choice in the matter. We've got to put the mines out of action, and we've got to do it in such a way that, if they finish the job on us, it won't be worth their while financially to stick around and get them up and running again.'
He paused, to give them time to be suitably horrified and angry. To their credit, they hid it well. What he needed now, of course, was someone to stand up and disagree with him. He waited, but nobody obliged. He had them too well trained.
'Let's think about it for a moment,' he went on. 'It's a question of the degree of sabotage, and the fundamental difference between them and us. They're businessmen. They can only afford to do a thing if it makes money. If the cost of repairing the damage to the mines is too high, they won't bother. We don't have to live by those rules. The silver's all we've got. And if we wreck the mines, the silver will still be there, until such time as we can rebuild and start mining again. If it takes us ten years and all our available manpower, so what? We can afford the time and effort, because our time and our work come cheap. They can't. But if we leave the mines there for them to take-and let's face it, we couldn't defend them against an assault or a siege, any more than we could defend the city-it's giving them a reason to keep going, even if we do manage to hurt them. It's harsh, I know, but…' He paused again, shook his head and sat down.
This time he got what he'd been hoping for. Licinius, senior partner of the Blue Crown mine, and the nephew of the first man Valens had ever had put to death. He was frowning as he stood up, as though he was in two minds about raising a matter of marginal interest.
'I take your point,' he said. 'And in principle, I agree. What I'm a bit concerned about is the practicalities. With respect; it's all very well to say we should sabotage the mines to the point where the Mezentines can't get them running again. The fact is, though, I don't think it'd be physically possible-not in the time available, with the men and resources we could spare. We build our mines to last, after all.'
Valens relaxed a little. He couldn't have asked for a better objection. 'You're the expert, Licinius,' he said, 'so obviously I'm happy to listen to what you've got to say. But I think you may be worrying unduly. I've read up on this a bit, and I've talked to some engineers who know far more about this stuff than I do.' He noticed Vaatzes out of the corner of his eye, completely expressionless, like a stone goblin. 'As I understand it, what you do is fill the ventilation chambers at the ends of the primary access tunnels-am I getting the technical terms right? I'm sure you know what I mean-you fill them with nice dry logs soaked in lamp oil, set a fuse, light it and run. The fire draws its own draft down the ventilation shafts, so you get a really good heat very quickly; more than enough, at any rate, to burn out all the props in the gallery and cave in not just the chamber but the tunnels as well. Once that lot's come down, it'd be quicker to start all over again with new shafts rather than trying to dig out the mess in the old ones. Which, of course, is what we'll have to do, when the war's over and the Mezentines have all gone home. But we've already been into that. As far as what you were saying goes, Licinius, I don't see that there's an insuperable problem.'
All Licinius could do was nod politely to concede the point. Valens nodded back, to show that all was forgiven. He'd been bluffing, of course. All he knew about the subject was what he'd read in a standard textbook on siege techniques, and the method he'd described was how they undermined the walls of cities, not the roofs of silver mines. Licinius had just confirmed that the method would work equally well in the mines, which was good of him, even if he didn't know he'd done it. Valens made a mental note to look into the matter in proper detail, when he had the time.
'Right,' he said, 'I think we're all agreed, then. I'm going to have to ask all of you to help out with the planning; I'll let you know what I need from you over the next couple of days. Orsea, if you could spare me a moment.'
That was the cue for the rest of them to leave. He could feel their relief, and also their resignation. But it was his job to make decisions; and if he didn't, who would?
Orsea stood up. The rest of them left without looking at him, as though he was some kind of monstrosity. Years ago, hadn't people believed that if you looked a leper in the eyes, you could catch the disease that way? Maybe they still had the same belief about humiliation.
'I'm sorry,' Orsea said. 'That didn't come out the way I meant it to.'
Valens shrugged, and perched on the edge of the table. 'It's all right,' he said, 'you didn't do anybody else any harm.'
He could feel the jab go home. It had only been slight, but Orsea felt the least touch these days. Understandably. He had a lot to feel vulnerable about. 'I wanted to explain,' Valens said, in as gentle a voice as he could manage, 'why I don't want you to come to the council meetings anymore.'
Orsea turned his head and looked at him. The expression on his face was familiar: the deer at bay, with nowhere left to run to. The difference was, Valens hunted deer because he wanted them; the meat, the hide, the trophy. Hunting was about reducing a wild thing into possession. He'd never wanted Orsea for anything at all.
'Because I make a fool of myself,' Orsea said. 'Understood.'
'No.' Valens sighed. 'I was thinking of you, actually. And Veatriz.' He paused. He hadn't meant to come so close to the truth. 'Look, it's obvious. It's tearing you apart, even hearing news about the war. There's no need for you to put yourself through that. I'll see to it you're kept in the loop, and anything you've got to say, about policy, you can say to me direct.' He stood up and walked across, until he was within arm's length. 'If you want to keep coming to the meetings, then fine. I just thought you'd prefer not to.'
Orsea stayed where he was. The hunted animal runs away. The fencer steps back as his opponent advances, to maintain the safe distance between them. 'Thanks,' he said. 'To be honest, there's nothing useful I could contribute anyway. I mean, it's not like I made a particularly good job of defending my country against the Mezentines, so I'm hardly likely to do any better with yours.'
Valens looked away. 'You can believe that if you want to,' he said. 'It's not true, of course. You beat off a direct assault, which nobody's ever done before-'
'That was Vaatzes,' Orsea interrupted, 'not me.'
'Yes, but you chose him. That's what leaders do, they choose the right people.'
'Like Miel Ducas.' Orsea laughed. 'He was very good indeed. But of course, I relieved him of command and had him locked up, just when we needed him most.'
Valens froze, as though he'd just put his foot in a snare. 'That's beside the point.'
'Yes, I suppose it is.' Orsea sat down. 'None of it's important. What matters is that I started the war in the first place. Nobody else but me. And now it's come here. You know what? I think the war follows me around, like a butcher's dog.'
Valens stifled a yawn. This was mere pointless activity, but it was his duty as a good host to carry on to the end. 'You didn't start my war, Orsea,' he said. 'I did that.'
'Because of me.'
'It seemed like a good idea at the time.'
(In his mind, he was phrasing another question for a letter: Suppose you were fencing with a man who wanted to get killed, but if you kill him, you lose the game. How would you go about it?)
'Valens.' Orsea was looking at him. 'Can I ask you something?'
'Of course.'
Orsea turned his head. Valens had seen people do something similar before; squeamish men who had to put a wounded animal out of its misery. 'You know why I had Miel Ducas arrested?'
'I heard something about it.'
'What happened was,' Orsea said slowly, 'I found out that he had a letter. It was something he shouldn't have had. What I mean is, as soon as it came into his possession he should've brought it to me, but he didn't.' He lifted his head; he was looking into the corner of the room. 'Apparently that's treason,' he said. 'I looked it up.'
'You couldn't trust him anymore. Well, that's fair enough.'
'Trust,' Orsea repeated. 'That old thing. You know,' he went on, 'I've been thinking a lot about trust recently.'
'Understandably,' Valens murmured. 'Someone betrayed your city to the enemy.'
'Several people, actually,' Orsea replied briskly, 'including me. But that's not what's been bothering me. I've been thinking-look, can you spare the time for all this? Listening to me rambling on, I mean. It's really self-indulgent of me, and you're a busy man.'
'It's raining,' Valens said. 'I've got plenty of time.'
