with, since you've raised the subject. For instance, the prosecutor-'
'Write to me,' Boioannes snapped; unusual flare of petulance, almost a minor victory. 'To return to the topic we're currently discussing. Do you believe that Vaatzes would be prepared to negotiate for a free pardon, in return for helping us?'
The things I miss by not paying attention, Psellus thought bitterly. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I think it would depend on what guarantees we're able to offer.'
Someone laughed. 'Obviously, nothing substantial,' Boioannes replied, 'since we naturally have no intention of honoring them. However; we must consider the fact that Vaatzes has already helped us, unasked, requesting no reward; presumably he's given us this help as an earnest of good faith, to persuade us to open negotiations. The implication must be that he is prepared to trust us, under certain circumstances and conditions. If we can use him, he could potentially be of service to us. Do you agree?'
Psellus nodded.
'Excellent.' Boioannes beamed; all those strong white teeth simultaneously. 'In that case, who better to conduct the negotiations than yourself? Assuming the committee agrees…'
Of course they did.
Later, back in his cold, safe office, Psellus read (for the fifth or sixth time) the dense, concise summary of instructions he'd received from Boioannes' clerks. Most of it was a tangled thicket of things he wasn't allowed to offer or agree to, not even on the strict understanding that he'd be lying through his teeth; there was always the risk that the letters might be intercepted, by the enemy or (even worse) by friends, and some maneuvers would be too painful to have to explain away. Most of the rest of the brief consisted of what the Republic wanted from its stray lamb-the Vadani, for instance; the heads of Duke Valens, Duke Orsea, their heirs, counselors, ministers, families, friends, acquaintances…
Well, that was the job he'd been given, the first real work he'd had since he joined Necessary Evil. Better than spending all day staring at the wall, or reading Vaatzes' atrocious poetry for the umpteenth time. More to the point, here was a beautiful kind of serendipity, such sweet timing. He picked up his pen, suddenly inspired, and started to write. Lucao Psellus to Ziani Vaatzes, greetings.
What a bizarre thing to be doing; writing a letter to the abominator, the arch-enemy, the man who'd slaughtered the Republic's army at Civitas Eremiae. It was like writing a letter to Death, or Evil; it was also, he felt with a stab of guilt, a bit like scraping acquaintance with someone you've always wanted to meet.
Allow me to introduce myself. I represent the standing committee on defense of the Perpetual Republic of Mezentia [inelegantly phrased; he was writing too fast in his enthusiasm] and I am authorized…
Pause. Nibble end of pen. Another sheet of paper. Lucao Psellus to Ziani Vaatzes, greetings.
I have never met you, although I suspect I know you better than anybody outside your immediate family- better, quite probably, than most of them. I work for the Guilds. That's all you need to know about me.
First, you ought to know that your wife-I mean your ex-wife-has married someone else. I'm sure you know the lucky man: Falier, your successor at the ordnance factory. Well, of course you do. Wasn't he your best friend?
I enclose a notarized copy of the marriage certificate. You know as well as I do that a Mezentine notary wouldn't falsify a certificate for anybody, not even the Guilds in supreme convocation. But if that's not good enough for you, ask for whatever proof you need and I'll try and get it for you.
So much for personal affairs: to business. I represent the standing committee on defense [there; that particular stylistic bear-trap neatly avoided] and they have authorized me to offer you a free pardon, in return for your help with the war. Of course, it's not quite as straightforward as that. We need to be able to trust you-rather a difficult proviso, in the circumstances. Likewise, you need to be able to trust us. This is what I have in mind…
Yes, Psellus thought; but what do I have in mind, precisely? He frowned, as though trying to squeeze inspiration out of his forehead by sheer clenching of the brow muscles. When it came, it was little short of horrifying. This is what I have in mind. I will come and meet you. I should make it clear straightaway that I am a person of no importance whatsoever. I don't know anything that would be helpful to the Vadani, so capturing and torturing me would be a waste of effort. Nor would the Guilds pay a ransom for me, or exchange prisoners for me. Ask anybody, assuming you can find someone who's heard of me.
I will meet you, face to face, at some place convenient to you within easy reach of the Eremian border. If you like, I'll bring with me any further proof you want of Ariessa's remarriage. When we meet, we can figure out between us what it'll take for us to trust each other. I'll come alone, of course. You'll know as soon as you see me that you're in no danger whatsoever of assassination or abduction. I couldn't hurt a fly if I wanted to; not a big fly, anyway.
If you decide you don't want anything to do with us, that's fine. If that's your decision we will, of course, have you killed, sooner or later. If we can reach some sort of agreement, on the other hand-think about that. Think about what you've already lost, permanently and beyond hope of recovery, and what you may still be able to salvage from the wreckage. I feel it's very important that we should be completely honest with each other right from the very start; talking of which, I really like your poetry. It's got a very basic simplicity which I found quite moving. Use the same courier to reply. I look forward very much to meeting you.
He had to try hard before he could get the pen back in the inkwell; his hand was shaking. But now he'd written it, there was no way back. Of course, Vaatzes might not reply…
He shut his eyes. Dying wouldn't be so terribly bad; but if they tortured him… He reached out for the letter, but stopped before his fingertips touched it. Of course, Boioannes might well forbid him to do it; a member of Necessary Evil, strolling alone and unarmed into Vadani territory. Boioannes would do no such thing. No risk whatsoever; you can't betray what you don't know. His orders would be: If they capture and torture you, here's the misinformation you're to feed to them, and make sure they believe you. Best not to put that idea into his mind.
Talking of minds, I must be out of…
Yes, he thought. Yes; but I really don't have any control over it, not now the letter's actually been written, not now that it exists, separate from me. It's a fixation, a compulsion, a need that overrides everything, even fear of pain and death. Quite possibly, being in love must be something like this; in which case, all the irrational, plain stupid things I've heard of lovers doing suddenly make sense. I want… No, I don't want, I need to meet him, to see his face and hear his voice, to share a space with him, to understand.
(He stood up; far too restless to sit down.)
And it'll be out of the office; that'll be a pleasant change. I'll be staying in inns, always wondered what that'd be like, and eating food that hasn't come from the Buttery. All kinds of fascinating new experiences, that I don't actually want, that I've spent my whole life avoiding.
He folded the letter, sealed it; it'd be safe now, because nobody would dare open a letter sealed by Necessary Evil. Not even Lucao Psellus; especially him.
Lucao who? Oh, him. That clerk.
He shoved through the door, scuttled down the corridor and stopped the first clerk he met. As he gave the instructions-so fussy about the details, repeating them over and over again-he realized that his voice was high and squeaky with excitement, wondered if the clerk had noticed it too. He wished he'd made a copy of the letter, so he could read it again; he couldn't seem to remember what he'd written, but he was sure it was vilely phrased, clumsy, possibly illegible. Should've got a clerk to copy it out in fair hand. Too late now; it's sealed, and the clerk's taken it, it's gone.
The thought of going back to his office was hateful. How long would it take the courier to reach Civitas Vadanis? She would be under orders to disguise her true intentions; presumably she'd go to Lonazep first, then up along the Cure Doce border, doing her stupid little business deals as normal, haggling a little extra small change out of provincial drapers and cutlers for run-of-the-mill Mezentine worsteds, brass buttons and table knives. Only then would she slip across the border into Eremia (with her safe conduct carefully hidden in the luggage, for use only in the direst of emergencies); buying now rather than selling, because the huddled pockets of Eremian refugees had no money. Gradually she'd work her way down the frontier, crossing into Vadani territory through one of the mountain passes, after which she could head straight to the capital without arousing suspicion. Two weeks? More likely three, and the same for the return trip. I can't wait that long, he told himself urgently, I'll fret myself to death in that time. Six weeks…
The hell with it. He bolted down the stairs, across Little Cloister, short-cut through the mosaic portico, up the main stairs, arriving breathless and racked by stitches in the anteroom of Boioannes' suite of offices.
