Evil for Evil (3 page)

Orsea stayed where he was. The hunted animal runs away. The fencer steps back as his opponent advances, to maintain the safe
distance between them. “Thanks,” he said. “To be honest, there’s nothing useful I could contribute anyway. I mean, it’s not
like I made a particularly good job of defending my country against the Mezentines, so I’m hardly likely to do any better
with yours.”

Valens looked away. “You can believe that if you want to,” he said. “It’s not true, of course. You beat off a direct assault,
which nobody’s ever done before —”

“That was Vaatzes,” Orsea interrupted, “not me.”

“Yes, but you chose him. That’s what leaders do, they choose the right people.”

“Like Miel Ducas.” Orsea laughed. “He was very good indeed. But of course, I relieved him of command and had him locked up,
just when we needed him most.”

Valens froze, as though he’d just put his foot in a snare. “That’s beside the point.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Orsea sat down. “None of it’s important. What matters is that I started the war in the first place.
Nobody else but me. And now it’s come here. You know what? I think the war follows me around, like a butcher’s dog.”

Valens stifled a yawn. This was mere pointless activity, but it was his duty as a good host to carry on to the end. “You didn’t
start my war, Orsea,” he said. “I did that.”

“Because of me.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

(In his mind, he was phrasing another question for a letter:
Suppose you were fencing with a man who wanted to get killed, but if you kill him, you lose the game. How would you go about
it?
)

“Valens.” Orsea was looking at him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Orsea turned his head. Valens had seen people do something similar before; squeamish men who had to put a wounded animal out
of its misery. “You know why I had Miel Ducas arrested?”

“I heard something about it.”

“What happened was,” Orsea said slowly, “I found out that he had a letter. It was something he shouldn’t have had. What I
mean is, as soon as it came into his possession he should’ve brought it to me, but he didn’t.” He lifted his head; he was
looking into the corner of the room. “Apparently that’s treason,” he said. “I looked it up.”

“You couldn’t trust him anymore. Well, that’s fair enough.”

“Trust,” Orsea repeated. “That old thing. You know,” he went on, “I’ve been thinking a lot about trust recently.”

“Understandably,” Valens murmured. “Someone betrayed your city to the enemy.”

“Several people, actually,” Orsea replied briskly, “including me. But that’s not what’s been bothering me. I’ve been thinking
— look, can you spare the time for all this? Listening to me rambling on, I mean. It’s really self-indulgent of me, and you’re
a busy man.”

“It’s raining,” Valens said. “I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Trust.” Orsea jumped up, still looking away. “Trust’s important, because if you can’t trust someone, there’s a risk he’ll
do something to hurt you. So you take steps, if you’re a prudent man. You take steps to make sure he can’t hurt you, assuming
he wants to. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there you go. But it’s not as simple as that.” He seemed to be nerving himself to do something, and failing. “It’s
not something you can predict, like the workings of a machine. I mean, it’s not simple cause and effect. Sometimes, someone
you thought was your friend does something to breach your trust, but he’s still your friend really, in things that matter.
And sometimes your enemy, the man you’ve never trusted, pops up out of nowhere and saves your life.” Now he turned, and looked
Valens in the eye. “Stuff like that,” he said, “it sort of makes nonsense out of it all, doesn’t it?”

Valens found that he’d taken a step back. Force of habit again. “I’ve always found,” he said quietly, “that if I can’t understand
something, it’s because I don’t know all the facts.”

“Ah well.” Orsea suddenly smiled. “That’s the difference between us, I guess. When I can’t understand something, it’s generally
because I’m too stupid to get my head round it.”

“You can believe that,” Valens replied, “if you want to.”

Orsea nodded. “Did you know?” he said. “About Miel Ducas, and the letter?”

“I knew there was a letter involved in it,” Valens said. “But not the details.”

“Not all the facts, then.”

Valens shrugged. “It was none of my business,” he said, “so I didn’t bother finding out.”

(Valens thought: my father always told me that what’s wrong with lying is that it’s an admission of weakness. If you’re the
strongest, you can afford to tell the truth.)

“Good attitude,” Orsea said. “Wouldn’t you like to hear the inside story?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well.” Orsea relaxed a little, as if a fight he’d been expecting had been called off. “Like I said, you’re a busy man. No
time for things that don’t concern you.”

“Quite.”

Orsea sighed. “And you’re right, of course,” he said. “There’s no point in me coming to meetings anymore, and you’re right,
they do upset me. I felt I ought to keep coming along, just in case I could be useful. But since I can’t, there’s no point.”

“No.”

“Thanks.” Orsea took a few steps toward the door. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I really am very grateful for everything
you’ve done for me.”

Valens let him go without saying anything else. When he’d gone, he sat down, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Unearned
gratitude, he thought, just what I always wanted. More cheating, of course. I wonder: do I like the hunt so much because it’s
the one thing I do where it isn’t possible to cheat?

He went back to the tower, changed out of his pretty clothes and put on something comfortable. Another thing his father had
always told him:
If you cheat, sooner or later you’ll be punished for it.
That was no lie. Of course, to begin with they were just letters. It was only when he’d become dependent on them that the
dishonesty began. It was perfectly simple. She was married — to Orsea, of all people, Duke of Eremia, his people’s traditional
enemy. But because he knew they could never be together, there could never be anything except letters between them, he’d carried
on writing and reading them, until he’d reached the point where he was little more than a foreign correspondent reporting
back on his own life to a readership living far away, in a country he could never go to. And — of course — now she was here,
never more than a hundred yards away from him, and he couldn’t write to her anymore, let alone speak to her. He’d taken his
country to war in order to rescue her, and thereby lost her forever.

He grinned. And Orsea thought
he
was stupid.

She’d be at dinner tonight. By way of exquisitely honed masochism, Valens had ordered the seating plan so that she always
sat in the same place she’d been in the first time he’d seen her, seven years ago, when she’d come here as a hostage during
the final peace negotiations. That reminded him of something Orsea had said about the war. Orsea had been wrong about that,
but the phrase he’d used was nicely appropriate. Irony, Valens thought; irony follows me everywhere. When I was seventeen
and she was here the first time, I wanted the negotiations to fail and the war to carry on, because as soon as there was peace
I knew she’d go away and I’d never see her again. Now, war has brought her back to me again, like a cynical go-between. Pleasant
thought: war wants us to be together so much, it’ll do anything to make it happen. I never knew war and love were so close.

If my mind were a falcon, he thought, this is the point where there’d be the biggest risk of it not coming back to the lure.
He pulled his shoes on and went back down the stairs to the library. It was time for the day’s reports; at least he still
got some letters, but these days they were all from spies and traitors.

Anser, reporting on the Eremian resistance. He frowned as he broke the seal. He’d sent Anser out of guilt, mostly. The purpose
of the mission was to infiltrate the resistance and report back on its activities, but while he was there he’d undoubtedly
be making himself useful, if only to help pass the time, and when it came to violence, Anser could be very useful indeed.

Anser to Duke Valens, greetings.

Things aren’t going well, but they could be worse. Yesterday we attacked the supply convoy for the main expeditionary force.
We did a good job. It was the fifth convoy in a row that we stopped from getting through, which by my calculations means that
fairly soon they’ll have to turn around and go back to the city or starve. Unfortunately, we got beaten up pretty badly in
the process; over a hundred killed, half as many driven off and scattered, quite possibly caught by the cavalry patrols. The
Mezentines have hired some new light cavalry; I haven’t a clue who they are or where they’re from, but they’re obviously used
to operating in the mountains, and they’re proving to be a real nuisance. The bad news is, Miel Ducas is missing. If he was
dead and they’d found the body, I think we’d have heard about it by now, it’d be the break the Mezentines have been waiting
for. We’ve been trying to keep the fact that he’s missing quiet, but it won’t be long before it gets out. When that happens,
it’ll probably be the end of effective resistance. It’s annoying, because we were holding our own, if not making any real
progress. Meanwhile, I’m not sure who’s in charge here, though I have an unpleasant feeling it’s probably me.

This is only a suggestion; but I understand you’ve got another Ducas there with you in the city, Jarac or Jarnac or some such.
If it turns out we really have lost Miel, would you consider sending him here? The Ducas name means a lot to these people,
and I guess your specimen’s now the head of the family.

Things we need: food, of course, and boots and blankets; a few barrels of arrows would be nice, but I imagine you’d rather
keep them for yourself. A good surveyor would have made a hell of a difference a week ago. If you can spare a couple of field
surgeons, we could probably find something for them to do.

According to some people who came in last week, the Mezentine seventh infantry have left the city, headed north. If it’s true
I can’t account for it. I don’t trust the people who told me this, but I have no reason to believe they’re lying.

Trust again. As Orsea had said, that old thing. Valens reached across the table for the ink bottle and wrote a requisition
for food, boots, blankets; he hesitated, then added ten barrels of arrows and two surgeons. Wasteful, because if Miel Ducas
really was dead, quite soon there’d be no resistance to feed or arm, Anser was quite right about that. Even so; he sealed
the requisition and put it on the pile for the clerks to collect. He wondered if he ought to have Anser’s letter copied to
Orsea, but decided against it.

He picked up another sheet of paper, and wrote on it:

Valens to Anser, greetings.

Make finding out about the Ducas your first priority. I can’t send you Jarnac Ducas, he’s too useful to me here; at last I’ve
found an Eremian who’s good for something other than causing me problems. I’m sending you what you asked for, but there won’t
be any more. I think it’s time to cut our losses, even if the Ducas is still alive. Once you’ve found out about that, disentangle
yourself and come home; we’ve had a change of plans here, and I need you to do something for me. I’m sorry for wasting your
time …

Valens hesitated, then picked up the pumice and rubbed out the last line. He wrote instead:

I hope you’ve enjoyed your holiday (I know how much you like travel and meeting new people). One last thing; if any of your
people there have heard any rumors — anything at all — about who sold out Civitas Eremiae to the Mezentines, I want to know
about it. Until I know the answer to that question, I’m wasting my time here trying to plan any kind of strategy.

He lifted his head and looked out of the window. It had stopped raining. Too late now, of course. As far as he was concerned,
the day was a dead loss.

Well, he was in the library, he might as well read a book. There were plenty to choose from. His father (his father used to
say that reading was like taking a bath; sometimes you had to do it) had bought a hundredweight of books (various) from a
trader. He had had the books unpacked, and shelves put up in the old game larder to store them on. When Valens was fifteen,
he’d told him he could choose five books for his own; the rest would be burned. Valens had read them all, desperately, in
a hurry, and made his choice. Varro’s
On Statecraft,
Yonec’s
Art of War,
the Suda
Encyclopedia,
Statianus on revenues and currency, and the
Standard Digest of Laws & Statutes;
five books, Valens reckoned, that between them contained the bare minimum of knowledge and wisdom a prince needed in order
to do his job properly. When he announced that he’d made his choice, his father had had the five books burned and spared the
rest; books should be a man’s servant, he declared, not his master. Valens wasn’t quite sure he saw the point, but he’d learned
the lesson, though not perhaps the one his father had intended to convey: that to value anything is to give it an unacceptable
degree of power over you, and to choose a thing is to lose it.

Most of what survived the bonfire was garbage: inaccurate books with pretty pictures, elegant and insipid belles-lettres,
genteel pornography. When his father died, Valens sold most of them back to the same trader and started building a real library.
There were three sections: technical and reference, literature, and the finest collection of hunting manuals in the world.

He stood up, faced the shelves like a general addressing his troops on the eve of battle, and made a choice.

Regentius’
Calendar of Hawks and Ladies
had been one of the original hundredweight. It was a big, fat book with lurid pictures of birds of prey and couples having
sex, apparently drawn by a scribe who’d never seen either, but there was one chapter that justified keeping it. The woman
is a heron who feeds alone on the marshes; the man is the wild falcon who hunts her and is himself hunted by the austringers,
who wish to break him and sell him to the king. To catch the hawk, the austringers first snare the heron with lime and stake
her out under a cage-trap. The falcon knows something is wrong, because no heron ever stood still for so long under a tree;
but although he knows it’s a trap, he can’t deny his nature and eventually he swoops to the kill and triggers the snare; the
cage drops down around him and he is caught. An allegory, the sort of thing that was considered the height of sophistication
two hundred years ago; just in case the reader fails to make the obvious interpretation, there are brightly colored vignettes
of men and women in the margin to point him in the right direction.