Evil for Evil (79 page)

Midnight came and went. There were complaints from the rest of the camp, particularly from civilians, about the noise, which
was disturbing people’s sleep. There was also a message from Duke Valens, reprieving Miel Ducas, who shouldn’t have been included
in the general warrant in the first place.

It was understandable, perhaps, that nobody told Miel Ducas that he’d been spared; the execution party had plenty of other
things to do, and it was easy for details to get overlooked. Accordingly, Miel spent the night huddled in a corner of the
biscuit-barrel stockade. He’d wormed himself against the barrels as if he was trying to squeeze himself through the tiny crack
that separated them, and if anybody came within two feet of him he lashed out with his hands and feet.

In spite of everything, there was still a part of his mind that was perfectly, cruelly clear; and it very much wanted to know
where the sudden panic, the overpowering fear of death, had come from. He wasn’t sure. The best explanation he could come
up with was that he was well aware that he’d been included in the warrant by mistake —
kill the prisoners,
they’d said, meaning the captured scavengers; but the sergeant in charge of the guard had assumed the order referred to everybody
currently under restraint. Miel had tried to explain; first quietly and reasonably, then at the top of his voice, so everybody
in the camp could hear him. While he was yelling and screaming, he was bitterly ashamed of himself, and he knew perfectly
well, deep inside his mind’s sound core, that he was only objecting because it was a mistake, because it was
unfair.
Childish reasoning, giving rise to childish behavior; the Ducas doesn’t throw tantrums, particularly in the hearing of seventy-odd
poor unfortunates who are doing their best to compose themselves as they wait for the end. Lack of consideration for others
had always been the greatest sin, after disloyalty. Every time he paused for breath, he could hear them muttering and swearing
at him telling him to shut up, put a sock in it, get a grip. He realized that at the end he’d lost everything, and he tried
to use that to pull himself together. But each time he heard the axe fall — the clean shearing hiss, the soft thump followed
by a shriek that marked a botched cut, the deep bite of the edge going through into the oak of the block — the panic surged
up and spurted into his brain, overruling all his objections and setting him off again, like a baby woken up in the night.

Each time the guards came and grabbed someone, he thought, I wish they’d take me, and then it’d be over with; then, as the
hurdles that served the pen as a makeshift gate were slammed and chained, he snuggled harder still against the barrels, shivering
like a man with a high fever, desperate with relief because they’d taken someone else, not him. Then the pause; then the axe-fall,
and off he’d go again, explaining in a yell that slurred the words together about the mistake in the warrant; then the hurdle-chain
would rattle and he’d think, They’ll take me next, just to stop me making this horrible disgusting noise; and so back to the
beginning, top dead center of the flywheel, and the wish that they’d take him next.

He counted, of course: fifty left, forty-five, forty, thirty-five, thirty, twenty-five, twenty, nineteen. At times he was
sure the terror would kill him before they finally condescended to come for him; then he’d slump, just as scared but too exhausted
to move at all. His trousers were wet with piss and he’d skinned his throat with shouting, and he hated the scavengers for
sitting still and quiet in the dark, while he made such a pathetic exhibition of himself. He realized he’d been yelling for
Orsea, for Veatriz, for Jarnac (but he was dead already; thoughtless shit, to be dead when he was needed for a typical swashbuckling
Ducas rescue); for Valens, for the sergeant of the guard, for the adjutant-general, for Daurenja, whose worthless life he’d
saved from the just fury of Framain. Apparently, none of these was minded to help him; embarrassed, probably, by the appalling
fuss he was making. Little wonder nobody wanted to know him, at the end.

Nine. He could hear someone crying; a feeble, bubbling noise. He realized he was listening to himself.

Eight; and the guards had paused in the gateway, looking round. When they left, the I-wish-they’d-taken-me-instead feeling
made a feeble surge before drowning in terror.

Someone else was talking, but the hammering in his ears blotted out the words. He knew he was waiting for the fall of the
axe; a voice in his head was saying,
When they come for me I’ll fight, I know how to fight, I’m good at fighting, I’ll kill them all and escape.
He wished the voice would shut up; but instead it changed. It was someone else, talking to him. He discovered that his eyes
were tight shut, and he didn’t seem able to open them again.

Something touched him, and he felt his leg kick out. Impact, and a shout; pain and anger.
There, you see, I’m fighting them, I’ve got one already, that just leaves —

“Keep still, for crying out loud, I want to talk to you.”

Strangely enough, the voice was familiar. In another time and place, it had belonged to a woman; the woman at the scavengers’
camp, who’d tried to teach him to sew. With a jolt, he remembered who the other prisoners were.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. “Did I hurt you?”

“Yes. Stupid question, of course you did. Now listen.” She lowered her voice. “There’s not a lot of time left. We need to
get out of here before it’s our turn and they come and get us. Do you understand me?”

“You mean … ?” Was she really talking about escaping? Didn’t she realize the guards would be back any moment, as soon as the
axe fell? She made it sound as though they had to hurry and get down to the market before all the fresh coriander had been
sold. “We can’t,” he said. “They’ll stop us.”

“Be quiet and listen. I’ve been watching them.” She was talking so quietly he could barely hear; quick, businesslike. “When
they come in to fetch the next one, they leave the gate open, in case they’ve got their hands full with someone struggling.
There’s a moment when the gate’s open and their backs are turned. They’re worn out, you can tell just by looking at them.
We’d have to be quick, but we could slip past and they wouldn’t see us. If we got just outside the gate and waited till they
came out again, we could get away. Really,” she added furiously. “I’ve watched the last four times, and it’s always the same.
If we got away, we could head for Eremia. They wouldn’t follow, they’re about to move out, I’ve heard them talking about it.
We could find your friends in the resistance, or even the Mezentines; they’d be interested in knowing what’s been going on
here. Well?”

Well, he thought. Absolutely nothing to lose; so how was he going to explain to her that he was too scared to move? It would
sound ridiculous, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it. “You go,” he said.

“On my own? I can’t. I don’t know how to saddle a horse, or which direction to go in. Listen: my husband was the third one
they took. I tried to get my uncle to go with me, but he’s wrenched his knee, he couldn’t walk. I’ve tried everyone I could
think of, but they were too scared or they’d given up. If I can’t find someone to go with me, I’ll die. I know about you now;
you’re good with horses and finding your way about, they say you’re a great war hero and everything. You’ve got to help me,
there’s nobody else left.
Please.
”

It was really only because he was too tired to make the effort to refuse; and because he couldn’t keep still anymore, and
anything was better than being kept waiting until all the others had been used up. Besides, it wouldn’t work, and they’d be
caught and killed on the spot, so at least there was a chance he wouldn’t be led out there to the chopping block. But mostly
it was because he felt so weak, and doing what you’re told is always easier than fighting. If he refused she’d probably get
angry with him, and he hadn’t got the strength to face a scene.

The sound of the axe falling; someone swearing in exasperation; a shout, three parts weariness to one part fury. She was standing
up, grabbing his arm and yanking on it. He had to get up, or she’d have dislocated his shoulder.

His legs buckled twice on the way to the gate. As they passed, someone said, “Where are you going?”; his heart froze, but
she dragged him past and into what he supposed was position for the maneuver they were about to attempt. He’d forgotten the
details of the plan already.

The gate opened. The guard’s shoulder brushed his face, but the guard didn’t stop or look round. They’d passed him, and she
was hauling at his sleeve. The gate had been left open.

He wasn’t aware of taking the six or seven steps; the thunder in his head was too loud, and he couldn’t feel his legs. But
they were on the other side of the gate, and the guards came bustling past, hauling a man by his wrists; his back was arched
and he was digging his heels in, so that they plowed ruts in the mud as he was dragged past; his head was as far back as it
would go. All told, he was in a bad way, but he made tolerable cover. Perhaps, if he’d known what a service he was performing
for the Ducas, it would’ve made it easier for him to bear. Perhaps not.

She was pulling at him again, like a lazy horse. He followed, ambling. It was, of course, ridiculous; they wouldn’t get twenty
yards. In between waves of terror, he occupied his mind with wondering why she’d taken him with her. She seemed so efficient,
so self-possessed; not the sort who needed a man to look after her. The most he’d be able to achieve would be to get them
both caught. The thought crossed his mind that she fancied him. He managed not to laugh out loud.

Well, they’d made twenty yards. Perhaps she was telling the truth, and she really couldn’t tack up a horse on her own. Some
women were afraid of horses, the way some big, strong men were scared of spiders. Perhaps she thought that as soon as they
were across the border, the Ducas’ loyal retainers would come scuttling out of their hidey-holes in among the rocks to fight
over the privilege of sheltering them. Perhaps she’d seen how very, very frightened he was, and had taken pity on him. (Well,
quite. Nothing like looting the dead for a living for honing the delicate sensibilities.) In any event, they were in the open.
Behind them, the biscuit-barrel stockade was a vague, looming shape, lit by a fuzzy yellow glow from the hurricane lanterns.
Ahead of them, pale shadows that had to be tents. She steered him away from them — for someone who needed him along because
only he knew the way, she had a superb sense of direction — toward a dark open space on their right. Closer; he could make
out the dark gray outline of rails. The horse-fold, surrounded by a ring of gate hurdles. Was she really thinking of stealing
a horse? Not a good idea, in his professional opinion as the duty big, strong man. Highly unlikely that the Vadani kept their
tack in a neat pile in the corner of the fold. Bareback and without a bridle, a horse would be a liability rather than an
asset. Not his place to argue, though. She led; he followed.

Up to the hurdle fence; over it (the middle rail was brittle and snapped under his weight with a noise like a tournament),
through the fold — horses raised their heads and stared sleepily at them as they passed — and over the other side. Now that
was
smart: a short cut, to avoid going through the middle of the camp. Suddenly it occurred to Miel that they might get away
with it, after all. But it seemed so pathetic … why hold still and be killed, when you can just walk away with only a little
luck and determination? Could you really opt out of death so easily, like skipping a tiresome social engagement by pretending
you had a cold?

She was talking to him.

“… All we’ve got to do is get across this flat bit of ground and we’re on the uphill slope. They won’t even —”

She stopped dead. A shape was thickening out of the darkness; a man, blocking their way. Oh well, Miel thought; and then,
The hell with giving in. We’ve got this far.

“Hold it,” the man was saying. “No civilians past this point without authority, so unless you’ve got a pass …”

She was talking to him: “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. We were just taking a walk, we hadn’t realized we’d come so far. We’ll head
straight back.”

“That’s all right,” the sentry was saying, when Miel hit him with a rock. He wasn’t sure how it had got into his hand. He
must have stooped and felt for it, but it had come to him like a properly trained dog; he could just get his fingers around
it comfortably. The sentry’s head was turned toward her — had he even noticed she wasn’t alone? — and he wasn’t wearing a
helmet.

The trick was to throw the stone without actually letting go of it. Judge it just right and you can crack a man’s head like
a nutshell. Miel saw him drop; he let go of the stone and jumped on him, his knees landing on his chest and forcing the air
out like a blast from a bellows.
What the hell are you doing?
she was saying somewhere above him, as he scrabbled about looking for the sentry’s sidearm — he was half lying on it, which
made it horribly awkward to get it out of the scabbard; lucky the poor fool was either already dead or thoroughly stunned.
After two or three massive tugs he got it free; she was nagging,
Come on, leave it, we don’t need it, you’ll ruin everything.

Women, he thought, as he carefully located the hanger-tip over the hollow between the sentry’s collarbones, and leaned on
the handle. Miel felt the sentry’s legs kick out and his back squirm, but that was usual, like a chicken beating its wings
after its neck’s been broken. The humane dispatch of game is the first duty of the honorable predator.

“What the
hell,
” she was hissing at him, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Killing the prisoners,” he replied.

“Leave it.”
(Like he was a dog with a dead bird he’d picked up; the spaniel, the brachet and the lymer are bred soft-mouthed, to release
retrieved game without spoiling it.) “Come on. Now.”