No chance whatsoever of getting in to see the man himself; not without an appointment, and you had to have had your name put down at birth for one of those. But eventually he talked his way into the presence of Boioannes' chief assistant deputy clerk, a godlike man with a perfectly spherical head.
'Lucao Psellus,' the clerk told him, and coming from such an authority, it had to be true. 'How can I help?'
Psellus explained. Urgent Guild business, a direct commission, approved by a unanimous vote of Necessary Evil… At this point the clerk stopped him with one upraised forefinger, and leafed through a bound folio of manuscript until he came to the minutes of the relevant meeting.
'As you say,' he said, one eyebrow slightly raised. 'Level seven authorization, no less. What can we do for you?'
The letter, written, entrusted to a courier; on reflection, the usual channels far too slow; could the courier be stopped or called back, and the letter sent by express messenger instead?
The clerk frowned. 'Express messenger?'
'Somebody fast,' Psellus explained. 'Instead of going all round the houses. Like the way you send orders and dispatches to the front line.'
The frown deepened. Set foot in that frown and you'd be sucked down into it; all they'd ever find of you would be your hat, floating on the top. 'You mean the military post.' Long, thoughtful pause, as if the clerk was doing long division in his head. 'Strictly speaking,' he said eventually, 'your authorization does allow you to make use of the military post. That said, I can't see how it'd help, in the circumstances. It would get your letter to Civitas Eremiae, say, in forty-eight hours. It couldn't get it across the border, let alone into the hands of the enemy.' A sigh, full of sadness for the contrariness of the world. 'No, they'd have to find you a covert messenger at Civitas Eremiae-one of those merchant women, they're really the only line of communication we've got for cross-border work. In all honesty, I think it'd be quicker to use the normal channels.'
Psellus could feel his jaw getting tense. 'All right, then,' he said. 'What about a diplomatic courier? A herald, or whatever you call them.'
The clerk actually smiled; more than a hint of the Boioannes grin there. True what they say: after a while, dogs start to look like their masters. 'First,' he said, 'you don't have authorization. Second, we aren't sending any diplomatic representations to the Vadani for the foreseeable future.'
Psellus took a deep breath. 'Then arrange one,' he said. 'Make something up. Pretend. Write to the Duke and tell him he's got one last chance to surrender. Any pretext, so long as you can send a courier with my letter sewn inside his trouser leg, or whatever it is your people do.' He stopped, feeling ridiculous. It wasn't appropriate for a member of Necessary Evil to beg a clerk to send a letter. 'If you'd rather, we could go and ask Councillor Boioannes. I'm sure he wouldn't mind being interrupted.'
War, fiercer than anything that had taken place in Eremia, was raging behind the clerk's eyes. Not hard to figure out what he was thinking. Just possibly, Psellus the forgotten man, the Republic's leading nonentity, wasn't bluffing and genuinely had authorization from Boioannes himself; in which case, hindering him would be a very dangerous course of action. 'We can send your message,' the clerk said. 'We're a resourceful lot, we'll think of something.'
A terrified man rode through the main gate of Civitas Vadanis. He was unarmed, dressed from head to foot in dusty white, and four heavy cavalrymen flanked him at the four cardinal points, as though shielding their fellow countrymen from all possibility of contagion.
Needless to say, everybody had stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Some, mostly mothers with young children, backed away; others pressed forward as if they were going to attack, and the four outriders had to guide their horses to shove them back into the crowd. A few objects, some stones but mostly fruit, were thrown, but with poor accuracy. A flying cordon of guards advanced in reverse chevron formation from the palace door, enveloping the five riders and whisking them inside.
The terrified man, who hadn't said a word since he rode up to the official border post at Perrhagia, looked round. He wasn't used to places like this: fountains, statues on plinths, cobbled yards glimpsed through archways. The nearest thing he'd ever seen was the Guildhall, but that was bigger but plainer. This place was small, busy and almost deliberately arrogant, as if making no secret of the fact that, in spite of its ornate extravagance, it was the house of just one man, and everybody else here was some degree of servant. The thought appalled him; he hadn't realized that people could actually live like that.
They stopped in front of a pair of tall wrought-iron gates; gilded but disappointingly crude by Mezentine standards. The escort dismounted-nobody spoke to him, but he guessed he was supposed to dismount too-and the gates opened. He didn't look round, because he'd seen enough Vadani soldiers already for one day.
'Is this him?' A young man with a meager, thin face and hair the color of rust was talking to the escort leader, who must have nodded, because rust-head turned and walked into the building. The four escorts edged toward him, like drovers crowding a pig into a pen. He did his best to ignore them, and followed rust-head through the doorway, across a covered way and into a cloister garden. It was pretty enough, if you liked flowers and that sort of thing. In the middle was a small round walnut table-again, shoddy work once you got close enough to see- behind which sat a single man.
He'd been briefed before he left Mezentia, needless to say. They'd told him that Valens, the Vadani duke, was a young man, slightly built, shorter than most Vadani, with hair the color of dead leaves. The description fitted the man behind the table, just about. He looked tired, worried, angry about something. 'This him?' he said.
'We searched him at the border,' the escort leader said.
'He doesn't look particularly murderous,' the man who might be Valens replied. 'You're Mezentine, aren't you?' he added, without shifting his head, so that it took the terrified man a moment to realize he was being spoken to. 'I mean, a real Mezentine, not one of the overseas mercenaries.'
'Yes,' the terrified man said, wondering whether he was supposed to add sir or your highness. Too late to do that now, so he'd better work on the assumption that a citizen of the Republic refuses to acknowledge the superiority of any man, even by way of formal greeting. 'My name is Lexao Cannanus, permanent secretary to the-'
'I'm Valens. Sit down.' Valens frowned. 'No, don't do that, wait till someone fetches a chair. I do apologize for my household's inexcusable lack of manners. If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times: accredited diplomats are not to be expected to sit on the grass.'
All this humor, Cannanus assumed, was for the servants' benefit rather than his, though he could see it would have the additional benefit of making him feel uncomfortable. An efficient man, then, the Vadani duke; capable of making one operation do two jobs. If he was Mezentine, he'd probably be a Foundryman. Someone brought a chair-a silly thing, too fussily carved and not very sturdy-and he sat on it. The four soldiers were looming over his shoulder, but he did his best to pretend they weren't there.
'Apparently you've got a message for me,' Valens said. 'Or would you like something to eat or drink first? Now I'm the one forgetting his manners.'
'No, that's fine,' Cannanus said stiffly. 'I'm sure you're a busy man, and I'd like to do my job and go home as soon as possible.'
'Of course.' Just a hint of a grin on Valens' face? He's making me think I'm sounding pompous and stupid, Cannanus realized. Clever man. 'Well in your own time, then.'
For a horrible moment, Cannanus couldn't remember what he was supposed to say…
'Greetings,' he recited, in a flat, dead voice, 'from the convocation of Guilds of the Mezentine Republic. This is to inform you that unless you accede forthwith to the Republic's legitimate demands, a state of war will exist between yourself and-'
'Just a moment,' Valens interrupted. 'What demands?'
Cannanus blinked. 'I'm sorry?'
'What demands? I don't know what you're referring to. We haven't had any demands, have we, Mezentius?'
The rusty-haired man, who'd joined them at some point, shrugged. 'Not that I'm aware of.'
Valens sighed. 'Which isn't to say there haven't been any,' he said. 'The trouble is, this sort of thing's the province of my chancellor, and unfortunately he was killed only a few days ago. As a result we're still in a bit of a tangle, not quite back up to speed. Would you be very kind and just run through them for me? The demands,' he
