Evil for Evil by K. J. Parker Page B

that." The water tasted of something nasty he couldn't quite place. "If you're here," he said, "who's in charge of your army?"
    "Who finally beat you, you mean." Ducas' smile widened. "I don't know," he said. "Wish I did. Whoever it is seems to be doing a good job; better than me, anyhow. It comforts me to know that the war is in better hands than mine." He frowned. "I never really expected to be a soldier," he said. "Oh, I was trained for it, of course, because it was one of the things a man in my position needs to know how to do. War, administration, good manners and chasing animals, and it doesn't hurt if you can play a musical instrument. On balance, I'm a slightly better rebec player than I am a general, but I wouldn't want to have to earn a living doing either; not if I had to compete with professionals." He shrugged. "You'd better get some rest now," he said. "The men will be back soon, and they'll have spent the hottest part of the day burying the dead, they may not be in the best of moods. It's been a pleasure talking to you."

    So, Miel thought, as he turned his back and walked away, that's Phrastus Gyges. Younger than I'd expected; otherwise, pretty much like I'd imagined he'd be. And now, I suppose, I'd better think about leaving. I guess that means stealing the horse. Standing against the middle of the wall was a big old wooden feed bin. He'd noticed it earlier, and what was inside it. Presumably such things were so familiar to them that they no longer noticed them; careless but understandable. Casually, he lifted the lid and peered inside.
    Mostly it was sidearms, assorted various; he could see the scabbard chape of a Mezentine Type Fifteen, the scent-bottle pommel and wire-bound grip of a good-quality Eremian double-fullered backsword, the brass stirrup-guard and horn scales of a village-made hunting hanger. Any of them would do, since he wasn't proposing to use it; just something to wave in the face of anybody who tried to stop him. He was pretty sure they wouldn't fight him lo keep him from getting away, just in case he managed to hurt someone—that'd mean a man off work, possibly for a long time or even permanently, and they couldn't afford to carry the loss. The horse, on the other hand; horses, he knew from eavesdropping and his own experience, were a serious problem in this war. Not enough of them to go round; if, after a battle, you had to choose between rounding up the spare horses and seeing to your immobilized wounded, you had to go for the horses whether you liked it or not. They might well fight him for the horse. Unfortunately, he needed the head start. If he tried to get away on foot, with his recent injuries and vague knowledge of the local geography, he wouldn't really stand a chance. He wished that, at the very least, he had some money, so he could leave them enough to buy another horse. Come to think of it, he'd never stolen anything before. Never needed to, of course. The stupid thing is, he thought, I don't really want to leave. I'd be happier staying here, learning to patch up chainmail and bury corpses. Now there's an interesting comment on my life so far.
    Nobody seemed to be watching; just in case, though, he turned his back so as to mask what he was doing, and slid his arm in under the lid of the bin until his fingers connected with something. By the feel of it, the stirrup-guard hanger—not his first choice, but he was hardly in a position to be picky. He fished it out, got it over the edge of the bin, nearly dropped it, point downwards, on his foot, and shut the lid as quietly as he could. He didn't look down at the short sword dangling by its guard from his little finger; instead, he drew it flat against his stomach and walked slowly away, waiting for someone to yell at him. No yell. His first act of theft—his first crime—successfully carried out.
    The idea was to steal a weapon now, while the place was empty and there was nobody about to see. He couldn't leave until much later,