K Parker - Evil for Evil

"Probably," Miel said.

She took a few more steps, then hesitated. "Can you think of anybody else who might want you?" she said. "For money, I mean."

"No."

"What about the Vadani? They've been helping you, haven't they?"

"Yes," Miel said, "but the Mezentines would pay more."

"And they're closer." She hadn't turned round. "But you're good friends with Duke Orsea, aren't you? And he's with the Vadani now. Juifrez isn't a greedy man. If he could get enough for our people… Or better still, if you could arrange for us to go there. The Vadani aren't allowing any of us across the border, they're afraid it'll make the Mezentines more determined to carry on with the war. If you could get Duke Orsea to persuade the Vadani, we'd be safe. Juifrez would see the sense in that. Well?"

Miel shook his head, though of course she wasn't looking at him. He wasn't quite sure when or why, but the balance between them had changed. "Orsea doesn't like me much anymore," he said. "And I don't know Duke Valens, there's no reason why he'd put himself out for me."

"Don't you care?" She sounded angry, almost. "You sound like you aren't really interested."

"I'm not," he heard himself say. He'd pinpointed the shift; it had been the moment when he'd remembered her husband's name. "At least…" He sighed. "The best thing would be if your husband didn't see me," he said. "But I can't ask you to lie to him, or anything like that."

"No, you can't." Snapped back at him, as if she was afraid of the very thought. "I've never lied to Juifrez."

No, he thought; but you probably would, if I worked on you a little. But I'm not going to do that. I'm in enough trouble already on account of another man's wife. "Good," he said. "Look, if you think it's worth trying to get help from the Vadani, I'm hardly going to argue. I'm just not sure it'll come to anything, that's all."

"You sound like you want us to sell you to the Mezentines."

"No, not really."

The air felt brittle; he felt as though he could ball his fist and smash it, and the inside of the barn would split into hundreds of facets, like a splintered mirror. Just the effect he had on people, he assumed. "I'm not in any position to tell you what to do, am I?" he said, and it came out sounding peevish and bitter, which wasn't what he'd intended. "I'm sorry," he added quickly, but she didn't seem to have heard. "If it wasn't for your people, I'd probably have died on the battlefield, or been picked up by the enemy, which amounts to the same thing."

She sighed. "You're the Ducas," she said. "You can't help being valuable, to someone or other. Finding you was like finding someone else's purse in the street. We aren't thieves, but we do need the money." She turned, finally, and looked at him. Exasperation? Maybe. "It'd be easier if you weren't so damned accommodating. Aristocratic good manners, I suppose." She shrugged. "And for pity's sake stop fiddling with that stuff. You're no good at it, and the Ducas isn't supposed to be able to work for his living. Leave it. One of the men can do it tonight, when they get back."

She walked away and left him; nothing decided, and he wasn't even allowed to try and make himself useful. He thought: she doesn't love her husband, or not particularly, but that's not an important issue in her life. It's probably a good thing to be beyond the reach of love. And then he thought of Ziani Vaatzes, and the things he'd done for love, and the things he'd done with love, and with lovers. Ziani Vaatzes could mend chainmail, and nobody would think twice about it; he could probably sew, too. He could certainly bring down cities, and ruin the lives of other people; and all for love, and with it, using it as a tool, as was fitting for a skilled artisan.

Use or be used, he thought. These people can use me, as Ziani used me; it's the Ducas' function in society to be useful. (He wondered: if Vaatzes were standing in front of me right now, would I try to kill him? Answer, yes; instinctively, without thinking, like a dog with a bird.)

Nobody likes being bored, especially when their life is also hanging in the balance. But the Ducas learns boredom, just as he learns the rapier, the lute and the management of horse, hound and falcon. Miel leaned back against the wall and put his hands behind his head.

Partly because he was bored and had nothing better to do, Ziani Vaatzes crossed the yard, left the castle by the middle gate, and walked slowly down the slight hill toward the huddle of buildings that snuggled against the outside of the curtain wall like chicks under the wings of a broody hen. He was looking for smoke; not just the wisps of an ordinary household fire, but the intermittent gusts of gray cloud from a well-worked bellows. Once he'd found what he was looking for, he followed it until he heard the ring of a hammer, and then he followed that.

Inevitably, there was a small crowd in the doorway of the smithy. There always is: a customer waiting for his job to be finished, poor and frugal types who'd rather keep warm by someone else's fire, old men wanting to be listened to, chancers waiting for a good moment to ask a favor. One of the old men was talking when he got there. Nobody could hear a word he said over the sound of the hammer, but he didn't seem to care, or to have noticed. One or two heads turned to look as Ziani joined the back of the group. A month or so ago they'd all have stared at him, but the Duke's pet black-faced Mezentine had stopped being news some time back. Now he was just one more straggler from the castle, an aristocrat by association, a somebody but nobody important. They probably all knew that he was an engineer, which would in itself explain why he was hanging round the forge; an assumption, and perfectly true.

He watched the smith drawing down a round bar into a tapered square section, and allowed his mind to drift; the chime of the hammer and the rasping breath of the bellows soothed him like the most expensive music, and the warmth of the fire made him yawn. None of these people would have heard the news yet; they didn't know about the plan to abandon the city and strike out into the plains. Probably just as well, or there'd be panic, anger, moaning, reluctance. Valens wouldn't break the news until all the arrangements for the evacuation had been made, right down to what each of them would be allowed to take with him and which cart it'd be stowed in. There'd be an announcement, and just enough time for the evacuation to be carried out smoothly and efficiently, not enough time for anybody to have a chance to think about it. The Vadani didn't strike him as the sort of people who worried too much about the decisions their duke made on their behalf, such as abandoning their home, or starting a war with the Perpetual Republic. He wondered about that. You could evacuate Mezentia in a day; everybody would do as he was told, because that was what they'd been brought up to do. The Vadani would do it because they believed that Valens knew best. In this case, of course, he did. The policy was irreproachably sensible and practical. Ziani smiled at the thought, as a god might smile at the enlightened self-interest of his creation.

The smith paused to quench the top half of his work and swill down a mug of water before leaning into the bellows handle. The old man was still talking. Someone else cut across him to ask the smith a question, which was answered with a shrug and a shake of the head. Reasonable enough; why bother with words when you know nobody can ever hear what you say. The bellows wheezed like a giant snoring, as though the old man's interminable droning had put it to sleep.

He's working the steel too cold, Ziani thought; but of course it wasn't his place to say so, not in someone else's shop, when his opinion hadn't been asked for. The slovenliness annoyed him a little, just enough to spoil the pleasure of watching metal being worked. As unobtrusively as possible, he disengaged and left the forge. I must find myself some work to do, he told himself, I need to be busy. I wash my hands three times a day here, but they never get dirty.