gradually turn into their fathers? Probably a young man, the one who said that. I wish I'd had the chance to know my father when I was a bit older. He died when I was at that rebellious stage, and so I've always been torn between hating and despising everything he stood for, and trying to be his deputy, so to speak, doing the things he'd have done if he'd lived. Of course, he'd never have gone to Civitas Eremiae; which rather puts me in my place, don't you think?'
Ziani stood up. 'If that's everything you wanted to see me about…' he said.
Outside, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. They were carrying hay on pitchforks to feed the horses, or rolling barrels, or searching for strayed children, or arguing with the sentries about some camp regulation or other. Obviously Nennius had done a properly discreet job; not a good idea to spook the rest of the flock by slaughtering a duke where people could see. Well; the news would circulate quickly enough. Built into Ziani's calculations was the assumption that Orsea's death would be a popular move among the Vadani; they'd all sleep better at night knowing that the traitor who'd brought the Mezentines down on them was dead, and Valens would be respected for not allowing the malefactor's exalted rank to save him. He paused to remember Orsea as he'd first encountered him- wounded in the disastrous battle, confused, tearing himself apart with guilt, still able to find a little compassion for the misfortunes of a stranger. Well; like a true nobleman, he'd lived to serve. In death he'd been useful. By now, he was just a carcass, inedible meat. One more, among so very many.
'There you are.' He looked round and saw Daurenja loping toward him like a big, friendly dog. 'I've been looking for you, but nobody seemed to know where you'd got to.'
Not now, Ziani thought. 'I've been busy,' he said. 'The Duke…'
'Won't take a moment.' Daurenja fell in beside him, matching his pace exactly. 'I've been thinking,' he said. 'You remember I talked to you a while back, about this pet project of mine. The exploding sulfur compound, and making a tube to use it in.'
'Oh, that.' Ziani frowned. 'I haven't given it any thought, I'm afraid.'
'That's all right,' Daurenja said magnanimously. 'You've had other things on your mind. But I've been thinking about it-what you said, about forging the tube rather than casting it. Great idea, and I can see the sense in it, but there's a few small details I'd like your opinion on. For a start-'
'Not now,' Ziani said.
'Oh, just while we're walking,' Daurenja replied cheerfully. 'I'm sure it's me being thick, and you can explain what I've been missing in just a few words. Let's see, now. You were talking about staves, like making a barrel; presumably you're thinking about butt-welding them around a mandrel. But-'
'You don't want to take any of that too seriously,' Ziani said irritably. 'I was just thinking aloud. On reflection, I'm fairly sure it wouldn't work.'
'Oh, I don't agree. I think you've cracked it. But were you thinking about welding all the staves in turn, a separate heat for each one, or trying to do the whole lot in one heat? Only there's distortion to think about if you're doing them piecemeal, but if you're going for simultaneous, you'd need to rotate the mandrel, which'd mean-'
Ziani stopped. 'Why don't you listen?' he said. 'I'm not interested in helping you with this ridiculous idea of yours. I've heard about what happened to your last business partner.' Daurenja pulled what he guessed was supposed to be an appeasing face, but he ignored it. 'If I were you,' he went on, 'I'd clear out now, while you still can. Piss off back to the Cure Doce, or Lonazep. Or the Mezentines, if you really admire them so much-if you're Cure Doce by birth, that makes you a neutral, they've got no quarrel with your people. Go away, and leave me alone.'
'I don't think so.' Daurenja looked faintly disappointed, maybe a little hurt. 'Thanks to you, I've made myself very useful here. They need me. I'm afraid you can't just chuck me out if and when you feel like it, I'm working directly for the Duke these days. Besides,' he added, 'things have changed rather a lot in the last half-hour, haven't they?'
'What do you mean?'
Daurenja sighed. 'I happened to see my friend Major Nennius just now,' he said. 'I don't think he saw me; he was preoccupied, a job he was doing. Not,' he added quickly, 'that I blame you. Had to be done, I can see that quite clearly; you had no choice. But I don't think Duke Valens would be very happy if he knew about how it had come about, if you get my meaning.'
It was that kind of fear that chills you to the bone; not the heart-stopping kind that forces all the breath out of you, or the immediate physical danger that loosens the bowels and the bladder. In spite of it, Ziani found he could keep quite calm. 'I don't understand,' he said.
'Of course you do,' Daurenja said indulgently. 'And I appreciate it's not something you feel like discussing, especially out here in the open where people might be eavesdropping. We'll have a nice long chat about it some time, when we're both of us not quite so busy. I will say this, though: you're a clever man. False modesty aside, I've always reckoned I'm quite smart, a cut above everybody else I've ever come across-you've got to believe that, haven't you, or how can you justify doing the difficult, nasty stuff? But I can see, compared to you I'm crude and ignorant. You could say, I am to you as the Vadani are to the Mezentines. Uncouth, you could call it. Unsophisticated.' He smiled warmly. 'I knew you were the right man for me to tag along with; I knew it when I first heard about you. A man after my own heart, I thought. I mean, look at what you've achieved, and practically nothing to work with. And look at you now. Leading the Vadani to join up with the Cure Hardy and change the entire world; and all so you can go home. Quite apart from the skill of it, the sheer scope of your vision is magnificent.' He shook his head. 'I know this sounds corny as hell, but I'm really proud to know you, Ziani Vaatzes. Today of all days; when it all started to come together, I mean.' He shrugged. 'Look,' he went on, 'I can tell you're not really in the mood for talking about lap-welds and expansion coefficients; we'll leave it for another time. I hope you don't mind me saying my piece, by the way. Only, my principle's always been, be open with people, tell them what you think. That's got to be the right way, hasn't it?'
He smiled again and walked away.
26
Eight days of blundering through potholes and ruts. Intermittent rain; the carts bogged down twice, once in a mudslide, once in the bed of a shallow river that wasn't on the map and hadn't been mentioned by any of the guides. Food running low; rations had to be reduced by a third; fodder for the horses a worse problem. A mild outbreak of some kind of fever, which killed a dozen or so civilians. Ahead of them, the mountain range; beyond that, the edge of the desert. No sign, yet, of the Mezentines.
A village, Limes Vitae; Valens had heard about it, mostly because it was proverbially the last place on earth, the very edge of the world. According to family legend, one of his father's uncles had been there once, though why or what he thought of it wasn't recorded. It had sent a dozen light infantry to fight in the first war against the Eremians, and had last paid taxes seventy-four years ago. If there was still a settlement there, and if they had food and hay, getting over the mountain was possible. If not; well.
A few thin cattle on the stony plain bore witness to some level of habitation, as the carts ground up the road through the foothills. A boy, who stopped to stare and was scooped up by outriders, confirmed that the village was still where it had always been. There was food there; just enough to see the villagers through the winter, since it had been a poor year generally, and the merchants who traded root vegetables and salt fish for hides and wool hadn't arrived; there was some rumor about a war somewhere. Hay? Enough for all the horses in the column? The boy didn't want to commit himself on that, but the grown-ups had been saying that hay would be short that winter.
Valens left the boy in the custody of a grim-faced woman who cooked for the soldiers, and summoned his general staff. Limes Vitae, he told them, was unlikely to welcome them with open arms, and even less likely to offer to share its reserves. Accordingly, since they couldn't rely on being given, they were going to have to take.
Tactically, not very much of a challenge. Two wings of light cavalry moved into position on the far side of the village shortly before dusk, taking great care not to be seen. At dawn, a double squadron of heavy cavalry advanced at a gentle pace along the main road into the village. A shepherd raised the alarm; by the time Valens' heavy dragoons reached the village square, the place was deserted and the barns, cattle-pens, poultry runs and root cellars were empty. They made themselves at home as best they could, eventually turning up a few barrels of
