The Folding Knife Part 30

n.o.body about. He headed across the main courtyard, then remembered that a groom wouldn't come and go by the front gate. He doubled back, hoping n.o.body was watching.

He couldn't go via the back yard, because the owner of the coat might see it walking past and wonder why. So he slipped into the feed store, opened the west-facing window, scrambled through it and dropped down into the laundry yard. Using the hung-out was.h.i.+ng as cover, he took a diagonal line, which left him only five yards of exposed ground to cover before he reached the side door of the kitchens. He was taking a risk, he knew; the stable staff were discouraged from using the kitchens as a short cut to the back gate, and the cook was inclined to savage offenders. But she wasn't there. A kitchen maid said something as he hurried past, but he pretended he was deaf. A quick twist of a handle, and he was out into the street.

(That's bad, he thought. Back gate not locked, and I doubt whether that slip of a girl could fight off a band of heavily armed a.s.sa.s.sins. I can give Aelius' security man h.e.l.l about that later. The thought pleased him, and he smiled.) Having won his freedom, he wasn't quite sure what he wanted to do with it. Traditionally, he knew, the good prince slips out of the palace in disguise in order to go among the people, find out about their concerns and grievances and listen to what they really think about him. But he wasn't in the mood for anything like that. What he really wanted, he realised, was a nice civilised evening out, like he hadn't had for fifteen years-a play at the Blue Court (a comedy, for choice), followed by dinner at the Parrot, if it was still there, a nightcap in the Virtue Triumphant, and home to bed by midnight. But he wasn't exactly dressed for that; nor (he discovered, checking his pockets) had he brought enough money. So he decided to go to the dog races instead.

Ba.s.so's views on gambling were well known. It was the only form of charity, he used to say, where you give money to the rich, the greedy, the disproportionately fortunate and the selfish. Tonight, however, he felt the urge to try out his luck, just to make sure it still worked. He put half a solidus on Divine Retribution at six to one. The resulting three solidi went on Arrogance Confounded at four to one, which meant he had a whole nomisma to bet on Victory, at seven to one. There was a five-nomismata limit, so he pocketed two nomismata and bet the full five on a double for the last two races: Outrageous Fortune at three to one, followed by Just Deserts at nine to one.

"Are you sure?" the bookmaker asked.

"Yes."

The bookmaker shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, and handed him the small bone disc that recorded the bet. "You'd be better off buying yourself a new coat, but it's up to you."

One hundred and thirty-five nomismata. Or, to be precise, one hundred and thirty-two nomismata and thirty-six solidi, since the bookmakers' ring didn't have enough gold coin. It was, the bookmaker who paid him said, the biggest win in living memory; he almost sounded proud, though probably he was just being brave.

"You want to be careful," he added, "going home with that much money on you."

A fair point, Ba.s.so reflected, and one that hadn't occurred to him. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he had an idea people were looking at him. If he got stabbed to death in an alley on his way back to the Severus house, it would be a wonderful parable for the ambivalence of fortune; also, a b.l.o.o.d.y stupid way to die.

He considered the bookmaker, who was looking very sad. "Here's an idea," he said. "I've got more money than I can safely carry, and you've just been cleaned out of your working capital. Yes?"

The bookmaker gave him a nasty look and nodded.

"So," Ba.s.so went on, "what would you say to selling me... what, a quarter share in your business?"

"Get stuffed," said the bookmaker.

"Fine," Ba.s.so said. "Your choice. A hundred and thirty-five nomismata's just about to walk out of your life for ever, but that's entirely up to you."

The bookmaker scowled at him. "I'd have to talk to my partners," he said.

"No hurry," Ba.s.so said.

He made a point of staying near the portico, where the lighting was good and there was a fair crowd, milling about eating and drinking. He bought himself a beef pancake and a pint of beer, and discovered that his tastes had changed since he was sixteen.

"A tenth," the bookmaker said.

Ba.s.so shrugged. "I ought to ask to see the books."

"There aren't any books. What do you take us for, the Charity & Social?"

Ba.s.so smiled. "Private joke," he said. "All right. But it'll have to be written up properly, with a deed and everything."

The partners sighed. "Fine," one of them said. "First thing in the morning."

Ba.s.so grinned. "Like h.e.l.l," he said. "We'll go and wake up a lawyer."

When the lawyer asked his name and he replied, he was greeted with both suspicion and scepticism. They didn't believe he was Prince Ba.s.sano (prince, he noted, with amus.e.m.e.nt and interest); for one thing, he was too old, and for another, Ba.s.sano was off with the army, at the war.

"Well of course I'm not actually him," Ba.s.so replied. "I'm his steward. He wanted to try his luck at the dog races, so he sent me along. All right?"

Whatever, the partners said, and the lawyer retired to write up the agreement, leaving Ba.s.so and the partners in the cold waiting room. At first, there was a sullen silence. Then one of the bookmakers asked: "Is that right, then? You work for the prince?"

Ba.s.so nodded.

"So what's he like, then? Really."

"He's all right," Ba.s.so said. "Why, what do you reckon to him?"

The partners looked at each other. One of them said, "Bit of a chip off the old block, if you ask me."

Ba.s.so nodded. "Is that a good thing?"

Someone laughed. "Tell you what," he said. "If he's got some of his uncle's luck, we could do with it in the business."

"Wonderful thing, luck," Ba.s.so agreed. "So you think he takes after the old man?"

"Don't really know," another one said. "Like, we only know what we're told, and that's probably a pack of lies. He seems all right. Bit of a toff, but then, aren't they all?"

Ba.s.so reminded himself that he wasn't going to be the traditional good prince tonight, and changed the subject. Prince, though: the word seemed to be following him around, like a butcher's dog. So he talked about the war. The bookmakers all thought it was a good idea and likely to succeed; ten to one on, they were offering.

The lawyer came in with the doc.u.ment. They signed, with the lawyer's red-eyed housekeeper as witness. Two solidi, for an hour's work. We're in the wrong business, the bookmakers said.

"I'll hang on to this," Ba.s.so said, folding the doc.u.ment and shoving it in his pocket. "Well, pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen," he said. "I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other in future."

The partners' faces showed no trace of expression of any kind. "Of course," Ba.s.so went on, "there'll have to be a few changes in the way you do things. For a start, you'll have to start keeping books."

A meaningful silence. Then one of them said, "We can do that."

"And of course," Ba.s.so went on, "you'll cook them, you wouldn't be human if you didn't. And that's fine, so long as you're not greedy. A little imagination is one thing, but I don't like being taken for an idiot."

The next silence was distinctly awkward. Ba.s.so went on: "For one thing," he said, "if you mess with the Severus family, you might get rather more luck than you can handle; the other sort, I mean. You could trip and fall under a cart, or your house might burn down. Even worse, some b.a.s.t.a.r.d could report you to the Revenue. Please bear in mind, we're practically the government. So accurate and conscientious accounting is in your best interests as well as ours."

They looked at him, very sad. He wished them goodnight, and they parted on the corner of Portway and the Tannery; the bookmakers went downtown, while Ba.s.so headed north. There were drunks in Portway-amiable enough, laughing and singing a song he knew about but had never actually heard: about the First Citizen and his beautiful Mavortine wife. The tune was so catchy he found himself humming it under his breath as he walked up to the gate of the Severus house.

One thing he hadn't given much thought to was how he was going to get back in. There were, of course, sentries posted at all the gates during the night. When he was a boy, there was a good way in through the charcoal hatch, but he'd been smaller then; also, he seemed to remember Aelius' security man saying something about it. Quite possibly he'd b.o.o.by-trapped it with nine-inch nails.

Nothing for it, therefore, but to walk up to the sentries on the main gate.

"Where do you think you're going?" they said.

"It's all right," he answered. "This is my house. I'm Ba.s.sia.n.u.s Severus."

"Course you are," said a sentry, moving his halberd to block the way. "And I'm the Czar of b.l.o.o.d.y Permia. Now get lost, or we'll do you for loitering."

Oh, Ba.s.so thought. "No, really," he said, taking off his hat. He started to step forward, so his face would be in the light from the all-night lantern, but the sentry swung up his halberd and pressed the shaft against his windpipe. "Suit yourself," the sentry said. "You're under arrest."

The other sentry was behind him, twisting his arms behind his back. It was done so quickly that he had no time to react. "I'll take him down the station," said the sentry he couldn't see. "He can sleep it off in the cells."

Call the porter, he'll identify me, Ba.s.so was about to say; but as soon as he opened his mouth, the sentry rabbit-punched him in the kidneys, and the words were suddenly too big to get out. He discovered that it's possible to hurt and walk at the same time, provided someone pushes you all the way.

Just after dawn, the duty sergeant came and let him out. His back hurt from sleeping on a stone floor, and he didn't feel like trying to prove his ident.i.ty. Instead, he walked to the House, dumping the coat and the hat just before he got there. He walked up to the porter's lodge.

"Do you know who I am?" he demanded.

"Of course, sir," the porter said. "They've been looking for you. Tearing the City apart."

"Is that right?" Ba.s.so said. "Well, you found me. Now get my carriage so I can go home."

A lot of people were respectfully furious with him for the rest of the day.

The first letter from Aelius; Landed; more resistance than antic.i.p.ated, dealt with successfully, losses trivial. Establis.h.i.+ng fortified camp at Bilemvasia. Am leaving for Voroe to begin second front.

And that was all. Two agonising days of waiting; then a letter from Ba.s.sano, brought in on the first returning cargo s.h.i.+p: Well, here we are.

The trip out was pretty miserable-cold and wet, it rained nearly all the way and the s.h.i.+ps got thrown about a lot. The captain was worried at one stage, tried to talk Aelius into turning back, putting in to Voroe; might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Made landfall (see, I'm learning the technical terms) mid-afternoon, not dawn as we'd hoped. Someone must've seen us floundering about in the gulf, because there was a fair-sized army waiting on the beach. Aelius reckons somewhere in the region of seven thousand, so presumably the local tribal militia. Occurs to me to wonder how they knew we were hostile; the sheer number of s.h.i.+ps, maybe, too many for a trading convoy. Still, how long does it take to convene the tribal militia? Maybe not all that long; someone turns up on a horse and yells, "To arms!" or words to that effect; run back to the huts, grab a s.h.i.+eld and a spear, off you go. Then again: time elapsed between first sighting of fleet in bay and army drawn up on beach, two hours? If we knew more about these people, it'd be a great help.

One day here and already I'm blase about it all. A fair-sized army. Well, to me, clinging to the rail as we lurched in on a tearaway wave, it was absolutely terrifying. A beachful of people, and all of them wanting to kill me. All I could think was, oh G.o.d, what are we doing? let's get away from here while we still can; then realised the wind was blowing us straight at the beach; couldn't turn back even if we wanted to; this ghastly thing was going to happen, and nothing could be done about it. Wisely, kept all such thoughts to myself, stayed on s.h.i.+p, didn't get under people's feet. Watched battle.

You get used to it. From where I was, I could only see a little slice of the action. I saw what looked like a fence, all pretty colours; figured out that what I was looking at was the Mavortine s.h.i.+eld wall, as described in the briefing notes. Too far away to see people as people-just dots. I guess it's easier, on balance, if it's dots.

I was thinking, that's a h.e.l.l of a lot of dots, how on earth are we going to get off the s.h.i.+ps without being wiped out? Then there was this creaking, banging, whistling all round me. Aelius' s.h.i.+p-mounted artillery. I'd clean forgotten about it. I was below deck all morning, feeling like death because of the s.h.i.+p dancing about. While I wasn't there to see, they must've dug out the crates, a.s.sembled the machines from the kits of parts and set them up on deck; just like that, easiest thing in the world. Shows how observant I am, I hadn't even noticed they were there until they started going off all around me.

Nasty shock for the Mavortines. Suddenly, the air's full of flying stone b.a.l.l.s a foot across. Much too far away for me to see what happened when one of those things landed. I dread to think. The noise was enough to turn my stomach; all that strength and power. As a stone goes over, you can hear it spin-swish-swish-swish, only the sound changes the further away it gets. Nearest comparison is the sound of people whispering about you behind your back. I was scared stiff, and they weren't even aimed at me.

I guess we must've picked up the range pretty well; the s.h.i.+eld wall moved back up the beach, and we were coming right in close. We dropped anchor just short of running aground, and then people started jumping into the water. Orderly lines, queuing up, then over the side and splas.h.!.+ I guess they did it because the sergeants told them to. You wouldn't have got me to do it, not even with a cattle-prod.

First ash.o.r.e were the archers; they formed up in line and laid down covering fire. Air still full of swish-swis.h.i.+ng stones; Mavortines not doing much, just standing there, dots. Disembark the heavy infantry. Loads of men splas.h.i.+ng about in the water, couldn't hear yourself think, everybody soaked to the skin, everybody shouting. Aelius went ash.o.r.e with the heavy infantry.

It's easy to say the Mavortines were dumb or chicken. They let us land unopposed, for fear of the artillery barrage. Bad mistake. What they should have done was ignore the head-sized solid granite hailstones, never mind if a few dozen men get pulped; be there to fight 'em in the water, don't let a single one set foot on the sand. I suppose that's the difference between soldiers and people.

As it was, they got the worst of it both ways. By the time they charged down the beach at us, we'd got three ranks of heavy infantry formed up, with a skirmisher screen and archery batteries in the centre and on the wings; artillery still pounding away; they tried to charge home, got within fifty yards, stopped. Men behind still running in, men at the front standing still or trying to turn back. Complete mess. Aelius orders the advance. Up the beach go our three lines, nice steady walk, a thousand men keeping in step; at twenty yards, present arms; at fifteen yards, lock s.h.i.+elds. Then they just walked into the Mavortines, like walking into a cornfield.

It took no time at all; maybe half a minute. Then the Mavortines were running like h.e.l.l up the beach, our lot still walking at the prescribed pace (they hadn't slowed down, as far as I could tell)-no wild pursuit, just the same determined stroll, walking over the dead and the dying. At some point I noticed the artillery had stopped. Two hundred and fifty yards up the beach, the line halts. No Mavortines in sight anywhere, unless you count a lot of dots on the beach-mess, litter, waiting to be cleared away, like Portway Square after New Year's.

h.e.l.l of a thing. Aelius said we lost three men dead, seventeen wounded; killed between three hundred and three hundred and fifty Mavortines. Couldn't be fussed to count; left them lying, for the tide and the gulls.

When I was absolutely certain it was perfectly safe, I put on my wonderful brigandine (thanks for that, by the way; you have no idea how amazingly rea.s.suring it is to be wearing armour when violence is going on-so much better than socks), jumped in the sea, got very wet, squelched up onto the beach. Tried very hard not to look at the dead bodies. Logically, it shouldn't matter a d.a.m.n. You're just as killed by a one-inch arrowhead as you are by a foot-diameter stone ball. Arrow hits you in the face or the neck, you die instantly. Actually, arrows much scarier-can hit you in the guts and you take hours to die. Stone ball turns you to mush; can't get more instant than that. But I can perfectly well understand why the Mavortines were freaked out by the artillery, something capable of doing that to a human body. Aelius agrees, by the way, only he calls it morale effect.

We thought they might come back while we were unloading the s.h.i.+ps, but they didn't. Had the beach to ourselves. All essentials unloaded by nightfall; sectional ramparts uns.h.i.+pped, a.s.sembled and in place; sentries posted, campfires lit, supper cooking. An hour ago, it was a hundred and fifty acres of sand; now it's a small but prosperous town. Amazing.

I imagine this sort of thing's all in a day's work for General Cows.h.i.+t. Having nothing better to do, I looked up opposed landings in the Book. It said: if possible, lay down an artillery barrage; land archers first, followed by heavy infantry; seek to engage enemy at earliest opportunity. Which is exactly what he did. I imagine he thought: well, done that, tick it off the list and get on with the next stage. To me-well, who gives a d.a.m.n? The thought that was uppermost in my mind, even uppermoster than Oh s.h.i.+t, this is scary, was: what am I (Ba.s.sia.n.u.s Arcadius Severus Licinius) doing here? What possible function? Took me a long time to figure that one out. I guess I'm here to report back; which I'm doing.

That's about it. Tomorrow we advance, with a view to taking Bilemvasia, wherever and whatever the h.e.l.l it is. I can't help thinking, this is a b.l.o.o.d.y odd way for human beings to spend their time.

Cordially, Ba.s.sano.

Ba.s.so reported to the House. He told them that the expeditionary force led by General Aelius had landed at Bilemvasia. They had met with strong resistance, estimated at seven to ten thousand, who were routed with ease. Estimates put enemy losses at five hundred dead, at a cost of only three Vesani. He called for a vote of thanks and a day of national thanksgiving. Pa.s.sed unanimously.

Arriving back at the Severus house, he got out of the coach, then stopped and looked hard at one of the sentries.

"Excuse me," he said, "but aren't you the Czar of Permia?"

The sentry looked at him and went white. Ba.s.so smiled at him, and went inside.

From Ba.s.sano; I was right. Been here a week, feel like I've been doing this my whole life.

News first. We have occupied and are fortifying Bilemvasia. News ends.

We just walked in. Place was empty. Really strange. All the doors of the houses were open, like they were in such a hurry to leave they didn't have time to close them. Or maybe it's one of those places where you never close your door. No, scrub that. You'd have to, because of the cold, and the pig would get out.

No exaggeration. The pig lives in the house-hut-with the family. A man I was talking to who reckons he knows a bit about these people said, well, of course. The pig's more important than any other member of the household; it's going to see you through the winter. Chickens not quite so important, so they live in a coop out back. The cows stay out all year, which is hard to believe.

G.o.d, these people are poor. Define poor. In any society, I guess poor means not having as much as somebody else. For all I know, the people of Bilemvasia are the bloated aristocracy of Mavortis, grinding the faces of the rural proletariat. But they basically live in one room, and they don't seem to have got around to inventing the chimney yet. There's a hole in the roof, and smoke finds its own way out. Eventually. Sanitation means please don't s.h.i.+t in the well. Mostly I tend to think of them as a different species, a kind of two-legged upright animal, until I remember that Melsuntha came from here and presumably once lived like this.

Mostly, I guess, they're just different. Hark at me, by the way, the world's leading authority. I haven't seen a (live) Mavortine yet, let alone spoken to one. But they think differently; sort of sideways, if that makes any sense. We've been having all sorts of fun interrogating hapless locals who didn't run away fast enough. We can understand the language, but not what they're saying.

Give you an example. Trying to find out where the enemy army is; the sort of thing you do if you're in a war. Hopeless. It's not that they won't tell us; they can't. We kept asking them: is the enemy at Periboule? Is the enemy anywhere near Mensicertha? They look at us and say, Sorry, where? Turns out that every tribe and sect has different names for all the places. Two villages on either side of a river: one village calls it one thing, the other calls it something else, and the killer is, they don't know (or care) what the other lot call it, because they never talk to the other lot. I can't begin to imagine how a society functions like that; well, it does and it doesn't. When one village absolutely has no choice but to discuss geography with its neighbour, they'll say, the river that comes down from the big mountain due north of here; and the neighbour replies, you mean the river that comes down from the big mountain due south of where we comes from?

It would've been nice if someone had thought to mention this, and other similar quirks of behaviour, before we got here. But that's another Mavortine thing. They don't tell you things unless you ask. Really. Ask them an unambiguous question and press a red-hot iron to the soles of their feet, and you get a straight answer. But volunteer information? Simply not done. I guess the rationale is: if you're from round here, you already know. If you're not from around here, screw you.

Anyway; we caught some kid who used to live here, and he said the Bilemvasians have gone up the mountain and won't come down again till we've gone. We have no interest whatever in chasing after them. The mountain is not a place you'd want to go. It's all narrow pa.s.ses and ravines, just right for ambushes; which is basically the Mavortine way of war. On the other hand, there's nothing to eat up there and precious little water, so the idea is to stay here and starve them out. Won't be long, we argue, before their cattle have grazed off what little pasture there is and drunk all the water; and then they'll be back, and we can negotiate a civilised surrender. I can't help thinking it may not be as simple as that. But for now, they're no bother. The army that met us on the beach is nowhere to be seen; we've sent out scouts, mostly Hus (they arrived the day after we did; very efficient), and they haven't come across more than one or two straggling civilians. Something the size of an army's too big to hide, even in the mountains. This fits in with what we've been told: the militia will come together for a day or so, to fight a battle, but then they just wander off, even if they're winning. I guess that's why Mavortine workers back home have such a lousy reputation for being unreliable. The idea that you have to come in to work every single day must be hard for them to get their heads around.

This is a miserable place, the last place on earth, but I have to confess, it's utterly fascinating. Living in the City, you sort of come to believe that everybody's really the same; and they're not. Some people are just so different, it's hard to imagine that we're the same species. Thinking about it, I guess that Mavortines in the City just want to blot it all out, forget all about home, pretend they were never here- ("Quite right," Melsuntha said. "And we do. I'd forgotten about the place names, until I read it here.") -which is understandable, I suppose. Also, the Mavortines seem to have the knack of deliberately forgetting-when someone dies, for instance, the family just forgets about them, which I guess saves on grief and heartbreak. Is that a trick worth learning, do you think? Not sure. There does seem to be a sort of twisted, Mavortine-specific, survival-oriented logic to everything they do, but they're so different, none of it would be any use anywhere else. Like that country up north somewhere where they use three-foot iron bars for money.

I think that conquering this country will be a piece of cake. Keeping it conquered may well be a different matter entirely. It all depends-this is going to sound strange-it all depends on whether they notice us or not. If we build forts and stay inside them and only come out now and then to rob, burn and kill indiscriminately, it won't be long before we're accepted as just another nasty fact of life (and there are so many of those that one more would be neither here nor there). If we try and change them, on the other hand, there may well be h.e.l.l to pay. I don't know. We'll have to wait and see.

Aelius is up north, of course; you'll probably have heard from him, we haven't. Brigadier General Glycerius is in charge here, and he's doing a fine job (I promised him I'd tell you that, and it's true). He's a good chess player, but very sad about the total lack of local women. He's understandably reluctant to discuss his plans with me, but I gather he's getting ready to march on Bous, which is the town (for want of a better word) belonging to the next big tribe. It's called Bous on the map; what its name will be when we get there is anybody's guess. Like it matters.

I've read the first three books of the Dialogues; enjoying them very much, but it's like a voice from another world. If someone told me that water flows uphill here, and the sun rises in the west, I'd be inclined to believe it.

Cordially, Ba.s.sano.

Segimerus, the famous philosopher, turned up unexpectedly in the City. He hadn't been heard of for three years (rumour had it that he'd spent the time alone in a cave on a mountain top; Ba.s.so, who found his work abstruse and annoying, reckoned it was more likely he'd been in prison somewhere), and once word had got about, the inn where he was staying was besieged by his admirers. One of the stable hands managed to fight his way through the blockade, and arrived at the House with a letter for the First Citizen.

"I suppose I'm honoured," Ba.s.so said, scowling at it. "The great man wants to see me. My lucky day."

Cinio, who'd been secretly wondering about the chances of getting his copy of The Mist of Reason signed, said: "It'd be fantastic publicity. Segimerus comes all the way here just to consult the First Citizen. You could appear on the balcony together."

Ba.s.so mouthed something under his breath. "Well," he said, "Ba.s.sano likes his stuff. All right, fit him in somewhere. And find out if he actually wants anything, apart from lunch."

Yes, he did want something, but no, he wasn't going to tell anybody but Ba.s.sia.n.u.s Severus, in person. "Typical," Ba.s.so muttered, when they told him. "An overrated hack doing his wizard impersonation. So much more important than simply running the country."

Segimerus didn't look anything like what Ba.s.so had expected. He was quite young, maybe thirty-four or five; short-haired, clean-shaven, neatly and conventionally dressed, with rather a long nose and soft, dull grey eyes. Apparently he'd signed Cinio's book without a murmur.

"I'd like a pa.s.sport," Segimerus said, "so I can go to Mavortis. I gather that since I'm a civilian, I need a travel warrant signed by you personally."