K Parker - Devices and Desires

There was still an hour's light left when they gave up for the night, but everybody was too exhausted to carry on. There had already been unnecessary accidents and injuries, and Miel had called a halt. Instead, men stumbled about on a sad excuse for a plateau, struggling to pitch tents on the slope, wedging cartwheels with stones to stop them rolling; the whole tiresome routine of unpacking and setting up, lighting fires without proper kindling, cooking too little food in too little water. They pitched his tent first (were they doing it on purpose to show him up? No, of course they weren't); the doctor came, looked, prodded and failed to announce that the wound had miraculously healed and he'd be fit for duty in the morning. One by one the survivors of his general staff dropped by. They were genuinely anxious about his health, but they didn't want his orders or even his advice. Finally, Miel Ducas came, slow and clumsy with fatigue, squatting on the floor rather than wait for someone to fetch him a chair.

'Slow going,' he reported. 'I'd sort of counted on making it to the hog's back tonight, so we could get on the south-west road by noon tomorrow. As it is, we might just get there by nightfall; depends on conditions. And if it decides to rain, of course, we're screwed.'

Orsea hadn't even considered that. 'Who said anything about rain?' he said. 'It's been blue skies all day.'

Miel nodded. 'Talked to a couple of men who make the butter run,' he said. 'According to them, it's the time of year for flash storms. Clear sky one minute, and the next you're up to your ankles in muck. That's if you're lucky and you aren't swept away in a mudslide. Cheerful bastards.'

Orsea couldn't think of anything to say. 'Let's hope it stays dry, then.'

'Let's hope.' Miel yawned. 'Once we reach the hog's back, of course,' he went on, 'it's all nice and easy till we get to the river; which, needless to say, is probably in spate. I have absolutely no idea how we're going to get across, so I'm relying on inspiration, probably in the form of a dream. My ancestors were always being helped out of pots of shit by obliging and informative dreams, and I'm hoping it runs in the family. How about your lot?'

Orsea smiled. 'We don't dream much. Or if we do, it's being chased by bears, or having to give a speech with no clothes on.'

'Fascinating.' Miel closed his eyes, then opened them again. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Not respectful in the presence of my sovereign. How's the leg?'

'Oh, fine. It's that miserable bloody doctor who's making me lounge around like this.'

(Stupid thing to say, of course. The leg wasn't fine; the doctor most likely hadn't had more than a couple of hours' sleep since the battle; and of course the Ducas family received supernatural advice in their dreams, since they were genuine old aristocracy, unlike the jumped-up parvenu Orseoli…)

'Do as he says,' Miel replied sternly. 'Your trouble is, you don't know a perfectly valid excuse when you see one. You were the same when we were kids. You'd insist on dragging yourself into classes with a raging temperature, and then we'd all catch it off you and be sick as dogs just in time for the recess. You will insist…' He hesitated. 'Just for once, stay still and make the most of it. We're all going to have a high old time of it soon as we get home.'

Orsea looked away. You will insist on doing the right thing, even if it's guaranteed to result in misery and mayhem; or something to that effect. 'All right,' he said. 'It's just so bloody stupid. Getting shot with one of our own arrows.'

'At least our side got to draw blood,' Miel replied. 'Hello, what's all that fuss they're making outside?'

Orsea hadn't noticed; now Miel mentioned it, he could hear shouting. 'They've attacked,' he said.

'Don't think so, or they'd be doing more than just yelling. Hold still, I'll go and see.'

He came back again a moment later, grinning. 'Would you believe it,' he said, 'they caught a spy.'

'You're joking.'

'I'm not. I saw him. Genuine Mezentine spy, brown face and everything. I told them to string him up.'

Orsea frowned. 'No, don't do that,' he said. 'I want to know why they're so interested in us. Maybe they didn't know about this path before. If they're looking for a back way up the mountain, that could be very bad.'

Miel shrugged. 'It's your treehouse. I'll have him brought in, you can play with him.'

The prisoner was a Mezentine, no question about that; with his dark skin and high cheekbones, he couldn't be anything else. But that raised a question in itself. Mezentine officers commanded the army, but the men they gave orders to were all mercenaries; southerners, usually, or people from overseas.

Besides, it was hard to see how a member of the victorious Mezentine expedition, which hadn't come within bowshot or lost a single man as far as Orsea was aware, could have got in such a deplorable state. He could barely stand; the two guards were holding him up rather than restraining him. He had only one shoe; his hair was filthy and full of dust; he had several days' growth of beard (the Mezentines were obsessive about shaving their faces) and he smelt disgusting.

Orsea had never interrogated a prisoner before; of all things, he felt shy. 'Name,' he snapped, because it was as good a starting-point as any.

The man lifted his head, as though his name was the last thing he'd been expecting to be asked. 'Ziani Vaatzes,' he said, in a feeble whisper.

That didn't need expert interpretation. 'Get this man some water,' Orsea said, then realised that for once there weren't any attendants or professional bustlers-about on hand. Miel gave him a rather startled, what-me expression, then went outside, returning a little later with a jug and a horn cup, which the prisoner grabbed with both hands. He spilt most of it down his front.

Orsea had thought of another question. 'What unit are you with?'

The prisoner had to think about that one. 'I'm not a soldier,' he said.

'No, you're a spy.'

'No, I'm not.' The prisoner sounded almost amused. 'Is that what you think?'

Miel shifted impatiently. 'You sure you want to bother with him?' he asked.

Orsea didn't reply, though he noticed the effect Miel's words had on the prisoner. 'Really,' the man said. 'I'm not a soldier, or a spy or anything.' He stopped, looking very unhappy.

'Right,' Orsea said. 'You're a Mezentine, but you're nothing to do with the army out there on the plain. Excuse me, but your people aren't known for going sightseeing.'

'I'm an escaped prisoner,' the man said; he made it sound like a profession. "I promise you, it's true. They were going to kill me; I ran away."

Miel laughed. 'This one's a comedian,' he said. 'He's broken out of jail, so naturally he tags along behind the army. Last place they'd look for you, I guess.'

The look on the man's face; fear, and disbelief, and sheer fury at not being believed. Any moment now, Orsea thought, he's going to demand to see the manager.

'You must be the enemy, then,' the man said.

This time. Miel burst out laughing. 'You could say that,' he said.

'All right.' Orsea was having trouble keeping a straight face. 'Yes, we're the enemy. Do you know who we are?'

The man shook his head. 'Not a clue, sorry. I don't know where this is or what the hell's going on. I didn't even know there's a war on.'

'The army,' Miel said softly. 'Wasn't that a pretty broad hint?'

Now the man looked embarrassed. 'To be honest,' he said, 'I assumed they were after me.'

Orsea looked at him. 'Really'

The man nodded. 'I thought it was a bit over the top myself,' he said. 'But we take renegades very seriously. I assumed-'

'Sorry to disappoint you,' Miel interrupted. 'But your army out there's been fighting us.'

'Oh, right.' The man frowned. 'Who won?'