Evil for Evil by K. J. Parker Read Free Book Online Page B

he could fill in the gaps and it’d look just like the real thing. Was that the proper technique? he wondered.
     Like I care, he thought.
    Now for something to sew. He was looking for damage; a hole, cut or tear. He examined the shirt in his hands, but there didn’t
     seem to be anything wrong with it, so he put it on the floor and took another one from the sack. This time he was in luck.
     There was a big, obvious tear in the sleeve, just the sort of thing for an enthusiastic novice to cut his teeth on. He looked
     for the needle, couldn’t find it, panicked, found it, picked it up carefully, carried it across to the sleeve and drove it
     home like a boar-spear. It passed through the cloth as though it wasn’t there and came out the other side, but with an empty
     eye and without the thread.
    He looked up. She was standing over him, looking down.
    “So,” she said, “which one are you?”
    His mind emptied, like grain through a hole in a jar. “What?”
    “Which one are you,” she said, “Miel or Jarnac?”
    Oh. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re —”
    “Jarnac’s the falconry nut,” she went on matter-of-factly, “but he’s supposed to be big and good-looking. I met Miel once,
     but it was years ago and we were both children, so I wouldn’t recognize him again. I could probably guess, but it’s easier
     if you tell me, isn’t it? Well?”
    He sagged. “I’m Miel,” he said.
    She nodded. “Actually, I’m impressed,” she said. “I’ve been watching you. It’s clever, how you figured it all out. But you
     need to fold back a couple of inches when you thread the needle,” she added. “Otherwise it just pulls out.”
    “Is that right?” Miel said. “Well, now I know.” He sighed, and let the shirt drop from his hands. “So what are you going to
     do?” he said.
    She shrugged. “Obviously,” she said, “either I teach you how to sew properly, or I’ll have to do all those clothes myself.
     Why did you pretend to be someone else?”
    “I was afraid that if you knew who I was, you’d sell me to the Mezentines,” he said. “Isn’t that what you do?”
    She didn’t move or say anything for a moment. “No,” she said. “They’re the enemy. If it wasn’t for them, we’d still be at
     home on our farms.” She frowned. “We don’t do this out of choice.”
    “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure he believed her, but he still felt ashamed. “Do you know what happened in the battle?” he asked
     (but now it was just a way of changing the subject).
    “No. I expect we’ll hear sooner or later. Why, don’t you?”
    “I got knocked out halfway through,” he explained.
    “Ah.” She smiled, crushing the scar up like crumpled paper. “I can see that’d be frustrating for you. Not that it matters.
     You’re bound to lose eventually. You never stood a chance, and at your best you were nothing but a nuisance.”
    “I suppose so,” Miel said quietly.
    “Aren’t you going to argue with me?” She was grinning at him. “You’re supposed to be the leader of the resistance.”
    “Yes.” He knew he was telling the truth, but it felt like lying. “So I’m in a good position to know, I suppose.”
    “Well.” She frowned. “All right, you can’t sew. Is there anything you
can
do? Anything useful, I mean.”
    He smiled. “No.”
    “And you’re hardly ornamental. Do you think the Mezentines really would give us money for you?”
    She walked away and came back with a cloth bag that clinked and jingled. As he took it from her, it felt heavy in his hand.
     “Tools,” she said. “Two pairs of pliers, wirecutters, rings, rivets, two small hammers. Do you know what they’re for?”
    He thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think so,” he said.
    “I thought it’d be more likely to be in your line than sewing, and it’s easier. It must be, men can do it. Figure it out as
     you go along, like you did with the sewing. When you’re ready to start …”