Valens thought: I wonder who made the decision to start the war. I wonder what passed through his mind, just before the scales tipped slightly more one way than the other. He said: "I think it's possible. You see, I have a man…"
"Ziani Vaatzes."
"Yes, him. He nearly managed to defend Civitas Eremiae against them. I've come to know him, a little. I think, give him a long enough crowbar and he can pull apart any box on earth."
"I know a little about him," the voice said softly. "And I would tend to agree." Another pause, and Valens wished there was enough light to show him the little man's face. "I must confess, I'm given rather to flights of fancy. I picture things in my mind that I have never seen; picture them the way they should be, if you follow me, rather than how they are. I have a very clear picture in my mind of Ziani Vaatzes. At some point, I suppose, I shall see him in the flesh, and be vastly disappointed. Of course, I have never seen a Mezentine. I understand that their skins are brown. I shall ask my soldiers to bring me some dead bodies from the oasis. Did you know that the Rosinholet are experts at curing and preserving dead bodies? When a particularly famous and valuable man dies, they cure his skin and stuff it with wool bound tight on a wooden frame, to simulate the bones. Sometimes they mount their illustrious dead on horses, or sit them on the boxes of their wagons. I shall see if we have any Rosinholet embalmers among our slaves, who could manufacture a dozen or so Mezentines for me. It would be appropriate, don't you think? The Mezentines are wonderful makers of things, so I don't see why they shouldn't be made into things themselves. Perhaps, given his rather special skills, Ziani Vaatzes could build appropriate mechanisms to go inside them, so that they can do more or less everything they could do when they were alive. Who knows, maybe we could improve on the design a little in some respects, unless Foreman Vaatzes considers that would constitute an abomination." A soft, dry sound, like a dusty carpet being beaten. "Forgive me, I wander off sometimes. Here's an idea. Let's send for Foreman Vaatzes and ask him for his professional opinion. What do you think of that?"
"There you are," Daurenja said, materializing suddenly in the doorway of the tent.
Ziani looked up and scowled. "Not now," he said. "I'm busy."
"Are you?" Daurenja ducked, his ridiculously long neck bending like a drawn bow, and stepped inside the tent, blotting out the light for a moment or so as he came. "Doing what?"
"Resting. Go away."
Daurenja folded his legs and back and sat down on the ground next to him. "Really," he said cheerfully. "That's no way to talk to your business partner."
"I haven't got one."
"Yes you have." He was sitting unpleasantly close, his back to the tent's center pole. His hair was wet and hung loose down his back in rat-tails. He was wearing a pristine white robe, like the ones the Aram Chantat nobles wore, and on his feet were a pair of curly-toed red velvet slippers. "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Not the main thing, though. Mostly, I wanted a few quiet minutes to tell you how brilliant you are."
Ziani sighed and started to get up. A hand with a grip like a bench-vise grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down, so fast and so smooth that he had no chance to resist. "Please stay and listen," Daurenja said. "Surely you can spare a few moments to hear a few nice things about yourself."
Ziani picked the hand off his shoulder; touching it was like drawing the guts out of dead poultry after it's hung for a week. "If they're nice," he said, "they probably aren't true. I've never gone much on fiction."
"Don't worry on that score," Daurenja said with a mild giggle. "Everything I'm about to say is perfectly true. Well, you can be the judge of that."
Ziani tried to get up again, but his knees were too weak. "I don't want to talk to you," he said.
"In a minute you will." Daurenja yawned. "Where's the best place to start? Shall we begin with the Duke's wedding day, when you betrayed the hunting party to the Mezentines?"
Ziani felt cold, and all his joints appeared to have seized. "That's bullshit," he said. "And you know as well as I do, it was Duke Orsea who-"
"Ah. Poor Duke Orsea. But I think we'll come to him later. Actually, on reflection, I think we ought to start at the beginning, or as close to it as makes no odds. Tell me; after you ran away from the city, were you actually heading for the Eremian camp, or was running into them a fat slice of sheer good luck?"
This time, Ziani lashed out. He was aiming for Daurenja's chin, but when his fist reached the place where the target should have been, it met nothing but air. Almost simultaneously, something very hard and fast hit Ziani just above the right ear. More surprised than anything else, he folded his arms and legs, like a spider killed suddenly on its web, and dropped to the floor.
"As I was saying." Daurenja's voice, blurred and distant, reached him through the pain like a far-off light glimpsed through mist. "Did you deliberately set out to find Orsea from the start? I suppose what I'm asking is, was the plan already more or less complete in your mind at that early stage, or were you still making it up as you went along?"
Ziani felt sick and dizzy; it was like being very drunk and having the hangover at the same time. He tried to gauge the distance between Daurenja's legs and himself, but it was too much effort.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.
"By all means lie if you want to," Daurenja said pleasantly. "It doesn't matter to me, because I know the truth. And yes, I know it's true. The plan's there for anybody to see, if he's got the wit to know what he's looking at. I've been studying it for months now, piecing it together. It's been an education, and an honor. I was only able to figure it out because we're so very much alike, you and me." He shifted a little, moving slightly sideways, slightly back. There was some fencing move or other where you did that. "Ever since I saw it for what it is, I've been trying to take it apart, bit by bit, to figure out how it works. You know, you really are a clever man, Ziani. It's the combination of imaginative flair and scrupulous attention to detail that does it. It's odd, really; I mean, the Mezentine tradition hardly encourages innovative design, does it? There's a set specification, you copy it exactly or they string you up. Really, when you think of a talent like yours being neglected like that, it's a crying shame."
Ziani saw movement out of the corner of his eye, then felt the impact of a powerful blow; a kick in the ribs, which squeezed all the air put of his body.
"Now I'm pretty clear in my mind about what happened up to the fall of Eremia," Daurenja went on. "By arming the Eremians with scorpions, you made sure that the war escalated out of control, making the Republic commit itself far more deeply than it wanted to. The sideshow with Duke Valens and Orsea's wife; clearly you didn't set any of that up, but you did ensure that Orsea found out about it; that suggests you were planning a long way ahead by that point, so I'm assuming that most of the main elements were already clearly established in your mind." He paused, as though waiting for a reply or some sort of comment. There was disappointment in his voice when he resumed. "Now I'm going to have to press you for an answer here," he said, "because obviously the next bit is crucial to a clear understanding of the mechanism. Was it you who opened the gates and let the Mezentines in to Civitas Eremiae?"