'No, of course not,' the old man sighed. 'We should need the entire territory between the mountains and the sea. But if the Eremians have disappeared, and we allied ourselves with you, that would only leave the Mezentines to be disposed of-assuming,' he added, with the ghost of a chuckle, 'that we could get across the desert without losing more than half our number of effective fighting men. That was the question that remained unanswered when my great-granddaughter left here to marry you.' He sighed again, a long, thin noise like the last exhalation of a dying animal. 'And now you have brought us a safe, quick path across the desert; now, I need only live long enough to see Mezentia got rid of, and my duty will at last be done. My people will have a safe home, I will have my successor, and you…' A laugh like dry twigs snapping. 'I assume you would like to be revenged on the murderers of your wife. Personally, I've never been able to see the merit in revenge, except as a deterrent to further offense, but my people think very highly of it. My great-granddaughter's death will be all the pretext they need, without the prospect of a new home.' Pause. 'I take it you would wish to see the Mezentines destroyed?'
One thing you couldn't do to the voice was lie to it. 'Yes,' Valens said. 'I'd like to see them butchered to the last man, woman and child. I'd like to stand and watch, when I get too tired to take part myself. But not if it means risking the lives of what's left of my people. I'd rather let the Mezentines get away with what they've done completely unscathed.'
Two hands too weak to clap patted each other. 'Splendid answer,' the voice said. 'Exactly what my successor should have said; and I have no doubts at all about your sincerity, let me stress that. Everything I have heard of you leads me to believe that you are a good king, like your father before you. Which is why,' he went on, 'I shall have to live long enough to do the taking of revenge myself. I told you I don't believe in it; I don't believe in our gods, either, but my people do. On balance, it seems far more likely that they are right than I am. We will wipe out the Mezentines for you; you won't have to make that choice. If you prefer, you are welcome to stay here and wait until the job is done and our army returns. You may regard it as a belated wedding present, if you wish. As reciprocation for the wonderful gift you've given us-the safe way across the desert-it is, I fear, wholly inadequate. Tell me,' and the voice quickened just a little, 'how did you find out about it? There have been rumors, of course. Many of my people have claimed there was such a thing, over the years. Only recently a foolish young man called Skeddanlothi-a cousin of mine, unfortunately too distant to be able to succeed me-declared that he had found it and would prove his assertion by going there himself. Of course, he never came back, so presumably he was misinformed.'
'A merchant,' Valens heard himself say. 'A trader from my country found it, apparently. He came here several times to buy salt; when he died, he left a diary, and a map. One of my…' He couldn't think of a word to describe Vaatzes. 'One of my people found the map, and when the Mezentines were closing in on us, we took a chance and followed it; and here we are.'
The noise that greeted these words didn't sound at all like laughter, but what else could it be? 'Remarkable,' the voice said eventually. 'And salt, of all things. Well; I don't suppose it matters how the way was found, so long as it really exists. Tell me about the oases; will they water an army of two hundred thousand, do you think? Of course, I have sent surveyors, men who know about that sort of thing; I shall know for sure soon enough. But I'm impatient. What do you think? Will there be enough water?'
Valens heard a voice saying, 'Yes,' and realized it was his own. 'And water won't be a problem once you reach the mountains on the other side; it's how to transport the quantities of food you'll need…'
'Oh, don't worry about that.' The voice sounded almost cheerfully dismissive. 'We have vastly more experience in that sort of thing than you do, by all accounts.'
Despite the dark, Valens' eyes felt tired. He rubbed them before saying: 'Can you really field an army of two hundred thousand?'
The strange sound again, equivalent to laughter. 'An expeditionary force of two hundred thousand light cavalry and lancers, followed by the heavy cavalry and dragoons-say three hundred and fifty thousand-would probably be adequate for the task and still leave a sufficient reserve here in case of further attacks from our enemies.' Short pause. 'I should, of course, be asking your opinion, not purporting to state a fact. Do you think five hundred and fifty thousand cavalry would be enough to deal with the Mezentines? I understand that their field army is made up entirely of foreigners serving for money; a mixed blessing, at best, I should imagine. We could send a larger force, but my experience is that once you pass a certain point, a large army is more of a hindrance than a help.'
This time it was Valens who paused before speaking. 'How many of you are there?' he said.
Laughter again; a different sound, like the barking of a very small dog. 'How delightful, that you feel sufficiently at ease already to ask such a direct question!' Then the pitch of the voice changed again; lower, quite businesslike. 'I regret to say that I don't have an up-to-date census to hand; five months ago, however, when we held the usual muster and games to celebrate my birthday, on the fifth day all the men of military age fit for active service paraded on the plain beside the Swallow River. As each regiment marched past its commander-in-chief, each man placed an arrow on a pile. When the parade was over, the arrows were gathered up into barrels, each holding one thousand. We filled seven hundred barrels, with a few hundred arrows left over. If you ask me what proportion of our people are fit for military service, I would estimate somewhere between an eighth and a tenth. Does that answer your question?'
'Yes.' Valens thought for a moment, then said, 'As far as I know, the total population of Mezentia is something around eight hundred thousand; it could be less, I'm pretty sure it's not much more. So yes, I think half a million men would probably be enough.'
'You think so? I wonder.' The voice was very faint. 'Allow me to confess my ignorance. I have never seen a city. Come to that, I have never seen a stone-built house. Only a tiny handful of my people have seen anything of the kind. I admit to finding the whole concept both repellent and strangely fascinating; to live your entire life in a box, to see the same view every morning when you wake up; remarkable. But I understand that Mezentia has the highest, thickest walls in the world, with massive gates and high towers, and extraordinary machines that hurl rocks and spears to defend them. I am told that when an enemy shuts himself up in such a very strong box, the only way to deal with him is to keep him there until he starves, and either comes out or dies.' A click of the tongue, faint but perfectly clear. 'I assume that this process takes time, and I think I have explained why I am in something of a hurry. Yes, I believe that five hundred thousand cavalry could shut the Mezentines up in their box, for a little while, until they themselves began to feel hungry and so were obliged to move on. Do you think the Mezentines' city can be taken? I really don't know enough about these things to form a sensible opinion.'
Valens thought: I wonder who made the decision to start the war. I wonder what passed through his mind, just before the scales tipped slightly more one way than the other. He said: 'I think it's possible. You see, I have a man…'
'Ziani Vaatzes.'
'Yes, him. He nearly managed to defend Civitas Eremiae against them. I've come to know him, a little. I think, give him a long enough crowbar and he can pull apart any box on earth.'
'I know a little about him,' the voice said softly. 'And I would tend to agree.' Another pause, and Valens wished there was enough light to show him the little man's face. 'I must confess, I'm given rather to flights of fancy. I picture things in my mind that I have never seen; picture them the way they should be, if you follow me, rather than how they are. I have a very clear picture in my mind of Ziani Vaatzes. At some point, I suppose, I shall see him in the flesh, and be vastly disappointed. Of course, I have never seen a Mezentine. I understand that their skins are brown. I shall ask my soldiers to bring me some dead bodies from the oasis. Did you know that the Rosinholet are experts at curing and preserving dead bodies? When a particularly famous and valuable man dies, they cure his skin and stuff it with wool bound tight on a wooden frame, to simulate the bones. Sometimes they mount their illustrious dead on horses, or sit them on the boxes of their wagons. I shall see if we have any Rosinholet embalmers among our slaves, who could manufacture a dozen or so Mezentines for me. It would be appropriate, don't you think? The Mezentines are wonderful makers of things, so I don't see why they shouldn't be made into things themselves. Perhaps, given his rather special skills, Ziani Vaatzes could build appropriate mechanisms to go inside them, so that they can do more or less everything they could do when they were alive. Who knows, maybe we could improve on the design a little in some respects, unless Foreman Vaatzes considers that would constitute an abomination.' A soft, dry sound, like a dusty carpet being beaten. 'Forgive me, I wander off sometimes. Here's an idea. Let's send for Foreman Vaatzes and ask him for his professional opinion. What do you think of that?'
