Devices and Desires (21 page)

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think he was spying for Eremia. I don’t think he’d have known where Eremia is. I didn’t,” she added,
“not until the other day. A lot of people don’t.”

“You sound very certain,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she said. A pause, then: “I know that what my husband did was wrong. One of your colleagues explained it all to me,
and I understand. But that was all he did, I’m absolutely positive. He just did it for our little girl, for her birthday.
I suppose he thought nobody’d ever find out.”

Psellus looked at her for a while. She ought to be frightened, he thought. At the very least, she ought to be frightened.
Maybe her father or her brother broke the terms of the deal and told her; but then she’d know that if we found out, the deal
would be off, and she ought to be frightened about that. I don’t think she likes me very much.

He thought about that. I don’t like her very much either, he thought.

“So,” he went on, “you don’t think your husband took any interest in politics, foreign affairs, things like that.”

“Good Lord, no. He couldn’t care less.”

He nodded. “What did he care about?”

“Us,” she said, quick as a parry. “Me and our daughter. Our family.”

Psellus nodded. “His work?”

“Yes,” she said — it was a concession. “But he didn’t talk about it much at home. He tried to keep it separate, home and work.
I could never understand about machinery and things.”

“But he did work at home sometimes?”

She shrugged. “In the evenings,” she said, “sometimes he’d be in the back room or the cellar, making things. He liked doing
it. But I don’t know if it was work or things he made for himself, or us.”

Psellus nodded again. “It’s customary for an engineer to make some of his own tools — specialized tools, not the sort of thing
you’d find hanging on the rack — in his own time. Do you think it’s likely that that’s what he was doing?”

She shrugged; no words.

“We found quite a few such tools,” he went on, “in the house, and at his bench in the factory. The quality of the work was
very high.”

She looked at him. “He was a clever man,” she said.

“Too clever,” Psellus said; but it wasn’t like the fencer’s ambush. Leaden-footed, and a blind man could have seen it coming.
Nevertheless, she must parry it or else be hit. He waited to see what form her defense would take; he anticipated a good defense,
from a fencer of such skill and mettle. Not a mere block; he was hoping for a maneuver combining defense and counterattack
in the same move, what Vaatzes’ illegal fencing manual would call a riposte in narrow time. He made a mental note to requisition
the book and read it, when he had a moment.

“Yes,” she said.

Oh, Psellus thought. (Well, it was a riposte, of a sort; stand still and let your opponent skewer you, and die, leaving the
enemy to feel wretched and guilty ever after. Probably the most damaging riposte of all, if all you cared about was hurting
the opponent.)

I had a point once, he told himself. I was making it. But I can’t remember what it was.

“So that’s the picture, is it?” he said. “In the evenings, after dinner, while you wash the dishes, he retreats to his private
bench with his files and hacksaws and bow-drills, and makes things for the pure pleasure of it. Is that how it was?”

She frowned. “Well, sometimes,” she said.

“Sometimes,” Psellus repeated. “You’d have thought he’d had enough of it at work, measuring and marking out and cutting metal
and finishing and burnishing and polishing and so on.”

“He liked that sort of thing,” she said, and her voice was almost bored. “It was what he did when we were first married, but
then he got promoted, supervisor and then foreman, and he was telling other people what to do, instead of doing it himself.”
She shrugged. “He was glad of the promotion, obviously, but I think he missed actually making things, with his hands. Or maybe
he wanted to keep himself in practice. I don’t know about that kind of stuff, but maybe if you stop doing it for a while you
forget how to do it. You’d know more about that than me.”

Psellus nodded. “You think he wanted to keep his hand in?”

She shrugged again. Her slim shoulders were perfectly suited to the gesture, which was probably why she favored it so much.

“Do you think he’ll want to keep his hand in now he’s with Duke Orsea?”

To his surprise, she nodded; as though she was a colleague rather than a subject brought in for interrogation. “I know,” she
said, “they explained it to me before. You’re afraid he’ll teach all sorts of trade secrets to the enemy.”

“Do you think he’s liable to do that?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You don’t know,” he repeated.

“That’s right,” she said. “I suppose it’d depend on what he’s got to do to stay alive. I mean, the people you say he’s with,
they’re our enemies. We just wiped out their army, isn’t that right? Well, maybe they caught him, wandering about on the moors,
and thought he was a spy or something.”

Psellus frowned. “Possibly.”

“Well then. If you were him and that’s what’d happened to you, what would you do?”

Psellus leaned back a little in his chair; he felt a need to increase the distance between them. “I hope,” he said, “that
I would die rather than betray my country.”

It sounded completely ridiculous, of course, and she didn’t bother to react. She didn’t need to; she didn’t have to point
out what Vaatzes’ country had done to him in the first place. This wasn’t getting anywhere, Psellus decided. He was here to
get information, not defend himself.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

(She was letting him off lightly, though; she was past his guard, controlling the bind, in a strong position to shrug off
his defense and strike home. Which is what you’d do, surely, if your husband had just been driven into exile; you’d be
angry.
But she was no more angry than frightened. Curious hawk; doesn’t strike or bate. It dawned on him suddenly why he felt so
confused. It was as though he didn’t matter.) “I take it,” he persevered, though he knew he was achieving nothing by it, “that
you feel the same about treachery.”

She looked at him. “You mean, about betraying the Republic? Well, of course.”

He frowned at her, trying to be intimidating, failing. I’m not concentrating, he realized; there’s something wrong, like one
of those tiny splinters that get right in under your skin, too small to see but you can feel them. “The circumstances,” he
said slowly, “of your marriage. Let’s go back to that, shall we?”

“If you want.”

He made a show of making himself comfortable in his chair. “When was the first time he became aware of you? How did you meet?”

She was looking at him as though he was standing in front of something she wanted to see, blocking her view. “Which one do
you want me to answer first?” she said.

“Why did he want to marry you?”

Another beautiful shrug. “I think he wanted to get married,” she said. “Men do. And my dad wanted to find me a husband.”

“At seventeen? A bit quick off the mark.”

“We never got on,” she said. “I wasn’t happy at home.”

“He wanted you off his hands?”

“Yes.”

Psellus winced. She’s good, he noted ruefully, at that defense. Probably one hell of a cardplayer, if women play cards. Do
they? He had to admit he didn’t know. “So your father became aware that his supervisor was looking for a wife, and thought,
here’s a fine opportunity, two birds with one stone. Is that how it was?”

“Pretty much.”

He hesitated. It was like when he’d been a boy, fighting in the playground. He’d been a good fighter; he had the reach, and
good reflexes, and he was older than most of the other boys. He threw a good punch, to the nose, chin or mouth. But he was
too scared to fight, because he hated the pain — jarring his elbow as he bashed in their faces, skinning his knuckles as he
broke their teeth — until the pleasure of inflicting pain ceased to outweigh the discomfort of receiving it. Even hitting
them with sticks hurt his hands more than he was prepared to accept. “Was it a deal, then?” he persevered. “Your father and
your brother’s promotions, in exchange for you?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And how about the terms of the transaction? Was he buying sight unseen?”

“What does that mean?”

“Did he come and inspect you first, before the deal was finalized? Or wasn’t he bothered?”

She frowned, as though she was having trouble understanding. “He came to dinner at our house,” she said.

“And?”

“He sat next to me. We talked about birds.”

“Birds.”

She nodded. “I don’t know how we got on to the subject. I wasn’t particularly interested in birds, nor was he.”

“But you’d already fallen in love at first sight.”

“Yes.”

More gashed knuckles. “And presumably he decided you would fit the bill.”

“Yes.”

“So everybody was happy.”

“Yes. We were all happy.”

The hell with this, Psellus thought; there was a time, long ago, when I used to be a decent human being. “I see,” he said.
“Well, I don’t think I need detain you further. You may go.”

She stood up; no hurry, no delay. “Your discretion,” she said. She made it sound like an illness or something.

“Provided you undertake to let us know immediately if you hear anything from him, if he tries to get in touch with you in
any way. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Hardly likely, though, is it?”

“Nonetheless.” He made his face stern and fierce. “Make no mistake,” he said. “You’re being discharged under license, which
we can revoke at any time. The obligation is on you to come to us with any information which might be of use to us. If you
fail to do so…”

“I understand.”

“Very well, then. You may leave.” He thought of something; too little too late, but it would be a small victory, he’d at least
have drawn blood, even if it was just a scratch. “You may return to the matrimonial home for the time being,” he said. “Long
enough to collect your possessions, the things that belong to you exclusively — clothing and the like. After that, you’ll
be returned to your father’s house.”

She rode the strike well, but he’d touched home. There was a degree of satisfaction in the hit, rather less than he’d anticipated.
“I see,” she said.

“An offender’s property,” he went on, “reverts to his Guild. An official confiscator will be appointed shortly; until he’s
made his inspection and compiled an inventory, you may not remove anything from the house.”

“Fine. Can I empty the chamber-pot?”

(Interesting; that’s the first sign of anger she’s shown.)

“The confiscator,” he went on, “will issue a certificate specifying which items are your exclusive property; that means the
things you’ll be allowed to take away with you. If you disagree with his decision, you may make representations to him in
writing. Is that clear?”

She nodded. “How about my daughter’s things?” she said. “Can she keep them, or does the Guild want them too?”

“The same rules apply,” Psellus said. “The confiscator will decide what she can keep. The adjudication process usually takes
about six weeks.”

“I see,” she said. “Can I leave now, please?”

Psellus raised his hand in a vague gesture of manumission. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “And remember, if you hear
anything at all from your husband…”

After she’d gone, Psellus sat for a while, watching the lamp burn down. Had he achieved what he’d set out to do, or anything
at all? He had no idea. The objective was to catch Ziani Vaatzes and bring him home to die, or kill him wherever he happened
to be; that job had been given to Manuo Crisestem, and was therefore effectively out of Psellus’ hands, for the time being.
The purpose of this interview — he tried to remember what it was. Something about motivation, trying to understand; he’d been
intrigued by the marriage, the difference in ages. Well, he had an explanation, of sorts: Vaatzes had wanted a wife, the man
Connenus had wanted to get his stroppy daughter off his hands, and apparently the daughter had been obliging enough to fall
in love with Vaatzes, who was in a position to square the deal with promotions for his new in-laws. There; everything accounted
for neat and tidy; and he, Lucao Psellus, was sitting in the dark as the point flew high over his head like a skein of geese
going home for the winter.

No. He’d learned something important today, and he had no idea what it was.

When the lamp finally failed, he stood up and tracked his way to the door by feel. Outside it was still broad daylight; as
he stood in the corridor facing the open window, the light stunned him, like an unexpected punch. It’d be vexing, he told
himself, if Crisestem succeeded; as for Vaatzes, Psellus found it very hard to recapture the cold, pure burn of anger against
him for his however-many-it-was offenses against Specification. But he stood facing the light and made a wish, like he used
to do on the first of the month when he was a boy, that Crisestem would bring Vaatzes’ head home in a bag, soon, and that
this case would very quickly be over.

The road to Civitas Eremiae, capital and only city of Eremia Montis, encircles the stony peg of mountain on which it sits
in long, slow, regular loops, like a screw-thread. From the river valley, it looks as if the city can be reached in two hours
at the very most; but it’s a long day’s climb, assuming you start at dawn; if not, you face the unattractive choice of camping
overnight on the narrow ledge of road or walking up it in the dark. At the crown of the mountain, the road funnels through
a low, narrow gate in the curtain-wall; three more turns of the thread brings it to the city wall proper, where it ducks through
a gateway under two high, thin towers built on massive spurs of rock. From the city gate to the citadel is another eight turns,
through streets wide enough for a donkey or an economically fed horse. Chastra Eremiae, the Duke’s castle, was chiseled and
scooped out of the yellow stone four hundred years ago, and is protected by an encircling ditch twenty-six feet deep and a
thirty-foot wall studded with squat round towers; a third of the interior is derelict through neglect. The Eremians proudly
boast that nobody has ever taken the citadel by storm. It’s hard to imagine why anybody should want to.