Valens kept his sigh to himself. "What are they saying?"
"Well, they're still on our side," Mezentius said, with a crooked grin. "The old chap was the one I spoke to. Basically, he wants to wipe the Mezentines off the face of the earth. Man after my own heart, really."
"That's good," Valens said. "It's always good to have something in common with your in-laws. I suppose I'd better see him."
Mezentius shook his head. "I've told him you're fragile as an egg and not to be disturbed for at least a week," he said. "Only way I could keep him from bursting in here and waking you up."
Valens nodded. "Who is he, by the way? I've been talking to him all this time, but nobody's actually told me where he fits in."
"Oh." Mezentius frowned. "He's sort of the grand vizier, prime minister, the head man's chief adviser. He reckons he pretty much runs the show, though I don't know whether the rest of them would agree. Anyway, he's pretty high-powered; and he's really pissed off about the uncles getting killed. Probably some background there I wasn't briefed on."
"It'll keep, I expect," Valens said with a yawn.
They discussed other things-a new civil authority, which posts could be filled by co-option and which would have to wait for formal elections; suitable candidates for offices, the balance of power between the old families and the mining companies; the effect recent events (Valens smiled to himself; call them recent events and you cauterize the wound?) would have on the marriage alliance, plans for the evacuation, the war. Exhaustion came up on him suddenly, like an ambush. He stopped Mezentius in the middle of a sentence and said, "You'd better go now, I'm tired." Mezentius nodded.
"I'll send the doctor in," he said.
"No, I just want to get some sleep," Valens mumbled. His eyes were already closing. He heard the sounds of movement, someone standing up, the legs of a chair grating on a stone floor. He felt cold, but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. He listened to his own breathing for a moment or so, and realized that he was back on the edge of the marsh, watching the ducks flying in. It had been a disaster, a wretched mess, all because of that fool Orsea. Standing next to him, King Fashion and Queen Reason were talking about the day's hawking. He was surprised to hear the King say that it hadn't been too bad after alclass="underline" three dozen mallard, a few teal, three brace of moorhens, but it was a shame they hadn't managed to pull down the heron. Perhaps they should have flown lanners instead of sakers. As they talked, they were watching the sky, waiting for the hawks to come back. They didn't seem worried, but Valens knew that the hawks were gone for good; dead or scattered, not that it mattered a great deal. After a long silence, the King shrugged, and called to his master falconer to make up the bag. They were laying them out on the ground, in pairs, a male and a female; Sillius Vacuo and his wife, Lollius Pertinax and Syra Terentia, Carausius and the eldest Fabella girl, a hen to every cock-bird. He counted them: eighteen brace, just as the King had said. He almost expected to see himself among them as the falconers passed loops round their necks and hung them in their pairings from the top rail of the fence; but of course, he wasn't there, the heron had got away.
Queen Reason was talking to him. She was asking him if he was awake.
"Don't be silly," he said. "I'm dreaming, of course I'm not awake."
He realized that he'd spoken the words aloud, and that he wasn't asleep anymore. He opened his eyes.
"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
He blinked, just in case. She was still there.
"I was just dozing," he said. He was struggling to remember which one she was; whose duchess, his or Orsea's. But then it all came back to him; he remembered now. There had been some sort of ghastly mix-up, and he'd married the wrong one, and this was the fool's wife he was talking to: Veatriz, who used to write him letters.
"Are you all right?" he said.
She nodded. "How about you?"
"Oh, I'm fine," he said. "Just skiving, so someone else has got to clear up the mess. Soon as everything's been sorted out, I'll make a miraculous recovery."
She smiled: thin, like lines scribed on brass with a needle. "I thought I ought to thank you," she said. "It's becoming a habit with you."
Something about the way she'd said that. "You wrote to me," he said. "You wanted to talk."
"Yes, but that was before the wedding." She hesitated. Not fair to bully a sick man. "It was very brave of you…" she started to say. She made it sound like an accusation. He didn't want to hear the rest of it.
"It sort of rounded off a perfect day," he grunted.
"Not quite the honeymoon you'd have chosen?"
"I hadn't thought of it like that," he said. "But, since you mention it, better than the one I had planned."
She frowned. "I should go," she said. "Shall I let your wife know you're awake and receiving visitors?"
"I'd rather you didn't," he sighed. The pillow was suddenly uncomfortable, and his arm itched. "I heard about Daurenja," he said.
"Who?"
"The man who saved your life. And Orsea's too," he added maliciously. "How is he, by the way?"
"In bed. They were worried about the bang he got on his head, but they think he'll be all right now."
"Ah. So that's all right, then." He looked away, up at the ceiling. "Daurenja's the long, spindly man with the ponytail who rescued both of you. Maybe you should look in on him too."
"I will. He was very brave." He wasn't looking at her, so he couldn't see the expression on her face. "Isn't he something to do with Vaatzes, the engineer?"
"That's right." His head was starting to hurt, making it a painful effort to think. Nothing came to mind: no bright, interesting observations to found a conversation on. He'd prefer it, in fact, if she went away. (Interesting, he thought; does this mean love is dead? He couldn't decide.)
"I'm sorry Orsea spoiled your hunt," she was saying. "He didn't want to come. I think he was afraid he'd show himself up, one way or another. But he reckoned it'd have been rude to refuse the invitation."
"Oh well," Valens replied. "As things turned out, it wasn't the end of the world."
"The people who were killed." She sounded as though every word was an effort, like lifting heavy blocks of stone. "Were they…?"
"Most of the government," he said. "My friends. People I grew up with. It's going to be very strange getting used to the idea that they won't be around anymore. I mean, so many of them, and so sudden." He paused, reflecting. "But you'd know all about that, of course," he said. "At least they didn't burn down my home."
She laughed, brittle as ice. "I never liked it much anyway," she said.
"Is it better here?"
"No, not much." A pause. It seemed to go on for a ridiculously long time. "The thing is," she said, "I've been shunted about like a chess piece ever since I was fourteen years old; you know, move to this square here, then back, then sideways to cover the white knight. After a while, places just don't matter very much anymore. And it's not like I've ever done anything. At least," she added, "I've caused a lot of trouble for thousands of people, but I never asked anybody to do any of that. Unless you count writing letters about poetry and things I could see from my window."
Valens shrugged. "I think if I'd had to live your life, I'd have gone mad, or run away. Haven't you got a sister who's a merchant?"
"Yes. She's a horrible cow and I haven't seen her for years. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. I never had any brothers or sisters. What's it like?"
"Noisy. There's always someone slamming doors in a huff. Why the sudden interest?"
"I was just making conversation. It's something we never got around to discussing, and it was always on my mind to ask you about it."