Devices and Desires (31 page)

“Impressive,” Ziani said. “Has anyone ever done a proper survey of these cisterns?”

“How do you mean?” Calaphates asked.

“A survey,” Ziani repeated. “Like a map.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ziani nodded. “Well,” he said, “thank you. I was wondering how you coped.”

“The project was begun by the fourth Duke, about two hundred years ago,” Calaphates said; and he talked about history for
a quarter of an hour, while Ziani pretended to listen. A survey would’ve been too much to hope for, he realized, but it shouldn’t
present too much of a problem to make one of his own. Simply plotting the well-houses on a map would be a good start.

“Here we are.” Calaphates sounded relieved. They’d stopped outside another plain door in another blank wall. “Now, so you
can get your bearings; the city gate is about three hundred yards over there, behind that tower. The castle is northwest,
straight up the slope. The yard has its own well, of course.”

The door opened into a wide, bare, sloping yard with five rows of big, low-sided stone tanks. Beyond them was a long two-story
stone shed. The yard walls were high, with a catwalk running round the top, and two watchtowers. It felt more like a military
camp than a factory.

“What are those for?” Ziani asked.

“The towers?” Calaphates smiled. “It’s an eccentricity of Eremian architecture. We like towers. Most of the buildings have
them. I suppose it comes from being on top of the mountain; we like a good view. I think the tanner used one as his office
and countinghouse, and the men liked to go up into the other for their meals, to get away from the smell.”

Ziani frowned. “I’d have thought they’d be used to it after a few months.”

“Possibly. Now, through this arch here, we’ve got another yard.”

The same as the first one, but a bit smaller. No shed. “These tanks,” Ziani said. “Is there any reason we can’t use them as
footings for buildings?”

Calaphates shrugged. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “I’m not a builder. My overseer would be able to tell you about how they were
built. He’s been with me a long time.”

“Show me the well-house,” Ziani said.

As he’d hoped, it was on the higher side of the slope; not much of a gradient to work with, but anything would be better than
nothing. “You said you’re allowed to draw as much water as you want from these wells,” he said. “Is that right, or are there
limits?”

The question seemed to puzzle Calaphates. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said. “It’s not a problem that’s ever arisen, if you
see what I mean.”

“Fine.” Ziani looked round; shapes were starting to form in his mind. “Is that it?”

Calaphates nodded. “There are cellars, of course, under the main shed. Another feature of Civitas Eremiae. Because we’re short
on space for building sideways, we’ve become very inventive about going up and down. Hence, towers and cellars.”

The toolmarks on the cellar walls showed that it had been excavated the hard way, chip by chip with straight drills and hammers.
“There’d be no objection to extending this?” Ziani asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Calaphates said. “If necessary.”

“And we can use the spoil for building above ground,” Ziani went on, “instead of having to lug blocks of stone through the
streets.”

For the first time, Calaphates allowed his anxiety to show in his face. “You’ve got something quite extensive in mind, then.”

Ziani turned and looked at him. “There’s an old saying in the Guild,” he said. “The quickest, easiest and cheapest way to
do a thing properly is the first time. If you’re having second thoughts about this…”

Calaphates assured him that he wasn’t. He was almost convincing.

“I’ll have to spend a few days here,” Ziani said, as they climbed the cellar steps into the light, “drawing up plans, taking
measurements. I’ll need a few things for that, but I’m sure your overseer can deal with it. I might as well camp out in the
shed for the time being.”

Calaphates looked at him. “It’ll do, then?”

“It’ll do fine,” Ziani replied. “I feel at home here already.”

When Calaphates had gone and he had the place to himself, Ziani made a proper inspection, pacing out distances, getting a
feel for the space and how it worked. The biggest problem, water, might not be such an insurmountable obstacle after all (but
if he sidestepped the water issue, it would make the fuel problem worse; if only you could burn stone…). Time would be difficult,
because this Calaphates would have to be managed carefully; he was flexible and fairly resilient, like a good spring, but
if bent too far he’d probably prove brittle. He would need to be allowed for, but such allowance wouldn’t necessarily compromise
the tolerances Ziani was hoping to achieve.

He was concentrating so intensely on the shape of the mechanism slowly consolidating in his mind that he didn’t notice the
passing of the day, until the sun set and it was too dark to see. He lay down on a pile of half-tanned hides in the long shed,
but he couldn’t settle; so, after one final tour of the site (he found his way in the dark mostly by memory, like a blind
man; already he knew most of it by heart, not by what was there already but by what would be there, when the work was done)
he climbed up one of the towers and looked down over the city. There were few lights to be seen, because of the angle, but
lamps burned in some of the towers that perked up over the rooftops like the heads of fledgling birds in a nest, enough of
them that he could make out a pattern, a first rough working sketch for a city. He felt — he paused to analyze what he felt,
since the properties of materials change according to the stresses imposed on them by each operation. There was guilt, inevitably,
and generic sorrow, the unavoidable compassion of one human for others. There was a place for such feelings. In an ideal world,
a machine running smoothly, they were the coolants and lubricants that stopped the components from jamming and seizing under
load; it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, for a functional society to work without them. At this stage, however, they
were swarf and waste, and he needed to control them. The top of a tower was a good place for perspectives, particularly at
night, when you’re spared the sight of the greater context. He didn’t need to see it, since its outline was drawn out clearly
in his mind. The detail, yet to be resolved, could wait until the time was right.

A satisfactory meeting, in many respects; no significant disagreements between factions, for once, no disruptive intrusion
of party agendas. How pleasant, to be able to get useful work done without anything getting in the way.

Commissioner Psellus’ report was well received, and the debate on his recommendations was perfunctory, since nobody really
disagreed. Commissioner Crisestem, whose nose might have been put out of joint now that his own role had been largely superseded,
was one of the first to welcome the initiative, while Psellus made a point of stressing that Crisestem’s contribution was
still entirely relevant, and should be carried through as a matter of priority. Crisestem in turn advised the committee that
he’d made substantial progress in recruiting and briefing agents, and was confident that he’d be in a position to report a
successful outcome at the next meeting.

The motion was put to a formal vote and carried unanimously. In view of the possible leakage of restricted Guild secrets,
it stated, the Eremians posed an unacceptable threat to the security of the Perpetual Republic, and should be wiped out. A
memorandum was composed by the appropriate subcommittee and dispatched to the Commissioners of War, with copies to the General
Council, the Guild Assemblies, the Finance Department, the foreign and manpower directorates and the managing councils of
the individual Guilds. No further business arising, the meeting was adjourned.

Psellus went back to his office. The chair was still there, and the desk, and the empty cup and plate. It made no sense, but
he didn’t want to sit in that chair again just yet; he perched in the window-seat instead, and looked out at his view (the
back end of the glass factory; a blank brick wall with three doors in it). About an hour later, a clerk came to tell him that
he was wanted at the War Commission.

I should have prepared better for this meeting,
he rebuked himself, as he followed the clerk across the quadrangle to the west cloister, where the commission’s offices were.
They’ll want all the specifics about Vaatzes, and I haven’t brought the file.
He considered going back for it, but decided not to bother. Most of it he had by heart, and they’d all be getting copies
of the relevant documents in due course.

The War Commission liked to refer to themselves as the Department of Necessary Evil (there were other names for them around
the Guildhall, none of which were used to their faces). As befitted an anomaly in an otherwise standardized world, they cultivated
a slightly eccentric manner; accordingly, it was their custom when the weather permitted to meet in the open air, in the cloister
garden. It was an undeniably pleasant spot: a square garden enclosed by the cloister walls, with a fountain in the center
of the lawn, and raised flowerbeds at the edges. Grapevines and wisteria were trained on the walls, and a quincunx of elderly
fig trees provided shade in the middle. According to people who knew about such things, the garden was one of the oldest parts
of the Guildhall complex, dating back to before the Reformation. That made sense; it had a distinctly effete feel about it.
You could picture the nobles and scribes of the old Republic strutting on the lawn, waited on by obsequious footmen in extravagant
livery.

Necessary Evil didn’t indulge itself to quite that extent; there were no brocade coats or powdered wigs, no string quartet
scratching out incidental music in the background. Instead, the fourteen commissioners sat in a semicircle of ornately carved
chairs facing the fountain. Secretaries and clerks hovered around them, setting up folding desks, topping up inkwells, sharpening
pens. Two flustered-looking men were trying to stand up an easel for a large framed map; two more were struggling with a huge
brass lectern that must have weighed four hundredweight. There was a pleasant hum of chatter, like distant bees.

The only member of Necessary Evil that Psellus knew by sight was the assistant secretary, who was also vice-chairman of the
Foundrymen’s standing committee on doctrine and specifications. He was easy to spot from a distance by his perfectly bald,
slightly pointed head. In the event, he saw Psellus first and beckoned him over. His name was Zanipulo Staurachus, and Psellus
had disliked him for thirty years.

“Well,” Staurachus said, in a loud whisper, “a fine state of affairs you’ve landed us in.”

Ever since they were apprentices together, Psellus had been trying to figure out a way of coping with Staurachus. Being an
optimist at heart, he still hadn’t given up hope.

“Presumably I’ve got to brief you about Vaatzes,” he said.

“Formality, really. We need to be able to minute having interviewed you. But tell me, why did the bloody fool do it? I’ve
read his assessments, and I’m pretty sure I met him once. Wouldn’t have thought he was the type.”

Psellus thought for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure there is a type,” he replied. “I think that what people do depends a
lot on what’s done to them first.”

“I’m not talking about the defection,” Staurachus said. “Really, that’s our fault for letting him get away. But what possessed
him to go fooling about building stupid mechanical toys in the first place? If he was that way inclined, someone should’ve
picked up on it years ago, and we could’ve done something about it, and all this nonsense would’ve been avoided. You realize
this war business is playing right into the Consolidationists’ hands, just when there’s three seats on General Council up
for grabs.”

Psellus frowned. “I didn’t know that,” he said.

“Of course you didn’t. It’s not the sort of thing someone like you ought to know. But I’m telling you now, because obviously
this stupid war is going to change everything, and I need all our people to focus on the issues. I mean, Eremia doesn’t matter,
in the long run, but if Consolidation manages to get an overall majority on General Council, that’s a disaster.”

Psellus hated having to agree with Staurachus; insult to injury. “But assuming we win the war —” he said.

“Of course we’ll win,” Staurachus interrupted. “It’s
how
we win that matters. Frankly, it couldn’t have come at a worse time, with me being the only Foundryman on this commission.
Which,” he added, scowling, “is where you come in.”

“Me?”

Staurachus nodded. “I know you won’t have figured it out for yourself, because you’ve only got ten fingers for counting on;
but the rules say there should be sixteen commissioners in time of war, and we’re two short. I’m proposing we co-opt you for
the duration.”

“Me?” Psellus repeated. “Why?”

“Well, because you’re Foundry, obviously. And you know the background, you’ve researched the Eremians, specialized local knowledge
and so forth. That’s what I’ll tell the others, anyhow. There shouldn’t be any bother. The other co-optee will probably be
either Ropemakers’ or Linen Armorers’, and we’ve got to be seen to be evenhanded in appointments.”

“It’s a great honor,” Psellus said flatly. “But I don’t think… What about Curiatzes? Or Crisestem,” he added, in a burst of
happy inspiration. “He’s got the background, and he’s ambitious.”

“Exactly. So I chose you instead. Because,” Staurachus explained, “you’re not bright enough to be a nuisance, and you generally
do as you’re told. Now get over there and make your presentation. Try and make it good; I want something decent from you,
if I’m going to get them to accept you.”

Up to that point, Psellus hadn’t really hated Ziani Vaatzes, except in an objective way. The abominator had inspired in him
more curiosity than hatred. Now, though…

Mostly through force of habit, he made the best job he could of presenting the facts to the commission and fielding their
awkward questions. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, and the only overt hostility came from a Ropemaker and was therefore
to be expected. He disarmed the annoying man by admitting that Compliance had indeed made several reprehensible errors of
judgment in their handling of the case. Since this wasn’t true and everybody knew it, the Ropemaker wasn’t in any position
to make capital out of it; he accepted the admission with a grunt and sat down again. As soon as Psellus had been dismissed
and had sat down in the chair set out for him next to the fountain (a fine spray, deflected off the marble rim, fell on his
collar, but he managed to ignore it), Staurachus got up and proposed that he be co-opted. The motion was seconded by a Carpenter
and passed, twelve to one with a Shipwright abstaining. Duly elected, Psellus was led by a clerk across the lawn to a fortuitously
empty chair next to Staurachus, on the left wing of the semicircle. The chief commissioner got up and recited a formal welcome.
It was all as smooth and quick as slipping on ice.