Evil for Evil (28 page)

He’d finished the last of the plans, and cramp made going outside an unpleasant necessity. This time he walked up to the sluices
where the ore was washed. He wasn’t particularly interested in that stage of the operation, but he’d already looked at everything
else. The foreman seemed happy enough to explain the procedures to him.

“That other bloke was up here yesterday, asking,” the foreman added, after a long and rather confusing account of how the
crushed ore was washed through the strakes. “But I don’t think he was taking much of it in. Kept interrupting and asking questions;
didn’t make much sense to me.”

“The other bloke?” Ziani asked.

“The long, thin bloke. You know, him who’s been measuring the vents.”

“Oh,” Ziani said, “him. What did he want to know?”

The foreman shook his head. “Not sure. I was telling him how we get all the shit out, calamine and pyrites and sulfur. But
I think he must’ve lost the thread, because he kept asking what we did with the stuff we took out; and I told him, it’s just
washed away, it’s garbage, we don’t want it. He got a bit excited about that, like I was doing something wrong; then he said
thank you for your time,
all stiff and uptight, and went storming off in a right old state.” The foreman shrugged, expressing a broad but reluctant
tolerance of lunatics. “I told him, if the stuff ’s any good to him he’s welcome to it, if he can figure out a way of collecting
it, but I think he thought I was trying to be funny.”

Ziani scowled. “Calamine,” he said.

“And pyrites, sulfur, red lead, all that shit. I suppose there’s people who can find a use for anything.”

“I’ll ask him when he gets back,” Ziani replied. “But that won’t be for at least a week.”

Wrong. Daurenja came back two days later, in a thunderstorm, riding on the box of a large, broad-wheeled cart. There were
four other carts behind him, carrying crates covered with tarpaulins, anvils sticking out from under heavy waxed covers, and
half a dozen wet, bemused-looking men who proved to be the first installment of the promised blacksmiths.

“They didn’t want to let me in to see the Duke,” Daurenja said, standing bare-headed in the yard with the rain running down
his spiked hair like millraces and puddling around his feet. “They said I needed a pass or a certificate or something. But
I got through all right. I’m afraid I’m rather used to getting my own way.”

Ziani pulled his collar round his ears. He was having to shout to make himself heard above the splashing. “How did you manage
that?” he said.

Daurenja frowned. “To be honest, I lost my temper a little; and one of the guards shoved me — at least, he was just about
to, but I beat him to it. There was a bit of a scuffle, and that brought the duty officer out, and I said I had an urgent
message for the Duke, from you. The adjutant had the common sense to take me straight to the Duke. He was just sitting down
to dinner, but he agreed to see me right away. I gave him the letter, and I could see he was absolutely livid. He sent for
the Chancellor and gave him quite a talking-to, with me standing right next to him able to hear every word. The poor man went
bright red in the face, and then a footman or something of the sort took me to one of the guest rooms. Everything was ready
by dawn the next day, all signed for and loaded on the carts. We were on the road by mid-morning, and well, here we are.”

Ziani frowned. “And he was all right, was he? About you hitting one of the guards?”

“He didn’t mention it,” Daurenja said, and Ziani couldn’t tell whether he was lying or telling the truth. “There’s some sort
of diplomatic thing going on, important foreign guests. I think the Duke’s planning to get married or something. Anyhow, as
soon as he realized I was there on your behalf, he dropped everything and saw to it that we got our supplies straightaway.
That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

Ziani shrugged. “Business before pleasure,” he replied, “though from what I’ve seen of Valens, I don’t suppose state receptions
are his idea of fun. Maybe he was just glad of an excuse to get away from all the socializing. Look, can we get in out of
this bloody rain, please?”

The storms faded away as quickly as they’d come; in the morning it was bright and dry, perfect conditions for open-air ironworking.
As well as the things Ziani had asked for in his list, the carts had brought a genuine Mezentine-made reciprocating saw, complete
with a drive belt and spare pulleys; Ziani had told the Duke in passing how helpful such a thing would be for cutting the
iron bar-stock to length, but he’d never imagined he’d ever see one again. He had no idea where Valens or his agents had contrived
to get it from, but that didn’t matter. It was like meeting an old friend in the middle of the desert, and he’d had it carried
over to one of the wheel towers and connected up to the spindle while the rest of the carts were still being unloaded.

“You’re in love,” Carnufex said, as Ziani put in the drive and watched the flywheel spin. Ziani shook his head.

“This is better than love,” he said. “This is home.”

Carnufex laughed. “I can’t figure you out,” he said. “Ever since I’ve known you, all you’ve done is witter on about how wonderful
everything Mezentine is, and how much better they do things there. If I’d been shafted by my country as badly as you have,
I’d snarl like a wolf every time somebody mentioned the place. I certainly wouldn’t keep telling everybody how splendid it
all is. Or is it just the people in charge you don’t like?”

Ziani straightened up. The power feed was running perfectly. “Would you really?” he said. “Hate your country, I mean, if you
had to leave it?”

“Of course not,” Carnufex said. “But if they tried to put me to death for something I didn’t do —”

“Oh, I did it.” Ziani smiled.

“But it was stupid. You made some kind of clockwork doll for your kid.”

“That’s right.”

Carnufex thought for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “Apparently, you seem to think that making kids toys ought to be a capital
offense. I don’t quite see how you can believe that, but never mind. If you thought it was wrong, really, really bad, why
the hell did you do it?”

Ziani looked at him as though he thought the answer might be hidden somewhere in his face. “That,” he said, “is a very good
question. Because I thought I could get away with it, I suppose. Why does anybody ever do something wicked?”

“You’re strange,” Carnufex said.

“Not in the least,” Ziani replied. “It’s no different from robbing people in the street. You know it’s wrong. It’s against
the law, if you get caught, you’ll be punished. You know it’s wrong; you wouldn’t like it if someone did it to you. But people
still do it, because they need money, because they’re just lazy and greedy. In my case, I suppose it must have been arrogance.”

“You suppose. You don’t know.”

Ziani furrowed his brow. “No, actually, I don’t, now you come to mention it. At least, I haven’t thought about it very much
since. Maybe I ought to, I don’t know.”

Carnufex looked as though he wanted to end the conversation and walk away before he was moved to say something undiplomatic,
but after a moment’s indecision he took a step closer. “Maybe you should,” he said. “It might help you figure out where your
loyalties lie, right now.”

“Oh, no question about that,” Ziani said. “And in case you’re having doubts, you might care to consider what I did for the
Eremians. If you could’ve seen what the scorpions I made did to the Mezentines, I don’t think you’d be worrying about whose
side I’m on.” He shook his head. “You can love someone and want to hurt them as much as possible,” he said, “that’s perfectly
normal behavior.”

“Normal,” Carnufex repeated. “All right, but that’s not what we were talking about. You were saying you did this thing, making
the clockwork doll, that you knew was wicked and bad, but you can’t remember offhand why you did it. That’s …” He shrugged,
as if to say there weren’t any words for what that was.

“You’re right,” Ziani said, “it’s strange. I’ll have to think about that. Meanwhile, perhaps we ought to be getting some work
done. Have you seen Daurenja this morning?”

“Daurenja.” Carnufex scowled. “I meant to have a word with you about him. He’s been annoying my foremen.”

“Annoying?”

“Wasting their time. Getting under their feet. Asking them all sorts of bloody stupid questions and then insulting them when
they say they don’t know the answer. Look, I know he reports directly to you, but can’t you talk to him? If he carries on
like that, someone’s going to lose their temper and damage him; presumably he’s useful to you, so it’d be as well if you spoke
to him about it.”

“He’s …” Ziani shrugged. “Fine, yes, I’ll deal with it. Now, I want the long steel sections fetched over here so we can start
cutting, and I want the anvils carried over to the small ore furnace, we can use it as a forge without any major modifications.
Can you get the ore shed cleared out? I want to set up the small portable forges there for riveting.”

Carnufex had the grace to know when he was beaten. He nodded submissively as Ziani reeled off his list of jobs to be done,
and withdrew in good order, leaving his opponent in possession of the field. Nevertheless, it wasn’t a victory as far as Ziani
was concerned; he’d been forced into a lie, which he resented, especially since it was essentially self-deception.

On the other hand, the mechanical saw made up for a lot. He watched it gliding through six-inch square section bar, smoke
curling up out of the cut as one of the men dribbled oil into it, a drop at a time. The sheer joy of seeing something done
properly, after so long among the savages …

“Is that what I think it is?” Daurenja, peering over his shoulder; he wanted to shudder and pull away, as though a spider
had run across his face. “Mezentine?”

“I never realized they exported them,” Ziani replied, and there was a hint of doubt in his voice. Surely it was wrong to sell
something like this to the barbarians, in case they tried to copy it for themselves. A right-thinking man, a patriot, might
feel betrayed. “Apparently they do. Well, it’s the basic model.”

“It’ll do,” Daurenja said, with a degree of relish verging on hunger. Stupid, Ziani thought, he’s making me feel jealous.
“This ought to save us two days’ work, easily.”

“Not far off that.” Ziani looked away. Somehow, Daurenja had spoiled the moment. “I guess Valens wants this job done quickly.
I’ll write and thank him tonight, when I’ve got a moment.”

“Good idea. While you’re at it, you could ask if he could send us a trip-hammer.”

The next stage, punching the rivet-holes, was long, tedious and difficult. Each newly cut section had to be heated red in
the forge and held over the hardy-hole on the back of the anvil while one of the six blacksmiths hammered a half-inch punch
through it. If the hole was an eighth of an inch out of true, the section wouldn’t line up with the others and would therefore
be useless, and there wasn’t exactly a wealth of spare material left over to make replacements from. The work went painfully
slowly, even after both Ziani and Daurenja each took an anvil and joined in.

Even so; it was better to be working again. Ziani was shocked by the sense of release he felt as he rested the punch on the
mark and swung his hammer. He was at a loss to explain it, but it refused to be denied. It made him think of the frantic pace
of work in the weeks before the assault on Civitas Eremiae; how, for a short while, he’d managed to give himself the slip
as he plunged into the endless, sprawling, choking detail of building the scorpions. He thought about them, too. If he’d been
classified as an artist, like a painter or a sculptor, they would have been acclaimed as his finest creation, the masterpiece
he’d achieved at the height of his powers. That would be wrong, of course. Judged objectively, as though by a panel of his
fellow engineers, the best thing he’d ever done had been the mechanical toy he’d made for his daughter, a long time ago in
a place he was forbidden to go back to.

(What had become of it, he wondered; had it been completely destroyed, smashed up and melted down, the metal once cool buried
or sunk to the bottom of the sea; or did it still exist somewhere, locked away in a warehouse, or the cellars under the Guildhall?
He could picture it still in his mind’s eye; every detail, every brazed joint and polished keyway, every departure from Specification.
He grinned; when they came to inspect it, they hadn’t found all his modifications. Some of his best, variations too subtle
and delicate for the naked eye, or even gauges and calipers, hadn’t been mentioned in the list of charges read out at his
trial. There were tiny but significant alterations to the pitch of the threads that fed the worm-drive. On the inside of the
crank-case, he’d replaced a flush-set rivet with a setscrew. The teeth of the middle cog in the main gear train were beveled
on top rather than plain. If the mechanism still existed somewhere, it bristled with unpurged abominations, which only he
knew about and which they’d been too careless to notice. It was a slight victory, but an important one.)

The punching took a day. When it was finally finished (Ziani had insisted on working into the night; that hadn’t made him
popular), all he wanted to do was crawl away to his lodgings and go to sleep. He’d walked half the distance when he realized
that Daurenja was still with him, talking at him, like a long, thin, yapping dog.

“It’d mean cutting the slot with a chisel,” Daurenja was saying, “because you couldn’t get in there with a milling cutter,
not even a long-series end-mill, but if you went at it nice and slow, and finished it up afterward with a four-square file
… After all, the dimensions wouldn’t be critical, it’s just got to guide the slider into the mortice …”

Ziani blinked, as if he’d just woken up. “Fine,” he said. “You do it that way.”

“You sound like you think there’d be a problem.”

“What? No, really. I think it’d work. In fact, I’m certain of it.”

“Excellent.” Daurenja was beaming at him. Even though his back was to him, Ziani could feel the glare from his smile on the
back of his neck. “Which really only leaves the question of how to make the receiver head. And what I was thinking was, how
about making it in two parts? Dovetailed together, then brazed or even soft-soldered, it’s not a load-bearing component …”