Devices and Desires by K. J. Parker Page A

could hear shouting. “They’ve attacked,” he said.
    “Don’t think so, or they’d be doing more than just yelling. Hold still, I’ll go and see.”
    He came back again a moment later, grinning. “Would you believe it,” he said, “they caught a spy.”
    “You’re joking.”
    “I’m not. I saw him. Genuine Mezentine spy, brown face and everything. I told them to string him up.”
    Orsea frowned. “No, don’t do that,” he said. “I want to know why they’re so interested in us. Maybe they didn’t know about
     this path before. If they’re looking for a back way up the mountain, that could be very bad.”
    Miel shrugged. “It’s your treehouse. I’ll have him brought in, you can play with him.”
    The prisoner was a Mezentine, no question about that; with his dark skin and high cheekbones, he couldn’t be anything else.
     But that raised a question in itself. Mezentine officers commanded the army, but the men they gave orders to were all mercenaries;
     southerners, usually, or people from overseas.
    Besides, it was hard to see how a member of the victorious Mezentine expedition, which hadn’t come within bowshot or lost
     a single man as far as Orsea was aware, could have got in such a deplorable state. He could barely stand; the two guards were
     holding him up rather than restraining him. He had only one shoe; his hair was filthy and full of dust; he had several days’
     growth of beard (the Mezentines were obsessive about shaving their faces) and he smelled disgusting.
    Orsea had never interrogated a prisoner before; of all things, he felt
shy.
“Name,” he snapped, because it was as good a starting-point as any.
    The man lifted his head, as though his name was the last thing he’d been expecting to be asked. “Ziani Vaatzes,” he said,
     in a feeble whisper.
    That didn’t need expert interpretation. “Get this man some water,” Orsea said, then realized that for once there weren’t any
     attendants or professional bustlers-about on hand. Miel gave him a rather startled, what-me expression, then went outside,
     returning a little later with a jug and a horn cup, which the prisoner grabbed with both hands. He spilled most of it down
     his front.
    Orsea had thought of another question. “What unit are you with?”
    The prisoner had to think about that one. “I’m not a soldier,” he said.
    “No, you’re a spy.”
    “No, I’m not.” The prisoner sounded almost amused. “Is that what you think?”
    Miel shifted impatiently. “You sure you want to bother with him?” he asked.
    Orsea didn’t reply, though he noticed the effect Miel’s words had on the prisoner. “Really,” the man said. “I’m not a soldier,
     or a spy or anything.” He stopped, looking very unhappy.
    “Right,” Orsea said. “You’re a Mezentine, but you’re nothing to do with the army out there on the plain. Excuse me, but your
     people aren’t known for going sightseeing.”
    “I’m an escaped prisoner,” the man said; he made it sound like a profession. “I promise you, it’s true. They were going to
     kill me; I ran away.”
    Miel laughed. “This one’s a comedian,” he said. “He’s broken out of jail, so naturally he tags along behind the army. Last
     place they’d look for you, I guess.”
    The look on the man’s face; fear, and disbelief, and sheer fury at not being believed. Any moment now, Orsea thought, he’s
     going to demand to see the manager.
    “You must be the enemy, then,” the man said.
    This time, Miel burst out laughing. “You could say that,” he said.
    “All right.” Orsea was having trouble keeping a straight face. “Yes, we’re the enemy. Do you know who we are?”
    The man shook his head. “Not a clue, sorry. I don’t know where this is or what the hell’s going on. I didn’t even know there’s
     a war on.”
    “The army,” Miel said softly. “Wasn’t that a pretty broad hint?”
    Now the man looked embarrassed. “To be honest,” he said, “I