why you were writing letters to his wife.'
No, I mustn't, Valens thought; and then, Well, why not? He turned round, using the pivoting motion to back up the punch. He caught the Ducas unprepared on the point of the chin; he staggered and sat down in the dirt, looking completely bewildered.
That should have been that, except that a couple of soldiers who'd seen their duke forced to defend himself against the Eremian (it had to have been self-defense, because Valens would never hit someone unprovoked) ran up looking concerned. 'He's under arrest,' Valens snapped. 'Stick him in one of the empty carts until I can be bothered to deal with him, and make sure he doesn't get away. He's got a history of breaking arrest.'
It was because of the Ducas that she came.
Orsea came first; that night, when he'd finished the day's work and finally managed to get rid of everybody. He'd closed the tent flaps, thrown a scoop of charcoal on the brazier and taken off his shirt; and suddenly, there was Orsea's stupid face at the opening, letting the cold air in.
'I need to talk to you,' he said. 'About Miel Ducas.' Valens shivered. It was cold, and he was tired. 'Who? Oh yes, I remember. I think I've done you a favor.'
'I'm sorry?'
Valens sighed. 'Come in, if you're coming.' Orsea had to stoop to get in the tent; unfair, that someone so useless should be taller than him. 'What I meant was, I've caught your traitor for you. He's yours. Do what you like with him.'
Orsea looked at him. 'I don't think it's quite as simple as that,' he said. 'Bearing in mind what it was he actually did.'
'It was some business with a letter, wasn't it?'
It had been too easy; the temptation too great. Orsea gazed at him with the sullen resentment of the man who's been hit and knows he can't hit back. 'Miel Ducas hasn't done you any harm,' he said quietly. 'You might as well let him go.'
'Does that constitute an acquittal?' Valens replied. He had no idea what he was fighting with Orsea about, but the urge to fight him was irresistible; he was so weak, so easy to hurt. 'If so, I'll release him into your custody. Would that suit you?'
Orsea, of course, said nothing.
'Fine,' Valens snapped. 'Or maybe I'll keep him. I gather he's a useful man. They say he made a pretty good job of defending Civitas Eremiae, before you had him jailed.'
Orsea sighed wearily. 'Look,' he said, 'I don't know what I've done to upset you. I know I haven't been much use to anybody since-well, since I came here. But there's no point taking it out on someone else. Obviously, what Miel did doesn't really matter anymore, except to me.'
'I see. So you're dropping the charges?'
'I suppose so, yes.'
'I can turn him loose, then. Not a stain on his character.'
'Yes.'
Valens nodded briskly. 'I'll do that, then,' he said. 'Provided he lays off my engineer. For all I know, this Daurenja's a murderer and a rapist, and probably a cannibal and a demon-worshipper and all sorts of other interesting things, but he's also the sort of man who can fix busted carts; and I happen to be fighting a war. Nasty business needs nasty people. The pure in heart only fuck things up and get people killed.' He smiled pleasantly. 'I'm sure you know that better than anybody.'
'Yes,' Orsea said. 'I'd sort of arrived at that conclusion for myself.'
'Splendid. In that case, there's the deal. Your Ducas can go free provided he leaves me and my officers in peace. I'll give him a horse and a feed-sack full of money, and he can go off into the wide world to seek his fortune. Agreed?'
Orsea breathed out slowly; the man who'd rather get beaten up than fight, because victory would make things worse for him than defeat. 'Knowing Miel, I don't think he'll agree to that.'
'It's not up to him,' Valens snapped. 'In fact, what your friend the Ducas thinks about anything is probably the most unimportant thing in the world right now. Anyway,' he added, trying to restrain his temper, 'what the hell do you care about what Daurenja may have done?'
'Actually, quite a lot. You may have forgotten, but he saved my wife's life, when the Mezentines ambushed your hunting party.'
Rather like being stabbed by a small child with a sharp knife. Suddenly Valens didn't know what to say.
'I know,' Orsea went on. 'Being under an obligation to someone like that; it throws everything out of true. It's a bit like owing your life to a man who's been trying to seduce your wife. It beats me, I must admit. What would you do, in a situation like that?'
If you were half a man, Valens thought; if you were only very slightly less pathetic, I'd take her away from you tomorrow, even if it meant hiring murderers to cut your throat in the dark. I know: what about Daurenja? He would seem to have a knack for that sort of thing. Instead, he said: 'That's an interesting one. I think what I'd do, if I was in your shoes, would be to get out of this tent while you're still capable of walking. Do you think you could manage that, or shall I get someone to help you?'
Orsea smiled blandly at him, and he thought: sore losers are bad enough, but a sore winner's insufferable. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive him for that; for being completely at my mercy, and in the right. 'So what about Miel Ducas?' Orsea said. 'Are you going to let him go?'
'Only on the conditions stated,' Valens replied. 'Otherwise he can stay where he is until the Mezentines come and slaughter the lot of us.'
'I see.' Orsea turned to leave. 'Thank you so much for your time.'
'My pleasure. Please give my regards to your wife.'
Which was, he reflected later, as he lay in the dark staring up, a bit like killing yourself to frame your enemy for murdering you; a sort of bleak satisfaction; looked at objectively, though, not terribly clever.
The right thing to do. He could see it clearly in his mind; it was practically blinding him as it glowed in the dark. Arrest Daurenja, let Ducas go, apologize to Orsea, never see or write to her again. The virtues and immediate reward of always doing the right thing, as exemplified by Orsea Orseoli, Duke of the Eremians, that nearly extinct nation.
(My father would have Daurenja in here like a rat up a conduit; he'd give him his own knife for the job, probably sharpen it himself, so as to be sure it was done properly. My father would have lost this war by now; except that he'd never have let himself get involved in it.)
He yawned. He felt tired, but in no way able to sleep. Let's just be grateful we've got the Mezentines, he thought. If I can play for time just a little bit longer, they'll exterminate us all and I won't have to do anything, right or wrong.
He turned over onto his side, and it occurred to him to remember that his wife was dead; killed by the Mezentines, because he'd been too stubborn and too proud to take her advice (which would have resulted in the deaths of about a fifth of his people; slightly more than the Mezentines had killed in the battle, but there was still plenty of time and scope to make up the difference). He knew he should be appalled by how little he cared about that. He thought: she couldn't possibly love me now, love what I've become because of all this. I've lost her as conclusively as though she'd been the one killed out there on the road, instead of that poor, overeducated savage woman, who only wanted what was best for all of us.
(Wonderful epitaph for a wasted life, but a little bit too long to fit on a tombstone.)
Well: her death had made one significant difference. With her dead, the alliance with the Cure Hardy was certainly gone for good; with it, the chance of escaping across the desert. No allies, no place to go; like Orsea, she'd been unbearable, hard done by and right. And, like Orsea, he'd destroyed his people. The realization hit him like an arrow; not just routine early-hours-of-the-morning depression, but a straight, clear look at the truth. They were finished. The clever idea hadn't worked, and they were screwed. And his biggest mistake: turning back on the hillside, instead of carrying on running away. It had been an easy mistake to make: looking at heaps of the slaughtered enemy, his own forces in possession of the field, and mistaking it for victory.
He flipped over onto his back and stretched out his arms. His father used to have a saying-something he'd heard somewhere, it was too clever for him to have made it up himself: giving up is a privilege only granted to the
