The water turned red as the sky thickened; sunset brought a sharp chill that finally gave him a legitimate reason to tremble. Mosquitoes were buzzing a lullaby all round him. In spite of everything, it was impossible to believe that when the sun came up again, he wouldn't see it. He'd been in a battle, a tangled skirmish at the very end of the Eremian war; his horse had been shot under him and he'd ended up lying on the ground, trapped beneath its dead weight. All around him there'd been dying men, Mezentines and Eremians jumbled together, too damaged or too weak to move. He'd listened to them for three hours, shouting, screaming for help or yelling abuse, groaning, begging, sniveling, praying. He'd heard their voices fade one by one as the long wait came to an end. That he'd been able to understand; this-a healthy, strong man, uninjured, not yet starved or parched enough to be more than inconvenienced-was too arbitrary to be credible, because people don't just die, for no reason. He fought sleep as it laid siege to him; at first ferociously, as the Eremians had fought the investment of their city; then desperately, a scampering withdrawal in bad order to inadequately fortified positions; then aimlessly, because there really wasn't any point, but one has to do one's best. On his knees, supporting his weight with hands flat on the ground and fingers splayed, he let his head wilt forward and closed his eyes, allowing the equity of redemption to drain away. No point in keeping his eyes open when it was dark and there was nothing to see. Could you drown in your sleep, without ever waking up? If so it was a mercy, and it would be churlish to…
He was dreaming, and in his dream a man was standing over him, prodding him spitefully with a stick. It was an unusually vivid dream, because the prods hurt almost as much as the real thing would have done, had he been awake. The man began to shout. He dreamed that he opened his eyes and saw thin, gray light, the sort you get just before dawn; he saw the man with the stick, and for some reason he was straw-haired and fishbelly-skinned. Curious, almost perverse. Why, in his last dream before death, should his mind have conjured up an Eremian?
"Fucking wake up," the man yelled, and stabbed him with the stick, catching him on the edge of the collarbone. You can't hurt like that and still be asleep.
He saw the man's face. It was smooth, unlined, but horribly spoiled by a long, shiny pink scar. "If you don't wake up now," the man was bawling, "I'm bloody well leaving you here, all right?" He raised the stick again for another jab. Instinctively, Cannanus began to flinch away, remembering just in time not to move.
"I'm awake, for crying out loud," he gabbled; and as he said it, it occurred to him that there was a man, a fellow human being, there with him in the bog. "How did you get here?" he demanded. "It's a bog, you'll be eaten…"
The man looked startled, as though a friendly dog had snarled at him. "Oh," he said, relaxing a little, "I see what you… It's all right," he said, "I know the path, so long as we stay on it we'll be fine." Something must have occurred to him; he asked, "How long have you been there?"
"All night," Cannanus replied. "Can you get me out of this? Please? I'll do anything…"
"Just keep still and don't thrash about, or we'll both be in trouble." The man's voice had something about it, unfamiliar yet acting directly on him, as though the words didn't really matter. Authority, he supposed, but not the stern, brutal voice of a man giving orders. Rather, it was someone who naturally and reasonably expected to be obeyed when he told you what to do; it reminded him a lot of Duke Valens, but without the edge.
"It's perfectly simple," the man was saying. "We just go back the way I came. You can see my footprints, look. Easiest thing would be if you followed them exactly, put your feet on them. Oh, and don't let me leave without my sack."
For a moment, Cannanus didn't recognize the word. "Sack?"
"Sack. Come on, you know what a sack is."
Sure enough, there was a sack; two-thirds empty, but the man grunted as he lifted it onto his shoulder. "Mineral samples," he explained, unasked. "Sulfur. That's what I came here for, though it's pretty well picked clean now. One of the few places you can still find clean, pure sulfur crystals; I got some mined stuff the other day, loads of it, but it turned out to be filthy, full of crud, no use at all." He paused to let Cannanus catch up; he was racing ahead, as though there was no danger. "I expect you're wondering," he went on, in a cheerful voice, "why an Eremian should risk his neck to fish a Mezentine out of a bog."
Cannanus hadn't, as it happened. He'd had other things on his mind.
"Well, if you aren't, I certainly am." The man turned back and grinned at him, twisting the scar into a thin, angry line. "I don't know, really. Well, the fact is, it's not long since a passing stranger risked his neck to drag me out of one of these wretched bog-pools-not this one, another one a couple of miles further on. When I saw your tracks, I guessed you might be in trouble. It was only after I'd figured out a safe way in-you can see it, if you've been shown what to look for, it's a certain way the light shines off the mud; pretty metaphysical stuff, though I guess there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Anyhow, I'd already done all the waiting around for the light to come up so I could see those special reflections, and then the dodgy part, charging in and finding out if I'd read the signs right, before I realized you're actually one of the enemy; and by then it seemed a bit silly, really, to turn round and walk away. The fact is, the bloke who rescued me had every reason to leave me there, but he didn't; so I guess I'm under a sort of obligation to repay the favor vicariously, if you follow me; even if you are a Mezentine. Stupid, really; if we'd met in a battle rather than a bog-pit, I'd have done everything I possibly could to kill you. Just goes to show how arbitrary the rules we make for ourselves really are."
The man certainly liked the sound of his own voice, although Cannanus charitably decided it was part of the rescue, keeping him distracted with cheerful chatter so he wouldn't suddenly panic and trip into the mud; a wise, resourceful man who thought of everything. He prattled about minerals and where to find them, their properties, the difficulties that lay in refining them, the time and labor… One thing he said, however, was very interesting. "My name's Miel, by the way. Miel Ducas." Pause. "Quite likely you've heard of me."
Cannanus said nothing, though that in itself constituted a clear admission.
"Fine," Ducas said. "You know who I am. I don't suppose there's any point telling you I'm through with the resistance-well, the resistance is more or less done for anyway, it's just that I chucked it in before it withered away and died, and I don't think that was cause and effect, either. Truth is, I was in one fight too many. Oddly enough, I only realized that was the reason after I'd decided to give up. I got separated from them-well, lost, actually; the irony is, all this used to be my land, though I'd never even been out this far before. Well, I had my chance to hurry back and carry on with the noble struggle, but instead I thought, the hell with it, I'll stay here. Now I'm in business with…" Just the slightest hesitation as he considered his choice of words. "With some people, and I'm doing something useful for once. Crazy, really. I spent most of my life ignoring all the good things I was born to, pursuing what I believed to be my duty to my country and my people. Plain fact is, when it really mattered I only ever did them more harm than good. Now I've lost everything, but found something I actually want to do-for myself, I mean, not because it's expected of me. And no, I don't know why I'm telling you all this, except maybe because you're a complete stranger, and sometimes you need to talk to someone."