public holiday. If I'm officially dead, and the Vadani have been wiped out, then the Republic has prevailed, the way it always does. Boioannes can stage his discreet coup and be god-on-earth for a bit, until someone gets rid of him. Everything will be all right; and you'll be right on top, of course, because you'll tell them it was all your idea, the result of your incredibly skillful and delicate negotiations, your painstaking research that gave you the insights you needed into the mind of the abominator. Well? Isn't it perfect?'
As he finished his speech-definitely a speech, he admitted to himself, faintly ashamed-he was watching Psellus as though he was some complex mechanism (too complex; overengineered, built arse-about-face, not something he'd ever be proud to admit to, but functional, he hoped). It would be interesting to see whether he'd assessed this contemptible little man accurately, or whether he'd underestimated him, as others had.
'No,' Psellus said. 'They'll pretend to agree, but they won't let you go.'
'You reckon?'
'I know,' Psellus replied. 'You see, there's nothing in it they couldn't make for themselves. They could fake your death, and dismiss any reports of you as rumors and lies. And if you're right about Boioannes having a spy already, they don't need you to give them the Vadani. There'd have to be something else; and what else have you got to offer?'
Ziani smiled. Nice to be right. 'As it happens,' he said, 'I do have something else. I can give them the silver mines.'
20
She hadn't spoken to him for two days; not since they'd climbed to the top of the ridge that overlooked the city. He wondered if he'd offended her, though he couldn't imagine how.
As the coach stumbled over the potholes in the road, he looked sideways at her, considering her as though she was some ornament or work of art he'd bought in a rash moment of enthusiasm. Seen in profile, her nose was long and almost unnaturally straight; in profile, of course, you didn't notice how thin it was. There was a slight upward curve to her top lip that he couldn't help but find appealing. The weakness of her chin, on the other hand…
Her eyes flicked sideways and he turned away, embarrassed at having been caught staring. No reason, of course, why a man shouldn't look at his own wife. Even so; he'd got the impression she didn't like it. He concentrated on the road ahead, but that was simply distressing.
Of course, he thought, I could try talking to her, rather than waiting for her to talk to me. A radical enough notion, but it couldn't do any harm. Could it?
'I guess you must be used to this sort of thing,' he said.
She turned full-face and looked at him. 'Excuse me?'
'Traveling in carts,' he explained. 'I mean, your people being nomadic.'
'I see.' She paused, thinking through her answer, like a conscientious witness in court. 'Yes, we travel extensively,' she said. 'However, our vehicles are more comfortable, and much better designed for long journeys. For example, I would normally travel reclining on a three-quarter-length couch, rather than sitting on a bench. Also, because of their superior suspension, our vehicles travel appreciably faster, which gives us scope for longer and more frequent stops for rest and exercise. Our horses have been bred specifically for stamina over many centuries.'
'I'm sorry,' Valens mumbled.
'What for?'
'The discomfort. The coach not being up to what you're used to. We don't do much of this sort of thing, you see.'
'I know. I've made allowances. However, it's-considerate,' a slight stumble over the word, 'of you to be concerned. Besides, I've traveled in worse.'
You could cut shield-leather with those eyes. More than ever she reminded him of a bird of prey; he wished he had a hood he could fasten over her face, to stop her looking at him. 'We had to organize all this at very short notice,' he went on. 'Perhaps, when we're settled again, you could give our coachbuilders a few tips.'
She frowned. 'I'm not really competent to advise on technical matters,' she said. 'However, I'm sure I could arrange for some of our coachbuilders to be seconded to you for a while.'
Valens nodded, and went back to staring at the road ahead. Sooner or later, he told himself, I'm going to have to sleep with this woman. Won't that be fun.
Try again. 'The reason we're going so slowly isn't just because our wagons are a bit primitive,' he said. 'Bear in mind, we're carrying all this armor plate. We've got to be a bit careful, in case the extra weight busts the axles when we go over holes in the road.'
'Our suspension systems would help in that regard,' she said. 'Instead of steel springs, we use a laminate of horn, wood and sinew, similar to the material we make our bows from. We find that steel tends to fatigue and crack with heavy use; the composite springs hold up much better. Of course they're costlier and harder to make, but we find it worth the effort and expense in the long term. A broken spring can hold up an entire caravan for days.'
'Horn and sinew,' Valens repeated, trying to sound interested. 'That's clever.'
She nodded. 'It's an efficient design,' she said. 'The horn is ideally suited to absorb shock, while the sinew offers almost unlimited flexibility. The wood is simply a core. The weakest component is, of course, the glue that holds the layers together. We use a compound made up of equal parts of sinew and rawhide offcuts…'
More about making springs than anybody could possibly want to know, ever. At another time, in another context, explained by someone else, it might have been mildly interesting, to somebody who actually gave a damn. Vaatzes? No, he'd have a fit. The Mezentines made cart-springs from steel, so anything else would be a (what was the word?) an abomination. He'd probably spend the rest of the trip trying to convince her steel springs were better.
(Talking of which, where was Vaatzes? Couldn't remember having seen him for a while.)
She'd stopped talking. 'Well,' he said, 'that's fascinating. We'll definitely have to give these composite springs a try sometime.'
'Advisable,' she said. 'The best sinew for the purpose is the back-strap of a cow or horse; ordinary cowhorn suffices for the inner layer. For wood we prefer maple, though ash makes an acceptable substitute where maple's not available.'
'Not much maple in these parts,' Valens heard himself say. 'Presumably birch'd be too brittle.'
'Yes.'
Really, she was like a bear-trap or a pitfall; words just dropped into her to curl up and starve to death. Tremendously well-informed, of course; she'd be a real asset, if only he could get past her unfortunate manner. Regrettably, he found himself passionately not wanting to know anything she could teach him. Not like him at all-he thought of the hundreds of books, presumably still on the shelves of his library, waiting patiently for the Mezentines to steal or burn them. Irresponsible to reject a potentially useful resource simply because of a clash of personality.
'How about where you come from? Much maple there?'
'No. We have to trade for it with the Luzir Soleth, who know how much we value it and demand an extortionate price. For that reason, we use it very sparingly.'
Another thing he'd heard about these people; they respected truth above all things. The perfect education, they said with pride, consisted of horsemanship, archery and telling the truth. He could believe that. She answered all his questions as though she was on oath.
'I'm hoping we'll reach the Sow's Back by nightfall,' he said. 'It's the last range of hills before the long plain.'
'The Sow's…?'
'It looks like a pig's back,' he said. 'A bit. The trouble is, it's pretty close to the Eremian border, and the Mezentines have been sending patrols across; just to be annoying, I think, but we don't want to be seen, obviously. After that-'
'Where are we going?' she asked him.
