Evil for Evil (58 page)

Miel took a step back out of instinct. He had a feeling this conversation, or others just like it, had been going on for many,
many years. Two people talking at each other with intent to wound, like overcautious fencers probing each other’s flawless
guards. Just another manifestation of love, he decided. He’d seen the same sort of thing with married couples. For something
to do, he went and looked at the fire.

“If we can produce a true vermilion,” Framain told the jar, as if explaining his scheme to a crowd of skeptical investors,
“we stand a chance of being able to make the soft white for backgrounds; it’s a mix of the white lead tarnish cooked yellow,
vermilion and ordinary flake-white, with green-earth to balance out impurities. We need to get the background right before
we can start on the colors themselves, of course, because otherwise we won’t know how the colors will react with the background.
For example, viridian —”

“It’s ready,” she interrupted.

“Are you sure? If we give it the full heat before it’s thoroughly dried —”

“Look for yourself.”

And yet, what closer bond of love could there be than between a father and his daughter? Miel had been watching closely for
some time now; everything one of them did seemed to irritate the other beyond measure. There’d been days when both of them
had talked to him, as if to an interpreter, rather than acknowledge the other one was actually there in the room. He wondered
about the mysterious business partner, the one who’d absconded or been thrown out. Had they talked through him this way? If
so, no wonder the poor man left.

“Ready.” Framain’s voice was unusually tense. “Blow up the fire a bit, will you? More coal.”

A drip hit the tin plate, making Miel jump. Was it his imagination, or was something about to happen? Probably just the atmosphere
between Framain and his daughter, making him nervous. He dug the scoop into the charcoal scuttle.

“We’re running low on fuel,” she said. “And when that’s gone, with the war and everything …”

Framain didn’t bother to reply; he shushed her. They were supposed to be listening out for a cracking noise, Miel remembered.
He could smell damp, a hint of moldy straw. I’m just in the way here, he thought, they don’t need me for anything. For no
real reason, he drifted over to the bench and glanced down at the book, remembering the first time he’d seen it.

… To make flake-white, place sheets of lead beaten thin in a wooden box, cover with vinegar mixed equally with urine, leave
for a month. To convert flake-white to red lead, grind fine and heat in a new pot. To make Mezentine green, place thin copper
foil …

“The book,” he heard himself say. “Where did you get it from?”

“It belonged to my former partner,” Framain said, not looking round. “He had quite a library.”

“Half the things in that book simply don’t work,” she put in. “Whoever wrote it must’ve made them up and stuck them in just
to fill it out.”

“It’s the only book we’ve got,” Framain said wearily. “And some of it —”

“There’s a perfectly ridiculous thing in there,” she went on, ignoring him, “about hardening chisels by quenching them in
the urine of a red-headed boy; or, if you don’t happen to have one handy, goats’ wee filtered through dry bracken will do
almost as well. For all we know, the whole book could be a spoof; you know, a parody, in-jokes for colormen and engineers.
And here we are, following it religiously as if it’s gospel.”

“Quiet.” Miel had heard it too, a sharp click, like twigs snapping.

“In fact …” She’d raised her voice, and it was higher, too. “In fact, whoever wrote it seems to have had a thing about urine,
because he tells you to use it in practically everything, the way the Vadani use parsley in cooking. Makes you wonder what
—”

“
Quiet.
” Framain lifted his hand. More cracking, syncopated with the patter of the rain, the growl of the fire and the tap of the
drip on the tin plate. It was getting dark; rain-clouds outside, Miel supposed, covering up the sun. But it was hard, somehow,
to believe in the existence of the outside world, as he stood by the bench waiting for the cracking noise to stop. It seemed
unnecessary elaboration, like crowded detail in the background of a painting that distracts your attention from what’s going
on in the foreground; sloppy composition.

“I think it’s stopped,” Framain said, just before the loudest crack so far.

“Are you sure that’s not just the bottle getting too hot?”

Framain was counting under his breath.

“All it’d take would be one drip from the roof onto the bottle, and it’d shatter right in our faces, like that other time.”
Her voice sounded absurdly loud. “We really ought to do something about the leaks, but he’s afraid of ladders.”

“It’s ready.” Framain had a pair of tongs in his hand; he took a long stride forward and closed them around the clay-caked
bottle. “Right,” he said, in a tight, cramped voice. “Let’s open it up and see what we’ve got. Chisel.”

“Let it cool down first. He’s always in such a hurry, it leads to mistakes.”

At the end of the bench was a two-inch-thick slab of polished slate. Framain put the bottle down on it, carefully opening
the tongs with both hands. “Chisel, please,” he repeated, and Miel realized he was being spoken to. There was a rack of chisels
on the wall, two dozen of them, all different shapes and sizes and contours. He chose one at random, hoping it’d do. At least
he had the sense not to ask which one Framain wanted.

“Thank you.” Framain took it from him without looking. He had a beech mallet in the other hand, and tapped the chisel lightly
against the clay.

“Careful,” she said, as he tapped again, flaking off a shard of clay.

He breathed hard through his nose but said nothing. Another tap, and the clay webbed with cracks. He paused to flick off a
few loose flakes.

“There’s somebody outside,” she said.

Framain looked up, frowning.

“There is,” she said urgently. “Listen.”

Muttering, Framain carefully put the bottle down and stood up, looking round. Miel guessed he was searching for something
he could use as a weapon — the adze, perhaps, or the sledgehammer. “Shall I go and take a look?” Miel suggested. Both of them
thought about that for a moment, then Framain nodded.

“Are you sure you heard … ?” Framain mumbled.

“
Yes.
”

Miel noticed that the door was bolted on the inside. He slid the bolt back, slow and careful; took a step back from the door
before opening it, to give himself distance just in case there was trouble outside. Not that there would be …

The door swung open. He waited a couple of heartbeats and slid through, not opening it further than he needed to.

Outside the air was sweet with the smell of rain. He stood at the top of the steps and looked up and down the yard. Nobody
there, of course. She’d imagined everything …

Except the gate at the top was always shut, tied with a bit of old hemp rope because the latch and keeper were no longer on
speaking terms; but now it stood a yard open, the rope hanging limp from one of the bars. Of course, old rope half rotted
through could easily break of its own accord, if a high wind got behind the gate and pushed. But there’d been no wind, only
rain.

Staying exactly where he was, he concentrated furiously on what he could see of the rope. It hadn’t been untied, because he
could see the knot still in it. More than anything in the world, he wanted to know whether the dangling end of the rope was
ragged and frayed or squarely cut through. To find that out, however, he’d have to go down the steps and walk at least ten
paces up the yard. The Ducas is no coward, but neither is he recklessly stupid. He stayed where he was, looking for secondary
evidence.

“Well?” her voice hissed from behind the door.

Yes, when he’d last looked at it the rope had been rotten and slimy. But it was also thick; if three strands had worn and
moldered through, that still left two or three more, plenty to hold the gate shut, particularly in no wind. A stranger wanting
to get into the yard might not have the patience to wrestle with the slippery, nail-tearing knot. He’d cut the rope.

“Is there anybody there or isn’t —”

“Ssh.” The house windows were shuttered tight, as always, but he couldn’t see the back door from where he was standing. A
stranger would try the house first; a harmless traveler, lost on the moors, desperate for a drink and a bit of food; or someone
else. He heard a horse, that unmistakable sound they make by blowing through closed lips. Framain’s horses were out in the
paddock, weren’t they? Or had he brought them in, in case it rained?

One thing he could be absolutely sure of: standing motionless at the top of the barn steps was hardly sound tactics. An archer
stooped down behind the pigsty wall, or lurking under the woodshed eaves, would have a beautifully clear shot. Even if there
was no archer, he was advertising his position and his apprehension with alarming clarity, and getting no useful information
in return. “Stay inside,” he hissed, then jumped down off the steps and walked briskly toward the house.

First, see if there was anybody there. If there wasn’t, nip inside and get the hunting sword, the one he’d stolen from the
looters. Probably not much use, if the place really was under attack, but holding it in his hand would make him feel slightly
better.

He’d forgotten that the back door creaked. Inside the house was perfectly still and quiet, but it didn’t feel right. Stupid,
he told himself, that’s just you being nervous. He went straight to the pile of rugs where he’d last seen the sword; there
it was, just where he’d left it. He grabbed at it like a drowning man reaching for the hand of a rescuer.

Ridiculous, he thought. There’s nobody here.

The house didn’t take long to search. Nobody there, no unaccountable marks in the dust, no door open that he’d left shut.
Looking out through the front door at the curtain of rain, he felt himself relax. Just possibly, a man, maybe even two, could
be hiding in the yard somewhere. But if unwelcome guests had come to visit, they’d have come on horseback; from where he was
standing, he had a clear view of everywhere a horse could be tethered. No horse; no intruder. Therefore, the breeze or simple
entropy must’ve broken the gate rope, and there was nothing to be afraid of.

To prove it to himself once and for all, he strode briskly up the yard and inspected the ends of the rope. Cut through.

Well, that cleared things up. No more dithering; he had to get back to the barn, warn them, organize a safe, swift evacuation
to a defensible stronghold. By now, stealth was pointless. He ran.

Up the steps, through the door; he drew a breath to deliver his warning. Then something slammed between his shoulder blades.
He stumbled, heard the sword go bump on the floor, saw the floorboards rushing up at him. He landed on his elbows, and saw
a pair of boots.

“That him?” someone said.

He was grabbed and hauled upright. “Well?” the voice said.

“Yes.”

Her voice. He turned his head and saw a dark brown face just behind his shoulder; then his left arm was wrenched behind his
back and twisted.

There were two more Mezentines, besides the one holding him. One of them stepped out from the shadows behind the bench. The
other was the owner of the boots. He said, “Miel Ducas.”

“That’s me,” Miel said.

The Mezentine didn’t seem interested in talking to him. “Bring the other two as well,” he said. He was wrapping a bit of rag
round a stick. Why would he be doing that?

“All right, you’ve got your man,” Framain was saying. “Now why don’t you … ?”

The Mezentine shoved his wrapped stick in the furnace fire, waited for it to catch. Framain was saying something, but Miel
didn’t get a chance to hear it; he was being hauled out of the barn and down the steps. He heard a shriek; possibly a man’s
voice, probably a woman’s. Dutifully he considered trying to fight, but a twist on his forearm excused him.

Two more Mezentines appeared in the yard. One was holding a horse. The other put a loop of rope round his neck, then held
his stirrup for him as he mounted. That let him off trying to ride them down and escape; just as well, because he’d have had
to come back and try to rescue Framain and the girl, which would almost certainly have been suicide. He saw smoke filtering
out in plumes from under the eaves of the barn, but no sign of Framain or his daughter being led out. One of the Mezentines
had grabbed his hands and was tying them behind his back. Redundant, since they had the noose round his neck to dissuade him
from being annoying. Presumably they’d be left inside the barn while it burned down. Excessively harsh, he thought, until
he remembered that that was standard operating procedure when mopping up Eremian settlements. Part of him wanted to feel furiously
angry about that; the rest of him felt the shame of no longer being capable of anger, only the quiet acceptance of the unspeakably
weary, the dreadful acknowledgment of the truth that it really doesn’t matter, at the very end.

(Once he’d seen condemned prisoners digging their own graves; and at the time he’d thought, that’s ridiculous, you wouldn’t
do that, not when you knew they were going to kill you anyway. You’d drop the spade and stand there, tell them,
You dig the bloody hole.
Now, though; if they pulled him off the horse and handed him a shovel, he’d start digging, wouldn’t even need to be told.
At the very end, nothing matters enough to be worth making a fuss about.)

They hadn’t come out; but neither had the other two Mezentines. Suddenly, it mattered a lot.

“What’s going on?” he heard himself say. Apparently, nobody heard him.

He started thinking, making calculations. The rope round his neck; if he could grab it with his tied-together hands and keep
a hold of it as the horse started forward, might he be able to pull it out of the man’s grip before it strangled him? He’d
be prepared to risk it if the odds were, say, four to one; but how did you calculate risk in a situation like this?