Devices and Desires (14 page)

“So you didn’t mind?”

“Mind? Of course not. Oh, I see, you’re thinking I might’ve been resentful because he got to be the Duke. Not a bit of it.
The Sirupati would never marry the Ducas.”

Vaatzes looked puzzled. “But I thought your family were high-ranking aristocrats.”

“We are. Which is the reason. Quite simple, really. The great houses aren’t allowed to marry into the ruling family. Otherwise
there’d be no end of God-awful power struggles, with all of us trying to get the throne. So we’re all excluded; stops us getting
dangerous ideas. If the Duke’s only got daughters, he has to find his heir from the lesser nobility, people like the Orseoli.
It’s a good system. But you should’ve figured that out for yourself, if you’ve got a special intuition for how things work.”

“Well, I know now,” Vaatzes said. “ I guess I didn’t figure it out for myself because it’s a good idea, and those don’t seem
to happen much in politics. Who made the rule, anyhow?”

That struck Miel as a strange question. “We all did,” he said. “Gradually, over time. I don’t think anybody ever sat down
with a piece of paper and wrote the rules out, just so. They grew because everybody could see it made sense.”

“An intuitive feel for how things work,” Vaatzes said. “Maybe there’s hope for you people after all.”

That night, they camped in a small valley under a false peak. They didn’t start pitching tents until sunset, and most of the
work was done by torchlight; tired men doing things they knew by heart, cooperating smoothly and without thinking, like the
components of a properly run-in machine. It was probably a good sign that Ziani was given a guest tent all to himself; a small
one, with a plain camp bed, a lamp and an old iron brazier, but he didn’t have to share and they put it up for him rather
than telling him where it was and leaving him to do it. When he was alone, he sat on the bed — he ached all over from the
exhaustion of walking uphill all day; his heels and soles were covered in torn blisters and his new shoes were smudged inside
with blood — and stared at the boundary where the circle of yellow light touched the white canvas background. Having that
sort of mind, he drew up a schedule of resources, a list of materials and components.

First, he had his life. In the Guildhall, and after that on the road, in the plain, on the terrifying outskirts of the battle,
he’d recognized the inevitability of his own death without finding any way to reconcile himself to it. For many reasons (but
one primarily) he couldn’t accept it; death was a part that didn’t fit, something that had no place in the scheme of things
as they should be; an abomination. He had no illusions about his escape. He didn’t believe in destiny, any more than he believed
in goblins; if the iron ore was destined to end up as finished products, there’d be no need for an engineer. There had been
a certain amount of resourcefulness and clever thinking involved, but mostly it was luck, particularly once he was away from
people and under the impersonal, inhuman sky (he’d always hated Nature; it was a machine too big for him to take in, too specialized
for him to repair). But he had his life, the essential starting-point. Can’t get anything done if you’re dead.

Next, he had his knowledge and his trade. Many years ago, he’d come to accept the fact that he was completely and exclusively
defined by what he did. Other men were tall or short, strong or weak, kind or cruel, clever or stupid; they were funny, popular,
reliable, feckless, miserable; they were lovers or runners or storytellers, bores, growers of prize roses, readers, collectors
of antique candlesticks; they were friends, neighbors, enemies, evil bastards, compassionate, selfish, generous. Ziani Vaatzes
was an engineer; everything he was, all he was. When he came home in the evening…

Ah yes. Finally, he had his motivation. He had, of course, lied to the Duke and the Duke’s pleasant, slow-witted courtier.
If it hadn’t been for his motivation, he’d have stayed in the prison cell, or curled up in a ball on the moors and died; he
certainly wouldn’t have killed two men, and he certainly wouldn’t be getting ready to betray his City’s most precious secrets
to the barbarians. He’d considered setting the motivation down in the list of problems and obstacles, since it was such an
incredible burden, limiting his actions in so many ways. But in spite of that, it was an asset, and the best facility at his
disposal. He saw it, in the blueprint in his mind, as the engine that would power his machine. Certainly nothing else could.

As for that list of problems and obstacles; in the end, it did him a service by putting him to sleep, because it stretched
on endlessly, like the sheep you’re supposed to count jumping over the gap in the wall. There were so many of them it was
almost a relief; so many he didn’t have to bother listing them, it couldn’t be done. The way to cross a vast, flat plain when
you’re aching, starving and exhausted is not to resolve to get to the other side, because that’s out of the question. You
don’t look to the mountains, a little gray blip on the bottom edge of the sky. You look ahead and make a bet with yourself:
I bet you I’ll get as far as that little outcrop of boulders, or that single thorn tree, before I fall over and die. If you
win that bet, you double up on the next one, and so on until at last you can’t trick yourself into taking another step; at
which point, a defeated enemy army which just happens to be passing picks you up and rescues you. Piece of cake, really.

Similarly, he made a point of not looking at the end result he needed to achieve. It was too far away, and there were too
many obstacles, he’d never live to reach it. But he might just make it as far as the first step in his design, the second,
possibly even the third. Same as a big project in the factory; you know you’ll never get it all done in one day, so you plan
it out: today we’ll cut the material, tomorrow we’ll face off and mark out, the next day we’ll turn the diameter, cut the
threads, and so on. It complicated things a little that his motivation and his objective were so closely linked, because they
were so simple (but it’s good design to make one part carry out two functions); if he couldn’t let himself believe in it,
he couldn’t very well rely on it to drive him forward across the heather and the tussocks of couch-grass. Fortunately, he
found he could turn a blind eye to the inconsistency. The motivation was strong enough to keep him going, even though the
objective was so ridiculously far-fetched. All he had to do — it was so simple, to a man who lived by and for complexities
— all he had to do was close his eyes and think of her, and he was like the flywheel driven by the belt, whether it likes
it or not.

The next day was all uphill, and Miel was needed to supervise the carts, and the wounded, and various other things that had
got slightly worse overnight. It didn’t help that Orsea was insisting he was strong enough to ride; it wasn’t fair on the
doctor, for one thing. The wretched man had enough to do with several hundred critical cases (who weren’t dukes, but who did
what they were told) without having to stay within earshot of His Highness in case the partially healed wound burst and the
idiot needed to be seen to straight away before he bled to death.

“I can manage, really,” Miel told his oldest friend.

“I know that,” Orsea replied, shifting painfully in his saddle, “but you shouldn’t have to. This is my responsibility. You
look like death warmed up.”

“Thank you so much.” Miel winced, as though he wanted to ride away in a huff but knew he wasn’t allowed to, because it would
be discourteous. “Look, it’s no big deal. If I can just get a few tangles straightened out, we can be on our way and it’ll
be fine. It’ll be much quicker for me to deal with the problems myself than explain what they are so you can handle them.
And,” he added, with the air of a general committing his last reserves in a final reckless charge, “the doctor says you won’t
be fit to ride for another three days.”

Orsea made a remark about the doctor that was both vulgar and inaccurate. “Besides,” he went on, “if it’s my health you’re
all worried about, you ought to realize that if I’ve got to spend another day alone in a cart brooding about what a fuck-up
I’ve made of everything, it’s absolutely guaranteed I’ll die of guilt and frustration. So telling me what the doctor said
isn’t just annoying and high treason, it’s counterproductive.”

Miel sighed melodramatically. “Not up to me,” he said. “If you want to risk a massive hematoma —”

“You mean hemorrhage,” Orsea pointed out. “Hematoma is bruises. Trust me, all right? Now let’s talk about something else.
How’s that cousin of yours getting on, Jarnac —” He stopped himself abruptly; Miel smiled.

“It’s all right,” he said, “Jarnac wasn’t killed in the battle. In fact, he didn’t join the army at all. Stayed at home.”

“Sensible chap.”

Miel frowned. “No, actually. Cousin Jarnac doesn’t approve of the war. He thinks it’s wrong. And I don’t mean wrong as in
liable to end up a complete fiasco; wrong as in morally bad. All wars, not just this one.”

Orsea nodded. “There’s a word for that, isn’t there?”

“I can think of several.”

“No, I mean it’s a known-about thing, an ism. Pacifism.”

“Is that right?” Miel yawned. “There’s times when my cousin gets so far up my nose he’s practically poking out of my ear.
Why did you mention him, all of a sudden?”

“Don’t know,” Orsea said. “Or rather, yes I do. I was lying there awake in the early hours, and for some reason I was remembering
that sparrowhawk he had when we were kids. Mad keen on falconry he was, back then.”

“Still is. Why, do you fancy going hawking when we get home? I’m sure he’d be glad of the excuse to show off.”

“It might be fun,” Orsea said. “Though God knows, I shouldn’t even be thinking of swanning about enjoying myself when there’s
so much work to be done. Besides, what would people think?”

“There goes the Duke, having a day off,” Miel replied. “You aren’t the first man in history who’s lost a battle. And it wasn’t
your fault. No, really. You weren’t to know about those scorpion things. If it hadn’t been for them —”

“Which is like saying if it wasn’t for the rain, it’d be a dry day.” Orsea scowled. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to admit
it, Miel. I screwed up. I led thousands of our people to their death.”

Miel sighed loudly. “All right, yes. It’s very bad. And it’s going to be very tense for a while back home, until people come
to terms with it. But these things happen; and you know what? It’s not you they’re going to hate, it’s the Mezentines, because
they’re the ones who killed our people. Now, do you want me to organize a day with the birds when we get home, or not?”

Orsea shook his head. “Best not,” he said. “At least, not for a while. Now, what can I do to help?”

Eventually, Miel let him organize the reconnaissance parties. That was all right, he was happy with that. They were, he knew,
in sensitive territory. Not far away (nobody was entirely sure where; that was the problem) was the border between the two
mountain dukedoms. He felt confident that the Vadani wouldn’t make trouble unless they felt they were provoked. Straying inadvertently
onto their land with an army, however, even if that army was a chewed-up remnant, would probably constitute provocation, particularly
to some of the old-school Vadani commanders who were still having trouble coming to terms with the peace. Vital, therefore,
to keep a sharp eye open for routine border patrols, and to keep well out of their way. The scout captains duly set off, and
he settled down in the vanguard to wait for the first reports.

The Vadani, he thought; that’s probably what made me think about falcons, and Jarnac Ducas. It had been years since he’d seen
his cousin Valens; the last time, come to think of it, was before he — before either of them — had come to the throne; before
his wedding, even. He tried to picture Valens in his mind, and saw a thin, sharp-nosed, sullen boy who never spoke first.
He remembered feeling sorry for him, watching him riding to the hunt with his outrageous father. It had been a cold, miserable
occasion; a state visit, reception and grand battue to celebrate a truce in the unending, insoluble war. It was obvious that
nobody on either side believed in the truce — they were all proved right a few months later, when it collapsed into bloody
shambles — and hardly anybody made any effort to mask his skepticism; but they’d attended the reception, watched the dancers,
listened to the musicians, gone through the motions with fixed smiles, and then that dreadful day’s hunting, in the cold mist,
everybody getting muddled about the directions, not hearing the horns, getting to their pegs too early or too late; the old
Duke in a raging temper because the beaters had gone in before they were supposed to, and the deer had been flushed and had
gone on long before the guests were in position. Not that any of the Eremian contingent cared a damn; but the Duke did, because
he actually cared whether they caught anything or not — some of the Eremians reckoned the visit and the whole truce business
was just a pretext he’d cooked up for a full-scale battue at the beginning of the season. As a result, the Duke spent the
day charging backward and forward across the field yelling at huntsmen and line-captains, and young Valens had charged with
him, grimly wretched but keeping up, so as not to get lost and add to the day’s problems. It was painfully obvious that he
didn’t want to be there; obvious that his father knew it, and didn’t care. He took his son with him the way you’d wear a brooch
or a belt you hated, but which a relative had given you, so you had to wear it so as not to hurt their feelings. That day,
he’d felt very sorry for Valens, and it was still the mental image his mind defaulted to, when his advisers debated the Vadani
question in council, or when his wife talked about Valens to him. It’s hard to hate someone who, in your mind, is forever
a sad twelve-year-old, soaking wet on a horse far too big for him. Orsea, of course, made a point of never hating anybody
unless it was absolutely unavoidable.