Evil for Evil (81 page)

While they waited, they talked about silver; better and more efficient ways of mining it, smelting the ore, refining the bloom
to leach out traces of copper and other impurities. The Mezentines, he said, were capable of producing silver that was ninety-five
parts in a hundred pure, although the specification allowed an additional margin of three parts for export work, five for
domestic consumption. When the war was over and they opened the mines up again, he’d teach the superintendents how to improve
purity and increase production by means of a few simple procedures, which could be incorporated into the mines’ established
working practices without the need for significant investment or extensive retraining. Valens replied that he would appreciate
any help that Ziani could give them; once the war was over, the cost of reconstruction and making good would inevitably be
high, and a quick, efficient recommencement of silver production would make all the difference. Fortuitously, given that nearly
all the mine-owners and representatives of the major cartels had been killed, either in the wedding-day raid or the recent
battle, obstruction from vested interests ought not to be as much of a problem as it would have been before the war.

The tent flap opened. Ziani recognized the newcomer, though he couldn’t recall his name; a busy young man who’d been doing
rather well during the emergency. He made a mental note to find out more about him, in case he could be made useful.

“Duke Orsea,” the young officer said.

He stood back to let the escort bring Orsea in. Ziani made himself keep perfectly still, and it was probably just as well
that Orsea didn’t look at him as he came into the tent.

“Valens?” he asked mildly. The two soldiers weren’t touching him, but they flanked him on either side, with the officer blocking
the doorway to cut off his escape. “What’s going on?”

There wasn’t the faintest trace of expression on Valens’ face; but he said, “Oh, I think you can probably guess. Sit down,
please.”

But there wasn’t a chair; so the officer (Nennius, Ziani remembered. Recently promoted) had to fetch a folding chair from
the back of the tent and set it up. “I’m sorry,” Orsea was saying, “but I really don’t have a clue. Is this something to do
with Miel Ducas? I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, but you’ve been so busy.”

Valens was scowling. “Fine,” he said. “I’m all for proper procedure. That way, everybody knows where they stand.”

“You’re sounding very official. Is something wrong?” Orsea glanced over his shoulder; he seemed surprised to find that Nennius
and the two guards were still there.

“I have reason to believe …” Valens hesitated, then went on: “I have reason to believe that you’ve been in contact with the
enemy. I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say about that.”

Orsea looked so utterly bewildered that for a moment Ziani held his breath. Then Orsea said: “Contact with the enemy? You
mean, in the battle?”

“Before the battle,” Valens said quietly. “That’s rather the point.” He opened the wooden box that stood on the folding table
in front of him, and took out a small square of folded parchment. “I’m afraid I’ve been reading your mail,” he said.

Orsea frowned. “That’s a letter, is it? For me?”

“Yes.” His hand was resting on it. “I can’t let you have it, I’m afraid; evidence and all that. Major Nennius, would you please
read the letter out loud? Admirably clear handwriting,” he added. “I hate it when people scrawl.”

Nennius stepped forward, and Valens handed him the letter. Nennius opened it and cleared his throat; that made Valens smile,
just briefly.

Lucao Psellus to Orsea Orseoli, greetings.

Everything’s been arranged as we agreed. The only change of plan is that we can’t send a whole division; there simply isn’t
enough time. I’m sure it won’t make any difference, since we’ll have an overwhelming advantage of surprise.

Concerning your own personal safety. Naturally, it’s got to look right. I’ve briefed the expedition commander, and he’ll see
to it that all his officers will know what to expect. To begin with, stay in your coach. As soon as the fighting reaches you,
come straight out and give yourself up. Say, in a loud, clear voice, “I am Duke Orsea, I surrender.” You have my solemn undertaking
that you will not be harmed. You’ll be taken straight to a Mezentine officer. Give him this letter. He’ll recognize the seal.
I’ll be there at the Unswerving Loyalty to meet you after the battle and escort you back to Mezentia; from there you’ll go
directly to your new estate at Lonazep, where you can start your new life. Unfortunately, it won’t be possible for your wife
to accompany you; but rest assured that our men will have strict instructions not to harm her; she’ll be separated out from
the rest of the prisoners and sent to join you as quickly as possible. I know this may sound unduly haphazard, but I assure
you that you can rely on us; I’ve arranged for a substantial bounty to be paid to the men who secure your wife and yourself,
alive and unharmed. That’s the joy of mercenaries; motivating them is never a problem if you’ve got the money.

I appreciate that this has all been very difficult for you, and I may say that your misgivings do you credit. It can’t have
been an easy decision to take. However, believe me when I tell you that you’re doing precisely the right thing. The only hope,
for your people and yourself, is to end the war before the Vadani contrive to inflict serious losses on the Republic. As for
Duke Valens: by seducing your wife he has betrayed you in a manner that is beyond all forgiveness. A man like that can have
no claim on your loyalties; and, by your own admission, your duty to your people overrides all personal obligations.

I look forward to meeting you in person at last, when all this is over.

During the long silence that followed, Ziani forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the patch of ground directly in front
of him. The last thing he wanted was to catch Valens’ eye, or Orsea’s. It had all been beautifully clear in his mind when
he was giving Psellus his instructions back in the deserted city; he’d seen it in his mind’s eye as a splendid piece of geometry,
a work of clear lines and simple design — a tumbler under pressure from a spring, retained by a sear tripped by a lever. This
close, all he could see was tool-marks and burred edges.

“The letter was found,” Valens said eventually, in a perfectly flat voice, “on the body of a merchant woman. Pure chance,
as far as I can tell; by the looks of it, she was thrown by her horse and broke her neck tumbling down a rocky slope. Fortuitously,
she was discovered by the miners coming up to meet us from Boatta. Ziani Vaatzes searched the body and found the letter, and
showed it to me. He’s identified the seal. Apparently it’s rather special. Ziani, what was it again?”

His cue. “The Republic’s defense committee,” he said. “Commonly known as Necessary Evil. My understanding is that they’re
the ones running the war. I vaguely remember there was a Lucao Psellus on the committee, though I never had anything to do
with anybody that high up the hierarchy.”

Another long silence; then Orsea said, “You don’t actually believe any of this, do you?” He sounded so bewildered, it was
almost endearing.

“You were seen meeting with a merchant,” Valens went on, “shortly after the expedition left the city. You were seen taking
delivery of something from her: a basket, or a package. You spoke to her briefly. She had asked for you earlier by name. The
witnesses have identified the body as the woman you spoke to. I can have them brought here if you like, or we can wait for
the formal hearing. Though I suppose I should tell you,” Valens added with the unquiet ghost of a grin, “that the hearing’ll
be a formality, going briskly through the motions. The last thing I need right now is to get bogged down in jurisdictions
and immunities and acts of state. So, if you’ve got anything to say, you’d better say it now.”

A long silence. Orsea was peering at him with his face screwed up, as if it was too dark to see properly.

“This is all complete drivel,” he said eventually. “For pity’s sake, Valens. I haven’t got the faintest idea what’s going
on —nobody ever tells me anything, and why should they? But if this is something to do with you and Veatriz —”

Valens broke eye contact for a moment. “You’re not helping yourself,” he said.

“But …” Orsea nodded, as if acknowledging that the rules had changed halfway through the game. “All right,” he said. “Yes,
I remember that merchant woman. She turned up in a stupid little chaise — with a red parasol, I think. Anyway, she handed
me some potpourri, which Veatriz had ordered from her some time before we left Civitas —”

“Potpourri?” Valens interrupted.

“Yes. You know, bits of minced-up dried flowers, lavender and stuff. You put it in little saucers to make the room smell nice.”

“You’re saying she tracked you down in the wilderness, when nobody except me knew where we were headed, just to sell you dried
flowers?”

“No, of course not.” As close to anger as Valens had ever seen him. All the more likely, in that case, to be synthetic. “She
was on her way from Calva to White Cross; she happened to stop off at the Loyalty, and heard we were nearby. She’d got this
unfilled order for the potpourri stuff, must’ve had it with her, and I suppose she’d got a tidy mind or something. Look, there
was a cavalry officer who saw her arrive. Maybe he overheard what she said to me.”

Valens nodded. “Captain Vesanio. I’ve spoken to him. She asked for you by name, and quite by chance you were standing by,
only a few yards away. He heard what you said to her, and he saw you take a package from her.”

“Exactly,” Orsea said. “The dried flowers. I took them, and I gave them to Veatriz. Call her here and ask her yourself. She’ll
tell you, she ordered it before we left. She probably knows the stupid woman’s name and everything.”

Valens smiled. “Was that meant to be a defense?” he said. “I guess my attention must’ve wandered, and I missed it. Seems to
me you’re just agreeing with what I’ve told you.”

“But that’s what happened.” He could see Orsea starting to go red in the face; please don’t let him cry, he thought. “That’s
all that happened. Really.”

“Not quite.” Valens’ voice was getting softer. “You came looking for me, with a message. A warning, rather; you warned me
that the Mezentines were at the inn and knew where we were. I believed you. We packed up and moved on, straight into the ambush.
Yes, I remember that very well.”

“But …” Orsea’s eyes were wide. “The woman said she’d been told where we were by someone at the Loyalty. I thought you ought
to know, because if they knew about us at the inn, and the Mezentines were there too, then we were in danger. Which was true,”
he added desperately. “It must have been true, because the Mezentines found us, didn’t they?”

“Quite. They knew exactly where we were;
after
I’d heard your message and acted on it.” Valens shook his head. “As defenses go,” he said, “this one’s a pretty poor specimen.
Disagree with me about
something,
for crying out loud, even if it’s only the color of her hat.”

Orsea didn’t say anything. He was staring, his mouth slightly open, like a man who’s just seen something he knows is impossible.

“There’s the letter,” Valens said wearily. “It pretty much speaks for itself. There’s your own admission that you were seen
talking to the bearer of the letter on at least one occasion; also, you admit that you and your wife had had previous dealings
with her, before we left Civitas Vadanis. You also admit giving me the message that caused me to lead the expedition to the
place where we were attacked.” He frowned. “All right,” he said, “you’ve heard the interpretation I’m putting on these facts
we all agree are true. Maybe you could give me yours, and we’ll see if it makes better sense.”

Orsea looked round, as if he expected help to arrive. “I don’t know, do I?” he said. “I suppose — well, I suppose somebody’s
trying to make it look like I’m a traitor, and I betrayed us all to the Mezentines. But —”

“But who would want to do that?” Valens interrupted. “Good question. Whoever it was, he was able to procure a letter from
an authentic Mezentine official — a pretty high-ranking one at that; so the enemy were in on it as well. Are you going to
argue that the Mezentines are plotting to discredit you?”

“I don’t know.” Orsea rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, as if he was trying to wake himself up. “I suppose it’s
possible, yes.”

“I can’t see it myself,” Valens replied gently. “To be perfectly frank, why on earth would they bother? Well? Can you give
me a reason? Can you tell me why you matter to them anymore?”

Silence. “No,” Orsea said.

“Nor me,” Valens replied. “Come to think of it, I can’t come up with anybody who’d want to frame you for treason, or anything
else, except for one person; the only man who’s got any sort of motive for trying to get you into trouble, get rid of you.”

Orsea looked at him. “You.”

“That’s right.” Valens acknowledged him with a slight gesture of his left hand. “Me. I have a motive for getting you out of
the way. What I don’t have is the influence to get Commissioner Lucao Psellus of the defense committee to write an incriminating
letter.” He paused, then added: “And I don’t really see me arranging for the Mezentines to ambush my own convoy, slaughter
my people and near as damn it kill me in the process. I’m not the nicest man in the world, but I’m not the most stupid, either.
I think I’d have found an easier way of getting shot of you — poison, an accident, all sorts of things spring readily to mind.”
A smile flashed across his face. “So, if it wasn’t the Republic and it wasn’t me; who else have you been pissing off, Orsea?
You’re such a mild, inoffensive fellow, always so anxious to do the right thing. Your friend Miel Ducas, maybe? The man you
condemned for treason for hiding a letter? We haven’t talked about him yet. Do you think the Ducas might be behind all this?”

Orsea breathed in, then out again. “No,” he said.