on him from
the side and cut half through his neck before he’d figured out what was going on. Then there was just the unhorsed Mezentine
on the ground; he was dazed from the fall, and probably never knew what hit him.

But it was all a waste of time, Valens realized, as he looked up again and took in the shape of the engagement. Hardly anybody
left alive, apart from a full dozen Mezentines, taking a moment or so to form up and surround them. A little spurt of anger
at the unfairness of it flashed through Valens’ mind. He’d done his best — done pretty well, in the circumstances — but he
was going to lose anyway, in spite of his efforts. If only there’d been time, he’d have complained to somebody about it.

The Mezentines had completed their ring; all they had to do was close it up in good order and they could finish the job without
further loss or fuss. Instead, they seemed to be hesitant about something. What, though? One man with a toy sword and a freak
with a sharp stick? Maybe he was missing something. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the most beautiful sight.

(Perhaps, he thought later, that was how she felt, when the Vadani cavalry swooped down through the fire and slaughter at
Civitas Eremiae to carry her to safety. He doubted it, somehow. She’d only have seen the disgusting spectacle of killing,
too horrible for her to differentiate between heroes and villains. He, on the other hand, could feel ecstatic joy at such
a sight, because he knew it meant that his enemies were going to die and he wasn’t.)

One platoon of the household cavalry; only thirty men, but enough to make all the difference in the world. They were standing
to a furious gallop; Valens sketched it all out in his mind, and found that there would be time for the Mezentines to close
in and kill her, and him, but only if they couldn’t care less about being slaughtered a moment or so later. The fact that
they were hesitating told him what decision they were going to make, whole seconds before they made it. They wheeled and galloped
away. All over.

Valens felt the strength empty out of his body as the pain broke through. He struggled to draw a breath; he thought, I’ve
been cut up before now, this is something else, but he couldn’t think what. His mind was clogging up, with pain, with repressed
fear, shock, all manner of nuisances and all of them the more intense for having been kept waiting, like petitioners left
for too long in an anteroom. He looked at her, and the blank horror in her face was too much to bear. She’s disgusted just
looking at me, he realized, and he could see why. It was not what he’d done, but how he’d done it — quickly, with the smooth
efficiency and minimal effort that comes only from long practice. Whenever she saw him now, she’d see the slaughterman.

The hell with that, he thought resentfully — he could feel himself starting to slide off the horse, but it was too much effort
to fight for balance. His mind was almost clotted now, but something was nagging at the back of it, shrill, like the pain
of toothache. He remembered: his wife. Was she dead or alive? As if it mattered.

A shift in balance, and the ground was rushing up to meet him. It hit his shoulder and hurt him, but it was too big to fight.

Someone was standing over him, telling him something. His eyes hurt.

“Syra Terentia and her two daughters, Lollius Pertinax, Sillius Vacuo and his wife, and they cut off their daughter’s arm
at the elbow …”

He struggled to place the voice. All he could see was light, and a blur. “What’s the …” he heard himself say, but he didn’t
know how to finish the question.

“Sir?” Ah, Valens thought, someone who calls me
sir.
Not many of them whose names I know. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“Nolentius Brennus, sir,” the voice said. “Captain of the Seventh Company, Household Cavalry.” A short, nervous pause. “Sir,
do you know what’s just happened? Can you remember?”

The temptation, wicked and seductive, was to lie back and pretend to be asleep; but no, he couldn’t do that. The young soldier
was scared, on the edge of panic and, very probably, in charge. He needed his duke’s help. “Yes, it’s all right,” Valens muttered,
opening his eyes wide and making an effort to resolve the blur into the soldier’s face. Never seen him before: a long, thin
nose, weak mouth and a round bobble for a chin. If anybody’s having a worse day than me, Valens thought, it’ll be this poor
devil. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t take any of that in. This is the casualty list, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” He saw the young man — Brennus, he knew the family but not this particular specimen — take a deep breath, ready
to start the whole painful rigmarole over again. He felt sorry for him, but it had to be done.

“First things first,” Valens said. “The Duchess. Is she … ?”

“She’s fine, sir. At least, as well as can be expected.”

“Her uncles?”

The fear in Captain Brennus’ eyes made the words superfluous. “Both dead,” he said. “They died defending the Duchess, but
they had nothing to fight with.”

“Yes, all right. Who else?”

The cataract of names. He wasn’t counting; the list seemed to go on forever. There’d be two he’d never heard of, then three
he’d known since he was a boy, then another stranger, then another old friend or cousin. Carausius was dead; that shocked
him so much he missed the next five names.

“Orsea?” he interrupted.

“No, sir. Both he and the Duchess survived.”

Valens nodded, and the recital continued. Orsea had survived — well, of course he had, it went without saying. The sky could
cave in and flatten the earth, mile-wide fissures could open and gobble up the city, but Orsea would survive, somehow or other.
“What about Ziani Vaatzes, the engineer? Did they get him?”

Captain Brennus shook his head. “No, sir, he was the one who raised the alarm. If it hadn’t been for him …”

Valens groaned; he hadn’t meant to, but the pain popped up suddenly and ambushed him. “What sort of a state am I in?” he asked.

“Well, sir …” Brennus hesitated. “Maybe I should get the doctor, he can tell you more.”

Valens felt his chest tighten. “That bad?”

“No, sir. I mean —”

“Oh for crying out loud. Am I going to die, or not?”

It was almost amusing to see Brennus pull himself together. “You got a bad cut to your left arm; they’ve stitched and dressed
it, but there may be some permanent damage. The arrow —”

Valens’ eyebrows shot up. “I was hit by an arrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I never even noticed. Where?”

“In the right thigh,” Brennus said, his voice wavering. “The shaft was already snapped off when the surgeons treated you;
they had to cut it out, but they don’t think there’ll be any lasting effect.”

Valens smiled. “Is that it?”

“Concussion,” Brennus said, “from the fall. They were quite worried, because you were unconscious for so long.”

“Was I?” Valens pulled a face. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that, I’ve been asleep.” That seemed to bother Brennus a lot;
was he supposed to laugh at the Duke’s feeble, scrambled-brain jokes, or should he ignore them? Best, Valens decided, if I
don’t make any more. “So apart from that I’m all right?” he said.

“The doctors said you shouldn’t even think about getting up for at least two days,” Brennus said apprehensively, obviously
anticipating a storm of angry refusal. Valens nodded.

“Suits me,” he said. “For one thing, it feels like I’ve pulled every muscle in my body.” He winced, remembering some of the
things he’d done. His own worst enemy and all that. “All right, then,” he said briskly, “who’s in charge? It doesn’t sound
like there’s many of us left.”

He didn’t like the pause that followed; not one little bit. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Valens said.

Brennus swallowed something. “I was the duty officer,” he said, as though admitting that he’d planned the whole thing, suborned
by Mezentine gold. “I’ve sent messages to the divisional commanders, someone ought to be here before sunset, but until then
I suppose, theoretically …”

Valens smiled. “You carry on,” he said. “You appear to be doing a fine job.” He paused, then added, “Is anybody at all left
out of the civil administration? Anybody higher up than, say, a permanent secretary?”

It was meant as one of those jokes he’d resolved he wouldn’t make, but then there was another pause. Valens frowned. That
wasn’t good.

“I see,” he said. “In that case, I’m putting the military in charge until we can get everything sorted out. You’re it, in
other words.”

Brennus looked as though he’d just been sentenced to death by bastinado. “Like I said, sir, I’ve notified the divisional commanders,
I’m sure one of them’ll be here very soon, and then …” Pause, while he pulled himself together again. “I’ve given orders to
close the gates, and I’ve sent out patrols; there’s no sign of the enemy in a ten-mile radius of the city. What else should
I be … ?”

Valens closed his eyes. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d leave it at that. Just concentrate on keeping everybody calm and quiet
until the army gets here. I’m sure you can manage — every confidence.”

He could feel himself sliding away into sleep; no reason why he shouldn’t. “The Duchess, sir,” Brennus was saying. “Should
I — I mean, would you like to see her now?”

Valens opened his eyes and smiled. “No,” he said, and went back to sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, it wasn’t thin, pale Captain Brennus.

“Mezentius? Is that you?”

The familiar face of his chief of staff grinned down at him: the point of a nose and two small, pale eyes in a shrubbery of
beard. “This is a right mess,” he said.