K Parker - Devices and Desires

'Well,' someone said, 'it's obviously not a job we can tackle ourselves, not directly. Any one of our people'd stick out a mile among the tribesmen. I say we put a tender out to the traders. It wouldn't be the first time, and they'll do anything for money.'

That was simply stating the obvious, but at least they were getting somewhere; no small achievement, in a committee of political appointees. Psellus nodded. 'The Merchant Adventurers are clearly the place to start,' he said. 'We've got a reasonable network of contacts in place now; at the very least they can do the fieldwork and gather the necessary intelligence: where he is exactly, the sort of security measures we'll have to face, his daily routine, the attitude of the Duke and his people. As regards the actual capture, I'm not sure we can rely on people like that; but let's take it one step at a time. Now, who's in charge of running our contacts in the company?'

Manuo Crisestem stood up; six feet of idiot in a purple brocaded gown. Psellus managed not to groan. 'I have the file here,' Crisestem said, brandishing a parchment folder. 'Anticipating this discussion,. I took the trouble to read it through before we convened. There is a problem.'

There was a grin behind his words. Crisestem (Tailors' and Clothiers') had only joined the committee a few months ago, replacing one of Psellus' fellow Foundrymen as controller of intelligence. If there was a problem, it'd be the Foundrymen's fault, and Crisestem would be only too delighted to make a full confession and abject apology on their behalf. 'I regret to have to inform this committee,' he said, 'that our resources in Eremia Montis are unsatisfactory. We have agents in the cheese, butter and leather trades and among the horse-breeders, but at relatively low levels. Furthermore, our resources are such that, after the recent incursion, they can no longer be relied on. It won't take the Duke long to figure out who gave us advance warning of his adventure; those agents will be exposed and presumably dealt with, and it will be exceedingly difficult to recruit replacements as a result. The fact is that all our people in Eremia have been used up-in a good cause, needless to say; but now that they're gone, we have nothing worth mentioning in reserve.'

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 ourselves, 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 co-ordinate operations. No doubt the foreign affairs directorate will be sending diplomats to Duke Valens to find out what lies behind this remarkable display of neighbourly 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 realised 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 realise 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 flavour. 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 any more 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.