The Escapement (33 page)

"I suppose so," Psellus said. "He's a luxury we can't afford any more, and being realistic, there's not a great deal he could do to harm us. Even if he was minded to betray the City, all the major defences we're going to be relying on have been built since he escaped, he won't know any more about them than the enemy does." He smiled. "Listen to me," he said, "trying to convince myself. I guess it's because I lived in awe and dread of him for so long, I can't believe he's simply stopped mattering. That's a very strange concept, you know; a state of affairs where I'm more important than Maris Boioannes. The world turned upside down, in fact. Not sure it's a place I feel comfortable in."

Streuthes made a valiant but unsuccessful attempt to hide the fact that he had no idea what Psellus was talking about. "He was a bit of a joke in the recruitment office," he said. "Everybody knew, of course, but he thought it was a deadly secret. Odd, really, because whatever else he was, he wasn't stupid."

Now it was Psellus' turn. "Knew about what?"

For a moment, Streuthes looked blankly at him, trying to decide if he was being sardonic or funny, or whether it was some kind of cunning trap. "About Boioannes having it off with… I'm sorry, I assumed you knew about it. I mean, everybody—"

"Everybody knew, yes. Everybody except me; but that was par for the course, I never knew any of the things everyone knew." He shrugged. "Boioannes was having an affair, then."

"Yes. Since before the war. We never found out who the woman was. Which told us it had to be somebody fairly unimportant; I mean, not the wife or daughter of anybody at the Guildhall, or we'd have found out who she was straight away; you know what a rumour-mill that place is."

Psellus raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Something was out of place. He shuffled the facts in his mind until he found it.

"Everyone knew," he said, "but not who the woman was. That's odd. What I mean is, knowing Boioannes, if he'd wanted to keep it secret that he was having an affair, he'd have seen to it, but you say it was common knowledge. So he didn't care that people knew, and why should he? A man in his position indulging himself, it's practically expected of him." He paused, thought about the implications of that statement, and felt himself blush: embarrassing. "But clearly he took pains to keep her identity secret. Therefore, her identity must be important." He shook his head. "I think I'm losing my judgement," he said sadly. "The more I'm obliged to think about cities and armies and sieges, the more I feel the urge to immerse myself in little mysteries about people's private lives. I can't help it, though. It's attention to detail taken to a counterproductive extreme. Comes of putting a junior clerk in charge of a war."

Streuthes was silent for a while. Then he said: "Is it true you're learning fencing?

Fancy swordfighting, I mean."

"Perfectly true." Psellus pulled a face. "I'm very bad at it, though. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just idle curiosity."

"You're quite right," Psellus replied gravely. "I am wasting my time on pointless frivolities when I should be giving my full attention to the war. But I'm finding it helpful, even so."

Streuthes frowned. "Good healthy exercise?" he hazarded.

"Strategy and tactics," Psellus said. "Applied in microcosm. I've learned two important things so far," he went on. "First, you can't be hit if you aren't there. Second, if someone's close enough to hurt you, he's close enough to be hurt back. Either of those lessons is enough to justify the tutor's fee, don't you think?" Slowly he looked round: first at the line of the downs ahead, then over his shoulder at the newly dug bastions. "If we stay inside the defences, we're safe from a pitched battle, which we'd inevitably lose. And if their artillery can reach us, ours can reach them. We have plenty of food for a siege, which is more than can be said of the savages. I think we're wasting our time out here. Let them have the downs if they want them. I've lived here all my life and never felt the need of them." Suddenly he smiled; not the sort of expression you'd have expected from a fainthearted clerk. "Let's just hope it rains," he said.

The next morning, the artillery (now entitled to call themselves the Artillerymen's Guild; military, therefore the innovation was permissible) staged a full-scale drill. The exercise began with ten rounds from the heavy long-distance mangonels, followed by the onagers, springalds, catapults, perriers and scorpions. Both rate of fire and accuracy were assessed by the newly appointed Guild inspectors and judged to be adequate. For some reason, the section commanders were under orders not to shoot at maximum range. Instead, they were told to pitch short, but no shorter than three-quarter range. The emplacements on the bastions were then inspected, to see if repeated loading and firing of the engines had shaken the fixtures loose. Some slight damage was detected, and orders were given to strengthen them accordingly. Not surprisingly, the display was carefully observed by the Eremian scouts on the hog's back. They drew their meticulously detailed sketches, took some measurements with strange-looking shiny brass boxes on four spindly legs, and withdrew to report back to Duke Valens, who thanked them and sent for his mapmakers. They drew him a new map, with a dotted red line clearly marked.
Veatriz to Valens, greetings.

Confirmed. No doubt about it, he said, several times. I can only assume he
thought I wasn't paying attention.

I wish you were here. I need to know what you think. What you really think.
Oh, I know you'll write back straight away, saying how pleased and happy you
are, how wonderful, everything I need to be told. You've always written me such
beautiful letters, taken so much care over them. When we were apart, I used to
wonder if our love could possibly survive us being together. That sounds
ridiculous, doesn't it? But I knew it'd be different. Letters were our way of making
love; secret, the pleasure of giving and receiving each other's thoughts. I used to
ask myself if you'd still find me interesting if I was there all the time.
Now, though; I want to see your face when you tell me it's good news, In your
letters, you took such trouble to tell me things you knew I'd want to hear. Now,
that's the last thing I want.

I sit here, staring out of the window. I tell myself, of course he's pleased. He's
the duke, a very conscientious man. He knows it's the duke's primary responsibility
to provide an heir and secure the succession. Then I think, he's the duke, leading
the Alliance in a huge, terrible war. His allies are only there to avenge the murder
of his wife, they can't be happy that he's married again; and now this. How
inconvenient. Then I argue that his dead princess was the last of the royal line, so
when the old man dies, Duke Valens will become king of the Aram Chantat as
well; so isn't it even more important that there's an heir? So they'll be pleased,
won't they?

The worst part of it is when I catch myself wondering what Orsea would have
thought about it. Dear, stupid, disastrous Orsea; always so desperate to do the
right thing. He was so painfully aware that the succession was his duty, and of
course he failed, just like he failed at everything. But, since the succession passes
through the Sirupati line, it doesn't actually matter who the father is. So I can
almost hear him saying, That's all right, then. Eremia's got its heir after all,
though it'd have been even better if there still was an Eremia. Really; I think he'd
have been pleased.

I know you did what had to be done; about Orsea, I mean. When he found out
about the letters, I think it killed him inside. He knew that he'd lost me; and the
wretched thing was, he couldn't ever put it out of his mind that he was only the
duke because he was married to me. So, he thought, if ever he lost me to somebody
else, he lost the dukedom too; he felt he wasn't entitled to it any more. Then you
came, when the city was in flames and we were all going to die. He'd tried to die
fighting—his duty—and made a mess of that as well as everything else. He
survived, rescued by you, the man who'd taken me from him, and the dukedom as
well, after he'd ruined it. His entire life was a wreck, because he'd tried to do his
duty and failed. Then, suddenly, he was in Civitas Vadanis, a duke with no
duchy, a married man with no wife, the slave of duty with no duty asked of him,
just a stupid nuisance in everybody's way.

I know he didn't try and betray us to the Mezentines. He'd never have done
that. Impossible, like breathing underwater. I think the Mezentines arranged it all,
to make him look guilty, so you'd have to kill him, and that should have turned the
Eremians against the Vadani, put us right back to where we were before the peace
my father made. I think you knew that too. I think you killed him so we could be
together. And I let you do it, for the same reason: because I love you, and because
I loved Orsea. I wanted him to die; because he was in the way, between us, and
because his life was such a misery to him, and nothing could ever put it right.
Orsea had one good quality. He always knew when he was beaten, when he
wasn't wanted, when it was time to leave, when he was more of a hindrance than
a help. I'm thinking so much about him now because this has happened. Eremia
will get its heir, Mezentia will be destroyed, what's left of the duchy will get a
good, wise duke who'll do all the right things, bring peace, make it so the fields
can be planted again. Everything he couldn't do; everything important, that
couldn't happen as long as he was alive. Most of all, he wanted me to be happy.
And—this is such a terrible thing, but I can't hate myself for it—I am.
I know; you can't leave the war just to come and talk to me for ten minutes. I
know you'll write me the most beautiful letter instead. It'll have to do.
I love you.

Valens to Veatriz.

I've never lied to you. I could never lie to you.Like breathing underwater.
The news is wonderful. It's what I wanted. When I killed Orsea, I believed he
was guilty. Afterwards, I changed my mind. I believe that what I did was wrong. If
I had the same choice to make now, I couldn't give the order. I don't regret having
given it.

There's a meeting tomorrow I can't get out of; I'll leave as soon as it's over, and
I'll be with you as soon as I can. It probably will be only ten minutes, though.
I love you too.

The courier who took Valens' letter was a lieutenant in the messenger corps. He was shaken out of sleep by a sergeant of the guard, handed a dispatch case and given his orders: quickly as possible, urgent, vitally important, be on the road in half an hour. After the sergeant had gone, he swore, massaged his eyelids with the tips of his index fingers, and dragged on his clothes and boots, still sodden from a long day's ride in the rain. No time to eat or drink anything. To save weight and thereby increase speed, he didn't bother with a mailshirt or a helmet. A horse was waiting for him when he blundered out of the bunkhouse into the damp, dark night. A groom raised a lantern.

"Is that for me?" the messenger asked.

The groom grinned at him. "Duke's orders," he said. "His very own second-best hunter. You're honoured."

And stunned, too. Nobody rode Valens' horses except Valens. It was a beautiful animal, with the small head and long, tapered neck of the old Vadani bloodline. "I'm to tell you she'll take you all the way, no need to stop and change, if you take the old drove road."

The courier frowned. "On that?" he said doubtfully, thinking of the horse's slim, delicate-looking legs on the steep, rutted surface of the drove. At this time of year, it'd be more watercourse than road, as the run-off from the hills that formed the Vadani-Cure Doce border poured down to meet the Redwater: mud, stones loosened by the water. "That can't be right."

"Only passing on the message," the groom replied cheerfully. The duke's own saddle and tack, too. It was almost worth being hauled out of bed for. "She been ridden lately?" he asked.

Short nod. "Half an hour a day, and she's been fed on oats and barley. She'll be glad of a chance to stretch her legs properly."

He'd been riding all his life, but this was quite different. As soon as the sun came up, he pushed her into a steady working gallop. Her pace was smooth and incredibly consistent, and he'd never ridden such a sure-footed horse. Even when he'd crossed the river and started the long climb up to the hole-in-the-wall where the cart road joined the drove, he was able to maintain the sort of speed an army horse could only manage on the flat. He wondered what the hell was in the letter that made it so important.