Evil for Evil (92 page)

Two hands too weak to clap patted each other. “Splendid answer,” the voice said. “Exactly what my successor should have said;
and I have no doubts at all about your sincerity, let me stress that. Everything I have heard of you leads me to believe that
you are a good king, like your father before you. Which is why,” he went on, “I shall have to live long enough to do the taking
of revenge myself. I told you I don’t believe in it; I don’t believe in our gods, either, but my people do. On balance, it
seems far more likely that they are right than I am. We will wipe out the Mezentines for you; you won’t have to make that
choice. If you prefer, you are welcome to stay here and wait until the job is done and our army returns. You may regard it
as a belated wedding present, if you wish. As reciprocation for the wonderful gift you’ve given us — the safe way across the
desert — it is, I fear, wholly inadequate. Tell me,” and the voice quickened just a little, “how did you find out about it?
There have been rumors, of course. Many of my people have claimed there was such a thing, over the years. Only recently a
foolish young man called Skeddanlothi — a cousin of mine, unfortunately too distant to be able to succeed me — declared that
he had found it and would prove his assertion by going there himself. Of course, he never came back, so presumably he was
misinformed.”

“A merchant,” Valens heard himself say. “A trader from my country found it, apparently. He came here several times to buy
salt; when he died, he left a diary, and a map. One of my …” He couldn’t think of a word to describe Vaatzes. “One of my people
found the map, and when the Mezentines were closing in on us, we took a chance and followed it; and here we are.”

The noise that greeted these words didn’t sound at all like laughter, but what else could it be? “Remarkable,” the voice said
eventually. “And salt, of all things. Well; I don’t suppose it matters how the way was found, so long as it really exists.
Tell me about the oases; will they water an army of two hundred thousand, do you think? Of course, I have sent surveyors,
men who know about that sort of thing; I shall know for sure soon enough. But I’m impatient. What do you think? Will there
be enough water?”

Valens heard a voice saying, “Yes,” and realized it was his own. “And water won’t be a problem once you reach the mountains
on the other side; it’s how to transport the quantities of food you’ll need …”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” The voice sounded almost cheerfully dismissive. “We have vastly more experience in that sort
of thing than you do, by all accounts.”

Despite the dark, Valens’ eyes felt tired. He rubbed them before saying: “Can you really field an army of two hundred thousand?”

The strange sound again, equivalent to laughter. “An
expeditionary
force of two hundred thousand light cavalry and lancers, followed by the heavy cavalry and dragoons — say three hundred and
fifty thousand — would probably be adequate for the task and still leave a sufficient reserve here in case of further attacks
from our enemies.” Short pause. “I should, of course, be asking your opinion, not purporting to state a fact. Do you think
five hundred and fifty thousand cavalry would be enough to deal with the Mezentines? I understand that their field army is
made up entirely of foreigners serving for money; a mixed blessing, at best, I should imagine. We could send a larger force,
but my experience is that once you pass a certain point, a large army is more of a hindrance than a help.”

This time it was Valens who paused before speaking. “How many of you are there?” he said.

Laughter again; a different sound, like the barking of a very small dog. “How delightful, that you feel sufficiently at ease
already to ask such a direct question!” Then the pitch of the voice changed again; lower, quite businesslike. “I regret to
say that I don’t have an up-to-date census to hand; five months ago, however, when we held the usual muster and games to celebrate
my birthday, on the fifth day all the men of military age fit for active service paraded on the plain beside the Swallow River.
As each regiment marched past its commander-in-chief, each man placed an arrow on a pile. When the parade was over, the arrows
were gathered up into barrels, each holding one thousand. We filled seven hundred barrels, with a few hundred arrows left
over. If you ask me what proportion of our people are fit for military service, I would estimate somewhere between an eighth
and a tenth. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes.” Valens thought for a moment, then said, “As far as I know, the total population of Mezentia is something around eight
hundred thousand; it could be less, I’m pretty sure it’s not much more. So yes, I think half a million men would probably
be enough.”

“You think so? I wonder.” The voice was very faint. “Allow me to confess my ignorance. I have never seen a city. Come to that,
I have never seen a stone-built house. Only a tiny handful of my people have seen anything of the kind. I admit to finding
the whole concept both repellent and strangely fascinating; to live your entire life in a box, to see the same view every
morning when you wake up; remarkable. But I understand that Mezentia has the highest, thickest walls in the world, with massive
gates and high towers, and extraordinary machines that hurl rocks and spears to defend them. I am told that when an enemy
shuts himself up in such a very strong box, the only way to deal with him is to keep him there until he starves, and either
comes out or dies.” A click of the tongue, faint but perfectly clear. “I assume that this process takes time, and I think
I have explained why I am in something of a hurry. Yes, I believe that five hundred thousand cavalry could shut the Mezentines
up in their box, for a little while, until they themselves began to feel hungry and so were obliged to move on. Do you think
the Mezentines’ city can be taken? I really don’t know enough about these things to form a sensible opinion.”

Valens thought: I wonder who made the decision to start the war. I wonder what passed through his mind, just before the scales
tipped slightly more one way than the other. He said: “I think it’s possible. You see, I have a man …”

“Ziani Vaatzes.”

“Yes, him. He nearly managed to defend Civitas Eremiae against them. I’ve come to know him, a little. I think, give him a
long enough crowbar and he can pull apart any box on earth.”

“I know a little about him,” the voice said softly. “And I would tend to agree.” Another pause, and Valens wished there was
enough light to show him the little man’s face. “I must confess, I’m given rather to flights of fancy. I picture things in
my mind that I have never seen; picture them the way they should be, if you follow me, rather than how they are. I have a
very clear picture in my mind of Ziani Vaatzes. At some point, I suppose, I shall see him in the flesh, and be vastly disappointed.
Of course, I have never seen a Mezentine. I understand that their skins are brown. I shall ask my soldiers to bring me some
dead bodies from the oasis. Did you know that the Rosinholet are experts at curing and preserving dead bodies? When a particularly
famous and valuable man dies, they cure his skin and stuff it with wool bound tight on a wooden frame, to simulate the bones.
Sometimes they mount their illustrious dead on horses, or sit them on the boxes of their wagons. I shall see if we have any
Rosinholet embalmers among our slaves, who could manufacture a dozen or so Mezentines for me. It would be appropriate, don’t
you think? The Mezentines are wonderful makers of things, so I don’t see why they shouldn’t be made into things themselves.
Perhaps, given his rather special skills, Ziani Vaatzes could build appropriate mechanisms to go inside them, so that they
can do more or less everything they could do when they were alive. Who knows, maybe we could improve on the design a little
in some respects, unless Foreman Vaatzes considers that would constitute an abomination.” A soft, dry sound, like a dusty
carpet being beaten. “Forgive me, I wander off sometimes. Here’s an idea. Let’s send for Foreman Vaatzes and ask him for his
professional opinion. What do you think of that?”

“There you are,” Daurenja said, materializing suddenly in the doorway of the tent.

Ziani looked up and scowled. “Not now,” he said. “I’m busy.”

“Are you?” Daurenja ducked, his ridiculously long neck bending like a drawn bow, and stepped inside the tent, blotting out
the light for a moment or so as he came. “Doing what?”

“Resting. Go away.”

Daurenja folded his legs and back and sat down on the ground next to him. “Really,” he said cheerfully. “That’s no way to
talk to your business partner.”

“I haven’t got one.”

“Yes you have.” He was sitting unpleasantly close, his back to the tent’s center pole. His hair was wet and hung loose down
his back in rat-tails. He was wearing a pristine white robe, like the ones the Aram Chantat nobles wore, and on his feet were
a pair of curly-toed red velvet slippers. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Not the main thing, though.
Mostly, I wanted a few quiet minutes to tell you how brilliant you are.”

Ziani sighed and started to get up. A hand with a grip like a bench-vise grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down, so fast
and so smooth that he had no chance to resist. “Please stay and listen,” Daurenja said. “Surely you can spare a few moments
to hear a few nice things about yourself.”

Ziani picked the hand off his shoulder; touching it was like drawing the guts out of dead poultry after it’s hung for a week.
“If they’re nice,” he said, “they probably aren’t true. I’ve never gone much on fiction.”

“Don’t worry on that score,” Daurenja said with a mild giggle. “Everything I’m about to say is perfectly true. Well, you can
be the judge of that.”

Ziani tried to get up again, but his knees were too weak. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he said.

“In a minute you will.” Daurenja yawned. “Where’s the best place to start? Shall we begin with the Duke’s wedding day, when
you betrayed the hunting party to the Mezentines?”

Ziani felt cold, and all his joints appeared to have seized. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “And you know as well as I do, it
was Duke Orsea who —”

“Ah. Poor Duke Orsea. But I think we’ll come to him later. Actually, on reflection, I think we ought to start at the beginning,
or as close to it as makes no odds. Tell me; after you ran away from the city, were you actually heading for the Eremian camp,
or was running into them a fat slice of sheer good luck?”

This time, Ziani lashed out. He was aiming for Daurenja’s chin, but when his fist reached the place where the target should
have been, it met nothing but air. Almost simultaneously, something very hard and fast hit Ziani just above the right ear.
More surprised than anything else, he folded his arms and legs, like a spider killed suddenly on its web, and dropped to the
floor.

“As I was saying.” Daurenja’s voice, blurred and distant, reached him through the pain like a far-off light glimpsed through
mist. “Did you deliberately set out to find Orsea from the start? I suppose what I’m asking is, was the plan already more
or less complete in your mind at that early stage, or were you still making it up as you went along?”

Ziani felt sick and dizzy; it was like being very drunk and having the hangover at the same time. He tried to gauge the distance
between Daurenja’s legs and himself, but it was too much effort.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.

“By all means lie if you want to,” Daurenja said pleasantly. “It doesn’t matter to me, because I know the truth. And yes,
I know it’s true. The plan’s there for anybody to see, if he’s got the wit to know what he’s looking at. I’ve been studying
it for months now, piecing it together. It’s been an education, and an honor. I was only able to figure it out because we’re
so very much alike, you and me.” He shifted a little, moving slightly sideways, slightly back. There was some fencing move
or other where you did that. “Ever since I saw it for what it is, I’ve been trying to take it apart, bit by bit, to figure
out how it works. You know, you really are a clever man, Ziani. It’s the combination of imaginative flair and scrupulous attention
to detail that does it. It’s odd, really; I mean, the Mezentine tradition hardly encourages innovative design, does it? There’s
a set specification, you copy it exactly or they string you up. Really, when you think of a talent like yours being neglected
like that, it’s a crying shame.”

Ziani saw movement out of the corner of his eye, then felt the impact of a powerful blow; a kick in the ribs, which squeezed
all the air out of his body.

“Now I’m pretty clear in my mind about what happened up to the fall of Eremia,” Daurenja went on. “By arming the Eremians
with scorpions, you made sure that the war escalated out of control, making the Republic commit itself far more deeply than
it wanted to. The sideshow with Duke Valens and Orsea’s wife; clearly you didn’t set any of that up, but you did ensure that
Orsea found out about it; that suggests you were planning a long way ahead by that point, so I’m assuming that most of the
main elements were already clearly established in your mind.” He paused, as though waiting for a reply or some sort of comment.
There was disappointment in his voice when he resumed. “Now I’m going to have to press you for an answer here,” he said, “because
obviously the next bit is crucial to a clear understanding of the mechanism. Was it you who opened the gates and let the Mezentines
in to Civitas Eremiae?”

“No.”

He could see Daurenja frowning. “I think you did,” he said. “It’s the sort of bold, radical approach that hallmarks your work;
also the way you make one process further several different functions. For example: you needed to draw the Vadani into the
war. I’m guessing you assumed that Orsea and Veatriz would seek asylum with Valens; I don’t imagine you actually predicted
Valens’ big, romantic gesture, that was really just a massive bonus. Still, no shame in being lucky; and a beautiful design
like yours sort of encourages luck to happen; you attract it, like decoying geese.” He stopped, then said, “Anything you’d
like to add before we move on? No? Oh, I wish you’d share with me. I’d love to know how you went about figuring it all out,
it’d be a master class in design. Oh well.” He waited hopefully a little longer, then went on: “The other function was controlling
Valens himself, through his thwarted love for Orsea’s wife. Very clever. What Valens secretly wants more than anything is
to snatch Veatriz out of the jaws of death and have her fall into his arms; but just when he thinks he’s getting there, he
finds himself lumbered with Orsea as well.Obviously, that’s an intolerable position to be in — which is exactly what you want,
since you need to break Valens down — gradually, at a carefully controlled rate of decay — to the point where he’s weak enough
for you to manipulate him directly. The love-triangle thing does that perfectly, and I’m guessing that that’s the real reason
Civitas Eremiae had to fall. You’d never get Orsea away from his city unless it was burned to the ground, and you’d never
get Veatriz to Valens’ court without Orsea. On reflection, I bet you were expecting the rescue or something like it; not banking
on it, of course, but quietly confident it’d happen. There, you see; decoying luck, like I said a moment ago.”