Devices and Desires (68 page)

Vaatzes lifted it out of the barrel, brushed away the straw, and held it out at arm’s length. He’d never actually seen one
before, although he knew the specification by heart. It was strange, here in this barbarous and unsatisfactory place, finally
to find himself in the presence of perfection; as though a prophet or visionary had spent his whole life searching in the
wilderness for enlightenment, only to find it, having abandoned the search, in a grubby market town, sitting on a toilet.

He laid it flat on the workbench in front of him, and ran his fingertips over the velvet before slowly unfastening the seventeen
brass buttons. For one horrible moment, as he drew it across his shoulders, he was afraid it wouldn’t fit. Once he was inside
it, however, it closed in around him like water engulfing a diver. He could just feel a slight weight on his shoulders and
chest, and a very gentle hug as he buttoned it up; just enough to let him know that he was now as perfectly safe as it’s possible
to be in an imperfect world, his body’s security guaranteed by the absolute wisdom and skill of the Perpetual Republic. He’d
heard someone say once that a Guild coat would even turn a scorpion bolt; that was, of course, impossible, but there was a
part of him deep down that was inclined to believe it. It wasn’t the steel or the skill with which the rivets had been closed;
it was the specification, the pattern that drew the thousands of plates together and made them move as one unbroken, unbreakable
whole, like the City that had made them. The coat wouldn’t protect him against scorpions, because even though the steel stayed
unpierced, the shock would smash his bones to splinters and pulp his internal organs. That didn’t matter, however, because
it would be him that had failed rather than the coat. His own frailty in no way invalidated the consummate virtue of Specification;
just as the death of one citizen doesn’t kill a city.

He smiled. The irony was exact, precise, fitting as closely as the coat. His safety guaranteed by the City that was trying
to kill him, he could now carry on unhindered with his design to bring that City to ruin, and all perfection with it. All
he needed now was to be taught to kill by the Ducas family, and the symmetry would be complete.

Since the first army had unaccountably been exterminated, it was just as well that the second army arrived earlier than anticipated,
thanks to an unusually strong tailwind. If it hadn’t been for the defeat and the massacre, their arrival would have been a
logistical disaster. There wouldn’t have been nearly enough food, blankets, tents or equipment for twelve thousand men arriving
a week ahead of schedule; there’d have been chaos, and the whole venture would’ve teetered on the edge of failure.

Thanks, however, to the Eremians and their homemade scorpions, the stores and magazines held ample supplies for seven thousand
men who weren’t going to be needing them after all. To the clerks and administrators of the Treasury and Necessary Evil, it
was a source of quiet satisfaction that the crisis was averted and all that expensive food, clothing and equipment wouldn’t
go to waste after all. In the event, the only problem posed by the early arrival of the second army that didn’t effectively
solve itself was transport, and that was no big deal. Unlike other shipments of imported goods, mercenaries can transport
themselves. They have legs, and can walk.

The commanding officer of the new army, Major-General Sthoe Melancton, didn’t see it quite like that. He’d been promised ox-carts
to shift his men and their gear from Lonazep to the City. It was in the contract, he pointed out, so it was his right; also,
his men were in prime condition, ready for the long march up the mountains. An unscheduled route march to the capital would
inevitably result in wear and tear on footwear, vehicles and equipment that had not been allowed for in the original agreement.
Further, it would mean an extra four days’ service, for which he wanted time and a half. The Republic replied by pointing
out that by arriving early, he was in fundamental breach of contract, time inevitably being of the essence in any contract
for services, and that the failure to provide the agreed transport was entirely the result of his own breach, therefore not
the Republic’s fault. If anybody had a right to compensation and damages, in fact, it was the Republic; however, they were
prepared to waive their claim in the interests of friendly cooperation. General Melancton rejoined by pleading that the tailwind
was an unpredictable outside agency, not party to the contract, and therefore not his responsibility or his fault. The Republic
countered by citing precedents from mercantile and shipping case-law. Melancton refused to accept Mezentine precedents, arguing
that the contract had been finalized in his own country, whose law therefore applied to it. That argument was easily defeated
by reference to the document itself, which clearly stated that the agreement was governed by Mezentine law. Melancton gave
way with a certain degree of grace. The soldiers marched.

They were met just outside the City by the artillery train. It was at this point that Melancton found out what had become
of his compatriots in the first army. Afterward, it was generally agreed that he took the news better than had been expected.
After a long moment of silent reflection, he told the representatives of Necessary Evil who’d broken the news to him that
he was a man of his word and a professional, and he would do his job or else (here he was observed to dab a drop of sweat
away from the side of his nose) die trying. He then asked a large number of detailed questions about the level of artillery
support he could expect to receive, all of which the Mezentines were able to answer to his satisfaction. He thanked them politely
and withdrew to confer with his senior staff.

In accordance with the ancient and honorable traditions of their craft, the merchants stayed in Civitas Eremiae until almost
the last moment; and when they left, they took with them substantial quantities of small, high-value goods which the more
pessimistic citizens had been only too pleased to exchange at a loss for hard cash. The general feeling was that it was better,
on balance, that the merchants had them for a song than to keep them for the looters to prise out of their dead fingers.

All but one of the merchant caravans headed for the Vadani border by the shortest possible road. The exception, however, turned
in a quite unexpected direction, on a course that seemed likely to leave her stranded and dying of thirst in the great desert
that formed the civilized world’s only defense against the Cure Hardy. What became of her, nobody knew or cared much. It was
assumed that she was headed that way because the Mezentines wouldn’t be taking that road in a hurry. Those sufficiently curious
to speculate about the subject guessed that she had a retreat somewhere on the edge of the desert, where she planned to hole
up until the war was over and it was safe to come out. The last recorded sighting of her was, curiously enough, by a column
of Cure Hardy light cavalry, heading north to offer their services to the Mezentines in the coming war. How they came to be
there, nobody knew and nobody liked to ask. The official explanation was that they’d come the long way round, enduring months
of hardship and privation threading their way through the mountain passes that would have defeated an army of significant
size — they were, after all, only one squadron of two hundred men. If it occurred to anybody that if that were the case they’d
had to have set off long before the Guild Assembly had even considered the possibility of a war, they kept their hypotheses
to themselves.

*    *    *

The arrival of outriders from the Cure Hardy squadron was like rain on parched fields to Melancton and his liaison committee
from Necessary Evil. Negotiations had broken down and been patched up over and over again, always foundering on the vexed
issue of skirmishers. Melancton hadn’t brought any with him, because the contract hadn’t specified them; there had been an
ample contingent with the first army, so there was no need. With the threat of a scorpion ambush hanging over him, he absolutely
refused to move across the border without an advance guard of light, fast, expendable scouts, which the Mezentines were not
in a position to provide. The Cure Hardy were perfectly suited to the role. They came as the answer to a prayer; which was
why asking them how they came to be available at such short notice wasn’t considered, or else was dismissed with pointed references
to gift horses’ teeth.

To those who could be bothered to ask, the newcomers declared that they were a privateer war-band from the Doce Votz, under
the command of one Pierh Leal, an obscure off-relation of the ruling family. They were perfectly willing to ride ahead of
the advancing army, keeping an eye out for scorpion emplacements (it was highly unlikely they had any idea what a scorpion
looked like, but it was assumed they’d find out the hard way soon enough) and declared that their speed and agility would
preserve them from anything the war machines could throw at them. Perhaps some of the members of the liaison committee felt
a slight degree of unease at the speed with which the outriders returned with the rest of the squadron; it argued that the
Cure Hardy were adept at moving very quickly through even the most hostile terrain. But their arrival meant that the second
expeditionary force could at last set out, and that came as a relief in the City, particularly to the officials of the Treasury.
Melancton gave the Cure Hardy a day’s start, then followed.

Much to his displeasure, he’d come to the conclusion after exhaustive debate that he had no alternative but to follow the
same route as his predecessors, up the Butter Pass and on to the main road as far as Palicuro. After that, he had options,
or at least alternatives, but he declared that he intended to keep an open mind until he reached Palicuro. After a slow start,
due in part to a brisk and unseasonable cloudburst, he picked up speed in the middle and late afternoon, and was on time for
his first scheduled rendezvous with the Cure Hardy at nightfall.

The scouts had very little to say for themselves. They claimed to have ridden a full day ahead of the edge of the search zone
Melancton had assigned them, and to have seen no sign of the enemy, with or without war engines. Melancton was highly skeptical
about these assertions, but had no choice but to rely on them and press on. The logistical support he’d insisted on before
starting out was all in place, but he nevertheless wasn’t inclined to dawdle and risk running short of supplies, thereby courting
the same sort of disasters that had done for Beltista Eiconodoulus. Regrettably, this meant that he couldn’t afford to wait
for the artillery, which was making heavy weather of the road up the mountains and was believed to be at least half a day
behind schedule. After a certain amount of soul-searching, he resolved to press on regardless. Artillery dismantled and packed
on wagons wouldn’t be any use to him if he was ambushed by scorpions in a narrow pass; in fact, they’d compound any disaster
by falling into the hands of the Eremians. By keeping the artillery separate and behind him, he hoped to guard against that
particular nightmare above all others.

The next two days proved that the Cure Hardy were reliable informants. For reasons best known to themselves, the enemy had
failed to take advantage of two perfect locations for ambushes, both of them narrow bottle canyons through which Melancton
had no option but to pass. This omission played on his nerves more than a clear sighting would have done; to an army already
lacking in self-confidence, the enemy is never more unnerving than when he’s invisible. Resisting an almost overpowering urge
to slow down, wait for the artillery and build redoubts to hide in until he found out exactly what the Eremians were up to,
he pressed on. During the course of the next two days the scouts reported two possible sightings of lone Eremian horsemen,
apparently watching the army from a distance of several miles. Of an army or scorpions, they’d seen no trace. The next day,
they rode right up to the outskirts of Palicuro, and reported back that the village was apparently deserted.

Once again, they were proved right. In fact, Palicuro was more than deserted; overnight it had been burned to ash and charcoal
and the village cistern had been fouled with the proceeds of the village’s muckheaps and middens. Melancton had known better
than to rely on being able to find food for his men and forage for his horses there, but he was disappointed nevertheless;
as a result he’d have enough to get to Civitas Eremiae, but if the Mezentines wanted him to dig in under the walls for a siege,
they’d have to send him a large supply train. Otherwise he risked the indignity of the well-fed defenders throwing their crusts
and cabbage waste to his men out of pity.

Dispatches containing these observations arrived unexpectedly on the desk of Lucao Psellus early one morning, at a stage in
his career when he’d pretty much convinced himself that his fellow commissioners believed he was dead, or had retired to the
suburbs to grow sunflowers and keep bees. He’d given up trying to find out what was going on, or what they wanted him to do.
Nobody was ever available to talk to him, his memos went unanswered, and copies of reports and minutes had stopped coming
a long time ago. He nearly wept with joy to know they still remembered who he was.

With the dispatches was a curt note requiring him to expedite the supply train as requested. That he could do. It would involve
a careful balancing of the three basic elements out of which all administration is ultimately formed: time, money and fear.
Not many people, even full-time professional Guild officers, really understood the complex and fascinating interplay between
these three monumental forces, but Psellus had been experimenting with them in different combinations and ratios for years,
like a methodical alchemist. At last they’d given him a job he could do.

Of the unholy trinity, the most fundamental is money, since nothing can happen without it. Accordingly, he walked across two
quadrangles and up and down six flights of stairs, and surprised his old friend Maniacis in the payments room, where he was
working at his checkerboard.