Evil for Evil (85 page)

“I’m prepared to risk that,” Valens replied confidently. “If I was bothered about that side of things, I’d be more worried
about showing up without my dear wife. They’d only have my word for it that the Mezentines killed her; besides, even if they
believed me, letting your wife get killed suggests a degree of carelessness that they might be reluctant to forgive. I wish
now I’d taken the trouble to find out a bit more about the way they think.”

Eventually, after a painfully embarrassing silence, Major Nennius volunteered. He set off with an escort of twelve very unenthusiastic
troopers, leading a change of horses loaded with supplies. In his saddlebag was a carefully traced copy of the map, and a
letter of credentials addressed to the Aram Chantat. The look on his face as he rode away reminded Valens unsettlingly of
Orsea on his way to execution.

A full two days to reach the second oasis. No longer even any pretense that the food crisis was under control. Civilians couldn’t
be trusted to carry what little was left, and the soldiers were having trouble coping with the begging and screaming of mothers
with hungry children; their friends, neighbors, relatives. At least a dozen horses were killed during the night; the carcasses
were stripped bare in minutes, and fights broke out over the marrow in the bones. It didn’t make it easier to handle to realize
that it was panic, the fear of hunger rather than hunger itself. The worst side effect was exhaustion. Men and women who’d
been rioting and scuffling all night had trouble keeping up during the day.Valens could no longer be induced to listen to
the reports. He’d become obsessed with the idea that he could see a dust-cloud closing in rapidly on them from behind, the
occasional flash of light. The fact that nobody else could see anything had no effect on his conviction. There was no point
talking to him, the officers said, he wasn’t listening. With Nennius gone, generally presumed dead, it was anybody’s guess
who was in charge. The officers went through their routines, more to occupy their minds than out of duty or hope. Nobody knew
who had the map, or who was navigating, or who was in the lead. Reaching the second oasis inspired no celebrations, and nobody
waded in up to the neck in the water this time.

Early the next day, Valens left his tent (for the last time; he’d given orders for it to be jettisoned as surplus weight).
He washed quickly in the brown water of the oasis, then sat down under a tree to comb his hair. It was a last flicker of vanity,
which had never been a particular fault of his at the best of times — his clothes were torn and caked in sand, all the work
that had gone into them wasted, and he’d never cared about how he looked, provided that he looked like a duke; today, however,
he took the trouble, because it really didn’t matter anymore. His reflection in the water was thin and indistinct, so he combed
more or less by feel. It wasn’t a face he particularly wanted to see, in any case.

But there was another face looking down into the water beside his. He jumped up, slipping in the sandy mud and catching his
balance just in time.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I startled you.”

Valens, lost for words. “That’s all right,” he said.

Of course he hadn’t seen her since Orsea died. He hadn’t even asked after her, sent anybody to see how she was. The fact that
she was here told him she’d managed to get over the mountains and across the desert. She looked terrible, in fact: her hair
tangled, her face red in patches from the sun, the hem of her dress filthy, her shoes (stupid little satin sandals, believe
it or not) wrecked like a barn blown down in a storm. She walked slowly over to him — she was limping — and sat down, her
heels in the mud like a little girl.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said. “I don’t blame you.”

If there was anything about himself that Valens was proud of, it was his ability to know if someone was lying to him. He tried
not to exercise it.

“I’m absolutely furious with Orsea.” She made it sound like he’d come home drunk and been sick in the wardrobe. “It was such
a stupid thing to do. And so typical. If only he’d told me, I’d have talked him out of it, I know. It’ll have been his idea
of doing the right thing. I imagine they told him I’d be safe if he —”

“That’s right,” Valens heard himself say. “It’s pretty clear from the letter we found that that’s what the deal was.”

“Letters!” She laughed. “Who’d have thought squiggles on a bit of dried sheepskin could cause so much trouble in the world.
Letters and good intentions; and the other thing.”

No need to ask what the other thing was.

“I had to do it,” Valens ground on; he felt like he was wading in mud, and each time he dragged his boot out, his other foot
sank in even deeper. “I couldn’t have covered it up; if people had found out, I wouldn’t have been able to lead them anymore,
and they needed someone to get them —”

He was about to say,
get them here.
Not, he conceded, the most compelling of arguments.

“Oh, I know.” She shook her head. “I know he’d have done exactly the same thing.” Suddenly she giggled, at the same time as
a tear broke out from the corner of her eye. “That doesn’t really make you feel any better, does it?”

“No.”

“He was an idiot.” She smiled. “Always the right thing, no matter how much damage it caused. The tragedy was, it always
was
the right thing to do; it was just that either he did it the wrong way — oh, he had a wonderful talent for missing by a hair
— or else something unexpected would happen that only a clever man — a reasonably clever man — could’ve foreseen. He was a
good, decent, ordinary human being, which is what I loved so much about him …”

(
And why I could never love you;
unspoken.)

“And that’s why he treated me so badly, I guess,” she went on, dabbing at her eye with her filthy sleeve and leaving urchin-like
streaks of grime on her cheek. “He felt he didn’t deserve me, and he resented it; somehow it turned into my fault, and it
was because he loved me so much. He couldn’t talk to me for months before the end; we just sort of grunted at each other,
like an old miserable couple waiting to see who’ll be the first to die.” She looked up at him. “I don’t blame you,” she said.
“You’re no more to blame than a tree-branch that falls on someone’s head.”

Again he was reluctant to look at her, because that’d tell him if she meant it. “I don’t know,” he said, looking at the brown
water. “You can’t help blaming the weapon, even though it’s stupid and pointless. You know, there are times when I think that’s
all I am: a weapon, being used by someone else. At least, I like to think that way. It’d mean none of this was really my fault.”
He sighed. “My father used to collect fancy weapons; there was a room full of them, back at the palace. He’d buy them and
prance about with them for a few minutes — he was a lousy fencer, I guess that’s why he made me learn — and then they’d be
put away and never looked at again. I did the same thing, I have no idea why. The difference is, he liked the things because
they were pretty and he reckoned they were the sort of thing a duke ought to have. I bought them because I hate fighting,
and I’ve had to do rather a lot of it.” He frowned. “There’s my tragedy, if you like. I’ve always been so very good at the
things I don’t like doing, and being good at them makes me do them, until I forget I hate them. The things I wanted to do,
or wanted to be, for that matter — well; if you love drawing but can’t draw, you don’t bother with it. No point being reminded
of your shortcomings. Always play to your strengths, my father told me.”

“I remember him,” she said quietly. “I didn’t like him very much.”

“Neither did I. It’s a shame I’ve turned into him over the years. But you don’t need to like someone in order to love them.”

She laughed. “I always liked Orsea,” she said. “I suppose I’ve got a soft spot for weak people.”

(
Which is why you and I were friends, once;
he could have written that in a letter, but he couldn’t say it out loud.)

“Can’t say I ever did,” Valens replied stiffly. “I couldn’t get past the ineptitude. I don’t like people who can’t do things
well.”

“He liked you.” She was looking away now. “He thought you were everything he ought to be; admired you and liked you as well,
which I think is probably a rare combination. But he knew he bothered you, so he tried to keep his distance. He didn’t want
to be a nuisance.”

Valens smiled. “He was just like me, then,” he said. “We’ve both got the knack of being the opposite of what we want to be.
I feel so sorry for him now …” He waved his arm in a vague encircling gesture. “Now that I’ve brought us here, I mean. Now
that I know what it feels like. You know what? If I’d been him, in this situation, I’d have done what he did. The only difference
is, I wouldn’t have been found out.”

She stood up. “I’d better let you get on,” she said. “I expect you’re very busy.”

“Me?” He shrugged. “I ought to be, but I’m not. They keep trying to make me take an interest, but the truth is, I’ve more
or less given up. Which disappoints me; I’d always assumed I’d keep going to the bitter end, just in case there was a way
out I hadn’t noticed yet. But this is the first time I’ve really screwed up, and it’s shown me just how feeble I really am.
You know what? In the battle, when the Mezentine cavalry were cutting up the column, I very nearly ran away — I was halfway
up the hill, and I only stopped because I was worn out; and then it turned out we’d won after all, so there wasn’t anything
to run away from. I haven’t been able to get over that. I just couldn’t see why I should hang around and get killed when it
wouldn’t do anybody any good.”

“Well,” she said. “It wouldn’t have.”

He shook his head. “I’d have lasted about half an hour,” he replied. “About as long as it took me to find a tree and a bit
of rope. I think the Mezentines killed me that day, and ever since I’ve just been wandering about wondering how come I can
still breathe.”

She looked at him. “Orsea would never have done that,” she said. “When the city fell, he went rushing out trying to get himself
killed. He made a mess of it, of course.”

Valens nodded. “Would you have wanted him to have succeeded?”

“No. There’s never any excuse for dying. It’s such a selfish thing to do, if there are people who love you.”

(Which was the difference, she didn’t say; the condition that didn’t apply in Valens’ case. So he didn’t ask: what about me;
if I’d been in Orsea’s place that day, should I have stood my ground and fallen nobly? He didn’t want to make her tell a deliberate
lie.)

“You’re right.” He vaulted to his feet — showing off, like a teenager — and straightened his back. “I really should be attending
to business, rather than lounging around like a gentleman of leisure. How are your feet, by the way?”

“My feet?”

“Blisters. You were limping earlier.”

She shrugged. “I turned my ankle over in the sand. I expect it’ll wear off.”

Valens smiled. “I’d better find you a horse to ride.”

“No thanks. It’d look bad, and I’m unpopular enough as it is. Being the widow of a condemned traitor … It’s all right,” she
added, “I’ll manage. I’ll admit that walking isn’t my idea of fun, but I’m getting the hang of it.”

“You’re being brave.”

“If you like. Really, it’s a matter of having other things to think about.”

“If you change your mind …” He clicked his tongue. “I’ve got no idea how all this is going to end,” he said. “Badly, I imagine.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it already has. Go on, I’m holding you up.”

He turned and walked away, not looking round.

The morning of the seventh day in the desert, and he was suffering from nerves.

The way he felt reminded him of the first time he’d seen her. All he knew about her was that she was the foreman’s daughter;
as such, she represented advancement, promotion, a means of rising in his trade without needing to rely on other people being
able to recognize his true merits. In his mind’s eye, therefore, he’d seen her as a vital component in a mechanism, beautiful
in the simplicity and economy of its design. He’d been kept waiting in the porch of her father’s house. She won’t be out till
she’s good and ready, her father had said with a wry grin; she’ll be doing her face, puts more effort into it than any of
you buggers making bits for scorpions. That remark had caught his imagination as he stood, half in and half out of the street,
watching his breath cloud in the cold air. He’d perceived her then as an artifact, something manufactured, her face engineered
with skill and dedication; and he was delighted to think that his prized component was being engineered to exacting tolerances
and the tightest possible specification. Of course, the old man went on, I don’t suppose any son-in-law of mine’s going to
stay on the fitting bench very long, and old Phylactus’ll be retiring before the year’s out. He remembered how he’d fixed
his eyes on the door, not looking at the old man, ready to catch his first glimpse of her as soon as the latch lifted and
she came out. The excitement; the nerves.

(Of course, he’d spoiled it all by falling in love with her.)

That same excitement, as he watched the glowing, indistinct line that separated the sand from the sky. They were coming; when
they came, that was where he’d see them first, and know that everything he’d built was finally fitting together; the active
and passive assemblies engaging, the male and female components matching up, every gear-tooth meshing, every key moving in
its keyway.

(It was a pity there had to be a battle and so many people killed, but you can’t have everything.)

To occupy his mind, he ran calculations. Assuming a constant for the speed of a horseman in the desert, assuming that everybody
was in the right place, making allowances for human inefficiencies; he glanced up at the sun, that imperfectly calibrated
timepiece. There was still time. Besides, if he’d been right in his assessment of the properties of his materials, they wouldn’t
show up till they were good and ready. Doing their faces, as it were. All allowed for in his tolerances.