K Parker - Devices and Desires

The first party of scouts hadn't seen anything. The second party reported a body of horsemen, apparently shadowing the army on the other side of a hog's back; somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred and twenty of them, a third- or half-squadron, therefore quite possibly a routine patrol. The third party were late, and when they came in they had a shamefaced look about them; they'd been intercepted by Vadani cavalry who'd apparently materialised out of thin air in front of them on the road, and given them a message to take back. Duke Valens sent his greetings and sympathy on their unfortunate experience. It occurred to him that the army might be short of food, clothes, doctors, whatever. If there was anything they needed, anything the Vadani could do to help (except, of course, military action of any kind), all they had to do was ask.

Orsea's first instinct was to refuse. While he was trying to come up with a sufficiently polite form of words, he found himself wondering why; true, it would be galling to be in Valens' debt, but food, at least a dozen more doctors, best of all a guide or two to show them the easiest way-that could be enough to save lives. He sent a reply thanking Valens very much indeed, and listing everything he could think of. The offer wasn't kindly meant, he had no illusions on that score, but he was in no position to take account of intentions.

The Vadani doctors came with the supply-wagons, perched among sacks and barrels and wearing bemused, scared expressions, like helpless peasants abducted by the fairies. Maybe the Vadani told the same sort of stories about the Eremians as Orsea had heard about them, during the war-they can't be trusted, don't take prisoners, they string you up by the ankles and use you for javelin practice; at any rate, they seemed anxious to help and please, and the Vadani had always had a good reputation for medicine. Orsea amused himself by wondering where they'd been press-ganged from; they'd arrived so fast, they could hardly have been given time to grab their boots and their bags. They asked permission to take some of the worst cases away with them (these men need proper care in a hospital, and so forth), but he couldn't allow that. If there was one thing the Vadani were better at than curing people, it was taking hostages.

Once or twice as the day wore on, he caught himself thinking about the Mezentine fugitive, and his extraordinary offer. But that would have to wait until he got home; the decision would have to be taken in the proper way, with the opinions of the council guiding him. Better, therefore, that he kept his mind open and didn't think about it at all until then.

They stopped for the night an hour before sunset, a long way short of where they'd hoped they'd reach. This journey was taking for ever. Orsea was tired but not exhausted, and his wound hadn't burst like everybody had said it would; there was a little blood showing through the bandage, but nothing spectacular. A Vadani doctor came to examine and dress it; a short, stout man with a fringe of straight white hair round a glowing bald head, very quiet, as though each word was costing him thirty shillings. Orsea guessed that it was the first time he'd had anything to do with the effects of a battle. Some people reacted like that, shutting the doors and windows of their minds to keep the intrusive information out. He said the wound was knitting very well, tutted to himself at the cack-handed Eremian way of winding a bandage, and left quickly. When he'd gone, Orsea poured himself a small drink and opened the book he'd brought along to read, and hadn't yet looked at-Pescennia Alastro's sonnets, the latest rescension, an anniversary present from his wife. He opened it at the first page, laid it carefully face down on his knee, and burst into tears.

Unlike his father, the young Duke hunted three days a week, always following the same pattern. On Tuesdays he rode parforce, with the full pack, drawing the upland coverts for roe (in season), boar, bear and wolf. On Thursdays the hunt was bow-and-stable, the hunters on foot and stationary while the pack flushed the valley plantations and the moors on the forest perimeter. Saturday was for hawking, unless the weather was too wet and cold, in which case they'd work the warrens with terriers, or try their luck walking up rabbits around the orchards. The great battues were a thing of the past now; the young Duke didn't hold with the disturbance they caused, or the scattering of game from their regular beats.

Duke Valens took the hunt very seriously. The rule was, no business on a hunt day unless it's a genuine emergency; and even then, the court knew better than to expect him to be good-tempered about it. Accordingly, Chancellor Delmatius was in two minds, possibly three, about passing on the message from the north-eastern frontier. He spent a couple of tormented hours contemplating the true meaning of the words genuine emergency, evaluated the risks to a hair's weight, and was just in time to intercept Valens before he left for the stables.

'It's probably nothing,' he said, pausing to catch his breath. 'I thought I'd mention it, but I don't think we need do anything about it.'

Valens wasn't looking at him; he was scowling at a square of blue sky beyond the window. 'Shit,' he said (Valens very rarely swore). 'And I was hoping we'd work through the long drive this morning. Pranno reckons there's a twelve-pointer just moved in there.'

Delmatius didn't sigh with relief, but only because he'd learned how not to. 'Do you want to see the messengers first, or should I call the council?'

'I suppose I'd better see the messengers,' Valens answered, looking thoughtfully at the gloves in his hand. 'I don't need you to sit in, I'll get Strepho to take notes for you. You get on and call the meeting. We'll use the side-chamber off the east hall'

Delmatius scuttled away like a mouse who's left half his tail in the cat's mouth; as soon as he'd gone, Valens relaxed his scowl and perched on the edge of the table. It was a pity; if there really was a twelve-pointer in the narrow wood, it'd be long gone by next week, most likely heading downhill towards the lusher grass. Either the Natho clan would get it, or some poacher who'd take the meat and bury the rest, and that superb trophy would go to waste.

Even a twelve-pointer, however, didn't justify spitting in the face of opportunity. He'd already heard about the battle itself, of course. The scouts (his personal unit, not the regulars who reported to the chiefs of staff) had brought him the news a fraction less than twenty-four hours after the last scorpion-bolt pitched. By the time the joint chiefs and the council knew about it, Valens had already read the casualty reports (both sides' versions, naturally). Predictably, they were split into two irreconcilable factions: attack now, kill them all, worry about the treaty later; or leave well alone and hope the wolves tidy up the stragglers.

Instead, Valens had given orders for a modest relief column: food, blankets, doctors of course. The council were used to him adopting the one course of action they were sure he wouldn't take, and listened meekly to their assignments. As usual when he gave an incomprehensible order, Valens didn't stop to explain the rationale behind it. The most favoured theory was that he wanted the doctors to bring him back extremely detailed reports of what state the Eremians were in, the exact strength of the vanguard and rearguard, so he could make the attack, when it came, as effective as possible. Other theories included an unannounced illness, a sudden conversion to some new religion that preached nonviolence, or that old catch-all, lulling the enemy into a false sense of security.

In fact, he was allowing himself the luxury of savouring the moment. It had been a long time coming; but now, at last, his proper enemy and natural prey had made the mistake of bolting from cover at the first horn-call, so to speak. It'd be fatally easy to take the obvious course of action and lay into them, kill as many as possible and scatter the rest. Any fool could do that. Valens, on the other hand, knew the value of waiting just a little longer and doing a proper job. He'd heard a saying once; maybe it was from a Mezentine diplomat, boasting insufferably about how wonderful his people were at making things. The easiest way to do something is properly. When he'd heard it first, he'd been unable to make up his mind whether it was terribly profound or utterly banal. The moment of revelation had been when he realised it was both.