Evil for Evil (93 page)

They could hear the shouting down in the cells.

"I can see why he was reprieved," the tall, thin commissioner said to his short, stout colleague. "And reinstated, come to that. Though if you ask me, he shouldn't have been convicted in the first place. After all, what'd he done, except follow orders? It was all there in writing…"

"Ah yes." The short, stout commissioner nodded wisely and helped himself to cinnamon and grated cheese. "It was all there in the copy in the minute book they found in Boioannes' office when they searched it. What we got shown at the hearing was something quite other. Besides, I don't seem to remember you voting for acquittal. It was unanimous."

"Well of course." The tall man shrugged. "But that's by the bye. The thing is, the only point at which Psellus exceeded his authority was once he'd found out about the existence of this confounded secret way across the desert; and of course, he does the only possible thing he can do in the circumstances. He tries to have the Vadani column wiped out to the last man before they can reach the savages and tell them about it. Didn't work, as we know. In all probability, he was set up by Vaatzes, just as they say he was. Doesn't matter. Simple fact is, the only thing that could possibly have saved us was wiping out that column before they met up with the Cure Hardy; he tried to do it, gave it his best shot; give him his due, it nearly worked, only a day or so in it. At least he tried."

The short man smiled as he stirred his cup. "So you'll be supporting him in the ballot, then?"

"Not sure I'm prepared to go that far," the tall man replied thoughtfully. "To be honest with you, I'm not really sure what to do. No precedent; I mean, a ballot for chairmanship of Necessary Evil…"

"I don't see how we have any choice, frankly," the short man replied. "With the mess we're in, it's like the whole structure of politics in this town's melted away like ice in springtime. Boioannes gone, the Guilds actually talking to each other—actually listening to each other, which is more disturbing still, if you ask me. Nobody knows where the hell they are or who's running anything. Why not have a ballot? The state we're in, what harm could it actually do?"

The tall man sipped his drink, but it was still a little too hot for comfort. "Well, quite," he said. "And by the same token, why not Psellus? One thing you can say for him, he's guaranteed a hundred percent clean. Poor fellow was so obviously out of the loop at all times, stands to reason he can't have been in with one faction or the other. If it's compromise and conciliation we're after, we could do a lot worse. It's just a shame he's an idiot."

The short man sighed. "I don't think anyone's come out of this looking particularly smart," he said. "For a start, when it all came out about how Boioannes had been manipulating the war, and none of us had a clue what he'd really been up to—"

"Speak for yourself." The tall man smiled. "There were a few of us who had our suspicions, believe me."

"Easy to say after the event."

"True. Guaranteed bloody fatal to say
before
the event. Though whether it's better to be clever and a coward is a moot point, I suppose. Doesn't matter. Boioannes is out of the picture—did you hear, by the way, the Foundrymen've issued a formal notice of expulsion from the Guild?"

The short man (who was a Fuller and Dyer) chuckled. "I'm sure he'll be cut to the quick if he ever hears of it, wherever the hell he's gone. Last rumor I heard said he was back in the old country."

"Unlikely." The tall man shook his head. "Too many widows and orphans over there who'd like to discuss the conduct of the war with him. Personally, I think he's in Lonazep. In which case," he added, "let's hope Compliance live up to the standard they've set themselves recently and fail to find him. Last thing we need is Boioannes on trial and making trouble for everybody."

"Agreed."

Cool enough to drink by now; there was a brief pause. Then the short man said,

"Do you really think we've had it this time, like everybody's saying?" As the tall man started to scowl, he added quickly, "I know, I wouldn't have raised the subject, except I happened to overhear them talking at the finance meeting this morning; they're offering the Jazyges five times the basic rate, but so far they've shown no interest at all."

"Is that right?"

The short man shrugged. "It's what they were saying."

"But the Jazyges are—well, if you ask me, they're no better than the Cure Hardy. In fact, we might as well be sending recruiters out there, try and get some of the other tribes to come in with us against the Aram Chantat. It'd make as much sense as—"

"I've heard they're considering that," the short man said. That shut the tall man up for a long time.

"Well in that case," he said eventually, "yes, I think we're probably screwed. In fact, the only hope I can see for us is if we all vote for Psellus and he manages to persuade his friend Vaatzes to lead the entire Aram Chantat out into the desert and lose them there. Other than that…"

"Don't go saying things like that where anybody's likely to hear you," the short man replied grimly. "Otherwise, there's a real risk they might try it." Both of them seemed to have lost their appetite for mead mulled with spices. They put their cups down on the little brass table and avoided each other's eye.

"It's a thought," the tall man said at last.

"Don't joke about it."

"I think we've reached the stage where black comedy's our likeliest source of inspiration," the tall man said. "There's a joke doing the rounds, don't know if you've heard it: what've common sense and Ziani Vaatzes got in common? Answer: they've both gone out the window. Puts it rather well, if you ask me. So yes; why the hell not? After all, Boioannes was prepared to negotiate with the man. If he can get us out of this…"

The short man pulled a sour face. "Everywhere I go," he said, "people are talking about Vaatzes as though he's some sort of supernatural entity, instead of a foreman who got caught playing with things he shouldn't have. What earthly reason do you have for supposing he could make the Aram Chantat suddenly disappear in a puff of smoke, even if he wanted to?"

"He made our army disappear."

The short man seemed unwilling to pursue that argument. "If I vote for Lucao Psellus," he said after a while, "and I'm not saying I'm going to; but if I do, it's because he's the man least likely to trust that arsehole Vaatzes ever again." He made a violent gesture, rocking the table and almost upsetting the cups. "I still find it impossible to believe that one individual could have such an effect on the safety of the Republic," he said. "In one of the savage countries maybe; they have kings and dukes, they positively invite that sort of thing. But one man—a foreman, for pity's sake. I just can't see it."

"Most of it must've been luck," the tall man replied soothingly. "Finding out about the way across the desert; sheer luck. Even we can't legislate for that sort of fluke." He stood up. "I'd better be making tracks," he said. "I don't want to be late for my afternoon meeting. Something tells me that the dear old leisurely ways of doing things may well prove to be yet more casualties of the massacre in the desert." Hardly the most important meeting of the year; no more than the monthly review of performance and production at the ordnance factory. As always the manager, deputy manager, department heads, supervisory managers and their staffs were there waiting for him; the man he was rather looking forward to meeting again, however, was the new foreman—new; Falier had already taken over the job by the time he'd first met him, but everybody still called him the new foreman; as though time had somehow stopped running; as though everybody was subconsciously waiting for Ziani Vaatzes to come back. It was Vaatzes, of course, he wanted to discuss with Falier, in the light of his discussion at lunch…

His footsteps in the porch; the scrape as he dragged his boots off without bothering to untie the laces. It was a silly, childish habit, and bound to spoil good, expensive boots in the long run.

"I'm home," he called out. That annoyed her too. She knew he was home as soon as she heard the area gate creak. From there to the front door, always exactly nine seconds; precise as a machine.

She didn't bother to answer, as she scraped burned milk off the bottom of the pan with the back of a wooden spoon. "I said I'm home," he called out. "Where are you?"

"In the kitchen."

He bustled through, grimy-handed, brushing against the doorframe. "Hell of a flap at work today," he said. "You know that government bloke who kept on dragging you in to talk about—well, you know. Apparently, he's been put on trial, for treason or something."

If she'd been a cat, she'd have given herself away by putting her ears back.

"Serves him right," she mumbled. "Sit down, dinner's nearly ready."

"It gets better," he continued—she had her back to him and didn't know if he was looking at her or not. "Apparently he was convicted, and then they let him off."

"Pity."

"And now," he went on, "they're talking about making him something high up in the Guilds; and you'll never guess why."

"Because he's horrible?"

"Because while he was doing some secret mission or other, he actually met Ziani. Right there in the heart of enemy territory. Met him and talked to him." The pan handle was too hot, but she couldn't seem to let go of it. "So he's still alive, then. The last I heard, he was meant to be dead."

"Honey." He sounded upset about something.

"Well, that's what I heard. They sent a cavalry army or something specially to get him. Don't say they made a mess of that too."

"Apparently." She could feel him willing her to turn round. Instead she rested the pan carefully on the stove top and let go. "Honey, you aren't worried about anything, are you?"

"Of course I'm worried, if that horrible man Psellus is going to be running the Guilds," she snapped. "He's strange, I don't like him. He wants something from me and I don't know what it is."

"Fine." Now he was going to lose his temper. "So what am I supposed to do about it? Challenge him to a duel or something?" He paused; when he spoke again, his voice was colder. "Are you thinking,
that's what Ziani would've done, if
someone was bothering me like that
? Well, maybe you're right. As we both know, he was crazy in the head."

"I really don't want to talk about him," she said, loud and quick. She scooped the beans out of the pan, added them to his plate and stabbed the fire with the poker as if it had been Lucao Psellus.

"All right," he said. "I just thought you'd be interested."

"Well I'm not."

That night, when he'd gone to bed, she opened the triangular cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and took out a packet of cardamom seeds, which she emptied into a bowl. Then, with a small peeling knife, she carefully slit the edges of the packet and smoothed the coarse parchment out into a sheet. It was a bit too shiny, so she took a minute or so to smooth it down with the kitchen pumice, until the surface was dull. From his study she took the brass inkwell and a new goose quill—he'd miss it, but that couldn't be helped; he was always losing things, so it wouldn't be too much of a problem. She sharpened the quill with her peeling knife, taking care to scoop up all the shavings and put them on the fire. As a final precaution, she wedged the door with the kitchen chair.

It was a while before she could nerve herself to start. She hadn't written anything for years now. Did he know she even could? The question had never arisen. Probably he assumed she couldn't; it wasn't a highly valued accomplishment among women of their class. She smiled, remembering Ziani's stupid book, which he'd left lying about in his study because he had no idea she could read it. Not that it had been worth reading.

Slowly and carefully she wrote the address. Important not to get ink on her fingers; you had to pumice them to the bone before you could get rid of the stain, and he wouldn't believe her if she said it was soot. She winced at the unfamiliar pressure of the quill against the side of her knuckle. People who did a lot of writing got used to it, presumably, but it had always struck her as an uncomfortable tool to use.

My husband says…

A clumsy way to start; still, she'd written it now.

My husband says Psellus is going to be the new head of necessary evil…

(Should that have been capital N and capital E? Not that it mattered.)

…and I'm worried. Is it true? If he starts asking questions again, what should I tell him? If he's going to be in charge of everything, sooner or later he's going to find out something bad. You promised at the start nothing bad was going to happen to me. You never come and see me anymore…

She lifted her hand away so she could read the last few words. Shouldn't have written that. It was what they all said, sooner or later; the women she'd always pitied, promising herself she'd never be one of them. She thought for a moment; inspiration struck.