Devices and Desires (74 page)

“If you ask me,” she said vehemently, “it’s them bloody Phocas who started this whole stupid war, just so they could do us
down and get the command. Nothing they wouldn’t do to push us out and be on top, only they know so long as you’re around there’s
no chance of that, so they start spreading their filthy lies, and of course the Duke believes them, he’d believe any bloody
thing —”

“You mustn’t talk like that about the Duke,” Miel said firmly.

She looked at him as if he was a martyred saint. “But look at how he’s treating you,” she said, “his best friend and all.
If I could only get my hands on him —”

“That’s enough,” Miel said sharply; then he went on: “I mean, it’d be no good if I got out of here to find my own housekeeper,
who’s the only woman in the city who can run our house properly, is in jail for high treason. Fact is, you’re far more important
to the Ducas house than I am.”

There were fat, soggy tears in her eyes; not just admiration and doglike devotion, but guilt as well. “You’re making me feel
dreadful,” she said. “I wasn’t going to tell you, not till you got out of here, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore, it’s
like I’m betraying you when you need me most. For two pins I’d tell him to forget it, only everything’s arranged now and I
don’t know if we’d be able to get the money back, and he’s set his heart —”

“Hang on,” Miel interrupted. “I think you may have missed a bit out. What can’t you keep to yourself, and how are you betraying
me?”

“Well,” she said with a sniff, “me and Geratz — he’s my husband, you know —”

“I’ve known him since I was six,” Miel pointed out.

“Of course you have, I’m sorry. Anyway, we’ve come into a bit of money, a nice bit of money actually, and Geratz has always
had his heart set on a farm, ever since he was a kid, his uncle being a smallholder out in the Crane valley and Geratz going
there such a lot when he was a small boy —”

“You’re buying a farm, then,” Miel interrupted.

She nodded three times quickly. “Cousin of a friend of Geratz’s aunt,” she said, “got no kids of his own and he’s getting
on, the place is too big for him, but it’s a good farm, there’s sixty acres of pasture, a good vineyard, nice big plot for
growing a bit of corn down by the river — that’s the Mare’s Tail, I expect you know it well, out west on the border, which
would’ve put us off, of course, but now we’re all friends with the Vadani there’s really nothing to worry about — and there’s
a good road for taking the flock to market, and he wants next to nothing for it really, I think he just wants someone to look
after it, make sure it doesn’t all go to seed and ruin — well, you can understand that, after working all his life —”

“I’m delighted for you,” Miel said firmly. “Truly I am. You deserve some luck, both of you.”

She gazed at him as though her heart was breaking. “Yes, but leaving you, at a time like this, it just doesn’t seem right…”

“Rubbish,” Miel said. “The most important thing is to take your chances when you can. Now, as a token of my appreciation for
all your hard work over the years I’d like to do something to help you set up. How about the live and dead stock? Is that
included, or are you just buying the land?”

That had the effect of reducing her to tears, which was rather more than Miel could take. Besides, it was all completely fatuous;
the Mezentines were camped at the foot of the mountain, and pretty soon all contracts, agreements, promises and plans would
be null and void forever. It occurred to him to wonder whether she appreciated that. Absurd irony: to cherish an unthinkable
ambition for a lifetime, to attain it through a small miracle (she hadn’t said where the money had come from; a legacy, presumably)
only to have it swept away by a huge, unexpected, illogical, ridiculous monstrosity of a war. Of course, he couldn’t help
thinking, here’s my chance to be a hero; I could promise her any damn thing — five hundred prime dairy cows, a brand-new barn,
a new plow and a team of twenty milk-white horses — and of course I’ll never have to pay up, because in a very short time
we’ll all be dead. Oh, the temptation!

He spent the rest of her visit dealing with strictly domestic matters. Because of the siege, it wasn’t possible for the steward
of the home farm to send the usual supplies of provisions for the household up to the town house; it was therefore necessary
to buy food for the staff, something that the Ducas hadn’t done for generations. He authorized the extravagance with all due
solemnity, and also agreed to a general washing and airing of curtains and bedlinen. (“Might as well get it all done while
you’re not at home,” she’d said, “so it won’t be a nuisance to you.” He appreciated the thought, at any rate.) After a slight
hesitation, she asked if she could take down the big tapestry, which she knew she shouldn’t touch without express permission,
but it had got in a dreadful state, with dust and all. There was a slight catch in her voice when she asked him that, but
she was, after all, a rather emotional woman.

When she’d gone, he took a fresh sheet of paper (she’d brought a ream with her up from the house, since he was running low)
and wrote his usual letters: to Orsea, conversational and slightly desperate; to Jarnac, asking him if he’d mind taking the
riding horses to his stables for the time being, since he was concerned that they weren’t getting enough exercise; to Veatriz,
six pages, which he read over slowly before tearing them into small pieces and feeding them methodically into the fire. Not
long after he’d finished that task, a guard told him he had another visitor: Vaatzes, the Mezentine, if he could spare a moment
to see him.

“I think I might be able to fit him in,” Miel replied gravely. The guard went away, and Miel got up to pour some wine from
the jug into a decanter. There was a bowl of fresh apples, a new loaf and some seed-cakes, which the housekeeper had brought.
The Ducas recipe for seed-cake was as old as the city itself and even more closely guarded; Miel had never liked it much.

Vaatzes looked tired, which was hardly surprising; he was thinner, and he grunted softly when he sat down. Then he yawned,
and apologized.

“That’s all right,” Miel said. “I imagine they’re keeping you busy right now.”

Vaatzes nodded. “It sounds bad saying it,” he replied, “but I’ll almost be glad when the attack comes, and there’s nothing
else I can do. At the moment I keep thinking of slight modifications and improvements, which means breaking down four hundred
sets of mountings just to put on an extra washer or slip in another shim. I know for a fact that all the artillery crews hate
me. Don’t blame them, either.”

Miel shook his head. “You just wait,” he said. “Once they attack, you’ll have your work cut out.”

“Not really,” Vaatzes said. “I’m not a soldier, I’m just a mechanic. As soon as the bolts start flying I intend to find a
deep, dark cellar and barricade myself in.”

“Very wise,” Miel said. “And you’ve done your bit already, God knows. But I suppose it’s your war as much as ours, given the
way they treated you. You want to get back at them, naturally.”

Vaatzes frowned. “Not at all,” he said. “I’ve got one hell of a grudge against a small number of officials in the Foundrymen’s
Guild and Compliance, but I love my city. What I want most in the whole world is to go home and carry on with my old life.
That’s not going to be possible, but it still doesn’t mean I suddenly hate everybody I used to love, and that I’ve stopped
believing in everything that I used to live by. No, I’m helping you because it’s my duty, because you people rescued me when
I was dying and gave me a home and a job to do; and because nobody else has a use for me. I’d have thought you of all people
would’ve understood about duty.”

“That old thing.” Miel laughed. “It’s actually one of our family’s titles: the Ducas, Lord of the Mesogaea, Baron Hereditary
of the Swan River, Master of the East Marches, Slave of Duty. Always made me laugh, that, but in fact it’s true; the Ducas
is the second most powerful man in this country, but everything he does every day, from getting up in the morning to going
to bed at night, is pretty well dictated to him by duty. It’s not something I ever think about, the way fish don’t think about
water.”

Vaatzes studied him for a moment, as though making an assessment. “Duke Orsea’s taken over running the war himself,” he said.
“Someone called the lesser Phocas is in charge of supplies and administration, and your cousin Jarnac’s in command of the
defense of the walls. There’s a man called something Amyntas supposedly commanding the artillery, but I haven’t met him yet.
I think he’s quite happy for me to get on with it; which is stupid, since I don’t know the first thing about military science.”

Miel grinned. “Neither does Tarsa Amyntas,” he said. “He was famous for a week or so about fifteen years ago, when he killed
a lot of Vadani in the war; hand-to-hand fighting in a forest, if I’m thinking about the right man. Since then, he’s mostly
spent his time composing flute-music and trying to grow strawberries in winter. Military command in this country goes according
to birth, rank and position. It’s a miracle we’re still here.”

“It seems to have worked,” Vaatzes said mildly. “Take you, for instance. You won a battle.”

“That seems to be a matter of opinion,” Miel said.

“No, it’s a fact. You were outnumbered — what, ten to one? It was something ridiculous like that. You outplanned and outfought
the best professional commander money can buy. And I don’t suppose it was just natural talent or beginner’s luck,” he added,
with a small grin. “It’s because you were born and brought up to do a particular job, just like sons follow their fathers
in the Guilds. I’ll bet you were learning about logistics and reading up old battles at an age when most kids are learning
their times tables.”

“Sort of,” Miel said. “But I’m nothing special, believe me. It was just luck; and besides, I threw it all away by pulling
back too early. At any rate, that seems to be what Orsea thinks, and the opinion of the Duke is the only thing that matters
to the Ducas. Says so somewhere in the book of rules.”

Vaatzes frowned at him. “Your family has a rule-book?” he said.

Miel laughed. “No, it’s a figure of speech. Though, since you mention it, there is a Ducas code of honor, all properly written
down and everything. The Five Transcendent Precepts, it’s called. My great-great-” — he paused and counted on his fingers
— “great-
great
-grandfather made it up and had it carved on a wall, on the left by the main hall door as you go in. I had to learn it by
heart when I was eight.”

“Really? What does it say?”

“Can’t remember, to be honest with you. Not all of it, anyhow. Let’s see: do your duty to your Duke, your family, your tenants
and servants, your people and your country. That’s one. Never question an order or give an order that deserves to be questioned,
that’s two. Three…” He closed his eyes, trying to visualize the chisel-cuts in the yellow stone. “Three is something like
true courtesy dignifies the receiver and the giver. Four is, remember always that the acts of the Ducas live forever. Five
— well, you get the general idea. Pretty intimidating stuff to force on an eight-year-old.” He frowned slightly. “You’re laughing,”
he said. “Which is fair enough, it’s all pretty ridiculous stuff, but —”

“Actually,” Vaatzes said, “I was thinking, that’s something you and me have in common. Except when I was eight years old,
I was learning the specifications of the Foundrymen and Machinists’ Guild. At least all your rules of conduct make some sort
of sense. The specifications are just a whole list of measurements and dimensions. But really they amount to the same thing;
stuff you’ve got to live by, like it or not, because that’s what we stand for. I can still remember them all, believe it or
not. On my ninth birthday I had to go to the Guildhall along with all the other kids in my class and stand on a platform in
the Long Gallery, and three scary old men tested us; it felt like hours, and we’d been told beforehand that if we got anything
even slightly wrong, that’d be it — out of the Guild forever, which would’ve been the next best thing to a death sentence.
Were we nervous? I can feel the sweat now, running down inside my shirt. And I was desperate for a pee — I’d gone about a
dozen times while we were waiting in the lodge — but of course there was nothing I could do except stand with my legs crossed
hoping nobody’d notice.”

Miel laughed. “When I was that age I had to go up in front of everybody when we had company for dinner and recite poetry —
Mannerist stuff, mostly, which I never could be doing with. If I did all right and remembered it all and didn’t gabble, Father’d
give me a present, like a new hood for my sparrowhawk or a new pair of riding gloves; but if I got it wrong and showed him
up he’d be absolutely livid for days; wouldn’t speak to me, just looked past me as though I didn’t exist. I never could see
the point of it, because the guests must’ve been bored stiff — who wants to hear a snot-nosed kid reciting sonnets about dew-spattered
ferns? — and he’d be mortified if I wasn’t absolutely perfect, and I hated it, of course. But apparently it was one of those
things you had to do, so we all did it. Like you and your measurements, I suppose.”

Vaatzes nodded. “There’s a difference, though,” he said. “To you it was all just a waste of time; a stupid, pointless chore
but you did it out of duty. For me — I can honestly say, when I got off the platform and I realized I’d passed, it was the
proudest moment of my life. I felt I belonged, you see; I’d earned my place.”

“That’s good,” Miel said, after a light pause. “You were quite right to feel that way.”

“I thought so,” Vaatzes said. “It’s like the story we were all told at school, about the man whose name was put forward for
membership of General Council; there were twenty vacancies, and he’d been nominated by his co-workers, so he went along to
the interview, feeling nervous as hell. Anyhow, that evening he comes home, and he’s grinning like an idiot; so his wife looks
at him and says, ‘You got it, then,’ and he grins a bit more and says, ‘No.’ ‘So why’re you smirking like that?’ she says.
‘I’m happy,’ he replies. ‘Happy? What’re you happy about, you didn’t make it.’ And he beams at her and says, ‘I’m happy for
the City, because if I didn’t get it, it means there’s twenty men in Mezentia who’re even more loyal and wise and clever than
I am; isn’t that fantastic?’ ”