"Excellent," Orsea said; and the sad thing was, he meant it. Just the sort of thing he'd have done himself, which was why the maps of Eremia weren't accurate anymore, showing a city that had ceased to exist. I've made the wrong choice, Valens told himself; I know it, and I don't seem to care. I think we've lost this war.
As soon as Valens let him go, Orsea hurried away to continue his search for a bush. Not an easy thing to find on a barren, rocky hillside; but his rank and his natural diffidence made it impossible for him to pee with the whole Vadani nation watching him.
No bushes, as far as the eye could see. A few stunted thorn trees, but their trunks were too thin to stand behind. In the end, he had to settle for a large rock, which only screened his lower half. His relief was spoiled by the fact that a sharp wind had got up while he was talking to Valens. It blew piss back onto his trouser leg. One of those days.
Alfresco urination was one of the things he hated most about traveling with a large number of people. It had bothered him when he led the Eremian army, casting a huge, disproportionate shadow over each day. He knew why: he was sure the men would laugh at him. Pathetic.
He'd finished, and was lacing up the front of his trousers, when he heard voices behind him. He panicked until he was quite sure it was nothing to do with him.
A small, two-wheeled cart-a chaise, he decided, mildly ashamed of his precision in trivia-was rolling down the slope, passing along the line of the halted convoy as though such sights were too commonplace to be worth noticing. A ridiculous, fussy little cart, with thin, spindly wheel-spokes like crane-fly legs, and a brightly colored parasol perched over the box; on which sat a huge man and a tiny blond woman in a red dress. Orsea stared for the best part of two minutes, the ends of his trouser-laces still in his hands. It wasn't just the incongruity that stunned him. Somehow, perhaps by the confident way she perched, with a large carpet bag clutched in her lap, she gave the impression that she was normal, and it was the Vadani nation who were making a spectacle of themselves. He couldn't begin to understand why the stupid little cart's wheels didn't crumple up and blow away in the wind like chaff every time they rolled into a pothole.
A cavalry officer in full armor, red campaign cloak, tall black boots gray with dust, shuffled forward to meet her. Too far away to see the look on his face, but Orsea could guess. The sort of look a twelve-year-old boy would wear if his mother showed up while he was playing with his friends. The woman in the red dress leaned down to ask him something. He looked round for a while, then suddenly pointed. It was a moment before Orsea realized the man was pointing at him.
He remembered, and dropped the laces. Probably too late. The woman was climbing down from her seat-the officer's arm was stretched out for her to steady herself by; you can't beat the cavalry for manners, no matter how bizarre or desperate the situation. Orsea watched as she came bustling straight at him; he looked over his shoulder, but there was nobody standing behind him.
"Are you Duke Orsea?" Her voice was high and sharp; someone who never needed to shout, even in a high wind.
"That's right. I'm sorry, I don't think I-"
She reached in her bag and pulled out a small linen pouch, about the size of an apple. "Your wife ordered some potpourri," she said, pointing the pouch at him as if it was some kind of weapon. "It's all right," she added, "it's paid for."
He stared at her for a count of five before saying, "You came all the way out here to deliver that?"
She laughed; a sound like a fox barking. "No, of course not. I'm on my way from Calva to the sheep-fair at White Cross. But they told me at the Unswerving Loyalty that the Vadani court was on a progress, or going camping or something. I guessed you'd be with them, so here I am."
Potpourri. Dried flowers and leaves and bits of lavender and stuff. As he dug in his pocket for money for a tip, he could hardly believe what he was hearing. Surely, when the world came to an end, and the Vadani were facing certain death, things like that simply ceased to exist. It wasn't possible for the world to contain war and potpourri at the same time.
"Thanks," he heard himself say. "She'll be really pleased."
"No trouble," she chirruped back. "Do you think they'll be able to spare me some hay and a bucket of oats for my horse? I've probably got enough to get me as far as the Modesty and Prudence, but better safe than sorry."
"Try the ostlers," he was saying, when the significance of what she'd told him hit him like a hammer. "Excuse me," he muttered, and broke into a run. She called out something, but he didn't catch what she was saying.
There are times when it's better to run frantically, headless-chicken fashion, than to arrive. When finally he found Valens' carriage-he felt like he'd run five miles, up and down the middle of the convoy-he pulled up and froze, realizing as he panted like a thirsty dog that he was in no fit state to tell anybody about anything, not if he expected to be taken seriously. He dragged air into his burning lungs and tried to find a form of words. Then he balled his left fist and rapped it against the carriage door.
No answer. His mind blanked. Clearly, the carriage was empty; in which case, Valens wasn't here; consequently, he could be anywhere. Orsea felt his chest tighten again, this time with panic rather than fatigue. His discovery was obviously so important that it couldn't wait, but searching the entire convoy…Just in case, he knocked again, much harder. This time, the door opened.
"Who are you?"
He recognized her, of course; the only female Cure Hardy he'd ever seen. "I'm Orsea," he said, realizing as he said it how inadequate his reply was. "I need to see Valens, urgently. Do you know where…?"
"No." She was looking at him as though she'd just noticed him on the sole of a brand-new shoe. "What do you want?"
"It's very important," Orsea said. She made him feel about nine years old; but while he was standing there babbling, the Mezentines could be moving into position, ready to attack. "Can you give me any idea where he's likely to be? The whole convoy's in danger."
She frowned. "Have you told the duty officer?"
Pop, like a bubble bursting. "No," Orsea admitted. "No, that's a good idea. I'll do that."
She closed the carriage door; not actually in his face, but close enough for him to feel the breeze on his cheek. Something told him he hadn't made a good impression. The least of his problems.
Even Orsea knew how to find the duty officer; dead center of the convoy, look for a tented wagon with plenty of staff officers coming and going. Mercifully, one of them was an Eremian, who escorted him, in the manner of a respectful child put in charge of an elderly, senile relative, up the foldaway steps into the wagon.
Orsea had nearly finished telling his story when he realized that the duty officer, a small, neat, bald Vadani, didn't believe him. It was the lack of expression on his face; not bewilderment or shock, but a face kept deliberately blank to conceal what he was thinking. "I see," he said, when Orsea had finished. "I'll make sure the Duke gets your message."
"Will you?"
"Of course." Orsea could see him getting tense, afraid there'd be a scene, that he'd be forced into being rude to the known idiot who technically ranked equal with Valens himself. "As soon as I see him."
"When's that likely to be?"
"Soon." Pause. The officer was trying to hold out behind his blank face, like a city under siege. "I expect he'll send for me at some point today, and when he does-"
"Don't you think you should send someone to find him?"
Orsea couldn't help being reminded of a fight he'd seen once, in the streets of Civitas Eremiae. A huge, broad-shouldered man was being trailed by a tiny, elderly drunk, who kept trying to hit him with a stick. Over and over again the big man swatted the stick away, like a fly, but eventually the drunk slipped a blow past his guard and hit him in the middle of the forehead. A lucky strike; the big man staggered, and while he was off guard, the drunk hit him again, three or four times on the side of the head. Realizing that he could be killed if he didn't do something, the big man tried to grab the stick, and got slashed across the knuckles and then beaten hard just above the ear. He swung his arm wildly but with force; the back of his hand hit the drunk in the mouth, dislocating his jaw and slamming him against a wall; he slid down and lay in a heap. With that picture in his mind's eye, Orsea looked down at the duty officer, sitting very upright in his straight-backed chair. If I goad this man again, he thought, he's going to have to strike back; but I've got no choice.