The Folding Knife (18 page)

Bassano pulled a face. "Now he tells me. Why the change of heart?"

"It's what you wanted."

"And since when was that a good reason for anything?" It was a quotation, of course, from the collected aphorisms of First Citizen Bassianus Severus. "Mind you, that wasn't the only reason. Mother's been on at me. Basically, it was either join up or move out, and I simply can't face packing up all my stuff and finding somewhere. Also, I have genuinely been thinking about what you said. The priesthood's a good career, so long as you don't get bogged down in the religious side of things."

Basso had intended to shout at him, but it came out as a sort of ferocious laugh. "For crying out loud," he said. "Oh well. Tragazes'll be disappointed."

"The gentle giant? What's he got to do with it?"

"You were going to go and sit in with him for a month."

Bassano grinned. "Is that right? Well, in that case." He shook his head. "The idea being, I suppose, that after a month with Tragazes I'd run away and join the circus, or enrol in pearl-diving school or something."

"More or less," Basso admitted. "So that's all right. But seriously. You're not just doing it to please your mother?"

"No," Bassano said, running a fingertip round the edge of his empty glass. "But it is a factor, yes. I guess you haven't heard Mother's news."

Basso didn't like the sound of that. "I would, of course, be the last person to hear."

"Indeed." Bassano looked away. "She's getting married."

It would have to be that moment when they brought in the food: the very finest sea bass, caught that morning in the bay, in a sauce cooked by an Isacian that Basso had hired specifically because he knew how to handle sea fish properly. Neither of them even looked at it.

"Say that again," Basso said.

"You heard."

"All right. Who?"

Bassano waited a full three seconds before answering. "Olybrias. You know, he runs the--"

"I know who he is," Basso snapped, so savagely that Bassano winced. He wasn't too keen on loud noises. "But that's ridiculous," Basso said. "And anyway, she can't. He's not even a citizen."

"Actually, he is," Bassano said quietly. "Or he will be in three weeks' time, when the Donatives come out. Apparently he made a large contribution to Optimate funds, so the Labieni have adopted him."

"That's..." Basso could feel his chest tightening. He lowered his voice. "For God's sake," he said. "General Aelius isn't a citizen, and he's the Commander-in-Chief. What sort of sense does that make?"

Bassano had the grace not to point out the obvious flaw in that line of argument. "You could stop it," he said. "If you wanted to."

"Interfere with the Donatives?" Basso laughed. "Sure I could, if I don't mind committing political suicide." He shook his head. "You know, it's a crying shame we don't let women into politics. Think what a leader of the Opposition your mother would have made. It's the simplicity of it that really impresses me; that, and the sheer intensity of the malevolence."

Bassano looked at him. "So what are you going to do?"

"Me?" Basso shrugged. "Nothing. At least, not till I hear the rest of it."

"You think there's more."

"Definitely. And I can see several lines of attack she could be following, but until she tells me, I won't know which it really is. I'll say this for her, she makes life interesting."

He didn't have long to wait. A letter arrived the next morning: if his schedule allowed, could he possibly spare her half an hour, say at noon? If so, she'd call at the House; no need to send a carriage.

"Well?" he said.

He hadn't seen her for ten years. The shape of her face was basically the same, but she'd put on weight; she looked swollen, as if she'd been stung by a wasp, and her hands and wrists were soft and pudgy. There were streaks of grey in her hair; the fact that she'd left them grey was a statement in itself. She was wearing plain black, with no jewellery.

"Thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice," she said. "May I sit down?"

"Do what you like," he replied.

"Thank you." She perched on the edge of a chair, her hands folded in her lap. She looked as though she'd come to apply for a job as a nanny. "I suppose my son's told you my good news."

"For pity's sake," Basso snapped. "Will you stop that?"

She blinked at him; reminded him of Tragazes, which really wasn't good. "Stop what?"

"Being polite. It doesn't suit you."

"You might try it some time."

She's better at this than me, he thought, so I'd better change the rules of engagement. "Quite right," he said. "So, yes, Bassano did tell me."

"And you're happy for me?"

He gave in and sat down. "Oh, delighted," he said. "I'm sure you must be as happy as a songbird. You're going to marry my chief business rival, who also happens to be a high-profile supporter of the Opposition. Short of stabbing me in the neck, you could hardly have done a better job."

She smiled at him. "So you're not going to make difficulties."

"Sorry, no." He smiled back. "If you mean, am I going to veto his grant of citizenship in the Donatives, I'm afraid I can't oblige you there. When I decide to end my political career, I'll do it my own way, not yours."

"I'm so glad. We were hoping to get married as soon as the Donative formalities are out of the way. If we'd had to fight you in the courts..."

"You'd lose."

"Yes, but think of all the harm it would do you. So it's just as well you're going to be sensible, isn't it?"

He breathed out, until he'd drained all the air out of his lungs, then slowly breathed in again. "Why do you want Bassano to be a priest?"

"Because I don't want you luring him into the Bank," she replied. "But I'll come to that later. I just want your promise about the citizenship. To make sure we understand each other."

"I promise," Basso said sourly (and he thought: she's making me sound like a little boy). "All right," he said. "Can we stop messing about now, please? What's the deal?"

She looked at him as if he'd just propositioned her in the street. "You don't change, do you? You always have to attack, whatever happens."

"I'm sorry you think so," he replied. "But no, I don't. I'd far rather negotiate. So, please, tell me what you have in mind."

She nodded, rather gracefully, as if accepting his surrender after a long and unnecessary siege. "First," she said, "you leave my son alone. I don't want him coming here, seeing you, spending time with you. I don't want him writing to you, or you writing to him. Second, under no circumstances is he to join the Bank. Also, I don't want you giving him shares in the Bank or anything like that. He's going to be a priest. Do you understand?"

Basso nodded. "And if I agree, you won't marry Olybrias."

"That's right. Oh, I haven't quite finished yet. There are two other conditions."

Basso sighed. "You're pushing it," he said, "but go on."

"Actually, I'm being rather moderate. I would actually have quite liked to marry again."

"Olybrias?"

She shrugged. "The foundation of any good marriage is a shared passion. Olybrias hates you passionately. I suppose that makes him and me ideally suited. Also, he's a devout Pavian."

"I didn't know that," Basso said, "but it figures. Go on, then. Two more conditions."

"Yes." She unfolded her hands and put her left forefinger on her right thumb, as though counting. "Under his father's marriage settlement, Bassano comes into his money in six months. You're the sole surviving trustee. I want you to resign the trusteeship in favour of the Patriarch of the Studium. That way, he won't get his money until he's ordained, which won't be for three years."

Basso looked up. "That's--" He stopped himself. "Your idea?"

"Mostly. Second," she went on, "I want you to marry again. Since it may take you a while to find someone who'll have you, I'll give you three months--until the twins' birthday. In fact, I can't think of a nicer birthday present for them."

Basso's eyes were wide open. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Certainly not." From her sleeve, she'd taken a neat little rosary: one big gold bead for the Invincible Sun, a big silver bead for the lady Moon, and seven small silver blobs for the stars. She was picking at the Moon with her thumbnail. "The idea is that in due course, you'll give the twins a little half-brother, who'll inherit the Bank. I don't want that woman's children to get anything of my father's. Is that clear?"

That woman. Fair enough. "You know I can't agree to that," he said. "For pity's sake, who in their right mind is going to marry me?"

She frowned, just a little. "The First Citizen," she said. "The richest man in the City. I don't think you'll have any trouble. Just so long as she's fertile and capable of producing young, I really don't care. Of course, I'd prefer someone about half your age, so she'd have lovers. It'd be interesting to see what happens."

Basso looked at her. "I can't do that," he said.

"Pity." She stood up. "That condition isn't negotiable. Take it or leave it."

"The rest, yes." Basso jumped up and stood between her and the door. "That, no."

She took a step back. "Get out of the way, please. I want to go home now. You'll get your invitation to the wedding in a day or so. Do please try and make the time to come."

He didn't move. "Please," he said, "try and be reasonable."

"Reasonable." She spat the word at him, quietly but with an almost unbearable intensity. "I think we passed that stage quite some time ago. In fact, I've been quite unreasonably generous. Now please move away from the door so I can get through. You're just making a fool of yourself."

A solid lump was blocking his throat. If he couldn't get rid of it, he'd choke. Apparently, the only way was to stand aside. She passed him, taking care not to let even the fringe of her sleeve touch him. "Thank you," she said. "I'm sorry we couldn't sort something out, but there it is."

Her fingers were on the door handle. "All right," he said.

She froze, then laughed: a long, silvery laugh, a middle-aged echo of a girl laughing. "Honestly, Basso," she said, "you're pathetic. People think you're so hard and strong, but really you're a pushover. Are you really that scared of Olybrias?"

The lump was gone but his throat and chest were burning, as though he'd been running hard. "No," he said. "No, I couldn't give a shit."

"Really."

"Really." He turned his head away, so as to be able to speak. "But if you hate me that much, I'll do it. Just so you can have your revenge."

She sniffed. "Oh dear," she said. "Melodrama." She opened the door. "And please don't fool yourself," she said. "I've barely started."

Some time after she'd gone, he left the House and headed for home.

In the back lobby, his guards were waiting for him. For some reason they hadn't heard him coming; he found them sitting on the mosaic floor, under the statue of Victory. (The giant gilded bronze used to tower over the front steps on a six-foot marble pedestal, but thirty years ago, one of Her wings broke off, and She was moved out back. A specialist had been sent for, from Auge, to braze the wing back on. He hadn't turned up yet.) They were playing cards and passing a bottle round.

Basso watched them for a moment, then tapped the ring he wore on his left hand against the pillar he was standing next to. They all looked up immediately.

"Go home," he said.

They would probably have argued, pointing out that it wasn't up to him; they'd been assigned to accompany him every time he went out in the public streets, and they took their orders from the City prefect, not the civilian administration. But they must have seen from the look on his face that he wasn't in the mood for that sort of thing. They scrabbled up the cards, the bottle and their helmets and left quickly.

Just Victory and me, Basso thought. He looked at Her, but Her eyes gazed straight out over his head; and besides, the sockets were empty. The bust-off wing was in storage somewhere. He smiled, and bent down to pick up a ten-nummi bit that the card-players had left behind. Of course, he'd never had any trouble with money. It came to him, the way some people attract dogs. He flipped it over and saw his face: three-quarters, looking back over his shoulder, a very fine likeness of someone he'd have liked to have been, once. But it was just soft copper (to help pay for the street improvement programme, he'd halved the amount of tin in the alloy), and so his hair and beard were almost worn away, and there was just a trace left of one eye. That's me, he thought; but even so, I'm worth two bottles of Eburan resinated any day of the week.

He put his hat on, left the House and walked slowly down the Golden Acre to the knot of little streets at the back of the Artillery. There he drank himself; and when he'd finished himself off he drank his father, and two-thirds of Favonius Maeso, who was a sort of second cousin on his mother's side, until his stomach felt bad and he was sick of the taste of resin. At that point, he decided to go home. He stood up; the manoeuvre lacked precision, and he barged into a big, fat man in a leather apron who was propping up the bar.