Free Devices and Desires by K. J. Parker Page A

“Suppose I always wondered if it’s really as bad as they say.”
    “It is.”
    “Well, now I know.”
    The driver grinned. “Maybe next time you’ll listen when people tell you things.”
    A mile out from the north gate the road forked. Half the traffic would stay on the main road, the other half would take the
     turning that followed the river past the old quarries down to Lonazep. Ziani’s original plan had been to try and get himself
     on a ship going south, maybe even all the way down to the Gulf, as far from the Eternal Republic as you could go without falling
     off the edge of the world. Seeing the scrap of paper on the bench in the storeroom had changed all that. If he went south,
     it’d mean he was never coming back. Instead, he waited till they stopped for the night at Seventh Milestone. The driver crawled
     under the tarpaulin, pointing out that there was only room for one.
    “No problem,” Ziani said. “I’ll be all right under the cart.”
    As soon as he was satisfied the driver was asleep, Ziani emerged and started to walk. Geography wasn’t his strong suit, but
     as soon as the sun came up he’d be able to see the mountains across the plain, due west. Going west meant he’d be away for
     a while, maybe a very long time, but sooner or later he’d be back.

3
    As soon as Duke Orsea realized he’d lost the battle, the war and his country’s only hope of survival, he ordered a general
     retreat. It was the only sensible thing he’d done all day.
    One hour had made all the difference. An hour ago, when he’d led the attack, the world had been a very different place. He’d
     had an army of twenty-five thousand men, one tenth of the population of the Duchy of Eremia. He had a commanding position,
     a fully loaded supplies and equipment train, a carefully prepared battle plan, the element of surprise, the love and trust
     of his people, and hope. Now, as the horns blared and the ragged lines crumpled and dissolved into swarms of running dots,
     he had the miserable job of getting as many as he could of the fourteen thousand stunned, bewildered and resentful survivors
     away from the enemy cavalry and back to the relative safety of the mountains. One hour to change the world; not many men could
     have done such a thorough job. It took a particular genius to destroy one’s life so comprehensively in so short a time.
    A captain of archers, unrecognizable from a face-wound, ran past him, shouting something he didn’t catch. More bad news, or
     just confirmation of what he already knew; or maybe simple abuse; it didn’t greatly matter, because now that he’d given the
     order, there was precious little he could do about anything. If the soldiers got as far as the thorn-scrub on the edge of
     the marshes, and if they stopped there and re-formed instead of running blindly into the bog, and if they were still gullible
     enough to obey his orders after everything he’d let them in for, he might still be relevant. Right now, he was nothing more
     than a target, and a conspicuous one at that, perched on a stupid white horse and wearing stupid fancy armor.
    It hurt him, worse than the blade of the broken-off arrow wedged in his thigh, to turn his back on the dead bodies of his
     men, scattered on the flat moor like a spoiled child’s toys. Once he reined in his horse, turned and rode away, he acknowledged,
     he’d be breaking a link between himself and his people that he’d never be able to repair. But that was self-indulgence, he
     knew. He’d forgone the luxury of guilt when he bent his neck to the bait and tripped the snare. The uttermost mortification;
     his state of mind, his agonized feelings, didn’t matter anymore. It was his duty to save himself, and thereby reduce the casualty
     list by one. He nudged the horse with his heels.
    The quickest way to the thorn-hedge was across the place where the center of his line had been. His horse was a dainty stepper,
     neatly avoiding the tumbled