K Parker: Devices and Desires

There were many times during his vigil in the tent when he wished his father would die and be done with it. It'd be better for everyone, now that the political situation had been sorted out. He knew, as he sat and stared at his father's closed eyes, that the Duke didn't want to live; somewhere, deep down in his mind, he'd know what had happened to him, the extent of the damage. He'd never hunt again, never walk, never stand up, feed himself; for the rest of his life, he'd shit into a nappy, like a baby. He'd fought more than his share of wars, seen the terror in the eyes of men he'd reduced to nothing as they knelt before him; he'd far rather die than give them this satisfaction. In fact, Valens recognised, he could think of only one person in the world who wanted him not to die, and his reasons were just sentiment, nothing that would survive the brutal interrogation of logic. At some point in the first twenty-four hours he'd fallen asleep in his chair; he'd had a dream, in which he saw Death standing over the table, asking his permission to take his father's life away, like clearing away the dishes after dinner. It seemed such a reasonable request, and refusing it was a foolish, immature thing to do. You know I'm right, Death's voice said softly inside his head, it's the right thing to do and you're being a nuisance. He'd felt guilty when he ordered Death to go away, ashamed of his own petulance; and meanwhile, outside the door, he could near Licinius and Vetranio and Torquatus and the Chancellor and everybody else in the Duchy muttering about him, how if he couldn't even take a simple decision like this without coming all to pieces, how on earth did he imagine he would ever be fit to govern a country? He felt the leash in his hand, the thin line of rope that tethered his father's life to the tangled mess of bones and wounds on the table. If he let go, it'd all be just fine, it'd be over. He was only hanging on to it out of perversity, contrariness; they should come in, take it away from him and give it to a grown-up…

When he woke up, his father's eyes were open; not looking at him, but out through the tent doorway, at the sunlight. Valens sat up, stifled a yawn; Father's eyes moved and met his, and then he looked away.

I suppose I ought to say something, he thought; but he couldn't think of anything.

(Instead, he thought about his prisoners, Licinius and Vetranio, locked up like dogs shut in on a rainy day. Were they pacing up and down, or lying resigned and still on the bed? Had anybody thought to bring them something to read?)

He was still trying to find some words when the doctor came in; and he carried on trying to find them for the next four years, until his father died, in the middle of the night, on the eve of Valens' twenty-third birthday. But all that time Valens never said a word, so that the last thing he told his father was a lie: I won't go up to the round wood with you this afternoon, I've got a splitting headache coming on. Not that it mattered; if he'd been there, his father would still have ridden ahead after the boar, the outcome would have been the same in all material respects.

Someone had thought to have the boar flayed and the hide made into a rug; they draped it over the coffin when they carried it down to the chapel for burial. It was, Valens thought, a loathsome gesture, but Father would've appreciated it.

Valens was duly acclaimed Duke by the representatives of the district assemblies. There was a ceremony in the great hall, followed by a banquet. The Chancellor (Count Licinius, restored to favour; his predecessor had died of a sad combination of ambition and carelessness the previous spring) took him aside for a quiet word before they joined the guests. Now that Valens was officially in charge of the Duchy, there were a few niceties of foreign policy to go through.

'Now?'

'Now,' Licinius replied emphatically. 'Things are a bit complicated at the moment. There's things you should be aware of, before you go in there and start talking to people.'

Badly phrased; Licinius was an intelligent man with a fool's tongue. But Valens was used to that. 'You didn't want me to have to bother my pretty little head about them yesterday, I suppose?'

Licinius shrugged. 'The situation's been building up gradually for a long time. When it all started, you were still-well, indisposed. By the time you started taking an interest again, it was too involved to explain. You know how it is.'

'Sure.' Valens nodded. 'So now you're going to have to explain it all in five minutes before I go down to dinner.'

Licinius waited for a moment, in case Valens wanted to develop this theme. The pause made Valens feel petty. 'Go on,' he said.

So Licinius told him all about it. Count Sirupat, he said, had kept strictly to the letter of the peace treaty that had been signed when Valens was sixteen. There hadn't been any trouble on the borders, and there was no reason to suppose he wasn't entirely sincere about wanting peace. But things weren't all wine and honey-cakes; Sirupat had seven daughters-

'I know,' Valens interrupted, a little abruptly. 'I met one of them once; it was when the treaty was signed, she was here as a hostage.'

Licinius nodded. 'That was the fifth daughter, Veatriz. Anyway, shortly after your father had his accident, my predecessor made a formal approach to Sirupat for a marriage alliance. In his reply, Sirupat-'

'Just a moment,' Valens interrupted. 'Marriage alliance. Who was supposed to be marrying who?'

Licinius had the grace to look away. 'One of Sirupat's daughters. And you, obviously.'

'Fine.' Valens frowned. 'Which one?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Which one of Sirupat's daughters?'

Licinius frowned, as if this fascination with trivial details perplexed him. 'The fifth or the sixth,' he said. 'The older four had already been married off, and there's some interesting implications there, because-'

'The fifth or the sixth.'

'They're both pleasant enough, so I've heard. Anyway, Sirupat gave his agreement in principle, as you'd expect, because it's the obvious logical move. Before anybody had made any definite proposals, I took over as Chancellor; which shouldn't have made the slightest bit of difference, obviously, but suddenly Sirupat wasn't answering my letters. Next thing we hear, he's negotiating a marriage with his sister's eldest son, Orsea.'

'Orsea,' Valens repeated. 'You don't mean my cousin Orsea, from Scandea?'

'Him,' Licinius said. 'Well, you can imagine, we were a bit stunned. We all assumed it was just tactical, trying to get us to up our offer, so we decided to take no notice. I mean-'

'I remember when he came to stay, when I was a kid,' Valens said. 'I suppose he was a hostage too, come to think of it. I just assumed he was here because he's an off-relation. But we got on really well together. I've often wondered what became of him.'

'Not much,' Licinius said. 'He may be related to our lot and their lot, but really he's nothing more than a small-time country squire; spends his time counting his sheep and checking the boundary fences. But if he were to marry Sirupat's daughter, that'd make him the heir presumptive, when Sirupat goes on-'

'Would it? Why?'

Licinius pulled a face. 'It's complicated. Actually, I'm not entirely sure why; I think it's because the first three weren't born in the purple, and the fourth came along while the marriage was still nominally morganatic. Anyhow, there's a damn good reason. So in practice, Sirupat was practically appointing him as his successor.'

'Assuming the marriage goes ahead,' Valens pointed out. And if it's just a bargaining ploy…'

'Which is what we'd assumed,' Licinius said. 'But apparently we were wrong. They were married last week.'

For a moment, Valens felt as though he'd lost his memory. Where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, what he was talking about; all of them on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't quite remember. 'Last week,' he repeated.