the scowl on the boy's face as he passed. Just one kick, he thought; right now I'd cheerfully sign over the whole Ducas estate north of the Blackwater just for the privilege of booting that brat's arse.
It was dark in the stables; too dark to see the expression on their faces, once the door slammed shut behind them. Miel sat with his back to the wall, his eyes closed, hoping for sleep with the same degree of pessimistic realism as he'd waited for the peasant sniper, or Jarnac and the cavalry. Outside it had started raining again. Somewhere, there was a leak in the roof. He counted the interval between drips: nine seconds.
19
A tolerably civilized chaise as far as the Lonazep turnpike. A basic but acceptable mail coach from there to the edge of the plain. A night on a plank bed in a rather sparse post-house. A military stage, overcrowded with junior officers, very rudimentary suspension, all day, all night and the next morning with only half a dozen stops up the Butter Pass to the camp in the ruins of Civitas Eremiae. A ride with the quartermaster's clerk on a solid-chassis supply cart as far as the frontier post at Limes Vadanis. Four days away from the Guildhall, Psellus staggered off the box of the cart and stood in a dusty, rutted road under a disturbingly broad sky, staring apprehensively at mountains. If this was the world he'd heard so much about when he was growing up in the suburbs of the city, they could stuff it.
'I don't know,' the garrison captain said in reply to his urgent question. 'I got a letter this morning to say you were coming, but that's all. Didn't say who you are or what we're supposed to do for you. Always happy to oblige the central administration,' this said with a confidence-diminishing grin, 'but you can see for yourself, we're just a border post, not a diplomatic mission.' He paused, thought, frowned. 'I suppose you might be able to hitch a ride with a trader,' he suggested. 'Strictly speaking it's a closed border, but we turn a blind eye if it's just ordinary commercial traffic. You may have to wait a week or so, but I expect you could find a corner of the guardhouse to crash in.'
It's all right, Psellus urged himself, I'm equipped to handle this. I have the magic letter. He took it from his pocket, observing that it was rather more dog-eared and crumpled than it had been four days ago. Still, what mattered was the blob of red wax at the bottom, into which was impressed the great corporate seal of Necessary Evil. He smoothed the letter out and handed it to the captain.
'If you'd just care to read that,' he said.
The captain glanced at it. 'Like I told you,' he said, 'we aren't set up here to do escorts for civilians.'
Psellus clicked his tongue; supposed to be authoritative verging on majestic, came out petulant. 'You'll notice,' he said, 'that it's signed personally by Commissioner Boioannes.'
'Who?'
In the event, they were quite kind to him; they fed him on bean porridge with bacon and lentils, which was what they ate themselves, and gave him a fairly clean blanket and a reserved-for-officers-only pillow. The guardhouse floor wasn't actually any harder than the bed in the inn at the post-house. He was, he reminded himself, right out on the very edge of the world. If he got up in the night for a pee and wandered a yard too far, he'd be across the frontier and in enemy territory, an accidental one-man invasion. The thought made him cross his legs until morning.
Breakfast-bean porridge with bacon and lentils-and a stroll round the compound. Six troopers in disconcertingly full armor failed to notice him, presumably for some valid military reason. He found an upturned packing case in the shade of the wall, and sat on it for an hour or so, his back resolutely turned on the view. Too many mountains, not enough tall buildings. My beautiful office, he said to himself, my beautiful small office.
'Good news.' The garrison captain had somehow materialized next to him while he wasn't looking. 'Actually, it's something I'd clean forgotten about, until you made me think of it. I've got orders to send a survey team to map the road between here and…' He hesitated, scowling. 'Some river,' he said, 'can't remember the name of it offhand. But if you want to go with them, they'll take you most of the way to where you want to go. It means walking, of course-they measure distances by counting footsteps, apparently-but at least you won't be on your own. Mind you, there's always the risk that a party of our lot wandering about in Vadani territory's going to attract unwelcome attention from the locals; you may feel you'd stand a better chance of sneaking in unnoticed on your own.'
So that's good news, is it? 'Can I think about it?' Psellus asked.
'Sure.' The captain smiled. 'No rush, they won't be leaving till this evening. Best to cover the first twenty miles under cover of darkness. Just in case.'
Psellus agonized over his decision for a full five seconds. 'You said something about traders,' he ventured.
Another night on the cold, hard floor; but the thought that he could be spending it scampering along mountain tracks in the dark with a company of military surveyors made the stones a little softer. Breakfast next day was a pleasant treat: bean porridge with bacon and lentils. A man could get to like life in a frontier post; as opposed to, say, death a few hundred yards beyond it. The morning passed. Early in the afternoon, one of the soldiers actually spoke to him. Evening ebbed in, trailing its hem across the mountains like a weary child dragging his heels. They hadn't told him what dinner would be, but he was prepared to hazard a guess.
'You're the Mezentine.' A woman's voice, somewhere in the shadow of the guardhouse tower. He looked round sharply, but all he could see was a slightly denser patch of darkness. The voice itself was middle-aged, provincial and coarse.
'That's right,' he said. 'Who…?'
'Lucao Psellus?'
'Yes.'
She stepped forward into the torchlight ring; a tall, stout woman, fishbelly-white face, Eremian or Vadani, dyed copper-beech hair heaped up on top of her head like a lava flow, clashing horribly with her loudly crimson dress. Her bare forearms were both fat and muscular, the muscle quite possibly built up by the effort of lifting so much monolithic gold jewelry.
'Well?' she said.
'I'm sorry,' Psellus said cautiously. 'I don't think I know you.'
'Quite right, you don't.' She made it sound as though only sheer all-conquering magnanimity was keeping her from holding it against him. 'You wanted a ride into Vadani territory.'
Merchants; of course. Among the savages, it was quite usual for women to be merchants. 'That's right, yes,' he said quickly.
She looked at him, as though she'd bought him sight unseen and was regretting it. 'I'm headed for Civitas Vadanis, more or less direct,' she said. 'Are you carrying diplomatic credentials?'
Psellus smiled. 'I've got a letter…'
'Let's see.'
After a moment's hesitation he took it out and handed it to her; she rubbed her hands on her thighs before taking it. 'Boioannes himself,' she said, 'impressive. So why isn't the military giving you an escort?'
Well, why not? 'I've been asking myself that,' he said.
She grinned; sympathy and contempt. 'Don't take it to heart,' she said. 'If they weren't completely clueless, they wouldn't have pulled garrison duty. Anyway, isn't the whole big deal about Necessary Evil how shadowy and secret it is? Hardly surprising they've never heard of Boioannes.'
'You have,' he pointed out.
'Yes, but I've got a living to earn. I don't wait for briefings, I find things out before I need to know them. Talking of which: sixty thalers.'
Psellus blinked. 'Excuse me?'
'My fee,' she explained. 'For getting you across the border and all. Practically cost,' she added, with a practiced sigh. 'Meaning, the donkey you'll be riding could be carrying merchandise that'd earn me that much. Plus extra food and water to keep you alive, taking up more space. Say yes quickly, before I put it up to a hundred.'
'A donkey.'
'Yes. Well, what do you expect, a carriage and four?'
Psellus looked at her. 'I've never ridden a donkey before.'
