falling asleep. Shortly after noon the next day, he saw smoke rising from the double chimneys of the Unswerving Loyalty and realized-the thought startled him-that somehow he'd made it and he was still alive.
No money, of course. He grinned. He'd have to sell the horse, and then what?
As he came close enough to hear, he could make out voices, a great many of them. He wondered about that. Mezentines; no, they'd have burned the place to the ground. His men, perhaps; unlikely. All right, then, who else would be roaming about this godforsaken moor in a large party? All he could think of was a big caravan of merchants; possible, if they were being forced to go all round the houses these days to avoid the war.
But it wasn't merchants. The horses he saw as he rode into the yard were too big and too fine, and there were bows and quivers hanging from their saddles, and boots to rest spear-butts attached to the stirrups. Very fine horses indeed; and the Loyalty's ostlers and grooms were looking after them with a degree of enthusiasm he wouldn't have expected to see if they belonged to the invaders. Besides, he knew enough about horses to recognize the coveted, valuable Vadani bloodline. He grinned as he passed under the fold gate. Can't go anywhere in Eremia these days without bumping into the Vadani cavalry.
There were two dozen or so men milling about in the yard, but the one he noticed straightaway had his back to him. He was talking to a short man in a leather apron-a farrier, quite possibly, not that he cared worth a damn. The man with his back to him was extremely tall and broad-shouldered, and there was something achingly familiar about the way the presumed farrier was edging away backward, uncomfortable about being loomed over in such an intrusive way.
The troopers stooped talking and stared at him as he rode past them; maybe some of them knew who he was. One of them called out a name as he passed. The tall, broad man looked round and stared at him, and his face exploded into a huge, happy grin.
Miel reined in his horse, dismounted, reached the ground clumsily, nearly fell over. He smiled at the tall man.
'Hello, Jarnac,' he said.
Miel Ducas had never really cared much for beer: too sweet, too full of itself, and the taste stayed with you for hours afterward. After Framain's vintage wine and dusty water, it tasted heavenly.
'We'd given up on you,' Jarnac said for the fifth time, tilting the jug in spite of Miel's protests. 'No trace of you at the scavengers' camp; they swore blind they'd never seen you, we knew they were lying, we assumed they'd cut your throat or sold you to the Mezentines. Anyhow, they won't be bothering anybody anymore.' He opened his face and filled it with beer, best part of a mugful. Alcohol had never affected Jarnac at all, except to magnify him still further. 'Should've known you'd be able to take care of yourself, of course. Bunch of thieves and corpse-robbers weren't going to keep hold of you for long.'
Miel made a point of not asking what had happened to the scavengers. Instead, 'Jarnac,' he said.
'Yes?'
'Do you think you could lay your hands on three wagonloads of sulfur?'
Jarnac lowered his mug and put it down on the table, like a chess-player executing a perfect endgame. 'Sulfur,' he repeated. 'What the hell do you want with that?'
'I need some to give to somebody.'
Jarnac shrugged. You could practically see doubt and confusion being shaken away, like a horse bucking a troublesome rider. 'Should be able to get some from somewhere,' he said. 'Merchants sell it, don't they? Or we could probably requisition some from Valens' lot. Theoretically, I've still got an open ticket with the Vadani quartermaster's office.'
Miel frowned. 'It'd probably be better if we bought it,' he said. 'Talking of which, have you got any money?'
Big, Jarnac-sized laugh. 'I'll be honest with you,' he said, 'I really don't know. Ever since I've been with Valens' lot, I haven't actually needed any. But I'm a serving officer in the Vadani cavalry, so I guess they're paying me. Not a problem,' he went on, before Miel could interrupt. 'Three wagonloads of sulfur, as soon as we get back to headquarters. Anyhow,' he went on, 'the war. Well, I'm not quite sure where to start. Strikes me, the more battles we win, the further we retreat, which I suppose is probably sensible since it's strictly a hiding to nothing, but it makes it a bit hard to keep score, if you know what I mean. To cut a long story short, though; no easy way to say this, Valens is cutting you loose. No more support for the resistance-which is short-sighted of him if you ask me, because…'
Miel kept nodding, but he wasn't interested. He was thinking, not for the first time, about the book he'd found on Framain's table, and a beehive-shaped building with a chimney, a woman with soot all over her face, and sulfur. It was a strange mash of thoughts to have crammed inside his head, but as he turned it over and over again, he realized that it had grown to fill all the available space, driving out everything else-the war, Eremia, the Ducas, honor, duty, loyalty, Orsea, Veatriz…
He looked up. Jarnac was wiping beer foam out of his mustache and talking earnestly about the weaknesses in the Mezentine supply lines. Behind his head, the paneling was gray and open-grained, and smoke curled into the room from a clogged fireplace.
Surely not, Miel thought; not in the middle of all this, with the world coming to an end.
8
'They're here, for crying out loud,' Carausius snapped, hanging in the doorway. 'Valens, this is ridiculous. You're acting like a child who's too shy to come down to the party.'
Valens kept his back turned. 'Nonsense,' he replied sternly. 'I just can't decide on which shoes to wear, that's all.'
'Now you sound like my wife.' Carausius clicked his tongue, loud as a bone breaking. 'I'm not going to plead with you. Come down or stay up here hiding, it's your bloody dukedom.'
'All right.' Valens grabbed a shoe, stuffed his foot into it, stumbled and grabbed the side of the wardrobe. 'Wrong shoe,' he explained, taking it off and transferring it to his other foot. 'That kind of day, really. Hardly auspicious for meeting my future bride.'
'Two more minutes and it'll constitute a diplomatic incident.'
'I'm coming.' Valens pulled on the other shoe, fumbled the buckle and stood up. 'So, lamb to the slaughter. I feel like I'm about to lead a cavalry charge against overwhelming odds.'
'No you don't, actually,' Carausius said with a grin. 'You'd be a damn sight more cheerful if you were.'
'True. Dying only takes a moment or so and then it's over, but marriage is forever. Promise me she isn't wearing feathers.'
'Promise.'
'Animal bones?'
'Do you include ivory in that category?'
'Shrunken organs taken from the bodies of men she's personally killed in battle?'
'Valens.'
He sighed, let his shoulders slump, like a boy on his way to a music lesson. 'Coming,' he said.
Vadani court protocol was unambiguously clear about the manner in which the Duke should receive representatives of a richer, more powerful but less civilized and enlightened nation. It was a matter of carefully balancing gravity, recognition and affable condescension. The only possible venue was the Great Hall; however, instead of being in position when they arrived and rising politely to greet them, Valens was required to time his entrance so that it coincided precisely with theirs. That way, assuming he didn't run or dawdle, he'd meet them in the exact center of the room, and the issue of precedence could be neatly sidestepped. They would then withdraw from the Great Hall into the formal solar; he would graciously ask them to sit first, and the ambassadors would then introduce them to him, it being permissible to assume that they already knew who he was. It was the sort of performance that tended to give him a headache; but, as with most things he hated doing, he was very good at it.
He'd chosen the wrong shoes, after all. They pinched, and after a couple of dozen steps he could feel a blister
