Devices and Desires (52 page)

It wasn’t a new dream, by any means. Originally, it had been his grandfather’s fault, because the old fool was one of those
people who believed that children enjoy being scared out of their wits. Accordingly, when Ziani was six or seven, he’d told
him the legend of the storm-hunt, and the horrible thing had lodged in the back of his mind ever since. Easy enough to guess
why it had come back out of the shadows tonight, when his mind was stuffed with
King Fashion
and the
Mirror
and similar garbage, all that stuff about hounds and lymers and brachets, the baying of the pack and the horn-calls. In Grandad’s
story, of course, the hounds were red-eyed and black as coal, the horns were blown by dead men riding on dead horses, and
the hunt was led by King Utan the Terrible, who’d rode away to hounds five hundred years before and never came back, except
on dark nights, when the wind was high and the wild geese were flying low. Ever since then, in his dream, King Utan had worn
a deep black hood and ridden a huge black horse; and sometimes Ziani had been running away from him, and sometimes he’d been
riding beside him, so close that the cloak’s hem flicked his face, and he could smell the rain-soaked cloth. The end was always
the same: horns blowing wildly, rain stinging in his eyes, the hounds pressing round in a circle over something lying on the
ground, while the King reached up with his old, swollen hands and started to lift the cowl away from his face.

The Ducas rides to the hunt on a white palfrey. He wears a quilted pourpoint of white or gray silk over a white linen shirt,
cord breeches and arming boots with points for his sabatons; the only weapon he carries is a slightly curved, single-edged
hanger as long as his arm from shoulder to fingertips. He may wear a hat if rain is actually falling. He is followed by four
huntsmen on barbs or jennets, who carry his armor, his great spear, his light spears, his bow and his close sword, which can
be either a falchion or a tuck, depending on the likely quarry. A page on an ambler or a mule follows with the wet-weather
gear — a hooded mantle, a surcoat, chaps and spats — and the horn.

On arriving at the meet, the Ducas dismounts, and is accomplished for the hunt in the following order, which differs slightly
from the proper order for war: first the sabatons, laced tightly at the toes and under the instep; next the greaves, followed
by the leg-harness of demi-greaves, poleyns and cuisses (gamboised cuisses are considered excessive except where the quarry
is exclusively bear or wolf) — these are secured by points to the hem of the pourpoint, and the usual straps and buckles around
the thigh, the calf and the inside of the knee. Since the cuirass and placket are not worn for the hunt, the upper points
are secured to the kidney-belt, after which the faulds are added to protect the buttocks, thighs and groin. The arm-harness
is fitted next; in the hunting harness, the vambraces close on the outside of the forearm with buckles, and the half-rerebrace
is worn, secured at the shoulder with a single point. Spaudlers are preferred to pauldrons for the protection of the shoulder,
and a simple one-lame gorget suffices for the neck. Finally, the Ducas puts on his gauntlets (the finger type is preferred
to the clamshell or mitten varieties) and his baldric, from which hang his close sword and his horn. He carries his great
spear in his right hand. The four huntsmen carry the rest of the gear between them; the page stays behind at the meet to hold
the horses.

Miel couldn’t stop yawning. He’d gone to bed early and slept well; in spite of which, he’d woken up with a slight headache
(in his temples, just behind his eyes). If it hadn’t been for the fact that this was Orsea’s special treat and Veatriz had
asked him to go, he’d have stayed in bed.

The sky was black with a few silver cracks and he could smell rain in the air. The Ducas never takes any notice of the weather,
in the same way as a king can decline to recognize a government of which he doesn’t approve; accordingly, he was bare-headed,
and the damp made his head throb. A day or so before, Jarnac had muttered something about working down the high pastures in
the hope of flushing a good boar in the open; that meant a lot of walking, most of it uphill. What joy.

Long practice made it possible for him to greet his fellow hunters with a reasonable show of affability, in spite of the pain
behind his eyes. Jarnac hadn’t arrived yet, of course; neither had Orsea, who had to make his entrance immediately after his
host. Miel looked round for unfamiliar faces: a thin, spotty young man with the unfortunate Poliorcetes nose (two possible
candidates, Gacher or Dester; he hadn’t seen either of them for five years); a stout, flat-faced man in the Phocas livery
(he’d heard someone say that old Eston had retired and his son had taken over as whipper-in for the Phocas pack); everyone
else he knew. Including — he frowned — a dark-skinned man, shorter than everyone else, unarmored and carrying a long cloth
bag made of sacking.

“Hello,” Miel said, squeezing out a little more affability from somewhere. “I’d forgotten, Jarnac mentioned you were coming
along today.”

Ziani Vaatzes turned his head and looked at him for a heartbeat before answering. “I’m afraid I sort of bullied him into inviting
me,” he said. “Only, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

Miel smiled. “Anybody who can bully Jarnac has my sincere admiration,” he said. “I’d have thought it couldn’t be done. So,
what do you make of it all?”

“Impressive,” Vaatzes replied; not that it mattered, since Miel wasn’t particularly interested in the truth. “I had no idea
it’d be so formal. I expect I look ridiculous.”

“Not at all,” Miel said (it wasn’t a good day for truth generally). “What’ve you got there, in the bag?”

Vaatzes looked sheepish. “I didn’t know what to bring, so I fetched along my bow. I hope that’s all right.”

“Very good,” Miel said. “Is it one you made yourself?” he added, as a way of filling the silence.

Vaatzes nodded, loosed the knot and pulled something out of the bag. It would have looked quite like a bow if it hadn’t been
made of metal. He was holding it out for Miel to examine, like a cat that insists on bringing small dead birds into the house.

“Steel?” Miel guessed. Actually, he was impressed. It was very light and thin, but extremely stiff. Hard to guess the draw
weight while it was unstrung, but Miel figured something around eighty to eighty-five pounds.

Vaatzes nodded again, as Miel noticed the groove stamped down the middle. Clever; it added strength while conserving mass,
like the fuller in a sword-blade. “I’ve never seen a bow like this before,” Miel said. Vaatzes shrugged. “It’s the standard
pattern back home,” he said. Miel guessed from a slight trace of color in his voice that he was lying, but he couldn’t imagine
why.

A clatter of hoofs and the yapping of dogs announced the arrival of Jarnac. He looked tired, tense, if possible even larger
than usual. As Master, he was wearing his surcoat over his armor, so that everybody would be able to recognize him even at
a distance. Today (only today) he could wear the Ducas arms proper, free from the quarterings of the cadet branch. Somehow
they seemed to sit more naturally on Jarnac’s massive chest than they’d ever done on Miel. Life is crammed with little ironies,
if you know where to look. It was probably Miel’s imagination, but he thought he noticed Vaatzes flinch a little when he saw
Jarnac on his horse, and maybe he relaxed a bit when he dismounted.

To business straight away. On his own ground, Jarnac could explain a complicated plan of action clearly and quickly. The basic
idea was to get up on the high pasture to the west of the big wood, approaching downwind from the east while the dew was still
on the grass, in hopes of putting up one of a group of four particularly fine mature boars that had been consistently sighted
in the area over the last ten days. Normally they’d stay in the wood during the hours of daylight, but there was a chance
of catching them out at this time of year, when dawn came early and the wet, lush grass was particularly tempting. Being realistic,
they had precious little chance of bringing a boar to bay in the pasture, even if they put one up there; they’d have to follow
it into the wood and drive it out the other side — down into the river, ideally — but at least there would be a clear scent
for the dogs to follow, which would save the uncertainty and frustration of crashing about in the underwood hoping they’d
be lucky enough to tread on one’s tail, which was the only sure way of finding a boar in deep cover. If they drew a blank
in the pasture, they’d have to fall back on that anyway; but the result as far as the standing party was concerned would be
more or less the same. Wherever they found it, Jarnac and the hounds would be looking to drive the boar through the wood east-west,
down the hill, aiming to bring it to bay either in the river or in the furze on the far bank. The standing party, accordingly,
should make its way up the old carters’ drove until they drew level with the lower edge of the wood; they should then follow
the edge round, making as little noise as possible, and line out in a circle on the southwestern side, twenty-five yards inside
the wood, ten yards apart. No shots to be taken eastward, of course, for fear of an arrow skipping on a branch and hitting
the beaters or the dogs; one horn-call meant the boar was in sight, two if it was on the move, three for at bay, four for
the death, five to signal mortal peril requiring immediate assistance, and had everybody brought a horn?

Miel nudged Ziani in the ribs. “No,” Ziani said (his voice rather squeaky). “Sorry, I didn’t realize…”

Someone handed him one. “Do you know how to sound it?” Jarnac asked. “In that case, you’d better have a practice now. Doesn’t
matter a damn if it sounds like a mule farting, but it’s essential everybody knows where everybody else is, otherwise things
can go wrong very quickly.”

That was exactly what it sounded like; but after four tries Jarnac nodded and said, “That’ll do,” and Ziani was able to sink
back into the obscurity of the circle. The huntsmen were starting to collect the dogs, while the pages led the horses away
to wooden mangers filled with oats. Ziani remembered that he’d forgotten to bring the last pieces of armor, but either Jarnac
had forgotten too or he had other things on his mind.

The beating party were almost ready to leave. Ziani noticed that Miel Ducas was still standing next to him; odd, because he’d
have thought that the Ducas would be circulating, chatting to his fellow nobles. Then he realized: good manners ordained that,
since Ziani was a stranger and didn’t know anybody else here, Miel had to stay with him and put him at his ease. For a moment
he was touched; but the Ducas is considerate of his inferiors in the same way a cat slashes at trailing string, because instinct
gives him no choice.

“Where’s the Duke?” he asked. “They aren’t going to leave without him, are they?”

Miel grinned. “Not likely. But it’s not polite for the guest of honor to be there for the briefing. Don’t ask me why, it’s
just one of those things. He shows up — well, any minute now, and I fill him in on the plan of campaign.”

Ziani was about to ask, “Why you?,” but he guessed in time. Miel was senior nobleman in the standing party, so passing on
the Master’s orders was his job. Come to think of it, there’d been something about it in one of the books.

Orsea arrived, at last. His clothes, armor and escort had been set down immutably by King Fashion back when the Mezentines
were still living in the old country, but the Duke of Eremia Montis traditionally defied tradition when hunting informally
with close friends. Accordingly he was wearing an old, comfortable arming coat under distinctly scruffy leathers, and he had
his hat on, even though it wasn’t raining. He looked more cheerful than Miel could remember seeing him since before the Mezentine
expedition. Veatriz was with him.

But she didn’t dismount when he did; she leaned forward in the saddle to kiss him, then pulled her horse’s head round and
rode back down the path. Orsea turned back to watch her go, then strode forward to greet Miel.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Jarnac’s found us a pig the size of an ox, with tusks like parsnips, and it’s sitting waiting for
us just over there in the bushes.”

“In a sense,” Miel replied. “There’s supposed to be half a dozen feeding in the fat grass up top, and the idea is to pick
them up in the open and drive them through the wood and out the other side.” He shrugged. “Don’t quite see it myself, but
Jarnac’s the expert, or so he keeps telling me.”

Orsea grinned. “That’s your cousin for you,” he said. “I remember one time we were out after geese, years ago, and he’d cooked
up this incredibly elaborate plan whereby the geese came in here, saw the decoys, turned through sixty-five degrees over one
hide, got shot at, turned another thirty-two degrees which took them over another hide, and so on. Absolutely crazy, the whole
thing, and everybody was saying, bloody Jarnac, why can’t he just keep it simple? Except it worked, and we got twenty-seven
geese in one night.” He shrugged. “Disastrous, of course,” he went on, “because after that, every time Jarnac said the geese
were coming in on the stubbles and he had a clever plan, we all trudged out over the mudflats and sat in flooded ditches half
the night expecting another miracle, and of course we’d have seen more geese staying at home and hiding in the clothes-press.”

Miel smiled broadly. He’d heard the story many times before, and it had been much closer to the truth the first time; but
it pleased him to see his friend happy, though of course the reason for it was nothing to do with the prospects for the day’s
hunt, or fresh air, or anything like that. He was happy because Veatriz had come out to the meet with him; because Orsea loved
Veatriz more than anyone else in the world, more than being Duke, more than anything (one more thing he had in common with
his old friend, his liege lord). How it had come about that he’d managed to persuade himself that she didn’t love him, Miel
couldn’t say, but it was obvious to everyone but Orsea, and possibly Veatriz herself. He wished, for a variety of reasons,
that she hadn’t gone straight back home just now.