Devices and Desires (44 page)

The footman brought back the writing-slope, the pen, the sand-shaker and all the rest of the panoply. Miel wrote:

Miel to Jarnac

Leave it all to your discretion. The Mezentine is called Ziani Vaatzes; care of Sorit Calaphates ought to find him — they’re
in partnership. Don’t know if he’s actually trading yet, but you can try. Say I sent you if you think it’ll help.

On second thoughts, not the one in the Collamel valley. I’m under strict orders: no rivers.

Sealed, handed over to the footman; done. That should have been that, but Miel found he couldn’t keep still. It was like an
insect-bite or nettle-rash, the letter, a speck of grit lodged in his mind’s eye. All of his illustrious line had been fretters,
prone to waking up in the early hours of the morning and scaring themselves to death with perilous thoughts. What if someone
else got hold of it? Unlikely (his better self, fighting a doomed rearguard action), because it was locked up in his trunk
in his office, and the trunk had a genuine Mezentine three-lever lock — his great-grandfather had brought it back from the
City sixty-two years ago, the first Mezentine lock ever seen in Eremia — not to mention sides of inch-thick oak board and
massive steel bands, hardened and tempered like a sword-blade. Yes, but three men with axes would take a quarter of an hour
to get through that, and there the letter would be, nestling inside like a scorpion in a bouquet of roses. Suppose she’d realized
he’d got it — how couldn’t she, since he’d been so stupid? — and was feeling desperate; what would she do, she’d get her secretary
or her maid’s lover to hire some thugs from the marketplace to go and get it (she’d know where he’d keep it; she knew him
too well); they’d make a botch of the job and get caught, be searched, the letter would be in Orsea’s hands by morning, with
full details of where it had been found. Leaving it there was next thing to pinning it up on the castle gate. Or maybe she’d
already decided to cut her losses by going to Orsea, telling him about it — an innocent letter, I knew him years ago when
we were just children, but Miel got hold of it and I think he means to make trouble, I thought you ought to know; and Orsea
would know about the trunk — they’d tried to pick the lock together when they were kids, failed, of course; the world-famous
Ducas chest with its legendary lock; he’d send his men with axes and big hammers, and God only knew what the upshot would
be.

I’ve got to get rid of it, he thought, it’s the only way out of this. No letter, no proof, no risk. But he knew he couldn’t
do that — because it was important, because he wasn’t at all sure why it was important; because it was something of hers,
and he had so very little of her, it’d be murder to kill something that had been made for her. So, can’t burn it or bury it;
he’d have to find a better place to keep it, which shouldn’t be hard, surely. The Ducas house was full of places where a letter
could be kept hidden. He’d spent enough weary, frustrating hours looking for things he’d put in a safe place over the years
to know that the house guarded its secrets with grim efficiency. There were all sorts of places that only he knew about: the
crack where the paneling was lifting away from the wall in the old chapel, the false front over the boarded-up fireplace in
the flower still. At least it’d be here, under his eye. It’d be far more awkward for Orsea, or a bunch of hired muscle, to
come looking for it here than in his office in the castle; there’d have to be explanations, scenes, offense given and umbrage
taken, writs and warrants, enough delay that he’d have time to nip in, recover it and put it on the fire while the search
party was still outside in the courtyard arguing the toss with the porters.

It was getting late, but the household was used to him slipping out to the castle at all hours. He let himself out through
the postern, a small, secret door that led directly into the Essenhatz watch-tower. The duty sergeant knew him by sight, of
course, and nodded respectfully as he hurried past, down the smooth spiral staircase into Essenhatz Street; across the Blind
Bridge into Lepers’ Court, down the twenty-seven steps of Cutlers’ Stair into De sirat, across the open square with its seven
orange trees into Farriers’ Path and then Miraval, leading to the Ducas’ private sally-port into the castle yard; across four
quadrangles and down the west cloister to the foot of the stairs that led to his office, on whose floor rested the Ducas trunk
with its famous but ultimately unreliable imported lock.

He’d remembered to bring the key with him, which was a blessing.

It was still there, where he’d left it, tucked into a report on waste and inefficiency in charcoal procurement. For a moment
he weakened; wasn’t he worrying unnecesarily, wouldn’t it be safer to leave it where it was, the strongest box in Eremia Montis
(apart from the other Ducas trunk in the treasury of Sabens Guard; it had not one but three Mezentine locks, and the head
keeper’s wolfhound liked to sleep on top of it; but of course that’d be the first place anybody’d think of looking)? His fingertips
were slick with damp as he picked it up. Not for the first time, he wished he’d been born to a simpler life.

After a long and painful bout of indecision, he stuffed it into his left sleeve and buttoned the cuff down tight around it.
There was nobody about — nobody he could see, at any rate — in the cloister, he heard no footsteps echoing his own across
the quadrangles and the yard. He fumbled with the key to the sally-port, nearly dropped it as he locked up behind him. He
went back home a different way, just in case.

Ziani was tempering a spring in the lead bath when the odd-job boy found him; he opened the door at precisely the wrong moment,
when Ziani’s concentration was fixed on the faint bloom of color in the hot metal, visible only in the concentrated beam of
light slanting through the narrow window into the darkened gallery. When the door opened, light flooded in like the sea overrunning
the polder at Lonazep.

“Get out,” Ziani snapped.

But by then it was too late; the job would have to be done all over again (reheat to bright orange, quench in salt water,
dry thoroughly, dip in molten lead till the blue smudge shows) and yelling at the workforce wouldn’t help. It wasn’t as if
the boy had done it on purpose.

“Sorry,” he said, straightening up and lifting the tongs clear of the tank. “Not your fault. What is it?”

The boy looked at him nervously. “Man here to see you,” he replied. “Said it’s dead urgent. I told him you’re busy but it’s
life and death, he said.”

Ziani frowned. “Did he say his name?”

“Ducas.”

“Oh.” Ziani shrugged. “Better show him in, then.” He banked the fire up with fresh coal to keep it alight, in case the emergency
took more than a few minutes.

The man who pushed past the boy and strode in (not many people can genuinely stride; it’s part breeding, part knack) was easily
the biggest human being Ziani had ever seen. It was hard to gauge his height with any precision, because the breadth of his
shoulders and the thickness of his neck skewed the proportions; at a guess, Ziani reckoned six and a half feet, a foot taller
than the average Mezentine. It was only his size that made his head seem small; he had a clean-cut face, strong chin, high
cheekbones, bright blue eyes, hair cropped very short; if he carried enough fat to fry a pigeon’s egg, Ziani would’ve been
most surprised. His fingers were huge but his hands were long, his forearms widening from a slim wrist to a massive swell
of muscle above the elbow. He was smiling.

“You’re Ziani Vaatzes,” the man said.

Well-informed, too. “That’s right,” Ziani said, letting the bad pronunciation go by. “The boy said there’s an emergency.”

“You can say that again,” the man said. “I’m Jarnac Ducas, by the way. You know my cousin Miel.”

Ziani nodded. “The emergency?” he said.

Jarnac Ducas sat on the table of the big anvil, his knee hooked over the horn. He looked like a hero on his day off. “Pretty
desperate,” he said, and his eyes actually twinkled as he smiled. “I’ve been told to organize a hunt for the Duke and party
in ten days’ time and you should see the state the gear’s in. Spear-blades blunt, rusty and bent, loose on the stem, hanging
by their langets, some of them. Question is, will it be quicker to fettle the old ones or make, say, a dozen from scratch?
You tell me,” he added, before Ziani could say anything, “you’re the expert.”

“Spear-blades,” Ziani repeated.

“That’s right,” said Jarnac. “You know the pattern, of course: broad leaf shape with a strong middle rib, flowing into a square
shank with a slot for the stem, crossbar, langets on two sides. Don’t get me wrong, the old ones are good bits of kit, been
in the family since God knows when, but it’s the look of the thing more than anything. I don’t want any fancy engraving or
anything, just a really good, strong tool that’ll get the job done. Actually,” he added, “better make it fourteen. Couple
of spares won’t hurt, and I’m not absolutely sure yet who’ll be coming.”

Ziani looked at him for a moment before answering. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m rather busy at the moment, and it’s not
really the sort of thing I do. I’m sure there’s plenty of other smiths who’ll do a much better job than I could.”

The wrong answer, evidently; Jarnac Ducas gave him a well-bred look and went on: “Obviously, since it’s a rush job, that’ll
have to be reflected in the price. I don’t mind paying over the odds for the best. The main thing is to have them ready in
time without skimping on quality. I’m sure you understand.”

Then Ziani realized he was being stupid, allowing his irritation to cloud his perception. He looked at Jarnac Ducas again
and this time saw him for what he was. “Of course,” he said. “I think the best thing would be if you could have the old spears
brought here, so I can have a look at them and decide whether they can be spruced up, or whether we’ll need to make new ones.
Would that be all right?”

“Of course. I’ll see to it straight away.”

“That would be most helpful,” Ziani said.

Jarnac beamed at him; he’d forgiven and forgotten the earlier misunderstanding, where Ziani had misinterpreted his request
as something capable of being refused, and now they understood each other. “Oh, and another thing,” he said.

Half an hour later, Ziani crossed the yard to the materials store, where Cantacusene was marking out timber for scorpion frames.
Cantacusene had joined him straight away, as soon as he asked; he’d left his workshop, locking the door behind him, and vowing
never to return. It was like a religious conversion, a disciple following the master.

“What do you know,” Ziani asked him, “about boiled leather-work?”

“Ah.” Cantacusene nodded. “You don’t do that in Mezentia, then.”

Ziani shook his head. “Not that I ever heard. But it’d presumably come under the Shoemakers’, or maybe the Saddlers’. You
know about it, then.”

Cantacusene nodded again. “You take your leather,” he said, “sole bends are best but it depends on what you’re making. You
cut it out a third bigger than you want it to be, nail it to a wooden former, and dip it in boiling water for as long as it
takes to count fifty. Pull it out, it’ll have shrunk to size and gone hard as oak. They use it for armor mostly. Why?”

Ziani frowned. “Why not use steel?” he said.

“Steel’s dear, leather’s cheap. Also, for hunting armor, it doesn’t clank or rattle. If you want to be really fancy, you can
dip it in melted beeswax instead of boiling water; makes it even harder, but you got to be careful on a hot day.”

“You’ve done it, then?”

“Loads of times,” Cantacusene said. “Very popular line with the gentry, specially those who can’t run to a full set of steel.
I got all the formers back at my place.”

“Fine,” Ziani said. “Some clown called Jarnac Ducas wants a dozen sets of hunting armor in ten days: vambraces, couters, rerebraces,
pauldrons, gorgets, plackets, cuirasses, taces, cuisses, cops and greaves. Plain, he said, not fancy, whatever that means.”

Cantacusene was staring at him. “Ten
days?
”

“That’s right. Problem?”

“I can’t do all that. Not on my own.”

Ziani smiled; at least his lips parted, like a crack in an old post. “Well of course not,” he said. “You show me what to do
and I’ll help you. Doesn’t sound like it’d be too hard, not if you’ve already got the formers.”

Cantacusene had that worried look; there was something dog-like about it, Ziani thought. “Me teach you?” he said.

“That’s right. Now, presumably you know where we can get the material from, and you’ve got all the tools and stuff. The material
won’t be a problem, will it?”

Cantacusene shook his head. “Sole bends,” he said. “Got to be a quarter inch thick, good clean hides without scars or fly-bites.
I always used to get them from —”

“I’ll leave all that to you, then,” Ziani said. “Let me know when you’re ready to start. And, I nearly forgot, we’ll need
a thirteenth set, but I’ll be making that one all myself.”

“For his lordship, is it?”

“No,” Ziani said. “For me.” He smiled again; private joke. “I’m going on this hunt as well.”

Cantacusene couldn’t have been more surprised if Ziani had pushed him down a well. “You’re going hunting with the Ducas?”

“That’s right. Jarnac invited me.”

“Invited you?”

“After I asked him, yes. I said I’d never done it, nothing like it where I come from. He was very pleasant about it; of course
I could come along, he said. I suppose he’s hoping for a good deal on the armor. Oh yes, and a dozen boar-spears as well,
but I’ll see to them.”

That was obviously as much as Cantacusene could take. He mumbled something about going to see the leather merchant, and stumbled
away as though he’d been in a fight.

Ziani shrugged, and went back to tempering his spring. It came out well enough in the end; half as much power again as the
Mezentine standard for a scorpion spring, with a modified hook linkage that should help with the awkward problem of stress
fracture that the Guild had given up on two hundred years ago. It would increase the strain on the wooden frame, of course,
reducing the machine’s working life still further, but that hardly mattered. No point building anything to last, given who
his customers would be.