"Thank you." Ziani stood up to leave. Valens let him get as far as the door, then said, "One other thing."
"Yes."
"I had a rather strange conversation with Jarnac Ducas a while ago," Valens said. "You know, Miel Ducas' cousin. Presumably you came across him at Civitas Eremiae."
"I know who you mean," Ziani said.
"Thought you might." Valens paused for a moment, leaving Ziani standing in the doorway, his hand on the latch. "Anyway, Jarnac Ducas told me a rather curious story about you." He smiled. "I'm not sure how to phrase this without sounding hopelessly melodramatic. The gist of it was, you're supposed to have cooked up some kind of plot to get Miel Ducas disgraced. Something to do with the Duchess, and a letter."
"Oh, that." Ziani looked at him; it was the way the feeding deer looks up at a slight noise from the hunter; not fear, but more than curiosity. "Well, I can't blame the Ducas for being angry about it, but he only had himself to blame. A man in his position…" He shrugged. "What exactly did he say I'd done?"
"I can't remember, to be honest with you," Valens said smoothly. "I prefer not to listen to personal quarrels, unless they're getting in the way. But I'd be interested to hear what it was actually all about."
Ziani's face closed like a door. "The Duchess lost one of your letters," he said, "or it was intercepted, or something like that. The Ducas got hold of it, and kept it instead of taking it to Duke Orsea. I assume he was going to blackmail her with it, or else he had some scheme going on for getting rid of Orsea and taking the throne. I think he was always a bit resentful about Orsea marrying the Sirupati heiress; that's the impression I got from what people were saying, anyhow. They were more or less engaged at one time, I understand."
"I see," Valens replied. "And so when you found out about the letter…"
"I wish I hadn't," Ziani said. "The plain fact is, Miel Ducas was a much more competent soldier than Orsea, he'd have made a much better duke. But it wasn't my choice to make; I wasn't even an Eremian citizen, I was Orsea's guest. When I found evidence that pointed to the Ducas plotting against him, I didn't really have any option. Of course," he went on, "there's no hard evidence to prove that the Ducas had anything to do with the city being betrayed to the Mezentines, it's all circumstantial. On the other hand…"
"You think the Ducas handed over the city to your people?"
Ziani shook his head. "Really, it's none of my business. Yes, the Ducas seems to be the only man with a strong motive who was actually in a position to do it. That's evidence, but it's not proof. So, if you're asking me if I blame myself for the betrayal of Civitas Eremiae, I'd have to say no. I may have influenced matters to a degree, but at the end of the day I know it wasn't my fault. Why, how do you see it?"
Valens smiled wryly. "Well," he said, "naturally I don't like the thought that the man who opened the gates of Civitas Eremiae could be here, in my city, prepared to do the same again or something similar if he feels his personal agenda requires it. Do you think I ought to do something about Miel Ducas?"
"He's not here, though," Ziani replied. "Isn't he still in Eremia, leading the resistance?"
"So he is. Mind you, the resistance has more or less run out of steam now. I've stopped supplying them, they're not a good investment. So, presumably, Miel Ducas will be coming here sooner or later. What do you think I should do with him when he arrives?"
Ziani shook his head. "Not up to me, I'm delighted to say," he said. "I don't think I could do that; make decisions about other people's lives, I mean. You'd have to be so very sure you were doing the right thing, or else how could you live with yourself?"
"Oh, you manage," Valens said casually. "After a while, you get the knack of being able to forget they're people, and you start seeing them as pieces in a game, or components in a machine. I'm not saying it's something to be proud of, but you can train yourself to do it easily enough."
"I'll take your word for it," Ziani said. "It's not something I'd like to find out by experience."
Ziani left the Duke's tower and walked quickly across the yard, as though he was afraid someone would come after him. Valens, he decided, reminded him of what his old supervisor used to say about the vertical mill. The most useful machine in the shop is usually also the most dangerous.
Ten days; had he really said that? Crazy. Even so; if Valens had brought the wedding date forward, as he'd just said, ten days was about all the time he had.
He went back to his room. There was a letter waiting for him; an invitation from the Lord Chamberlain to attend the royal wedding. He read it quickly, looking for the important part. There was a timetable; early morning reception, the wedding itself, then the wedding breakfast, another reception, followed by an afternoon's falconry, in honor of the bride and her guests. By implication he was invited to that, too. He smiled.
Enough of that. Just enough time, before collecting his commission from the Chancery, to see to the other chores. He put on his coat and hurried out of the castle, into town.
"I was beginning to wonder about you," the woman said, as he walked through the door into the back room of the Selfless Devotion. "We're supposed to be partners; and then you vanish up to the castle for weeks on end, and I don't hear a word out of you."
"Been busy," Ziani replied, trying not to stare. The dress she was wearing this time was the worst yet; a gushing, flowing mess of crimson velvet that made her look as though she was drowning in blood. "I've got the money," he went on, "or at least, I'll have it for you this evening, without fail."
"That's a big or at least," she grumbled, but he knew he was safe. "Cash?"
"Draft," Ziani replied. "Royal draft," he added, as her face tightened, "drawn direct on the Chancery, and no questions asked. My man'll bring it down to you before the ink's dry."
"Whatever." She was doing her best not to be impressed; on balance, succeeding. "That'll save me a trip, then. When he brings me the money, I'll give him the map."
"Fine." Ziani dropped into a chair, trying to look casual, his legs suddenly weak. "Now, let's talk about quantities."
"Thought you'd say that." She grinned at him, pleased to have read his mind so easily. "Obviously, given the overheads on each caravan, each consignment's got to be big enough to give us our margin; say a minimum of seven tons a time."
"Oh," Ziani said. "I was thinking a minimum often."
She gave him a pitying look. "You got any idea how many mules it takes to shift ten tons of salt?"
"Mules," Ziani repeated. "Why mules? Why not carts?"
She sighed. "It's not just the run from here to the border," she said. "You'll see when you get the map. You avoid the desert, sure, but you've still got to get across the mountains before you reach the salt pans. Which means carts are out; it's all got to go on mules."
Ziani nodded. "I appreciate that," he said. "But you can take a train of carts up as far as the foothills, can't you?"
"Well, yes. But what good's that?"
Panic over; Ziani breathed out slowly. "Well, couldn't you take the stuff down the mountain on mules and then load it onto carts once you're back on the flat?"
She laughed, making her many chins dance. "Shows how much you know about the haulage business. Do that and you'll have to hire one team for the mule-train and another team for the wagons. Double your wage bill for an extra three tons. Not worth it."
"I see," Ziani said, "I hadn't thought of that."
"Obviously. Just as well you've got me to hold your hand for you. No, seven tons is your maximum, each trip. The idea is to get in as many trips as possible while the weather's good. By late autumn you've got the rains in the mountains, the rivers flood, can't be crossed, you're screwed. Ideally you want two mule-teams, one going and one coming back, all the time. But then you run into production difficulties, meaning the bloody idle savages in the mines. Oh, they'll promise you fifteen tons on the nail, swear blind they'll deliver bang on time; but when you get there, it's nine tons if you're lucky, and if you're not, you're stuck out there in the desert waiting for them to get around to doing some work. Honest truth, they don't understand the meaning of time like we do. Today means tomorrow or three weeks or three months, and if you lose your rag and start yelling at them they stare at you like they can't understand what all the fuss is about. Doing business with people like that…" She made a wide gesture with her hands, half compassion, half contempt. "And then people whine about salt being expensive. Bloody hard way to earn a living, if you ask me."