find a way to do any damn thing, just so as not to give him the satisfaction of being disappointed in me-and then he'd nod and say, told you so, I knew you could do it if you just applied yourself. I know that deep down he believed I wasn't up to the job of running this country. I showed him, didn't I? But that doesn't work anymore. I can't make myself do what I've got to do just so I can score points off my stupid, dead father. Maybe he was right all along. Take away the hate I used to feel for him, and what've I got left?
I think love and hate are really the same thing. They're what you feel when someone matters more to you than anything else; more than yourself, even. I know you can love someone and hate them at the same time. My father was always the most important person in my life. I loved him and hated him, and there wasn't room for anybody or anything else. Then he cheated by dying. He left before I could get the better of him, and I've been trapped by his death ever since. I think what's shaped my life is the fact that I lost you and him so close together. Now I think about it, I realize I'm still the seventeen-year-old boy whose father died unexpectedly. I'm pinned to that moment, like a man whose horse has fallen on him.
Well, that's me about finished. For the first time since he died I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do. I shall be very grateful indeed for any suggestions.
He put the pen back in the inkwell, knowing that if he started to read what he'd just written, he'd tear it up and burn the pieces.
Instead, he folded the paper up small into a packet, melted wax and sealed it, tucked it up his sleeve and left the room.
It took him a long time to find the person he needed: a woman in a red dress, who curtseyed very politely, offered him some mead spiced with cinnamon and pepper (he refused) and asked him to sit down.
'It's been quite a while since you needed me,' she said. 'I was beginning to think-'
'Please,' he interrupted, 'don't waste my time or try my patience. You're to deliver this to her personally when she's alone. I suggest you do exactly as I say, because if you don't I'll have you killed. You know me well enough to realize I don't make empty threats.'
She blinked. 'I see,' she said. 'Can I refuse?'
'I'm afraid not, no.'
'Very well then.' She took a deep breath, and smiled. 'Can we talk about money now, please?'
'A hundred silver thalers when you come back and tell me you've delivered it,' Valens said. 'All right?'
She thought about that for a moment. 'That'll be fine,' she said. 'Also, I'd quite like a border pass, open, no dates, and there's a silly misunderstanding about an excise license which I'd like sorted out, if that's no trouble.'
Valens sighed. 'It's a point of honor with you people, isn't it? Taking a mile.'
She laughed. 'My mother told me, never accept anything you're offered, always insist on one little thing more. Of course, I'm in no position to bargain.'
'Deal,' Valens said. 'If you can get it done today, there'll be an extra fifty thalers.'
'So sorry.' She shook her head. 'Can't be done. Not even for fifty thalers. I have to apply to the senior lady- in-waiting for an appointment. A bribe will get me one, but she always makes me wait a full day. If I insist on seeing the Duchess today, it'd look suspicious, the lady-in-waiting will get frightened and tell Duke Orsea, and-well, I don't need to tell you what that'd lead to.'
Valens frowned. 'Double the bribe,' he suggested. 'I'll pay.'
'That'd just make things worse,' she replied sadly. 'There's a very strict protocol about bribing court officers. If you mess about with it, there'll be trouble. And please don't tell me how to conduct my business. I happen to be very good at it.'
Valens held up his hands. 'Heaven forbid,' he said. 'Thanks. I'll see myself out.'
After leaving her he walked down through the town to the river. People stopped and stared but nobody spoke to him or came near him. It was well known in Givitas Vadanis that when the Duke came into town on his own, without guards or secretaries, he wanted to be left alone. It was, of course, a tribute to the way he ran his country that he could walk about the city on his own whenever he wanted to. Like all the best privileges, of course, it had to be used sparingly.
He stopped at a saddler's stall down by the west gate; a rather fine set of jesses and a hood, in dark tan leather, embossed with ivy leaves. A nice, considerate present for his wife-to-be, whose name he couldn't pronounce even if he could remember it. The stallholder noticed him looking at them and moved across.
'How much?' he asked.
'One thaler the set,' the stallholder replied. 'Genuine Mezentine.'
That was a lie, of course; about the only thing the Mezentines didn't make was falconry accessories. 'You mean Cure Doce,' Valens said.
'All right, genuine Cure Doce. You want them, or what?'
Valens nodded, looked round for someone who wasn't there. He frowned, and felt in his pockets, which were, of course, empty.
'No money,' he said.
The stallholder looked at him. 'Is that right?'
'It's all right,' Valens said. 'Hold on to them for me, I'll send someone.'
'Will you now?'
A little spurt of anger fired in Valens' mind. 'You don't know who I am.'
The corners of the stallholder's mouth tightened a little. 'That's very true, I don't.'
'Forget it.' Valens walked away. He could feel the stallholder's eyes on the back of his head. Of course, in a few weeks that man would be out of business for good, on the decision of his duke, who he hadn't even recognized. There was something wrong with the way the world was run, Valens thought. He had half a mind to write to somebody about it.
Four stalls down from the saddler there was a cutler. As Valens passed, the man looked up and saw him; his eyes seemed to double in size and his mouth dropped open. He gave the boy standing next to him a vicious nudge in the ribs, and pointed with his chin. The boy grunted and carried on polishing something.
Oh well, Valens thought. 'Good morning,' he said.
The cutler seemed to flicker, like a candle-flame in a draft. 'Your majesty,' he said. 'Yes, what beautiful weather, for the time of year.'
Depends on your idea of beauty, Valens thought. Nothing on the man's stall had caught his eye, but he was snared now, as though he'd put his foot in a wire. He stepped up to the cutler's table and looked round for something to admire.
There was a hanger; a plain thing, two feet of curved blade, lightly and crudely fullered, with a brass knuckle-bow and back-strap and a stagshorn grip. Valens picked it up, one hand on the hilt, the other near the tip, and flexed the blade. It felt adequate.
'Nice piece,' he exaggerated.
'Thank you,' the cutler said. 'Genuine Mezentine, of course. You can see the armory mark there on the ricasso.'
Sure enough, someone had scratched a little animal on the squared-off section just below the hilt. Unfortunately, the Mezentine stamp was a lion, and the scratched mark was quite definitely a cow. 'You're right,' Valens said, 'so it is.' He sighed. It was good, sturdy, munitions-grade stuff, functional enough to cut briars with. One of the assistant huntsmen would be pleased to have it.
'How much will you take for it?' he asked.
The cutler swelled like a bullfrog. 'Oh no, I couldn't,' he said. 'Please, take it. As a mark of…'
He didn't seem able to make up his mind what it was a mark of, but the general idea was clear enough. 'Don't be silly, man,' Valens said, 'you're a businessman, not the poor relief.' He estimated how much it was really worth, then doubled it. 'Two thalers.'
'No, really.' The man was close to tears. 'I'd be honored if you'd take it.' He hesitated, then lowered his voice. 'My eldest son was at Cynosoura,' he said. 'It'd be for him.'
'Right,' Valens said, trying to remember what the hell had happened at Cynosoura. 'Well, in that case, I'll be pleased to have it. Thank you.'
'Thank you,' the cutler said. 'There's a scabbard with it, of course.' He looked round; there were no scabbards of any kind to be seen anywhere. 'Thraso, you idiot, where's the scabbard for this hanger, it was here just now…'
