Devices and Desires (45 page)

Cantacusene came back two hours later; the material would be delivered early in the morning (he started to tell Ziani the
price, but Ziani wasn’t interested), and the carrier would pick up the tools and formers from his workshop later that evening;
they could start work tomorrow, if that suited. Ziani thanked him and went back to his bench, where he was clearing up a few
minor problems with a redesigned ratchet axis. He would have liked to have given it more thought, made a few more changes,
but there wouldn’t be time now. His mind drifted; he was contemplating a two-piece fabricated spear-blade socket, square section
box drawn down so the tang of the blade could simply slot in (interference fit) and be retained by the crossbar —

“Are you busy? Could you spare a moment?”

It was the Ducas voice, but not Jarnac this time; quieter, politer. Which meant it had to be the more important one, Miel
Ducas. Ziani put down his calipers, looked up and smiled.

“Of course,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Miel Ducas looked different; tired, that would account for some of it, but he’d also been worrying about something recently.
His face wasn’t exactly hard to read. “I’ve got a message for you, from the Duke’s council. They’ll be writing, but I thought
I’d come and tell you myself.”

There could be no doubt as to what the message would be; even so, Ziani found that his lungs were locked and he couldn’t breathe.
“That was very kind of you,” he said. “This is about the scorpions.”

Miel nodded. “The council would like to place an order,” he said, in a guarded, level voice. “Basically, as many as you can
make, as soon as possible.”

Ziani nodded. He was afraid it’d look offhand, but he wasn’t able to speak. Miel Ducas was having difficulties, too; he started
to say something, hesitated, and started again.

“About the price —” he said.

“That’s all right,” Ziani interrupted. “I’ve decided I’ll do it at cost — materials and what I’ll have to pay my men. Calaphates
doesn’t know yet, but I’ll talk to him.”

“That’s —” Miel stopped; he reminded Ziani of someone searching for a word in a foreign language. “That’s very generous of
you,” he said.

“Least I can do,” Ziani replied. “After all, I owe you people my life. My way of saying thank you.”

A long moment, with neither of them knowing quite how to say what was in their minds. Then Ziani went on: “We’ll start straight
away. I’ve been doing some preliminary work, a few improvements to the design. Nothing you’d notice, unless you knew what
you were looking for. I’ve taken on twenty men so far, and there’s fifteen more I’m waiting to hear from.”

“That’s a lot,” Miel said, though he knew he was wrong as soon as he said it. “I thought you were on your own here, actually.”

Ziani smiled. “That wouldn’t be any good, not for a job like this. Actually, I won’t be involved at all, once everything’s
up and running. In fact, I’ll be busy with a job for your cousin.”

“Jarnac?” Miel scowled. “Look, no offense, but this is far more important. I’ll talk to Jarnac, tell him he’ll have to find
someone else.”

“It’s all right,” Ziani said. “Once everything’s set up, I’m just another pair of hands. Besides, your cousin’s job’ll only
take a week, and then I’ll be free to muck in with the rest of the men. You’ll have the first half-dozen scorpions finished
and ready in three days, you’ve got my word on that.”

When the Ducas had gone and he was alone, Ziani allowed his knees to buckle, as they’d been wanting to do ever since he’d
heard the words he knew he’d hear. He leaned against the wall and slid down it, until he was sitting on the floor. Strange;
it was simply the moving into engagement of a component of known qualities, sliding along its keyway and coming to rest against
its stop. Perhaps it was the scale of what this development meant that affected him so powerfully: the expenditure of lives
and resources, the men killed (they were alive, presumably walking about, eating, talking somewhere, but they were already
as good as dead, and Ziani had seen to all that); the destruction, the laying waste, the burning and breaking of well-made
goods, the sheer effort he’d unleashed; like the man in the story who was given all the four winds tied up in a sack, and
some fool untied it and let them go. There would be so much noise, and movement, and pain. A man with a keen imagination would
have trouble with the thought of it.

But not yet. Before all that, he had a lot of work to do, a great deal to think about; and he had the hunt to look forward
to. As yet, that was still a separate piece, little more than an unfinished casting waiting to be fettled, machined, drilled
to accept moving parts. He would have to design a mechanism for it, once he knew what it was going to be for. A pity; the
man was a clown, but he’d quite liked Jarnac Ducas. There was a straightforwardness about him that he shared with his cousin.
Ziani had arrived in Eremia expecting to find the aristocracy difficult to work with — brittle like cast iron, or soft and
sticky to cut, like copper — but so far at least they’d proved to be quality material, a pleasure to use. It had all come
together very sweetly, though of course it was the easy bit; and making the parts was one thing, assembling them was something
else entirely.

This is no time to be sitting on floors, he told himself, and stood up. As he put the finishing touches to the axis pin, he
called Miel Ducas back into his mind, considering and analyzing his manner, his appearance. Tired, a little nervous, and worried
about something beyond the awkwardness of his mission; what would worry the Ducas, the second most important man in Eremia,
to the point that it showed in his face to a stranger?

Of course he couldn’t answer that, or even know where to begin speculating. You can’t take the back off a man’s head and examine
the works for signs of damage and wear. The most you can do is make a note of where the visible flaws run, the line along
which the material will eventually break once it’s been flexed a few times too often.

The unmaking
[he read]
is the crown, the very flower of the hunt; therefore it follows that it must be conducted solemnly, seriously and with respect.
There are two parts thereof, namely the abay and the undoing. First, let the carcass be turned on its back and the skin of
the throat cut open most carefully up the length of the neck, and let cuts be made through the flesh to the bone. Let the
master of the hunt approach then, with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and let the huntsmen sound the death on their horns;
thereafter let the hounds first and then the lymers be loosed so that they might tear at the neck before they are coupled
up, that the taste thereof might quicken them to the chase thereafter. Then let a forked stick with one arm longer than the
other be set up in the earth beside the carcass, and let the master with his garniture split the skin from throat to vent…

Valens frowned. The book, with its brightly colored pictures and carefully pumiced margins, had cost him the price of a small
farm; but all they’d done was loosely paraphrase Cadentius, leaving a few bits out and dressing up other bits in fancy prose.
For a start, the lengthwise cut was part of the undoing, not the abay; and whoever wrote this had no idea what a garniture
was.

He sighed, closed the book and stood up. The woman in the red dress had sworn blind that it was the last known surviving copy
of a rare early text attributed to Polinus Rex, but Polinus was three hundred years earlier than Cadentius, who’d been the
first to have the master roll up his sleeves. He’d been had; twenty good-weight thalers he’d never see again, and still the
woman in the red dress hadn’t brought a letter…

Through the window he could see the raindrops dripping from the pine-branches. It was a hunting day, but there wasn’t any
point going out in this; there’d be no scent in the wet, the mud would make the going treacherous, the deer would be holding
in the high wood where there’d be precious little chance of finding them. The sharpness of his disappointment surprised him;
the rain would stop soon, there would be other days, the deer would still be there next week, but every day lost was a precious
thing stolen from him, a treat held just out of reach to tease him. Instead, he’d have to read letters, convene the council,
do work. He smiled; he could hear his eight-year-old self saying it,
not fair.
To which one of many voices replies:
life isn’t fair, the sooner you learn that, the better.

It wasn’t fair that she hadn’t written back; it had never been this long before, and it was no good saying there hadn’t been
a suitable courier, because five women in red dresses had been and gone (a velvet cloak, a set of rosewood and whalebone chessmen,
a pair of pointy-toed shoes, very latest style, a marquetry box to keep things in, and finally the bloody useless book), all
from Eremia, all without a letter. And on top of that, it was raining.

On a table beside the window lay a pile of documents; routine reports, mostly, from his prefects, agents and observers, making
sure he knew the facts before anybody else did. He sat down and picked one off the top of the heap. The handwriting was steep
and cramped, and he recognized it — his man in Lonazep, with a full account of the landing of the Mezentine mercenary army.
He’d had the gist already, but there would be a great deal to be gleaned from the details, from the descriptions of the staff
officers to the number of barrels of arrows. He read it, then read it again; the information was good and solid, but he couldn’t
get his mind to bite on it. He smiled, because he could picture his father sitting at this very table (back then, of course,
it was downstairs in the small anteroom off the great solar; but the daylight lasted longer here in the West Tower), wading
through his paperwork with palpable growing impatience, until he jumped up from his chair and stormed out of the room to go
and look at the horses or the dogs. Somehow he’d always managed to absorb just enough from his reports to stay sharp, but
he’d always lived in and for the present, content or resigned to react to each development as it came. He’d been the same
when playing chess, too; he’d never quite come to terms with the idea that the point of the game was to trap the enemy king,
rather than slaughter the opponent’s pieces like sheep. That thought brought back the first time Valens had ever beaten him.
It was an ambiguous memory, because even now he couldn’t call it to mind without an automatic smirk of pride; he’d used his
father’s aggression against him, lured him into checkmate with the offer of a gaggle of defenseless pawns, pinned him in a
corner with his only two surviving capital pieces, while his father’s queen, bishops and knights stood by, unused and impotent.
But he also remembered the disbelief, followed by the hurt, followed by the anger. They hadn’t spoken to each other for two
days afterward.

A report from Boton about a meeting between Duke Orsea and representatives of the Cure Hardy. Well; he knew about that. Orsea
had picked the wrong sect to make eyes at, and the whole thing had been a waste of time. A report from Civitas Eremiae about
the Mezentine defector, Vaatzes; what he was up to was still unclear, but he’d got money from somewhere to set up a factory,
and was buying up bloom iron, old horseshoes, farm scrap iron of all kinds; also, he’d hired half the blacksmiths and carpenters
in the city. Valens raised an eyebrow at that. If he’d heard about it, he was pretty sure the Mezentines had too, and surely
such reports would confirm their worst fears about defectors betraying their precious trade secrets. If this Vaatzes had deliberately
set out to antagonize the Republic, he couldn’t have gone about it better. Valens went back a line: broken scythe blades,
rakes, pitchfork tines, hooks, hammers, any kind of scrap made of hardening steel; also charcoal in enormous quantities, planed
and unplaned lumber. The steel suggested weapons; the lumber sounded more like building works. He folded down a corner of
the dispatch and moved on.

Petitions; he groaned aloud, allowing himself the indulgence of a little melodrama, since there was nobody else there to see.
Not just petitions; appeals, from the general assizes and the marches assizes and the levy sessions; appeals on points of
law and points of fact, procedural irregularities (the original summons recited in the presence of eight witnesses rather
than the prescribed seven; how that could possibly invalidate a man’s case he had no idea, but that was the law), limitations
and claims out of time. He could just about have endured a morning in court, with a couple of clever speakers to entertain
him, but the thought of sitting at a table and fighting his way through a two-inch wedge of the stuff made him wince.

Nevertheless, he told himself; I am the Duke, and therefore duty’s slave. Never mind. He broke the seal on the first one and
tried to concentrate.

Alleged: that Marcianus Lolliotes of Ascra in the Dalmatic ward beginning in the time of Duke Valentinius on occasions too
numerous to particularize entered upon the demesne land of Aetius Cassinus with the intention of cutting hay, the property
of the said Cassinus. Defended: that the said land was not the demesne land of the said Cassinus, having been charged by the
said Cassinus’ grandfather in the time of Duke Valentius with payment to the great-grandfather of the said Lolliotes of heriot
and customary mortmain, which payments were duly made but without the interest thereto pertaining; accordingly, the said Lolliotes
having an interest in the said land, there was no trespass; further or in the alternative…

It took him a long time, and he had to check many cross-references in many books before he managed to get it all straight
in his mind, but he got there in the end. As usual, it was nobody’s fault, both of them were sort of right and slightly wrong,
and there wasn’t a clear-cut or obvious solution, because the law was outdated, contradictory and sloppily drawn, made up
on the spot by his great-great-grandfather, probably because he was bored and wanted to go outside in the fresh air and kill
something rather than sitting indoors. Wearily, Valens uncapped his ink-well, dipped the nib and started to write. It didn’t
have to be fair copy; he had secretaries to do the bland, beautiful, cursive law-hand that needed to stay legible for centuries.
But the sheer effort of writing made his wrist and forearm ache, and although he knew what he wanted to say, it was hard to
keep everything in order; the points, facts and conclusions strayed like willful sheep and had to be chased back into the
fold. He lost his way twice, had to cross out and go back; the pen dropped a big fat blot and he’d swept his sleeve across
it before he noticed. When finally it was done he read it through twice (once silently, once aloud) for errors and ambiguities;
made three corrections; read it through again and realized one correction was actually a mistake; corrected the correction,
read it through one more time, sprinkled and blew off sand, put it on the corner of the desk for the copyist to deal with
later. Last step: he made a note in the margin of the relevant page of his copy of the
Consolidated Digest,
in his smallest writing (
can’t charge for heriot in 3d generation, statute barred after 2d, but reliefs apply in equity
), to save himself the effort of doing all the research if the point happened to come up ever again. It was a good practice,
recommended by several authors on jurisprudence, and he’d wasted more time looking for notes he’d made eighteen months ago
but forgotten exactly where or under what than he’d have spent looking it all up from scratch.