Evil for Evil (44 page)

Orsea smiled, and nudged his finger under the hawk’s claws. It stepped up onto it, and he said, “Untie the jesses, I can’t
take it otherwise.”

“The what?”

“The leather strings round its legs. They’re tied to your arm.”

“Are they? So they are.” Ziani fumbled for a moment, and the jesses dropped. Orsea grabbed them quickly with his left hand
and tucked them into his right fist. “I’m very sorry,” Ziani was saying. “Some fool came and shoved this thing at me. I got
the impression it’s meant to be a great honor, but —”

“It is,” Orsea said. “What you’ve got here is a peregrine. Nice one, too.”

“Peregrine,” Ziani repeated. “Hang on, I know this. The peregrine is for a count —”

“Earl, actually,” Orsea said. “A count would have a saker. But you’re close.” He frowned. “Have you been reading King Fashion?”

Ziani nodded. “Not that it’s done me much good,” he said. “It’s hard memorizing stuff when you haven’t got a clue what any
of it means.” He pulled a face, as though concentrating. “You’re a duke, so you ought to have a falcon of the rock, whatever
that’s supposed to be.”

Orsea laughed. “Actually, nobody knows, it’s been the subject of learned debate for centuries. Most people reckon it means
either a gyrfalcon or a gyrfalcon tiercel, but there’s another school of thought that reckons it means a goshawk, even though
they’re short-winged hawks and not really falcons at all.” He clicked his tongue. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m told that falconry
is the second most boring subject in the world, if you don’t happen to be up on it. I can’t remember what the first most boring
is. Hunting, probably.”

Ziani shook his head. “Engineering,” he said. “Trust me, I’ve seen the glazed look in people’s eyes when I’ve been talking
at them too long.”

“Well, I won’t contradict you,” Orsea said sagely. “Though I reckon fencing’s got to be pretty close to the top of the list,
and Mannerist poetry, and estate management. All the stuff I actually know something about,” he added with a grin, “which
says something or other about an aristocratic education.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Veatriz; she had
that fixed smile that meant her attention was elsewhere; the men were talking, her job was to keep still and look respectably
decorative. Of course, he told himself,
he
didn’t think like that; perish the thought. On the other hand, he could have a fairly animated conversation with a relative
stranger, but only ever talked to her in questions — where’s my shirt, what time are we supposed to be there, did you remember
to bring the keys? Well, he thought, marriage. When you know someone as well as you know your wife, there’s not a great deal
that needs saying out loud (he didn’t believe that, but it sounded comfortably plausible). “Anyhow,” he said, a little too
loudly, as if he’d just caught himself nodding off to sleep, “I’ll look after this beauty for you, if you don’t want …”

“Please,” Ziani said, with a shudder that was only mildly exaggerated for effect. “I’d only hurt it, or lose it or something.”

“You don’t like the idea of being an honorary earl, then?”

“Me? Not likely. I remember looking at that list in King Fashion, and there doesn’t seem to be a species of bird of prey appropriate
for a factory supervisor.”

Orsea pursed his lips. “No,” he said. “Unless a supervisor counts as a clerk, in which case you’re entitled to a male sparrowhawk.
You wouldn’t want one, though, they’re useless.”

“Orsea.” Veatriz tugged very gently at his sleeve. “They’ve arrived.”

“What? Oh.” Orsea looked round, and saw a party of five,already mounted, on particularly fine matching dapple-gray palfreys.
Valens was in front, looking pale and uncomfortable in gray velvet. Next to him, the savage woman — the Duchess, Orsea corrected
himself — also in gray; next to her, the two uncles, overdressed in fringed, slashed buckskin over scarlet satin; bringing
up the rear, the head austringer. All five carried hawks on their wrists. The Duchess looked solemn to the point of sourness,
Valens looked apprehensive, and Orsea had the feeling that neither of the uncles was completely sober. Jarnac should have
been here, he caught himself thinking; then he remembered that Jarnac (the frivolous, irresponsible buffoon who lived only
for hunting and hawking) was still in Eremia, fighting what little was left of the war for the survival of his people. The
question is, Orsea asked himself, what the hell am I doing here? To that, of course, there was no sensible answer.

Time to mount; he looked round, suddenly realizing that he no longer owned a horse; but there was a groom standing next to
him (hadn’t been there a second before, he could have sworn) holding the bridle of a tall chestnut gelding; for him, apparently.
He handed the hawk to Veatriz, heaved himself into the saddle, kept still while the groom fussed over the stirrup leathers
and the girth, then leaned forward and took the hawk back. It settled comfortably on his wrist, as though there was a socket
there for it to snap into. Anybody looking at him would be forgiven for thinking he was somebody important: a duke, say.

Veatriz was mounted too; they’d given her a small, rounded bay jennet and a pretty little merlin, with a green velvet hood.
He looked past her to see what they’d brought for Ziani, and was amused to see him heaped up (no other word for it) on the
back of a huge, chunky black cob, with legs like tree trunks. He looked very sad, and was clearly trying not to think of how
far off the ground he was. At once, Orsea thought back to the disastrous hunt that Jarnac Ducas had organized, not long before
the siege of Civitas Eremiae; Ziani Vaatzes had contrived to get himself in the way of a wounded and very angry boar, and
it had taken some pretty spectacular heroics from Miel Ducas to save his hide … But Orsea didn’t want to remember Miel Ducas
just then.

Movement. He legged his horse round to fall in with the rest of the party, looking for Veatriz; but she’d joined the column
further up, and was riding next to a fat man on a huge roan mare, just behind the five dapple-grays. He frowned. He wanted
to be closer to her, but it’d be a fearful breach of protocol to jump places, now that the party had set off. He glanced over
his shoulder. Ziani was bringing up the rear, on his own, a few yards ahead of the hunt servants and the hawks. “Fine day
for it,” the man beside Orsea said.

“Not bad,” he replied. “I’m sorry, I don’t know …”

“My name’s Daurenja,” the man said; and Orsea looked at him properly. Extraordinary creature, he thought, somewhere between
a rat, a toad and a spider, with a long ponytail of dank black hair. But he rode very well, with a fine upright seat, head
up and shoulders back, and he wore the sparrowhawk on his wrist like some sort of ornament, the way fine ladies wished they
could. “I work for Ziani Vaatzes, the engineer.”

“I know Ziani,” Orsea said. “He’s just behind us, if you’re looking for him.”

“I know,” the man replied. “But he’s really not used to this sort of thing, and since I’m his assistant, I don’t want to make
him feel self-conscious. He’d feel I was showing him up.”

Fair enough, Orsea thought; and if Valens saw fit to invite this character, that was entirely up to him.

“Mind you,” the man went on, “I’m pretty rusty myself. Haven’t been out with the hawks for years, not since I was a kid. My
father kept a lanner and a couple of merlins, we used to go out quite often at one time, but …” He shrugged expressively.
“Things got in the way since then, you know how it is. So this is quite a treat for me. I must say, I was surprised when I
got the invitation. I’m guessing they only asked me because they assumed I’d refuse.”

Orsea smiled bleakly. “Valens has got quite a reputation as a falconer,” he said. “Chances are we’re in for a good day.”

“It’s a privilege, I know,” the man said. “Ever since I came here, I’ve been lucky enough to be associated with some exceptional
people.”

Orsea tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t.

They rode down into the valley, along the river, past the lake toward the marshes. “Looks like we’re starting with heron,”
the man said cheerfully. “I hope so,” he went on, “that’d give your peregrine a chance to show what she’s made of. That’s
a beautiful bird you’ve got there, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Orsea said awkwardly. “Actually, she’s not mine. I think she belongs to the Duke.”

The man nodded. “Conditions should be just right for her; nice warm day, the air rising. I’m not sure what I’ll find for this
old thing to fly at, unless we head up through the stubbles later on and put up a partridge or two. I don’t think she’s done
much,” he added sadly. “The woman I borrowed her from — merchant, down in the town — I think she only keeps her as a fashion
accessory. I just hope I don’t lose her as soon as I let her go. That’d be embarrassing.”

“That’s sparrowhawks for you,” Orsea heard himself say, in the cheerful, slightly loud voice he used for being polite to people
he’d taken an early, irrational dislike to. “They’re as bad as goshawks for straying.”

“Absolutely,” the man said earnestly. “And so damn picky with their food, die as soon as look at you, out of sheer spite.
My father bought one for my mother, but she couldn’t stand the thing, so she passed it on to my elder brother to catch thrushes
with. He’d had it six months, just starting to think he’d reached an understanding with it, and then suddenly one morning
he comes down and finds it lying on the mews floor, dead as a nail. Put him right off hawks for life.” He sighed, as though
reliving the sadness of it all. “What I always wanted,” he went on, “was a saker. Of course, there wasn’t much river work
where I grew up: partridges in the autumn, pheasant and woodcock in winter. A saker’s much more of a moorland hawk, I always
feel, though of course the best ones come from the south; I expect our new best friends favor them, for desert work.”

At least, Orsea told himself, he doesn’t seem inclined to talk about the wedding. Small mercies. Even so, it would be very
pleasant to get back to his room later on, and bolt the door.

They were skirting the edge of the marshes, riding slowly, picking their way between tussocks of couch grass along a black,
peaty sheep-trail. The sunlight glared off steel-gray pools, and the stink of bog mud was very strong. Through a curtain of
reeds Orsea was sure he’d caught sight of ducks, floating in the middle of a broad pool, but apparently they weren’t the quarry
Valens had in mind. Orsea could just see him, well ahead of the rest of the party, riding with the master falconer at his
side; they spoke to each other occasionally, a few low words. Suddenly Valens held up his hand. The column halted — Orsea
had to rein in quite sharply to keep from barging into the tail of the horse in front — and Valens and the falconer went on
ahead, moving slowly but with obvious purpose, as though looking for something they knew was there.

It proved to be a pair of herons, which burst out of a clump of reeds and soared upwards, pumping their wings as they gained
height. Valens and the falconer were unhooding their hawks — the Duchess’ goshawk, and a superb white gyrfalcon which the
falconer had been carrying. By the time the hoods were off, the herons were black specks smudged by the glare of the sun,
but the hawks lifted and followed their line, binding to them straightaway, overtaking them, turning them back and swooping
when they were almost directly above Valens’ head. The goshawk struck a second or so before the gyrfalcon, at which the Duchess’
uncles cheered and clapped loudly; nobody else moved or made a sound. Presumably it was either a political point or a good
omen. The falconer dismounted to break up the dead herons; he cut them open, twisted and tugged out the wing-bones, cracked
them like a thatcher twisting a spar and teased out the marrow as a reward for the hawks. They ate it off the side of his
hand, quickly and disdainfully, as though eating was hardly a proper activity for a well-bred hawk.

“Pretty flight,” Daurenja was saying, “though the goshawk was a bit slow to bind, I thought. Still, she made up for it through
the air.”

Orsea nodded, since it was easier to agree than to think about what he was saying. The falconer was stringing the herons from
his saddle by their necks; their heads drooped like wilted flowers. While he was busy, a dozen or so men appeared over the
skyline, with four long, thin greyhounds and four spaniels at their heels: beaters, presumably, to drive the reeds.

“This is more like it,” Daurenja was saying. “I guess they’d marked that pair of herons beforehand, and Valens wanted to start
with them to try out the new goshawk, so he held the beaters and dogs back in case they put the ducks up early.”

(There you are, then, Orsea thought. Another of life’s mysteries solved.)

Valens, the falconer and the leader of the beating party were deep in conference, each of them pointing in a different direction
and looking thoughtful and solemn. Evidently, there had been some unforeseen development that had thrown out their carefully
framed strategy. If only we’d taken this much care over our tactical planning during the war, Orsea thought, I’d probably
still be in Civitas Eremiae right now; either there or inside Mezentia, interviewing potential garrison commanders. The conference
appeared to break up; then Valens must’ve changed his mind, because he waved the head beater back for a second round of negotiations,
while three of the dogs lay down in the heather and went to sleep. The falconer came back and joined in, there was quite a
bit more pointing; then Valens nodded his head decisively and everybody started to move at the same time. The dogs jumped
up, their heads lifted; the beaters slipped the chokes over their necks and led them off, apparently back the way they’d just
come.

“Wind direction,” Daurenja commented sagely. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s changed, coming from the south now,
so I guess the beaters are having to sneak round the south edge and come up that way, in case the ducks spook and go back.
We’ve just got to bide here till we get the signal that they’re in position. Then he’ll spread us out so we’re surrounding
the pond, and we’ll all get a fair crack once the ducks get up.”