Evil for Evil (68 page)

“You should kill him now.” She was using the tone of voice in which she chided him about details of mixing the colors. “Forget
about joining up with the Vadani. That was his idea, presumably. Anyway, we don’t need them. They’re losers, or they wouldn’t
be running.”

Framain scowled at her. “We haven’t got anywhere else to go.”

“Thanks to
him.
” A different
him
this time.

“Be that as it may. Besides, what he said makes sense. The Vadani can’t mine silver anymore; they need money. They’ll be glad
to help us, if we tell them we can make them a fortune.”

“But the clay —”

“It’s the Vadani, or going back home and waiting for the Mezentines to arrest us for killing those soldiers, or wandering
aimlessly till we run out of food or a patrol gets us. Use your common sense for once.”

The same argument, just a different topic. Presumably it would last as long as they did. Framain turned to Miel like a man
looking for an escape route. “I suppose you’re curious to find out why we’re planning to kill the man who just rescued us
all,” he said.

“I was wondering, yes,” Miel said mildly. “I’d got the impression you hadn’t parted on good terms.”

“Don’t tell him,” she interrupted, a hint of panic in her voice. “He’s nothing to do with us. And we don’t need the Vadani,
let’s do it now and get it over with, before the bastard escapes.”

Framain raised his hand. Remarkably, this had the effect of silencing her. She turned her back on them both, though Miel was
prepared to bet she was watching Daurenja, like a terrier on a leash at the mouth of a rat-hole. “My daughter’s quite right,
actually,” he said, in a strangely calm, almost pleasant voice. “But from what I know about you, I get the feeling that if
I don’t tell you, it’s quite likely you’ll carry on interfering. The easiest way to get rid of you is to tell you. Of course,
I’ll need your assurance that you won’t ever tell anybody what you’re about to hear. On your word of honor,” he added, with
a faintly mocking smile, “as the Ducas.”

Miel shrugged. “If you like,” he said.

“In that case …” Framain sighed, and sat down on the ground, gesturing for Miel to do the same. “It’s a long story,” he said.

You already know about me (Framain said). We used to be a fairly dull, respectable family, nobility of the middling sort,
in Eremia. We were tenants-in-chief of the Bardanes, with just short of a thousand acres of low-grade pasture on either side
of East Reach. When all our land and money was gone, I promised myself I’d get it back, somehow or other; for her sake as
much as mine, because I loved her and I felt it was my duty. With hindsight it’d have been kinder to cut her throat, but it
didn’t seem that way at the time.

Now, Daurenja here; he’s quite a character. Most of what I know about him is what he told me himself, so I can’t vouch for
the truth of it. I’d be inclined to assume anything he ever said was a lie, but bits of information I picked up over the years
from more reliable sources bear some of it out, so I’ve had to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least in part. You’ll
have to judge for yourself, I think.

Gace Daurenja was born about forty years ago in a large manor house at Combe Vellein; it’s a smallish place just across the
border from Tollin. That’s right; by birth he’s Cure Doce, though he’ll tell you his mother was Eremian, of good family. He
mentioned her name once, but it’s slipped my mind. Not a family I’d ever heard of, but I’m hardly an authority.

He says he left home when he was fourteen to go to the university at Lonazep. That’s partly true, from what I gather. He was
fourteen when he left, and he did go to the university. That wasn’t his main reason for leaving, though. The details are a
bit hazy, understandably. It was something to do with an attack, one of his family’s tenants. I haven’t been able to find
out if it was a girl or a boy he attacked, or whether it was rape or just his normal vicious temper. I don’t think the child
died, but it was a wretched business; anyway, he was packed off to Lonazep with books and money. I imagine the intention was
that he’d stay away for good.

I’ve got no problem with conceding that Daurenja’s a brilliant man, in his way. He can learn anything, in a fraction of the
time it’d take a normal man. He’s exceptionally intelligent, an outstanding craftsman, remarkably strong and agile, and I’ve
never seen him get tired. When he first came to live with us, we didn’t have any water; we had to carry it half a mile from
the nearest stream. Daurenja dug a well; his own idea, we didn’t ask him to do it. To be honest, the thought hadn’t even occurred
to me. I came out into the yard one morning and there he was; or at least, there was his head, sticking up out of a hole in
the ground. He had to go down over seventy feet before he struck water, and he only stopped working when it got too dark to
see. I wish I could show you that well. It’s faced inside with stone — not mortared, just shaped and fitted together. He picked
the stones out of the river and carted them back all by himself, and the winch he made for drawing up the bucket is a wonderful
piece of work. You can lift a ten-gallon bucket with your little finger. So you see, he had the potential to do anything he
wanted. His appearance was always against him, of course, but he made up for it with charm; he could lay it on when he wanted
to, but perfectly judged, not too heavy-handed with it. His main problem, I believe, has always been his temper; or rather,
his lack of self-restraint.

At first, he was a model student at Lonazep. He studied everything they were prepared to teach him, four or five courses simultaneously,
which was unheard of, needless to say. He had plenty of friends, and when he wasn’t studying he was a little on the rowdy
side, but certainly no worse than most. Students at Lonazep are supposed to be a little bit boisterous, it’s their tradition.
But something happened. Again, I don’t know the facts, but this time there definitely was a death; either a fellow student
or an innkeeper’s daughter. Luckily for him, the university has jurisdiction over its students, and they couldn’t bring themselves
to do anything too much to someone with such a brilliant mind. The story was that he transferred to Corlona to continue his
researches there.

The name doesn’t ring a bell, I take it. Corlona’s on the other side of the sea; I believe it’s one of the places where the
Mezentines recruit their mercenaries. In any event, it was held to be far enough away, and by all accounts it’s a very fine
university, far better than Lonazep for mathematics and the sciences. When he got into trouble there, he moved on to another
university a long way inland, and I believe he managed to stay there for several years. When he had to leave there, however,
he was pretty much at the end of his resources. It was simply too far away for money to reach him from home, and his reputation
was starting to precede him. Understandable: he was probably the only white face on the continent, outside of the coastal
towns, so he was somewhat conspicuous. Really, he had no choice but to risk it and come back over here. Not that home had
much to offer him. He didn’t want to be recognized in Lonazep or the Cure Doce country; he was cut off from his family’s money,
because of course all the bankers and commercial agents were on notice to look out for him. If he came back he’d be on his
own, no money, ill-advised to stay in any one place for very long. I imagine it took a certain degree of courage to make the
decision; but courage is a quality he’s never lacked.

As luck would have it, he wound up in Eremia just about the time I discovered the clay deposits, which I recognized as being
suitable for making porcelain. My problem at that time was that I had no money at all. I needed to pay the premium for a lease
on the land itself, not to mention buying all the equipment. The irony was that the man who owned the head lease only wanted
a stupid little bit of money for it; my father would cheerfully have spent that much on a good hawk, or a book. But at the
time I was making my living as a copyist; oddly enough, that was where I came across the book that helped me recognize the
clay for what it was. You know the sort of money a copyist gets. I was cursing my bad luck and thinking I might as well forget
all about it, when Daurenja came in to our shop to sell a book.

When I say sell, what I mean is, he’d lend us the book to copy, and we’d pay him a few thalers. It was the usual arrangement.
Apparently, Daurenja had hung on to a few of his books from his university days. The book we borrowed from him was an artist’s
color-book, of all things. Come to think of it, you’ve seen it often enough. Of course, as soon as I saw it I was fascinated.
I knew that if I was going to make porcelain I’d have to learn how to make the colors to decorate it with; so I made a secret
copy of it for myself. Unfortunately, I didn’t stop there. I assumed that anybody who owned a book like that must know a thing
or two about the subject. That’s how I got to know Daurenja.

I told him about my plans for making porcelain. At first I didn’t let on about the clay, but it was stupid to think that someone
like that wouldn’t put two and two together. He quickly figured out that I must have found a supply of suitable material,
and one evening he asked me straight where my clay deposit was.

Well, I’d more or less given up hope of being able to get my hands on that clay seam, so I reckoned I had nothing to lose.
I told him, yes, I knew where to find the right clay, but I didn’t have the money to buy the land. He went all thoughtful
for a while, then said that money shouldn’t be a problem, if I was interested in forming a partnership.

I console myself with the thought that it’s not just stupid people who do stupid things. I agreed; he said he’d go away and
raise the money. I imagined that’d be the last I saw of him. What he did, though, was go home, all the way back to the Cure
Doce. It was a terrible risk, in the circumstances. Things had changed since he went away. Rumors of his various adventures
had filtered through, and nobody was willing to cover up for him or risk themselves to keep him out of trouble. But he got
home somehow, and persuaded his family to give him at least part of his inheritance. I think it was done through land exchanges
and letters of credit; basically, they bought him an estate in either Eremia or the Vadani country, all done in the names
of secret trustees, with cunning ways of routing the income through to him without anybody finding out. A lot of merchants
were involved at various stages, so I imagine a fair proportion of the money got used up in commissions and expenses. Even
so, all the time I knew him he had more than enough for his needs — books, tools, materials, and all the funding I required
for my work. He never spent more than he could possibly avoid on food or clothes or anything like that. As far as I can tell,
that sort of thing’s never mattered to him. Everybody’s idea of the unworldly scholar, in fact.

He stopped and looked round. Daurenja, trussed like a bull calf for castration, was stirring. His eyes were closed but his
lips were moving around the gag, and his throat quivered slightly.

“Dreaming,” Framain said. “If it wasn’t for the gag, he’d be talking in his sleep. He does that. I’m told it’s quite normal
— talking in your sleep, I mean. Loads of people do it. My son did, and my father, too.” He frowned, as though annoyed with
himself. “When I was a kid, it used to scare me. Most nights he’d fall asleep in his chair, and after a while he’d start talking
— quite normal tone of voice, like he was having a pleasant conversation, but none of it made sense. It wasn’t gibberish.
It came out as real words, proper sentences, but completely meaningless.
He’s
not like that, though,” he added, and the frown tightened into a scowl. “He always says the same thing. Probably he’s saying
it now. It’s all the sort of stuff you’d say to your girl when you’re seventeen and in love. Soppy, that’s the only word for
it.
You mean all the world to me, I’ll always love you, you’re the meaning of my life, you’re my sun and moon and stars;
it’s enough to make you want to throw up. Then after a bit he starts calling out a name;
Majeria, Majeria,
over and over again. Then he either stops and sleeps peacefully or else he sits bolt upright and screams. High-pitched screaming
like a girl, you wouldn’t think he was capable of making a noise like that. Anyway, he screams three or four times and wakes
up. But by then, of course if you’ve got any sense you’re not there to see it, because when he wakes up from a screaming fit,
he starts lashing out. He’ll still have his eyes shut, and he punches and kicks like a maniac for about a minute; then his
eyes open, and he sits there, blinking, mouth wide open. Oh, he’s a charmer, Daurenja.”

“What was that name again?” Miel asked. “The one he shouts out.”

“Majeria. And no, I haven’t got a clue who she’s supposed to be. I’ve asked him a couple of times, during the day, when he’s
awake. He reckons he’s never heard of anybody called that.”

Anyhow (Framain went on), that’s how we came to be partners. His money paid for everything: the clay beds, the house and buildings,
equipment and supplies. His trustees opened a line of credit for us, in both our names, so I could buy things without having
to ask him first. That’s another of his good points. He’s really very generous with money.

To start with, we all worked very well together. It was me, him, my son Framea and my daughter there. We got off to an excellent
start. He was the one who figured out how to fire the clay to make the porcelain without cracking or distortion. He built
the kilns practically single-handed; hell of a job, and you’ve seen them for yourself, it’s beautiful work. I’ve got to say,
all the success we had in the early stages was basically him, not me.

Anyhow; once we’d got the mix and the firing right, we thought we were on the home stretch. All we had left to do was work
out how to do the colors for decorating the finished pieces. Nothing to it, we thought. We’d got his book, and there’re pages
and pages in it about making and applying different colors. We were impatient to get the last details sorted out and go into
production.