The Folding Knife Part 19

"No." He took her hand and led her to the stone bench. "The secret is, always to give something back." He sat down; she sat beside him. "A hundred of my predecessors tried to make the world a better place," he said. "They tried so hard, we've had poverty, economic collapse, and so many wars I lose count. My approach is, I try and make money for myself in a way that benefits the Republic. It's not exactly difficult. If it was, I don't suppose I'd be able to do it."

"Really."

"Quite true. That sort of thing's always come easily to me. Like the Reserve, for example. Did I tell you about that?"

(Maybe I love her, he thought, because at last I've found someone I can brag to.) "What's the Reserve?"

"My big idea," Ba.s.so said proudly. "The government pays a living wage, not a fortune but enough to support a man and his family, to any man between the ages of eighteen and sixty who's fit and strong enough to row a galley in the Fleet. In order to get the money, he doesn't have to do anything; all he's committing himself to is serving in the Fleet when we're at war, plus a few weeks' training every year. He gets paid extra for training and active service, and the rest of the time, he can do any job he wants to earn more money. Or, if he can't get a job or if he doesn't like the way that working for a living tends to cut into your free time, he can get by and his children won't starve. Result: we have a fully trained standing navy when we need it, but which we don't have to pay through the nose for, like they do in other countries; and n.o.body need ever go hungry again, which is something my predecessors have been trying to achieve for a thousand years, with a total lack of success."

She frowned. "That's the thing," she said. "You add on getting rid of starvation and poverty like it's a fringe benefit. Like the slice of lemon you get with a plate of whitebait."

He laughed. "That's why I succeed," he said, "where the men with beautiful souls always fail. If you walk through the market asking the stallholders to give you a slice of lemon for free, they'd laugh in your face. Pay for the whitebait and you get a good meal of whitebait for your money, plus the free lemon. It's like the jury pay scheme."

She smiled. "You want to tell me about the jury pay scheme."

"Yes."

"Please," she said. "Tell me."

He laughed. "You don't want to-"

"Yes I do."

"All right." He realised his arm was round her shoulders. It had sort of grown there, like ivy climbing a wall. "Men over sixty, or those who can't work because of sickness or injury, can volunteer for jury service, for which they get paid a living wage. It covers the people who aren't looked after by the Reserve, and it means that anybody I want found guilty will be found guilty, and anybody I want let off will get let off. Which means," he added pleasantly, "that my enemies won't stand a chance."

She frowned. "That sounds expensive."

"It will be," he replied. "Like the Reserve. But the figures work out fine. Partly it depends on keeping the price of food as low as possible-which we'll be able to do, when we've got the grain monopoly. Also, since we import all our food, it helps a lot that the nomisma's so strong against other currencies; we get far more for one nomisma than we used to before we put in that extra two per cent. Also, we'll help pay for it with a tax on business profits."

She laughed. "Go on, then. Explain to me how paying more tax will make you richer."

"Easy." He smiled. "I can afford to pay more tax. My rivals can't. I stay in business, they don't. I buy them out cheap and take over their banks and companies. My additional profits more than cancel out my higher tax bill. I proved that that works with the land bubble, directly after the plague. And," he went on, "the more money I make, the more I can afford to give ostentatiously away, thereby making the people love me; which means I get re-elected, and I can do what I like."

"Ba.s.so," she said solemnly, "you're a monster."

"Yes." He nodded. "I'm corrupt and ruthless and I change the world for my own personal gain. Which is why it's so good to be on my side." He took his arm off her shoulders and leaned forward. "In our history," he said, "there have been a number of genuine reformers, men who really wanted to make life better for their fellow men. All but two of them were bashed to death by the mob. The other two killed themselves in prison, because they didn't fancy being tortured to death. That's just stupid. I, on the other hand, will make life better for my fellow men. The difference is, I've got a very strong motive for succeeding. Also," he added, "I'm not stupid. Not bright, perhaps, but definitely not stupid."

She smiled at him. "If you say so," she said.

The priest Chrysophilus had his own special chair now. He'd happened to say how comfortable it was on one of his early visits; now it was kept specifically for him, and only brought out when he came to call.

"Let's sit in the garden," Ba.s.so said. "We might as well enjoy the warm weather while we can."

The chair followed them, carried with great solemnity by two footmen, like the Throne of the Sun at the start of Ascension Week. A third footman followed with the brandy.

"It's very kind of you," Chrysophilus said. "And you may not like me very much after I've delivered my message."

"Heralds are sacrosanct, even in war," Ba.s.so replied. "Here'll do. This time of day, the breeze wafts over the scent of lavender from the big commercial herb garden across the valley." They set down the chair, making sure it was level on the gravel. "At other times of day, we get the breeze from the tannery. Not nearly as pleasant."

Such an easy man to read. He was thinking: civilisation, the way things ought to be. The way they aren't, back at the Studium. Ba.s.so made a mental note, and said, "The message."

"Yes." Chrysophilus hesitated, unwilling to risk saying the words that would spoil all this. Heralds-are-sacrosanct meant that he had the First Citizen's word that he'd be allowed to leave with his head still on his shoulders, but fine old brandy with the scent of lavender in the rose garden would be over for the day, and possibly for ever. No wonder the poor man seemed reluctant to speak.

"Sorry to interrupt," Ba.s.so said. "I'm forgetting my manners. Join me for dinner?"

The look on the priest's face was enough to break anyone's heart. "That's very kind-"

"Splendid," Ba.s.so said, "I'll tell them you're staying. I gather it's duck from the lagoon, with a sort of cream and pepper sauce." He clapped his hands and a footman materialised next to him. "This gentleman's staying to dinner," he said. "Tell the cook. Now, then," he went on. "The message."

Chrysophilus took a deep breath, like a man about to dive. "Your sister isn't happy about your betrothal."

"No," Ba.s.so said, "I don't suppose she is."

"She sees it as an affront to the family name and her father's memory."

"Quite." Ba.s.so nodded. "And so it is, in a way. It certainly goes against everything my father stood for. Then again, so do I." He grinned. "I loved my father, and in a way I respected him, but he was an idiot. For one thing, he married my mother. No choice in the matter, either of them. But they weren't suited to each other. It wasn't a disaster-anything but-but it diminished both of them. She was an intelligent woman married to a fool: a fool who was quite happy being a fool, he never saw anything wrong with it; I don't suppose he ever wanted to be the slightest bit different from how he was. And he was married to a woman who didn't care, let him get on with it; she never challenged his unshakable belief in himself, mostly because she wasn't all that interested in him. They lived together for a very long time, and neither did the other the slightest bit of good." He paused; Chrysophilus was wearing a dazed look. "I'm only telling you all this to give you an idea of the sort of criteria my sister's working from. Did she say what she proposes to do about it?"

Blank look. "I'm sorry?"

"Threats," Ba.s.so said. "If I marry Melsuntha, will she immediately marry Olybrias? Or has she dreamed up some alternative form of sanction?"

He shook his head. "She didn't say anything about sanctions," he replied. "Just that she'd be bitterly offended and she'd never forgive you."

"Which is more or less where we stand at the moment," Ba.s.so replied briskly, "so, no threats. But what do you think?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"About my marriage. What do you think about it?"

Startled look; as if he was riding very fast in a racing chariot, and the driver had just handed him the reins. "It's not for me to..."

"You must have an opinion."

"Not really." Pause; then, "Well, actually, yes, I do. I think it's rather good, actually."

"Thank you," Ba.s.so said gravely. "Why?"

A man pinned down and surrounded by a simple question. "Well," he said, "you've got nothing to gain from it, politically or socially or in business terms, so I'm a.s.suming..."

"I'm marrying for love. Yes. And?"

"And I think that's rather fine," Chrysophilus said feebly. "It's not the sort of thing people do. But maybe they should."

Ba.s.so thought for a moment. "I disagree with you there," he said. "For most people, love is a b.l.o.o.d.y stupid reason for getting married. It's like buying a house because you like the pretty flowers in the garden. But in my case, I'm a middle-aged man who's performed all his family and dynastic obligations; I've achieved all my ambitions, so I don't need to marry for money or influence. And Melsuntha will be good for me. She answers me back. She doesn't agree with me." He smiled. "She's the only person I know who doesn't agree with me. Do you see what I mean?"

Chrysophilus nodded. "I think so, yes."

"Marvellous," Ba.s.so growled. "Even you agree with me, and technically, you're the enemy. Maybe you can understand why I put such a high premium on a little dissent." He drank his brandy and stood up. "Tell my sister I'm sorry she feels that way, but I have no intention of changing my mind to suit her or anybody else. That's it." Then, seeing the sad look on Chrysophilus' face, he added, "It's all right, you're still invited to dinner. Come into the house, and you can tell me about this strange business with my nephew."

As he'd expected, Chrysophilus couldn't tell him anything he didn't already know. That evening, after the priest had gone, he received a letter he'd been waiting for and wrote four letters of his own. Then he rang for a clerk.

"Deliver these," he said, "quick as you like. Then, in the morning, go round to the Studium and ask Father Chrysophilus, the priest who was here tonight, if he'd mind dropping in tomorrow afternoon. That's all."

Bank business all morning, followed by a Treasury committee meeting to approve the draft of the new finance bill. Three letters he'd been expecting were waiting for him when he came out of the meeting; he had to wait for the fourth and fifth until he got home. He read all five carefully several times, wrote one reply, and told the servants to get out Father Chrysophilus' chair.

"In my study," he added. "Show the Father up there as soon as he arrives, and no interruptions. And get a bottle of the good brandy, the Auxentine stuff in the green bottles. We'll probably be celebrating."

He went to his bedroom and changed into a comfortable gown, an old favourite with full sleeves and pockets, then climbed the stairs to the study, where the special chair and the brandy were waiting. Since he still had a little time in hand, he sent for Ba.s.sano.

"Won't keep you," he said. "But you might like to send out for your stuff, everything you've got in store. You'll be moving in here permanently. a.s.suming," he added, as Ba.s.sano stared at him, "that you'd like to."

"Mother..."

Ba.s.so smiled. "The h.e.l.l with her," he said. "You in for dinner, or going out somewhere?"

"No plans," Ba.s.sano replied.

"Have dinner with us, then," he said. "There's a halfwit who thinks he can get me to change my mind about a bad loan by sending me jugged hare in cider vinegar. He's wasting his time, but that's no reason we shouldn't eat it."

Ba.s.sano's favourite. "In that case," he said.

"Splendid. Get someone to tell the cook."

Then an hour alone with some routine paperwork, to clear his head and calm him down. He started to write a letter, but his hand was shaking, so he left it for the morning. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and spent ten minutes gazing into the eyes of the gold and mosaic Queen of Heaven, seven feet tall and infinitely wise, who stood over him always. She was only bits of stone, paint, and gold foil beaten ridiculously thin, and for much of his lifetime she'd presided over a room stuffed full of redundant furniture; if he could pick her off the walls without destroying her completely, she'd be worth the price of a small s.h.i.+p. Probably just as well, he decided, that his father had never realised that.

As the daughter and sister of two First Citizens, the lady Fausta Tranquillina Carausia was ent.i.tled to display on her carriage doors the double-headed lion of the Republic, in gold leaf, on a red background. The carriage itself was third-hand, elderly and badly in need of new rear springs; you could hear it coming from way off. She'd taken quotes from six painters and chosen the cheapest. Her lion, everybody said, looked more like an overfed spaniel, and the gold leaf had been so sparingly applied that big red blotches showed through its ribs, making it look as though it had just been gored by a bull. There was also, people said, the small matter of good taste; since it was no secret that she hated her brother to death, taking advantage of even so minor a privilege was questionable behaviour at best. If the lady Tranquillina was bothered by that, she gave no sign of it, and pretended not to understand why small boys made dying-dog noises when her carriage pa.s.sed them in the street.

Her various eccentricities weren't a problem as far as the Patriarch and governors of the Studium were concerned. A benefactress as generous as the lady Tranquillina was allowed a certain lat.i.tude. The older members of Chapter vividly remembered some of the great characters of the past: the lady Domitilla Secunda, for example, who stopped bathing or combing her hair when she was twenty-seven and lived to be ninety, or the lady Plautilla Sebastina Carausia, who insisted on walking the circuit of the City walls every morning, accompanied by the Studium choir and wearing nothing but a sack. Rich, dotty women's money had made the Studium the most respected inst.i.tute of theological scholars.h.i.+p in the world. So long as they paid cash and didn't actually draw blood, they could do pretty much what they liked.

In any case, Tranquillina's demands were far more modest. She required a private chapel in the temple, the services of a priest as her personal chaplain, prayers for her dead husband three times a day in perpetuity and, in due course, a granite tomb in the temple portico, the design for which was already on file: a skeleton carved in red granite, wearing a wedding dress and holding an effigy of her late husband in the regalia of the Invincible Sun, and on the base of the plinth, the following simple inscription; Fausta Tranquillina Carausia Murdered by her brother Ba.s.sia.n.u.s Arcadius Severus She was at prayer in her chapel when Chrysophilus tracked her down. It wasn't her regular time for prayer; that was usually six till nine in the morning, then nine till midnight. Sometimes, though, when her soul was unusually troubled, she came to the chapel at noon and stayed for an hour or so.

He cleared his throat, but she didn't seem to notice. Lately, she'd taken to pretending to be deaf in one ear, just like her brother, though Chrysophilus knew for a fact she had ears like a bat. Some days she wrapped a napkin stained with beetroot juice round her left hand, but not today.

"My Lady," he said softly.

She sighed and lifted her head. "What is it?"

Well, he thought, here goes. "I have a message for you, from your brother."

He had her attention. "What does he want?"

She was still staring up at the iconostasis, so couldn't see him close his eyes. "Perhaps you might prefer to hear it in the ante-room," he said.

"No. Tell me what he wants."

Quickly he looked round for possible improvised weapons. Unfortunately, the chapel was full of them. The labarum would make a fairly useful club, and you could smash a man's skull like an eggsh.e.l.l with the solid gold globus arciger. He took a long step back and raised his voice slightly. "It's about Senator Olybrias," he said.

It had been a smooth, efficient piece of work. Olybrias, otherwise as sound a businessman as any in the Republic, had a little-known weakness for mineral rights, gold in particular. Why go to all the trouble of earning money, he'd been known to remark to close friends, when you can dig it out of the ground or sift it out of the silt in a river bed? Accordingly, when two of his oldest and closest business a.s.sociates approached him with news of a remarkable new gold strike in Fermia, he was only too pleased to hear them out. It was, they told him, a single rich, thick vein, exposed by the collapse of a section of cliff that had been slowly undermined by a river. Under Fermian law, all minerals belonged to the Duke-a chronically extravagant man who spent twice his revenues each year on a futile war with his northern neighbours. Since the Duke was even more desperate for ready cash than usual, he was prepared to sell the entire strike, including any further deposits in the same valley not yet detected, for six million Vesani nomismata.

Olybrias objected that he didn't have six million; or at least, not that he could lay his hands on without mortgaging everything he owned. That was a great shame, his friends replied, because it was only a matter of time before Ba.s.so found out about it, and Ba.s.so could afford to pay six million out of his pocket change.

So Olybrias went to the Bank of the Divine Intercession, the only major bank in the Republic in which Ba.s.so had no stake whatsoever. He was obliged to put up the deeds to all his real estate as security for four million, and write a note of hand against his shares, debentures and trading stock for the other two; a discount of three million in total, but he didn't really have a choice. Within forty-eight hours of his friends' initial visit, a courier brought him a transfer deed, signed by the Duke of Fermia and sealed by the Fermian High Council. By coincidence, it was the same day that Ba.s.so announced his engagement to that foreign woman.

Olybrias' surveyors reported back a week later. There was gold in the vein, sure enough. Unfortunately, somebody had put it there; about two hundred nomismata's worth, stuffed into holes drilled into the clay. There was no chance whatsoever of finding anything else there. It was the wrong sort of rock. If you were very lucky, and you dug up the whole mountain, you might find a little iron, with an outside chance of a few handfuls of copper. Gold, however, was out of the question.

An hour after the surveyors had left, Olybrias got a letter from Ba.s.so. So sorry to hear about the scandalous fraud he'd suffered at the hands of the Duke. It had come as a great surprise (Ba.s.so said) since the Duke was a friend of his, and he'd never have believed him capable of it. Naturally, Ba.s.so would bring all possible pressure to bear on his errant friend to make rest.i.tution, but he didn't hold out much hope; he happened to know that the entire six million had been used to pay off a long-overdue loan, to a bank right here in the City, so the Duke couldn't pay back what he no longer had. Accordingly, Ba.s.so had taken the liberty of buying Olybrias' debt from the Divine Intercession (at a premium, naturally); he felt bad about the fact that his friend had shamelessly deceived a distinguished Vesani businessman, and felt it was his duty to put things right. As a result, Ba.s.so said, he now had in front of him on his desk the deeds to all Olybrias' real property, together with his note of hand. It went without saying that there was no hurry at all about paying back the loan; in fact, as far as he was concerned, it could remain outstanding indefinitely. The only favour he'd like to ask was that Olybrias should forget all about marrying the lady Tranquillina. It was harsh of him, he knew, but he couldn't allow his sister to marry a man who was staring ruin in the face, and therefore couldn't guarantee that he'd be in a position to maintain her in the manner to which she'd become accustomed. Devoted as he was to his sister, he was aware that she had her faults, and extravagance was one of them-her excessively generous gifts to religious houses, for one thing. The plain fact was, as things stood, Olybrias simply couldn't afford to marry Lina, and that was all there was to it. Undoubtedly, Olybrias could see the sense in that; however, for Ba.s.so's peace of mind, would Olybrias be kind enough to sign and return the enclosed declaration and undertaking, which would of course const.i.tute a legally binding contract?

She looked at him, but not the way anybody would look at another human being. Then she said, "Thank you. That's all."

He stood up, took two paces towards the door, then stopped. She was, after all, a fellow believer in great pain, and he was supposed to be a priest.

"If there's anything..." he said.

"Get out."

From where he was standing to the door, ten paces. He managed nine of them, but then she said, "Wait." Very reluctantly, he turned to face her.

"Come back in an hour," she said. "I'll need you to take a letter."

He read it a third time, but nothing had changed, so he folded it carefully and put it away in the rosewood box, along with the other four letters she'd written him since he'd killed her husband. Turning the key in the box's lock made him feel a little safer. He put the key away carefully and left the room.

It wasn't often that Ba.s.so needed company, but when the occasion arose, the need was usually desperate. But Ba.s.sano was out of the question; Melsuntha wouldn't understand, though she'd try very hard; Antigonus was probably asleep by now, on the other side of the City on a cold, wet night. It was a pity Chrysophilus hadn't wanted to stay.

Usually he'd have worked through it, drowning himself in paperwork until he couldn't hear her voice in his head any more, but he knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate. Ridiculous, he thought; I've just won a glorious victory over my enemies, as a result of which I can talk to my nephew and marry the woman I love; should be happy, should be celebrating, should be standing in the big window overlooking the square throwing handfuls of gold coins to the cheering crowds.

He considered drinking himself unconscious, but decided against it. Lately, he'd lost any enthusiasm for alcohol; stupid enough already without making himself even more stupid. I feel nothing for you except contempt, she'd written, and she'd always been one to choose her words carefully. If that's what she said, that's what she meant. Not anger, not even hate, just contempt. Fine. Another victory like that and he'd have to give serious consideration to hanging himself.

Melsuntha found him sitting on the top step of the middle flight of stairs. "I've been looking for you everywhere," she said.

"I'm not here," he replied.

She frowned at him. "What does that mean?"

"It's an attempt to say go away without giving offence," he said. "I don't know, maybe it needs a bit more work."

She sat down beside him, and he thought: actually, this is the first time I haven't been pleased to see her. "I met that priest earlier. He said he'd brought you a letter."

He looked away. "I've been thinking," he said. "About Ba.s.sano. He's not going to be a priest after all, but he's got to do something. I won't have him in the Bank. What does that leave?"

"You mean a career?" She shrugged. "Does he need one?"

"I think so," Ba.s.so replied. "At least, he thinks so. He seems to feel that if he doesn't do something, he'll just drift amiably through life without any purpose at all."

"So?"

Ba.s.so nodded. "That's what he was born for, certainly. The h.e.l.l with that, though. You were born to sweep out a wattle-and-daub hut, milk goats and die in childbirth. As far as I'm concerned, destiny is the enemy."

She shrugged. "Not the clergy, then. What does that leave?"