The Folding Knife (39 page)

"They did it first," Basso said. "Which is the answer that the House wants to hear," he went on, changing the pitch of his voice. "And I agree, it's not a very good answer, when you stop and think about it. The Mavortines who'll get killed when we invade had nothing to do with the raid on the Treasury. Nor is it a good enough answer to say that if we don't invade them, someone even nastier than us will. The next favourite, we're better than they are, is self-contradictory. No," he went on, lifting his head a little, "it has to make sense, or we'd be wrong to do it."

Bassano looked uncertain. "So it's not about minerals."

"No." Basso paused, as though he was listening to what he'd just said. "The iron and the copper are what's in it for us. The bigger answer is rather complicated."

"I've already heard this," Melsuntha said, getting up. "I'll go and see about some brandy and honey-cakes."

"Did he convince you?" Bassano asked.

"Not to begin with," Melsuntha said. "So I changed his mind a little."

"Quite," Basso said, with a wry grin. "It's no good making speeches at her. Unlike the noble senators in the House, she has a disconcerting habit of listening to what you say."

"Good practice for you," Melsuntha said over her shoulder, and left the room.

When she'd gone, Basso settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He listens to her, Bassano thought, with a degree of amusement, and he has to be careful what he says. "So," he said. "The complicated stuff."

Basso nodded. "All right," he said. "Tell me, what's the essence of a good deal?"

Bassano thought about that. "You make a profit," he said.

But Basso shook his head. "A good deal is where both sides make a profit," he said. "That way, both sides will want to deal with each other again. It's better to keep the other man happy and make ten per cent ten times than rip the other man off and make thirty per cent once." He paused to massage his forehead with his fingertips, then went on: "Same, I believe, in international politics. If you're going to take something from someone, you'd be wise to give them something in exchange. Otherwise, you're just a pirate, and quite soon you'll annoy all your neighbours, and they'll gang up on you and do you harm."

Bassano frowned. "So you're going to buy the Mavortines' iron."

"In a way," Basso said. "The essence of a good deal is that you get something you didn't have before; something you need. What the Mavortines need, rather desperately, is government."

Bassano laughed. "They might argue with that."

"Actually, I don't think so. The country's on its knees. It's not like this is how it's always been. Two hundred years ago, there was plenty of land to support plenty of sheep and cows and not many people. Also, they had a government, of sorts; they had tribes and clans, and there was a kind of a system--pretty relaxed, but none the worse for that. But then some fool came along, about a hundred and seventy years ago, and tried to unite the country into a standard monarchy. He rooted out the tribe and clan structure, so when they got rid of him there was nothing left of it. As a result, you've got hundreds of villages, all at daggers drawn with their neighbours; you've got poor husbandry leading to overgrazing, leading to endemic famine. They need someone to run the place. Just ask Melsuntha--she'll tell you all about it, when you've got a couple of hours."

Bassano realised he was kneading his left middle finger between his right forefinger and thumb, something he only did when he was anxious about something. He made himself stop. "And that makes it all right for us to go in and take the place over?"

Basso nodded. "I believe so," he said. "And after that, we use Mavortine troops to invade Scleria. Then we do the same in Auxentia." He stopped and grinned; Bassano was staring at him. "I imagine you'd like to know why."

"If you wouldn't mind."

Basso dipped his head. "Sooner or later," he said, "there's going to be a war involving us, the Sclerians, the Auxentines and whoever we sign up to do the actual fighting. But we won't be fighting each other. We'll be fighting the Eastern Empire. And," he added, "we'll lose."

Silence, for a while. Then Bassano said: "That seems hard to believe."

"Only because you don't know the facts," Basso replied. "We all grew up thinking the Empire has had its day. We learn about it in history, and we're told it outgrew its strength, crashed and fell apart. Well, that's true, up to a point. They've had a hundred years of miserable civil wars, on and off, with first one general seizing power, then another. But that's changing now. There's a strong family in charge now; a son recently succeeded his father without bloodshed for the first time in eighty years. The whole Empire is so thoroughly militarised that they can't live without war. The whole economy's based round the army, which is huge and very well trained. If they stop fighting each other, they'll start fighting someone else. They want to get back what they lost. The way they see it, everything to the west belongs to them as of right. They won't trade with us, they won't even talk to us; they don't recognise our governments, because they think of us as rebels and upstarts. When they come, if we aren't united and ready for them, they'll roll over us in about ten years."

Bassano looked at him. "You're serious."

"It's happened before," Basso said simply. "Eight hundred years ago, when the Empire was first formed. What they had then, and what they've still got now, is practically unlimited manpower. And remember Cantacusene."

"Remind me," Bassano said helplessly.

Basso laughed. "Six hundred years ago," he said. "Cantacusene, the Empire's last great general. He invaded the West and conquered Scleria and half of Auxentia in just five years, before his emperor got nervous about how popular he was with the troops, and called him home and had his eyes put out. Once he'd gone, everybody went back to normal and pretended it hadn't happened. But it happened all right." Basso shook his head. "Cantacusene was a military genius, an exceptional man; but they have a nasty habit of breeding exceptional men out there. Besides, it wouldn't take a military genius to wipe the floor with us, or the Sclerians. The Auxentines would be a bit harder to knock down, but on their own they wouldn't stand a chance in the long run."

"All right," Bassano said carefully. "Suppose for the sake of argument you're right. Surely what we need is an alliance, not a Vesani empire."

"Sure." Basso shrugged. "And in an ideal world, you'd be able to pick beef puddings from a beef pudding tree. Simple fact: a voluntary alliance won't happen, and if it did it wouldn't last five minutes. It's got to be imposed, by force. I'd rather we did it than either of the other two. They aren't quite as enlightened as we are."

Bassano was quiet for a while. Then he said: "And that's the reason."

"It's one of the reasons," Basso said. "If there's one thing I should've taught you by now, it's that there's always more than one reason."

"All right," Bassano said. "Give me another."

Basso yawned. Then he said, "The Vesani aren't farmers. We make things and sell things. We run banks. We build and sail ships. But there's thousands of Vesani citizens who don't know where their next meal's coming from; thousands more who just get by. If we build up the fleet, plant colonies, there'll be work for everybody, and for all the foreigners who dream of coming here for a better life. Better still, the system pays for itself. I can't feed all the hungry families in the City by taxing the rich; they'd have my head on a pike. So we let the foreigners do it; and in return, we sort out the mess they've got themselves into, and we stand a chance against the Empire when it decides to take back its birthright." He looked at the expression on Bassano's face and laughed. "I know," he said. "It's appalling, isn't it? Wanton aggression, imperialism, bloodshed and untold human misery, and here I am, calmly planning it all. I ask you, Bassano, what sort of a monster have you got for an uncle?"

But Bassano shook his head. "That's not the reason," he said.

"Quite right." Basso nodded. "It's two good reasons, you have to grant me that. But not
the
reason."

"Which is?"

"Simple," Basso replied. "I want you to succeed me as First Citizen."

Once, when Bassano had been walking down Portgate, shortly after dark, a smartly dressed young man walking the other way had stepped out in front of him, slapped him across the face, and walked off. For quite some time, he was too confused to think, let alone register the pain of the slap. Later, he'd rationalised that the man was drunk or crazy, that it had actually happened, and it meant absolutely nothing. At the time, though, he'd had extreme difficulty believing in it, as though he'd been called upon to believe in a Cazar tribal god.

"You're serious," he said.

"Well, of course." Basso seemed surprised by his reaction. "It's the logical step. I'm limited by law to three terms of office. I intend to serve four--there'll be a crisis in the third year of my third term; they'll insist that I stand again to see the Republic through, and they'll pass a special dispensation. I'll protest like crazy, until they make me realise I have no choice. Four threes are twelve: in twelve years, you'll take over from me. It'll have to be you. They won't accept anybody else."

"You'll see to that."

"Of course," Basso said, as if thanking a waiter for bringing his soup. "In twelve years' time, we'll be fighting in Auxentia, and the Empire will be a year away from the Sclerian border. The fleet will be the biggest employer in the Republic, the public revenues will be three times what they are today, and taxes will be lower in real terms. I'll be getting the Bank ready to hand over to the twins. I plan to retire altogether when I'm sixty. You'll serve four terms and beat the Empire. You'll have to make your own mind up about what you want to do after that. I doubt I'll be around."

Bassano couldn't help laughing. "You've decided which day you'll die on, then."

"Don't be ridiculous," Basso said with a grin. "But I don't suppose I'll last very long after I give up the Bank. I'll have done everything I want by then, and living just for the sake of it never struck me as a worthwhile activity."

"Uncle." Bassano tried to find some words, but it was like catching elvers. "What makes you think I'd even want to...?"

"It's the only thing for you," Basso said quietly. "Because you're my nephew, which entitles you to aim high. Because you've got a brilliant mind..."

Bassano shook his head. "You're giving me reasons again," he said. "I've had it up to here with you and your reasons. Tell me straight, just for once. Why would you want to do this?"

For a moment Basso looked as if he was going to refuse. Then he said; "I owe it to your mother."

Bassano opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, "Oh."

"I killed her husband," Basso said, "and ruined her life. She won't let me even try and make it up to her. So I've got to make it good through you."

Bassano closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes," he said, "I can understand you thinking like that. And..."

"Yes?"

"Mother would like that," he said heavily, because it was true. "She'd be pleased that I was following in my grandfather's footsteps. Not yours, of course. I think she'll persuade herself that you never existed."

Something in the way Basso's face didn't move when he said that. "Well, then," Basso said. "There's your reason."

Bassano breathed out, something he'd neglected to do. "Uncle," he said. "When I wanted to join the Bank, you wouldn't let me. You said you didn't want me to turn into you, or something like that. But now you want me to--"

"It's not the same thing." Basso was shaking his head vehemently. "You're nothing like me, not in the things that matter. And when you're First Citizen, you won't do the job the way I'll have done it. You'll be completely different. Which is why I've planned it this way. It'll take a man like me to build the empire. It'll need someone like you to make it work."

Bassano sighed. "More reasons."

"Be quiet a minute and listen," Basso said urgently. "I meant what I said. Building an empire calls for a bastard like me: an unprincipled, amoral, calculating butcher who'll run the world like a bank. If it's going to survive and actually mean anything, it'll need someone like you: someone with brains, who cares deeply about right and wrong, and who never wanted the job to begin with. A better man, in every respect; but a better man couldn't do what I've got to."

Bassano looked at him, trying to see behind his soft, bright eyes. "Or else the Eastern Empire will roll right over us."

"Yes," Basso said, and his grin was entirely humourless, "but that's not the reason. Paying my debt to your mother isn't the reason. It's because it's inevitable. By that stage, there will be no other possible candidate; and I'm not talking about the opinions of the voters. There has to be a clear succession, from me to my appointed heir, or else the whole thing'll come apart. The twins..." He sighed. "They're good boys, and I've treated them appallingly badly. It's not their fault, any of it, but I can't forgive them for having that woman as their mother. I'm not even sure I'm their father. They can have the Bank--a third each, and you'll have the other third, by right; it's what your mother should have had, so the twins will understand. They're devoted to you, of course. It's the only thing we have in common."