"But he did work at home sometimes?"

She shrugged. "In the evenings," she said, "sometimes he'd be in the back room or the cellar, making things. He liked doing it. But I don't know if it was work or things he made for himself, or us."

Psellus nodded again. "It's customary for an engineer to make some of his own tools - specialized tools, not the sort of thing you'd find hanging on the rack - in his own time. Do you think it's likely that that's what he was doing?"

She shrugged; no words.

"We found quite a few such tools," he went on, "in the house, and at his bench in the factory. The quality of the work was very high."

She looked at him. "He was a clever man," she said.

"Too clever," Psellus said; but it wasn't like the fencer's ambush. Leaden-footed, and a blind man could have seen it coming. Nevertheless, she must parry it or else be hit. He waited to see what form her defense would take; he anticipated a good defense, from a fencer of such skill and mettle. Not a mere block; he was hoping for a maneuver combining defense and counterattack in the same move, what Vaatzes' illegal fencing manual would call a riposte in narrow time. He made a mental note to requisition the book and read it, when he had a moment.

"Yes," she said.

Oh, Psellus thought. (Well, it was a riposte, of a sort; stand still and let your opponent skewer you, and die, leaving the enemy to feel wretched and guilty ever after. Probably the most damaging riposte of all, if all you cared about was hurting the opponent.) I had a point once, he told himself. I was making it. But I can't remember what it was.

"So that's the picture, is it?" he said. "In the evenings, after dinner, while you wash the dishes, he retreats to his private bench with his files and hacksaws and bow-drills, and makes things for the pure pleasure of it. Is that how it was?"

She frowned. "Well, sometimes," she said.

"Sometimes," Psellus repeated. "You'd have thought he'd had enough of it at work, measuring and marking out and cutting metal and finishing and burnishing and polishing and so on."

"He liked that sort of thing," she said, and her voice was almost bored. "It was what he did when we were first married, but then he got promoted, supervisor and then foreman, and he was telling other people what to do, instead of doing it himself." She shrugged. "He was glad of the promotion, obviously, but I think he missed actually making things, with his hands. Or maybe he wanted to keep himself in practice. I don't know about that kind of stuff, but maybe if you stop doing it for a while you forget how to do it. You'd know more about that than me."

Psellus nodded. "You think he wanted to keep his hand in?"

She shrugged again. Her slim shoulders were perfectly suited to the gesture, which was probably why she favored it so much.

"Do you think he'll want to keep his hand in now he's with Duke Orsea?"

To his surprise, she nodded; as though she was a colleague rather than a subject brought in for interrogation. "I know," she said, "they explained it to me before. You're afraid he'll teach all sorts of trade secrets to the enemy."

"Do you think he's liable to do that?"

"I don't know," she said.

"You don't know," he repeated.

"That's right," she said. "I suppose it'd depend on what he's got to do to stay alive. I mean, the people you say he's with, they're our enemies. We just wiped out their army, isn't that right? Well, maybe they caught him, wandering about on the moors, and thought he was a spy or something."

Psellus frowned. "Possibly."

"Well then. If you were him and that's what'd happened to you, what would you do?"

Psellus leaned back a little in his chair; he felt a need to increase the distance between them. "I hope," he said, "that I would die rather than betray my country."

It sounded completely ridiculous, of course, and she didn't bother to react. She didn't need to; she didn't have to point out what Vaatzes' country had done to him in the first place. This wasn't getting anywhere, Psellus decided. He was here to get information, not defend himself.

"Fine," she said. "I'm glad to hear it."

(She was letting him off lightly, though; she was past his guard, controlling the bind, in a strong position to shrug off his defense and strike home. Which is what you'd do, surely, if your husband had just been driven into exile; you'd be angry. But she was no more angry than frightened. Curious hawk; doesn't strike or bate. It dawned on him suddenly why he felt so confused. It was as though he didn't matter.) "I take it," he persevered, though he knew he was achieving nothing by it, "that you feel the same about treachery."

She looked at him. "You mean, about betraying the Republic? Well, of course."

He frowned at her, trying to be intimidating, failing. I'm not concentrating, he realized; there's something wrong, like one of those tiny splinters that get right in under your skin, too small to see but you can feel them. "The circumstances," he said slowly, "of your marriage. Let's go back to that, shall we?"

"If you want."

He made a show of making himself comfortable in his chair. "When was the first time he became aware of you? How did you meet?"

She was looking at him as though he was standing in front of something she wanted to see, blocking her view. "Which one do you want me to answer first?" she said.

"Why did he want to marry you?"

Another beautiful shrug. "I think he wanted to get married," she said. "Men do. And my dad wanted to find me a husband."

"At seventeen? A bit quick off the mark."

"We never got on," she said. "I wasn't happy at home."

"He wanted you off his hands?"

"Yes."

Psellus winced. She's good, he noted ruefully, at that defense. Probably one hell of a cardplayer, if women play cards. Do they? He had to admit he didn't know. "So your father became aware that his supervisor was looking for a wife, and thought, here's a fine opportunity, two birds with one stone. Is that how it was?"

"Pretty much."

He hesitated. It was like when he'd been a boy, fighting in the playground. He'd been a good fighter; he had the reach, and good reflexes, and he was older than most of the other boys. He threw a good punch, to the nose, chin or mouth. But he was too scared to fight, because he hated the pain - jarring his elbow as he bashed in their faces, skinning his knuckles as he broke their teeth - until the pleasure of inflicting pain ceased to outweigh the discomfort of receiving it. Even hitting them with sticks hurt his hands more than he was prepared to accept. "Was it a deal, then?" he persevered. "Your father and your brother's promotions, in exchange for you?"

"Yes."

"I see. And how about the terms of the transaction? Was he buying sight unseen?"

"What does that mean?"

"Did he come and inspect you first, before the deal was finalized? Or wasn't he bothered?"

She frowned, as though she was having trouble understanding. "He came to dinner at our house," she said.

"And?"

"He sat next to me. We talked about birds."

"Birds."

She nodded. "I don't know how we got on to the subject. I wasn't particularly interested in birds, nor was he."

"But you'd already fallen in love at first sight."

"Yes."

More gashed knuckles. "And presumably he decided you would fit the bill."

"Yes."

"So everybody was happy."

"Yes. We were all happy."

The hell with this, Psellus thought; there was a time, long ago, when I used to be a decent human being. "I see," he said. "Well, I don't think I need detain you further. You may go."

She stood up; no hurry, no delay. "Your discretion," she said. She made it sound like an illness or something.

"Provided you undertake to let us know immediately if you hear anything from him, if he tries to get in touch with you in any way. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "Hardly likely, though, is it?"

"Nonetheless." He made his face stern and fierce. "Make no mistake," he said. "You're being discharged under license, which we can revoke at any time. The obligation is on you to come to us with any information which might be of use to us. If you fail to do so..."

"I understand."

"Very well, then. You may leave." He thought of something; too little too late, but it would be a small victory, he'd at least have drawn blood, even if it was just a scratch. "You may return to the matrimonial home for the time being," he said. "Long enough to collect your possessions, the things that belong to you exclusively - clothing and the like. After that, you'll be returned to your father's house."

She rode the strike well, but he'd touched home. There was a degree of satisfaction in the hit, rather less than he'd anticipated. "I see," she said.

"An offender's property," he went on, "reverts to his Guild. An official confiscator will be appointed shortly; until he's made his inspection and compiled an inventory, you may not remove anything from the house."

"Fine. Can I empty the chamber-pot?"

(Interesting; that's the first sign of anger she's shown.) "The confiscator," he went on, "will issue a certificate specifying which items are your exclusive property; that means the things you'll be allowed to take away with you. If you disagree with his decision, you may make representations to him in writing. Is that clear?"

She nodded. "How about my daughter's things?" she said. "Can she keep them, or does the Guild want them too?"

"The same rules apply," Psellus said. "The confiscator will decide what she can keep. The adjudication process usually takes about six weeks."

"I see," she said. "Can I leave now, please?"

Psellus raised his hand in a vague gesture of manumission. "Thank you for your time," he said. "And remember, if you hear anything at all from your husband..."

After she'd gone, Psellus sat for a while, watching the lamp burn down. Had he achieved what he'd set out to do, or anything at all? He had no idea. The objective was to catch Ziani Vaatzes and bring him home to die, or kill him wherever he happened to be; that job had been given to Manuo Crisestem, and was therefore effectively out of Psellus' hands, for the time being. The purpose of this interview - he tried to remember what it was. Something about motivation, trying to understand; he'd been intrigued by the marriage, the difference in ages. Well, he had an explanation, of sorts: Vaatzes had wanted a wife, the man Connenus had wanted to get his stroppy daughter off his hands, and apparently the daughter had been obliging enough to fall in love with Vaatzes, who was in a position to square the deal with promotions for his new in-laws. There; everything accounted for neat and tidy; and he, Lucao Psellus, was sitting in the dark as the point flew high over his head like a skein of geese going home for the winter.

No. He'd learned something important today, and he had no idea what it was.

When the lamp finally failed, he stood up and tracked his way to the door by feel. Outside it was still broad daylight; as he stood in the corridor facing the open window, the light stunned him, like an unexpected punch. It'd be vexing, he told himself, if Crisestem succeeded; as for Vaatzes, Psellus found it very hard to recapture the cold, pure burn of anger against him for his however-many-it-was offenses against Specification. But he stood facing the light and made a wish, like he used to do on the first of the month when he was a boy, that Crisestem would bring Vaatzes' head home in a bag, soon, and that this case would very quickly be over.

7.

The road to Civitas Eremiae, capital and only city of Eremia Montis, encircles the stony peg of mountain on which it sits in long, slow, regular loops, like a screw-thread. From the river valley, it looks as if the city can be reached in two hours at the very most; but it's a long day's climb, assuming you start at dawn; if not, you face the unattractive choice of camping overnight on the narrow ledge of road or walking up it in the dark. At the crown of the mountain, the road funnels through a low, narrow gate in the curtain-wall; three more turns of the thread brings it to the city wall proper, where it ducks through a gateway under two high, thin towers built on massive spurs of rock. From the city gate to the citadel is another eight turns, through streets wide enough for a donkey or an economically fed horse. Chastra Eremiae, the Duke's castle, was chiseled and scooped out of the yellow stone four hundred years ago, and is protected by an encircling ditch twenty-six feet deep and a thirty-foot wall studded with squat round towers; a third of the interior is derelict through neglect. The Eremians proudly boast that nobody has ever taken the citadel by storm. It's hard to imagine why anybody should want to.

Most of the population of the city turned out in the morning to see the remains of the army come home; by nightfall, however, when Orsea rode his weary horse through the gate, the crowd had long since given up and drifted away. That in itself was encouraging; maybe they weren't going to lynch him after all.

Miel Ducas was looking after all the important stuff; accommodation for the wounded and so forth. There was no good reason why Orsea shouldn't just go home and go to bed. It was what he wanted to do, more than anything else in the world. Tomorrow, of course, he'd have to do the things he'd been dreading all the way up the Butter Pass. At the very least, he'd have to convene the general council, tell them about the battle and everything that had happened - the extraordinary kindness of the Vadani; the Mezentine defector and his offer. Probably he ought to stand out on the balcony that overlooked the market square and address the people. That was only reasonable, and he knew he had to do it. Tomorrow.

He clattered through the citadel gate, and there was a group of people waiting for him: a doctor whom he recognized, some people whose names he knew, some strangers. The doctor pounced on him as soon as his feet hit the cobbles. He'd had a detailed letter from one of the Vadani medics, he explained, full details of the injury, description of treatment to date, prognosis, recommendations. It was imperative that the Duke get some rest as soon as possible. For once, Orsea didn't argue.

Remarkably soon he was in his bedroom on the fourth floor of the South Tower. He sat on the bed and tugged at his boots (if they were this tight, how had he ever managed to get them on?), gave up and flopped on his back with his hands behind his head. He was home; that made him one of the lucky ones. Tomorrow...

Tomorrow, he told himself, I'll deal with everything. First I'll have a meeting with Miel, he'll brief me on everything he's done, getting the army home, and everything that happened on the way. Then I'll have to go to the council, and make my speech on the balcony (he made a mental note: think of something to say). Right; I'll do that, and the rest of the day's your own.

Veatriz, he thought. I'll see her tomorrow. She's not here tonight because she knows I need to be alone, but tomorrow I'll see them both again, and that'll make things better. It occurred to him that he hadn't thought much about her over the last few days; he felt ashamed, because really she was everything, the whole world. But there'd be time for her tomorrow, and things could slowly start to get back to normal.

Things would never be normal again, he knew that really. But he was tired, and there wasn't anything he could do tonight; and besides, the doctor had told him, rest...

He fell asleep. Below in the castle yard, Miel Ducas was still trying to find billets for wounded men, water and fuel for cooking, hay and oats for horses, somewhere for the carts to turn so the road wouldn't get jammed, somewhere to put the Mezentine until he had time to deal with him. He didn't resent the fact that Orsea had left him with all the arrangements; he was too busy, standing out of the way by the stable door so that the stretcher-bearers could get in and out, and women with bedding. He was trying to carry on four conversations at once - the garrison captain, the chief steward, Orsea's doctor and a representative of the Merchant Adventurers, who was trying to gouge him over the price of twenty gross of plain wool bandages. He kept going because there wasn't anybody else. It would, of course, be just as bad tomorrow.

Ziani Vaatzes sat in a stationary cart for an hour, and then some men came. They didn't seem to know whether they were welcoming a guest or guarding a prisoner, but they made a fair job of hedging their bets. They took him up a long spiral staircase with no handrail - it was dark and the steps were worn smooth - to a landing with a thick black door. If there was anything he wanted, they said, all he had to do was ask. Then they opened the door for him and vanished, leaving him completely alone.

There was a candle burning in the room - one candle - and a jug of water and a plate of bread and cheese on a table. It was a large room, though the darkness around the candle-flame made it look bigger than it really was. He found the fireplace; a basket of logs, some twigs and moss for kindling. He laid a fire, lit a spill (very carefully, so as not to snuff the candle out), found a small hand-bellows hanging on a nail in the wall. It hadn't occurred to him that the mountains would be so cold. The bed was huge, musty, slightly damp. He took his boots off but kept his clothes on. He couldn't sleep, needless to say; so he lay on his back staring at the extraordinarily high ceiling (he could just make out shapes of vaulting on the extreme edge of the disk of candlelight), and soon his mind was full of details as he worked on the mechanism that was gradually beginning to take shape. Somewhere below, a dog was barking, and he could hear heavily shod cartwheels grinding the cobbles, like a mill crushing wheat. For some reason it comforted him, like rain on the roof or the soft swish of the sea.

"This Mezentine."

Zanferenc Iraclido (Orsea had always felt overawed by him; not by his intellect or his commanding presence or his strength of purpose, but by the sonorous beauty of his name) reached across the table and took the last honey-cake from the plate. He'd had six already. None of the other members of the council appeared to have noticed.

"His name's Vaatzes," Miel Ducas said. "I had a long talk with him on the way home, and I'm fairly sure he's genuine - not a spy or anything. But that's just my intuition."

Iraclido made a gesture, a quick opening and closing of the hand. "Let's say for the sake of argument that he is. Let's also assume he can actually deliver on this promise to teach us all the stuff he claims he knows. The question is, would it actually do us any good?"

Heads nodded, turned to look down the table. "I think so," Orsea said. "But it'd be a huge step. What do you reckon, Ferenc?"

"Me?" Iraclido raised his eyebrows. "Not up to me."

"Yes, but suppose it was. What would you do?"

Iraclido paused before answering. "On balance," he said, "I think I'd have his head cut off and stuck up on a pike in the market square, and I'll tell you why. Yes, it'd be just grand if we could learn how to build these spear-throwing machines - though I don't suppose you'd approve of the direction I'd be inclined to point them in once they were finished. But we won't go into that."

"Good," someone else said; mild ripple of laughter.

"It'd be just grand," Iraclido repeated. "And when this Mezentine says he knows how to build them, I believe him. But it's no good giving a shepherd a box of tools and a drawing and telling him to build you a clock, or a threshing machine. My point is, we can't make use of this knowledge, we aren't..." He waved his hands again. "We aren't set up to start building machines. Might as well give a ninety-pound bow to a kid. It works, it's a bloody good weapon, but he's simply not strong enough to draw it. And you know what happens next. The kid can't use it so he puts it somewhere; then along comes his big brother, picks it up and shoots you with it. Not smart."