Devices and Desires (19 page)

Muttering, slightly exaggerated, from the Stonemasons’ and Wainwrights’ delegates. Political committees. Psellus ground on:
“I take it you have something positive to propose.”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Crisestem smiled amiably. “It seems to me that, since we cannot handle this matter directly,
we must take a more oblique approach.” He opened his folder and took out a piece of paper, holding it close to his body, as
if it was a candle in a stiff breeze. “This came in today, from one of my observers in Forza. Apparently, Duke Valens has
taken a hand in the Eremian crisis; he’s sent significant aid to the survivors of Orsea’s army — food, doctors, transport.
It would appear that the alliance between Eremia and the Vadani is by no means as brittle as we had assumed.”

Eyebrows were raised at that; typical of the Tailors to keep back genuinely important news just to gain a brief tactical advantage.

“That’s an interesting development,” Psellus said.

“Certainly. Let’s confine ouselves, however, to its relevance to the matter in hand. A closer relationship between the two
duchies will inevitably lead to closer commercial ties. We have excellent resources inside the Vadani mercantile. I suggest
we use them. We won’t be needing them for anything else; the Vadani will never be a threat to us, they have too much sense.
Furthermore, we can place our own people in the Vadani court, to supervise and coordinate operations. No doubt the foreign
affairs directorate will be sending diplomats to Duke Valens to find out what lies behind this remarkable display of neighborly
feeling. The actual transaction can be managed very well from Civitas Vadanis; if we manage to get Vaatzes out alive, it will
be much simpler to bring him home from there. I imagine Valens will be eager to propitiate us, if he’s up to something with
his cousin, so we can be confident we won’t be unduly hampered by interference from that quarter. It would appear to be the
logical approach.”

Psellus had, of course, hated the Tailors and Clothiers from birth; they were Consolidationists, the Foundrymen were Didactics,
there could be no common ground, no compromise on anything, ever. Even if Manuo Crisestem had been a Foundryman, however,
Psellus would still have loathed him with every cell, hair and drop of moisture in his body. “Agreed,” he said. “Do we need
to take a formal vote on this? Objections from the floor? Very well, I propose that we minute that and move on to appropriations.”
He gazed into Crisestem’s unspeakably smug face and continued: “When do you think you can let us have a draft budget for approval?”

Crisestem hesitated; he was apprehensive, but didn’t know why. Confused, presumably, by his easy victory — which was understandable,
since the Foundrymen had beaten the Tailors to a pulp in every major confrontation that century. “Depends on how much detail
you want me to go into at this stage,” he replied. “Obviously, since we’ve only just agreed this, I haven’t done any proper
costings; haven’t got a plan I can cost yet, not till I sit down and work it all out.”

“I think we can all appreciate that,” Psellus said — he knew Crisestem was floundering —“but it goes without saying, time
is of the essence. If we reconvened here at, say, this time tomorrow, do you think you could have an outline plan of action
with an appropriations schedule for us by then?”

“I should think so,” Crisestem replied, at the very moment when both he and Psellus realized what had happened. It hadn’t
been intentional (if it had been, Crisestem told himself, I’d have seen it coming, read it in his weaselly little face), but
it was a good, bold counterattack, what the fencers would call a riposte in straight time. Without formal proposal or debate,
Manuo Crisestem had been put in charge of the whole wretched business. If he succeeded, nobody outside this room would ever
know who deserved the credit. If he failed, he’d be finished in Guild politics.

It took a little longer, maybe the time it takes to eat an apple, for the rest of the committee to realize what had just happened.
Nobody said anything, of course. It wasn’t the sort of thing you discussed, except in private, two or three close colleagues
talking together behind locked doors. In politics, it’s what isn’t said that matters. The fencers say that you never see the
move that kills you; in politics also. It appears out of nowhere, like goblins in a fairy tale, but once it’s happened you
start to smell of failure. People who used to look at you and see the next director of finance or foreign affairs start turning
their speculations elsewhere, and the brief hush when you enter a room has a different, rather more bitter flavor. Of course,
Crisestem might succeed. It was more likely than not that he would. But until the job was done and the file was closed, he
was a man marked by the possibility of failure, someone who might not be there anymore in six months’ time. In a game played
so many moves ahead, someone like that was at best on suspension. He might succeed, at which time he’d be eligible to start
again at the foot of the ladder. Meanwhile, he had to face life as a liability in waiting.

Not such a bad day after all, Psellus thought.

Any other business; no other business. He confirmed tomorrow’s meeting — they’d be back in the great hall, where they belonged
— and closed. The committee stood up slowly, like the audience at the end of a particularly powerful and moving play, taking
time to adjust to being back in the real world. Crisestem indulged in the luxury of one swift, ferocious stare. Psellus returned
it with a gentle smile, and returned to his chambers.

Back in his favorite chair, facing the wall with the tarnished but glorious mosaic (Mezentine Destiny as a knight in armor
riding down the twin evils of Chaos and Doubt), he reflected on the changed state of play. A fool would still be able to turn
this fortuitous victory into a total defeat. A fool would try and take advantage by sabotaging the operation, in the hope
of guaranteeing Crisestem’s downfall. It was a sore temptation — he was almost certain it could be done, efficiently and discreetly,
one hundred percent success — but it was also the only way he could lose, and losing in this instance would mean disaster.
The obvious alternative was to be as helpful and supportive as possible and trust Crisestem to destroy himself. Psellus thought
about that. If he had true faith, in the Foundrymen, in the Didactic movement itself, he wouldn’t doubt for a moment that
Crisestem would fail (because Didacticism was right, Consolidation was wrong, and good always triumphs over evil). It’d be
easy to glide down into that belief; Crisestem was an idiot, no question about that. But he was cunning; his clever encircling
maneuver had demonstrated that, even if he had turned his victory into a desperate wire for his own feet.

Psellus yawned. So what if Crisestem did succeed? He’d get no thanks for it outside the committee because nobody would know
it had been him. Inside — well, you never could tell. Psellus was more inclined to believe that they’d remember him walking
blithely into the pitfall long after he’d dug his way out clutching a fistful of rubies, but you couldn’t build a policy on
a vague intuition. Instead, he considered the worst likely outcome. Crisestem succeeded, thereby increasing his personal prestige
inside the committee out of all recognition. So what? Just so long as Psellus kept his nerve and played his moves on the merits
rather than through anger or fear, the position at the end would still be pretty much the same as it was right now. Psellus
would still have the actual, procedural authority; he’d still see the minutes in draft before each meeting, and be able to
make subtle, deft changes to key words under the pretext of proofreading. As for Crisestem, the higher he rose, the further
he had to come down when finally he did make a mistake. Tranquility, serenity and patience.

To take his mind off the problem, Psellus reached for his copy of Vaatzes’ dossier. Age: thirty-four. Guild: Foundrymen’s
and Machinists’ (Psellus sighed; one in every barrel). Physical description: he read the details, tried to compile a mental
image, but failed. Nondescript, then (except for his height; a tall man, six feet three inches, so among the hill-tribes he’d
be a giant). Family: neither parent living — father had been a convener at the bloom mills for thirty years; a wife, Ariessa,
age twenty-four, and a daughter, Moritsa, age six — so assuming she was seventeen when they married, he’d have been, what,
ten years older. Psellus frowned. Was there a story behind that? He turned back to the wife’s details. Father, Taudor Connenus,
a toolmaker in the ordnance factory. Psellus compared his works number with Vaatzes’ service history. Connenus had worked
on Vaatzes’ floor at the time of the marriage, therefore had been his subordinate. And Connenus was no longer a toolmaker
but a junior supervisor; likewise Zan Connenus, the wife’s brother, promoted at the same time as his father.

Psellus closed his eyes and thought about that. A hundred and fifty years ago, yes; it had been quite common back then for
men to marry girls much younger than themselves, particularly where the marriage was part of some greater chain of transactions.
There had been trouble — he struggled to remember his ancient history — there had been trouble in the Tinsmiths’ Guild over
a marriage and the practice had been disapproved (not denounced; it was still perfectly legal, but you weren’t supposed to
do it). There had been thirty years or so of compliance, a reaction, a counter-reaction, and then it had ceased to be an issue.
At best, then, it was an eccentricity. He made a note to interview the two Conneni, and returned to the dossier.

Details of the offense: he read the technical data — straightforward enough — and the investigating officer’s notes. The background
was pathetic, really; a man wanted to make a nice present for his daughter and allowed his own cleverness to tempt him into
disaster. The rest of the section was unremarkable enough, except for one thing that made Psellus raise his eyebrows in surprise.

Next in the dossier were copies of supervisors’ annual assessment reports, going back twenty years. Psellus sighed, poured
himself a small glass of brandy, and made himself concentrate. The picture that began to emerge was of a willing, serious
apprentice, a reliable and careful machinist, a good supervisor; resourceful (and look where that had got him), intelligent,
a planner; content to do his work to the best of his ability; a quiet man, a family man — rarely took part in social activities
except where his status required it; a man who worked late when it was necessary, but preferred to go home on time. There
had been no petty thefts of offcuts of material or discarded tools, no reports of private work done on the side; respected
by his equals and his subordinates, few friends but no enemies — all those years as a supervisor and nobody hated him; now
that was really rather remarkable. A mild man, but he’d married a subordinate’s daughter when she was little more than a child,
and promotions had followed. Query: do quiet and mild always necessarily mean the same thing?

Several pages of details, headed
restricted,
of his work on ordnance development projects. Psellus nodded to himself; a question which had been nagging him like mild
toothache would appear to have answered itself. There were, of course, no Guild specifications for military equipment. It
was the only area not covered by specifications, the only area in which innovation and improvement were permitted. Vaatzes,
apparently, had been responsible for no fewer than three amendments to approved designs, all to do with the scorpions: an
improved ratchet stop, upgrading of the thread on the sear nut axle pin from five eighths coarse to three quarters fine, addition
of an oil nipple to the slider housing to facilitate lubrication of the slider on active service. That wasn’t all; he’d proposed
a further four amendments which had been rejected by the standing committee on ordnance design. Psellus sighed. Allow a man
to get the taste for innovation and you put his very soul at risk. The compliance directorate had considered the issue on
several occasions and had recommended a program of advanced doctrinal training to make sure that workers exposed to the danger
had a proper understanding of the issues involved; the recommendation had been approved years ago but was still held up in
committee. A tragedy. A small voice inside his head reminded him that the training idea had been a Foundrymen’s proposal,
and that the subcommittee obstructing it was dominated by the Tailors and the Joiners. He stowed the fact carefully away in
his mental quiver for future use.

Three approved amendments; he thought some more about that. Three amendments by a serving officer. Usually an amendment was
held to be the glorious culmination of a long and distinguished career; it was something you held back until it was time for
you to retire, and there’d be a little ceremony, the chief inspector of ordnance would shake you by the hand in front of the
assembled workforce and present you with your letter of patent at the same time as your long-service certificate. It wasn’t
a perfect system, because a man might have to wait fifteen years before submitting his amendment, all that time churning out
a product he knew could be improved; but it was worthwhile because it limited exposure to the innovation bug. Only a very
few men proposed amendments while they were still working, and nearly all such applications were rejected on principle, regardless
of merit.
Three,
for God’s sake. Why hadn’t he heard about this man years ago? And why, when the facts were here in the file for anyone to
see, hadn’t he been put under level six supervision after the first proposal?

In a sense, Psellus thought, we failed him. He was reminded of the old story about the man who kept a baby manticore for the
eggs, until at last one day the manticore, fully grown and reverting to its basic nature, killed him. We let Vaatzes walk
this highly dangerous path alone because the amendments were all good, sound engineering, allowing us to improve the performance
of the product. Credit for that improvement would’ve gone primarily to the chief inspector of ordnance, and from him to the
members of the departmental steering committee. Manticore eggs.