Evil for Evil (87 page)

Behind her, nothing but still, brown water. Would it hurt less to swim out and drown, or stay and be slashed or stabbed? It
was a ludicrous choice, of course, not the sort of thing that could ever happen. To be sitting here, calmly weighing up the
merits of different kinds of violent deaths; drowning, probably, because she’d swim until she was exhausted and then the water
would pull her down, and the actual drowning wouldn’t take long. She considered pain for a moment: the small, intolerable
spasm of a burn, the dull, bewildering ache of a fall, the anguish of toothache, the sheer panic of a cut. She knew about
the pain of trivial injuries, but something drastic enough to extinguish life must bring pain on a scale she simply couldn’t
begin to imagine. She’d seen the deaths of men and animals, the enormous convulsions, the gasping for breath that simply wouldn’t
come. She knew she wasn’t ready for that; she never would be, because there could be no rapprochement with pain and death.
She felt herself swell with fear, and knew there was nothing she could do to make it better.

She looked round instinctively for an escape route, and saw the old man and the old woman. They weren’t looking at her; they
were staring at a man walking quickly toward them.

(“Isn’t that the Duke? What’s he doing here? He’s supposed to be —”

“Shh. He’ll hear you.”)

Valens; of all people. It was a purely involuntary reaction; all the breath left her body, her mouth clogged and her eyes
filled, because Valens had come to save her. At that moment (she hadn’t forgotten Orsea, or the fact that she didn’t love
him, or that the sight of him made her flesh crawl and she didn’t know why), she knew, she had faith, that she wasn’t going
to die after all. Valens would save her, even if he had to cut a steaming road through the bodies of the Mezentines like a
man clearing a ride through a bramble thicket. She knew, of course, how little one man could do on his own, how hopeless the
situation was, how even if they escaped from the Mezentines they had no chance of crossing the desert on their own. Those
were unassailable facts; but so was his presence — her savior, her guarantee, her personal angel of death to be unleashed
on the enemy. She tried to stand up, but her legs didn’t seem to have any joints in them.

“We should try and get over to the left side,” he was saying. “I’ve been watching, and their left wing’s trailing behind a
bit.” He stopped and frowned at her. “Well? You do want to get out of this, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Fine.” He nodded. “I’ve left a couple of horses. Can’t go quite yet; if they see us making a break for it, they’ll send riders
to cut us off. But when the attack’s gone in, they won’t be so fussy about stragglers.” Suddenly he grinned at her. “I’m running
away,” he said. “No bloody point hanging around here. The trick’s going to be choosing exactly the right moment to make the
break.”

The old woman was staring at him; she’d heard every word, and her face showed that her world had just caved in.

“Well?” he said. “Are you coming or aren’t you?”

The infantry screen lasted longer than expected; longer than it takes to eat an apple, not quite as long as the time you need
to bridle a horse. A quick glimpse out of the corner of his eye as they rode for the little gap on the left flank told him
that the Vadani were fighting like heroes. He scowled; the timings were precise, and if they held the Mezentines up for too
long, they could screw up everything.

“We’d better go now,” he shouted, not turning his head, hoping she could hear him.

He kicked the horse on. It was a big, sullen gelding, civilian rather than military but all he’d been able to find. It sidestepped,
pulling hard on the reins. He slapped its rump with the flat of the hanger, and it bustled angrily forward. He felt the hanger
slip out of his hand; his only weapon. Oh well.

“Come on,” he yelled, and gave the horse a savage kick in the ribs. He saw its neck rise up to smack his face, felt his balance
shift and his left foot lose its stirrup. He hung for a moment, then knew he was falling backward over the horse’s rump. As
he fell, he saw her fly past; then his shoulder hit the ground and his body filled with pain. He felt it take him over, driving
every thought out of his head. Hoofs were landing all around him — his horse, the enemy, he neither knew nor cared. He opened
his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

He heard a scream, assumed it was his own, realized it wasn’t. He opened his eyes and tried to move.

It didn’t hurt at first; he’d managed to prop himself up on one elbow before he made one slight movement too many and the
pain flooded back. It took seven or eight heartbeats to subside.

Next to him, he could see now, lay a Mezentine. There was an arrow lodged in his temple; it had driven through the steel of
his helmet but hadn’t managed to get much further, since Valens could see the tips of the barbs. Not deep enough, evidently,
to kill outright; the man’s lips were moving, and his eyes were huge with enormous strain. For good measure his left leg was
bent at the knee almost at right angles, the wrong way. That’ll have been the fall, Valens decided. Falling off horses can
be bad for you.

It occurred to him to wonder who’d been here shooting arrows at the Mezentines.

Then he felt the thump of hoofs, jarring up through his elbow into the complicated mess of pain. Instinct made him turn his
head a little, and though his shoulder punished him for it, he shifted a little further to get a better view.

A horseman. He was rising elegantly to the trot, an eight-foot lance couched in the crook of his elbow. He wore glossy brown
scale armor — leather, not steel — from collar to ankles, and under a high, pointed conical helmet his face was as pale as
milk. A bow and quiver lolled beside his right thigh, and his horse’s legs were short and thick. He came to a halt, stood
up in his stirrups to look round, then slid into an easy, loping canter. Unmistakably, he was Cure Hardy.

The trial of Lucao Psellus before the Security Commission was a strangely muted affair. Given the nature and quality of the
material, it should have been the showpiece of the autumn term. In the event, it was generally held to have been a botched,
unsatisfactory affair which would have solved nothing, had it not been for the melodrama that followed it.

Partly, of course, the problem lay in the almost indecent haste with which it was conducted. None of the up-and-coming prosecutors
had time to lobby for the brief, which was awarded to an elderly time-server by the name of Basano Philargyrus, who had previously
specialized in minor default cases and undefended adulteries. Inevitably, the hearing was restricted; members of Necessary
Evil and the Security Commission only. Even so, a few previews of some of the more sensational evidence would normally have
been released through the usual channels. As it was, the only hard data to seep through was the charge itself, and that was
so nebulously phrased as to be meaningless: neglect and dereliction of duty, unauthorized contact, failure to apprehend a
fugitive. To a public desperate for some kind of reassurance after the disaster, it was too little, too grudgingly supplied.
Worse, instead of making capital out of the general resentment, none of the opposition factions seemed prepared to take up
the matter or even acknowledge that there was an issue.

The charge actually recited before the hearing (held, for reasons nobody could quite understand, in the cloister garden where
Necessary Evil held their regular alfresco meetings) was somewhat more detailed:

That the accused, Lucao Psellus, had exceeded his authority in negotiation with the abominator Ziani Vaatzes; that in doing
so, he had knowingly or inadvertently allowed Vaatzes to use him as his agent in designs against the Guilds and the Republic;
that he had exercised insufficient care and diligence; that he had failed to report relevant information to the proper officers
of the Commission …

“Which are grave enough charges, fellow Guildsmen, even when stated so plainly. The facts that underlie these charges, however,
are infinitely more serious. For the avoidance of doubt, allow me to summarize as follows.”

Prosecutor Philargyrus hesitated for a moment, to wipe his forehead on the back of his hand and shift his weight to his other
foot. Someone at the back of the group whispered to his neighbor that, if anything, the prosecutor looked more nervous than
the accused.

“Under direct instructions from Commissioner Boioannes himself — which instructions are freely admitted; we shall be entering
a full transcript into evidence at the discovery stage — Commissioner Psellus traveled to the Vadani border in an attempt
to open negotiations with the abominator. The extent of his authority was clearly defined; essentially, he was to offer such
inducements as were necessary to deceive Vaatzes into returning of his own free will into territory under the control of the
Republic. Any promises made to him would not be considered binding. Any information helpful to the Republic which Psellus
could obtain from Vaatzes would be welcome, but was not of the essence of the mission. Commissioner Psellus has at no time
claimed that he did not perfectly understand these instructions, and therefore they may be deemed to be undisputed evidence.”

On the back row, someone had started to fidget. This sort of solid, pedestrian opening summary might be all very well at defaulters’
sessions, but political juries had a right to expect daintier fare. It was almost as though someone was deliberately trying
to make what should have been a thrilling occasion as dreary as possible. But who would do such a thing?

“Arriving at the border, Commissioner Psellus quickly established contact with Vaatzes and a face-to-face meeting was arranged.
Note that, although having the resources to do so, Psellus neglected to inform your Commission of this development before
the meeting took place. Having traveled to Civitas Vadanis, Commissioner Psellus found the city deserted. Again, note that
he did not immediately retrace his steps and communicate this momentous fact to the military authorities, but proceeded to
attend the meeting.”

Frowns in the second and third rows. These minor derelictions should have been left to the end, where they wouldn’t have cluttered
up the flow.

“Now,” Philargyrus went on, his voice flat and only just audible, “we come to the meeting itself. For what took place we have
only Commissioner Psellus’ own account; but that account, even if it represents a full and fair summary of what was said and
done, constitutes in our view a clear admission of guilt as far as the charges are concerned. In brief, Commissioner Psellus
and the convicted abominator Ziani Vaatzes together concocted a scheme to discredit the fugitive and war criminal Orsea Orseoli,
former Duke of Eremia, in the eyes of the Vadani government. It was an elaborate, rather fanciful business, involving the
fabrication of compromising documents, the suborning of a Vadani merchant venturer and her cold-blooded murder. As matters
have turned out, it would appear to have been successful; and you may be tempted to credit Commissioner Psellus for exacting
some kind of crude justice on an acknowledged and declared enemy of the Republic. Before doing so, however, we invite you
to consider the real cost of the bargain.”

(He keeps looking at somebody, someone in the third row observed to his neighbor, but I can’t quite see who. It’s like he’s
taking a cue, or looking for approval.)

“Note, in passing, the malignant subtlety of the abominator Vaatzes; and, by the same token, the culpable simple-mindedness
of your colleague, Commissioner Psellus. As an inducement to persuade us to allow him to return home, Vaatzes offered Psellus
information about the likely itinerary of the Vadani convoy. It was in his power, Vaatzes claimed, to persuade Duke Valens
to change course and head across the desert, making for the home territory of the Cure Hardy. He was aware of a safe route,
made passable by a string of oases. He gave Commissioner Psellus a copy of a map showing the route, together with further
notes and commentaries that would allow a substantial force of cavalry to cross the mountains at the edge of the desert with
relative ease while avoiding observation by the Vadani. Meanwhile, he would lead Duke Valens and the convoy over the mountain
by another, harder route, thereby forcing them to abandon their armored wagons and much other essential equipment, and reduce
their food supplies to an inadequate level. Softened up by these privations and taken unaware in the middle of the desert
by our forces — who would have been realistically provisioned and adequately briefed on matters of geography and topography
— the Vadani would prove easy prey, and could be eliminated once and for all.”

Pause; or was it hesitation?

“Commissioner Psellus,” he went on eventually, “would seem not to be familiar with the expression,
too good to be true.
Arguably, it was not his fault that Vaatzes had already arranged through other contacts for our forces to ambush the convoy
at an earlier stage; as we all know, the ambush was beaten off with heavy losses, as Vaatzes fully intended it should be.
The fact remains that, had Commissioner Psellus reported his deal with Vaatzes promptly and to the right quarters, the first
ambush could have been countermanded and valuable lives saved. What is both indisputable and unforgivable, however, is the
Commissioner’s simple stupidity — you may care to regard it as willful blindness — in not appreciating the quite appalling
implications of Vaatzes’ proposal—namely, that a safe and practical route across the desert exists, and that, should the Cure
Hardy become aware of it, the security of the Republic would be hopelessly compromised forever.”

Even Philargyrus, with his dreary delivery and unfortunate style, couldn’t fail to get a frisson of horror out of his audience
with that. It was, of course, the only point that mattered, and the only thing on anybody’s mind, ever since the news broke.
It was what Psellus had been brought here to be condemned to death for; the question was …