Evil for Evil by K. J. Parker Page A

man said. "So you're Phrastus Gyges." A different kind of voice. The accent was still horrible. He hadn't been able to get used to the way people spoke his language on this side of the sea. The Mezentines were bad enough, with their flat, whining drawl; the savages (the Eremians, at least; he hadn't heard a Vadani yet) did unspeakable things to all the vowels, and didn't seem able to tell the difference between Ts and Ds. This man was an Eremian, but he didn't sound like the men who'd found him.
    "That's right," Gyges replied.
    The man nodded. "It's good to be able to put a face to the name at last. I'm Miel Ducas."
    Not good.
    "You've heard of me, then?" the man went on.
    Gyges nodded. He hadn't been expecting anything like this.
    "I hope you don't mind me introducing myself like this," Ducas said, "but we've been fighting each other long enough that I feel I've known you for ages. Ironic, isn't it, that we should both end up here."
    Gyges breathed out slowly. "Where's here, exactly?" he said. Ducas grinned. "Haven't you figured that out yet? These people—our hosts, I should say—are the hard-working souls who clear up our messes. They bury the dead, salvage clothing and equipment, and ransom the survivors. We owe them our lives, by the way, so don't go getting judgmental. In my case…" He shrugged.
    "Well, why not? A little melodrama won't hurt. Your showing up here's probably signed my death warrant." He frowned. "I could've put that better, I suppose, but not to worry. You see, they've been trying to decide what to do with me: ransom me back to the resistance or sell me to the Mezentines. As far as I can tell, there can't have been much in it either way, but now you've appeared on the scene they've come to a decision. Since they're going to have to take you back to your camp anyway, they may as well send me along with you. Simple economy of effort, really; saves them having to make two journeys, and they've only got the one cart. While it's away ferrying the likes of you and me around, they can't make collections or deliveries. It's perfectly rational once you see the thinking behind it. Are you thirsty? I can fetch you some water if you like."
    Gyges looked at him. Miel Ducas, his enemy. "Thank you," he said; and Ducas stood up and went away.
    But that's absurd, he thought. These people are Eremians; he's the rebel leader. They wouldn't hand him over to us. He thought about that some more. People who made their living by robbing the dead might not be able to afford finer feelings. Besides, the Eremians were a treacherous people. Hadn't one of them opened the gates of Civitas Eremiae? Presumably money had changed hands over that; he hadn't heard the details, or not a reliable version, at any rate. Besides, money wasn't the only currency. The Mezentines' stated objective was the obliteration of the Eremian nation, and large-scale treachery could well be the price of a blind eye turned to a few survivors. The thought made him uncomfortable; it was something he hadn't really considered before. Wiping out an entire people; it must be strange to have a mind that could process ideas like that. Meanwhile, the last vain hope of the Eremians had just gone to fetch him a drink of water.
    "There you are," Ducas said, handing him a short horn cup. "There won't be anything to eat until the rest of the men get back. Probably a sort of sticky soup with barley in it. It's an acquired taste, and I haven't, yet. Am I annoying you, by the way, or are you usually this quiet? The thing is, there's not many people about here to talk to."
    Both hands around the cup; he managed to get two mouthfuls, and spilled the rest. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not really up to talking much. But you go ahead." Ducas laughed. "It's all right," he said. "I'll buzz off and leave you in peace, let you get some rest. They said you'd had a nasty bump on the head. Maybe later, if you feel like a chat. We could talk about some of the battles you lost. I'd like