The Proof House (67 page)

‘You,’ she said. ‘Pack it in.’

Dousor looked at her.

‘Don’t start,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a splitting headache thanks to you and your incessant banging. It’s got to stop, understood?’

Presumably Dousor intended to explain, as he’d explained to Venart, about the war effort and his patriotic duty. But he didn’t, possibly because with her other hand Vetriz had picked up the pincers, the jaws of which were red hot on account of being carelessly left in the fire, and was holding them about an inch under Dousor’s beard.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just as soon as your brother and I work out the compensation.’

Vetriz stared him in the eye. ‘It’s all right,’ she said quietly, ‘we don’t want any compensation. Now start packing up all your silly tools and things, while Ven sends out for the carrier’s cart.’

After that, there were no more loud noises from next door, and Venart was able to get back to work. Even without the ring of hammer on steel, it wasn’t easy to keep his concentration; the revised heads of agreement from the provincial office were couched in such ambivalent terms that they could mean anything, nothing, or both simultaneously.

‘You’re going to have to tell someone about this,’ Vetriz said. ‘Tell him, Athli. You can’t make a peace treaty with the enemy and not
tell
anybody.’

‘I’ve told the Council,’ Venart replied irritably. ‘And the Ship-Owners’, and the Guild. Who does that leave, really?’

‘You’ve told the bigwigs,’ Athli pointed out, ‘and made them promise to keep it to themselves. That’s not the same thing at all.’

‘You think they can keep a secret? Come off it.’ Venart allowed himself a small, weary smile. ‘Telling Ranvaut Votz something and making him promise not to repeat it is the most efficient means of disseminating information the world has ever seen. I expect they know about it in Colleon by now.’

‘All right,’ Athli said. ‘But you haven’t told
us
. Which means that everybody’s rushing around in a panic, not knowing what’s going on. You know what Eseutz Mesatges did when she heard the news? She went out and bought up fifteen crates of swords and a dozen barrels of armour parts, on the basis that when all the swords and armour are confiscated, the government’s going to have to pay compensation, and she’s figuring that the difference between market value and assessed value’s going to be a substantial profit. You can’t let people carry on like that, there’ll be chaos.’

Venart blinked, then said, ‘I’m not responsible for the way people like your friend Eseutz choose to behave. I just want to keep the lid on things till we’ve had a chance to lick these bloody terms and conditions into shape; and I don’t want to do that yet, for obvious reasons.’

‘Obvious to you perhaps,’ Vetriz said. ‘Enlighten me.’

‘Simple.’ Venart put the parchment down, and it rolled itself back up into a tube. ‘If I can spin things out till Bardas Loredan finishes with Temrai, then we’ll be talking to him and not some devious bastard of a Son of Heaven. Well? Can you think of a better way of handling it, because if so I’d love to hear it. Playing diplomatic chess with these people is way above my head, but unless we can put up some sort of a show, we’re in deep, deep trouble. Or didn’t you read that extradition clause?’

Neither Vetriz nor Athli seemed to have anything to say; the name Bardas Loredan had somehow put them off their stride.

‘I’ll take that as agreement then, shall I?’ Venart said. ‘Although since when I had to get your approval for acts of state I’m not entirely sure. It’s bad enough trying to keep Votz and that lunatic from the Guild off the premises without you two ganging up on me as well.’

Athli seemed to pull herself back from an entirely different train of thought. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But really, Ven, trying to win a cleverness match with the provincial office isn’t very - well, clever. You’re playing on their side of the court.’

Venart nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but at least I know that. Remember what Father used to tell us, Triz? Properly handled, the other man’s strength can be his greatest weakness? They know perfectly well they’ve got me completely muddled and confused; what I’ve got to do is find a way of staying muddled and confused long enough for Bardas Loredan to win his damned war. Look at it from that perspective, and I think you’ll see what I mean.’

Athli stood up. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘Remember, this is politics, not a sardine deal.’

Venart groaned. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I’m well aware that I’m out of my depth, haven’t got a clue what I’m doing and shouldn’t be trusted with running a whelk stall, let alone a government. Just because something’s true doesn’t always mean it’s helpful.’

Athli put a hand on his shoulder, then walked out across the courtyard to the small room she was using as an office. Not that there was much to do; business was at a standstill, she had no means of communicating with head office in Shastel, and nothing to tell them even if she had been able to get a message through. It was all rather depressing; everything she’d achieved by luck, hard work and native ability had somehow managed to melt and drip out between her fingers.

Maybe—People were leaving the Island, she knew that. At first they’d been circumspect about it; they’d announced their intentions of going off to buy food, loaded everything they could aboard their ships, slipped out of the Drutz in the early morning and not come back. Now they weren’t even bothering to lie. Looked at from a more rational perspective, it was remarkable that so few, relatively speaking, had done the sensible thing - of course it had been the same in Perimadeia, except that only a few hopeless pessimists had really believed the City would fall. She’d been one of them; and now it was time to go again, without shame or regret, taking with her any of her friends who chose to come with her, as calmly and sensibly as (say) Niessa Loredan abandoning Scona . . .

It was true to say (she decided, reviewing the facts like a historian) that once upon a time she’d cared about Bardas Loredan; cared a lot. Loved? Sloppy, imprecise term. She’d worked with him, done what she could to keep him in one piece when the horrors of his trade started to get to him, been there for him, worried herself sick every time he’d stepped out on to the courtroom floor but never once shown it - always so confident that she knew and understood him, the way nobody else did. Now it was true to say that she didn’t love him, although that didn’t stop her thinking about him all the time - but that had been then and there, this was now and here, and she’d carried his luck this far, to this conclusion. She’d always known, somehow, that as long as she cared for him he would survive. It was as if she’d been keeping his life safe for him, in a stout steel-banded locked wooden box, while his body went out and did violent, irrevocable things to the world. After all, she was a banker; he’d deposited his life, his luck with her, made it her responsibility. She’d carried it safely out of Perimadeia, guarded it for him while he tried to make something of his life on Scona, been entrusted with his apprentice and his sword; she’d taken it from him again when he’d lost his last hopes and dreams in the Mesoge, and sent her away. Well; and now he was coming to the Island, where she’d set up in business on her own account as a taker of deposits and creator of opportunities. Time to hand it back, to render her accounts and be discharged; to leave it for him here, in the condition he would expect to find it, paid up, balanced and signed off, and then to go away.

Some clients are more trouble than they’re worth.

Which only left the question: what should she take with her? To which question, the answer was simple. Her writing-desk and counting-board, a few changes of clothes, a small case of books and all the ready cash she could put together in the time available.

 

Vetriz soon got bored watching her brother fretting over his paperwork and went to her room.

It was a nice room. She had a comfortable bed, a rather grand and melodramatic chair with big carved arms and legs, a rosewood dressing table inlaid with lapis and mother of pearl (she’d bought it in Colleon and made Venart find space for it on the ship, much to his disgust; it meant throwing a whole barrel of sun-dried herrings over the side to make room), an ivory and brass mirror that gave her skin a wonderfully flattering golden tone, three chests full of clothes, a silver lamp on a turned sycamore stand that was as tall as she was, a rack for her seven pairs of shoes, a book-box, with padlock, a small stool with an embroidered seat, two genuine Shastel tapestries (one of them thought to be a School-of-Mavaut, but the other one was much nicer to look at), a writing desk and a chequer-board that doubled as a chessboard, with a set of attractively carved chessmen (horn and bone), an embossed brass water jug all the way from Ap’ Elipha (a present from her father when she was six and really wanted a doll’s house) - all nice things, solid things to define her life with. She had a polished marble floor (cold underfoot on winter mornings but beautifully cool in summer; sometimes she slept on it when it was really hot) and a view over the courtyard.

And that was about it.

She lay down on the bed. There was a headache gathering behind her eyes which a short nap might dissipate. She snuggled her head into the pillow and -

- ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’

‘I’m not here yet,’ he replied.

‘Ah.’ She looked at him carefully. He looked older - well, that was only to be expected, he
was
older - but otherwise pretty much the same. For some reason he was dressed as a fencer, the way he’d been when she first set eyes on him in the courtroom in Perimadeia; in fact, that’s exactly where he was, standing in the middle of the black and white tiled floor, like a counter on a counting-board, a reckoning piece. She wondered how much he stood for.

‘How are things with you, anyway?’ he asked.

‘Oh, not so bad,’ she replied automatically. She realised that she was standing in the middle too; she was standing a sword’s length away from him, and the needle-sharp point of his vintage Spe Bref law-sword was just under her chin. If the black lines are whole units, she thought idly, then I’m a ten and he’s only a five. No, that can’t be right. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘A trial,’ he replied; and they were standing on opposite sides of a workbench, in a dark, rather damp-smelling thatched workshop. On the bench between them was a bow - what they called a composite, if she’d got that right, the sort that’s made out of sinew and horn and bone and things like that, held together with glue boiled down from skin and blood. It was fixed in some sort of wooden clamp, with a notched bar set in the middle at right angles.

‘It’s called a tiller,’ he explained. ‘It’s for applying stress and tension. Now then, let’s see how far this beggar’ll bend before it breaks.’

- And they were in a cellar, with a high ceiling and stone floors, standing beside a pile of pieces of armour, body parts. ‘A trial,’ he went on, ‘which is another way of saying, a putting to proof.’ Gently, almost tenderly, he took her hand in his and laid it softly on the anvil. ‘This may sting a bit,’ he warned her, as he raised the big hammer.

‘Just a moment,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’m sure this is all quite important and necessary, but why me?’

He smiled. ‘How should I know?’ he replied. ‘I only work here; you want to ask the Sons of Heaven, they probably know.’

That struck her as odd. ‘What’ve they got to do with it?’ she asked. ‘I mean, they weren’t there in the beginning.’

He frowned. ‘True,’ he said. ‘Hold this for me, would you? It’s important you keep it steady.’ He turned her hand over and put into her palm a head, a young man’s head, about her age. ‘King Temrai,’ he explained. ‘He’s the plaintiff.’

‘Really? And you’re for the defendant, I suppose.’

He frowned. ‘I’m not sure any more,’ he replied. ‘Still, that’s all out of my hands now, thank goodness.’ He brought the hammer down, using his back and shoulders to get the maximum force. The head rang, as clear and crisp as an anvil. ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘All right, we’ll pass that. Now let’s see.’ He reached down behind the anvil and produced another head. ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘you know him, don’t you?’

She nodded, as he put Gorgas Loredan’s head on to the palm of her hand. ‘He takes after our father,’ he was saying. ‘I took after Mother. They say I’ve got her nose.’

Under the hammerfall the head split and disintegrated, like a rotten log; but he’d been slightly off his aim and knocked the head off the hammer. ‘Decapitated the blasted thing,’ he said irritably. ‘Not to worry, though. I have a spare.’

- And drew his sword, the beautiful antique Guelan broadsword that Athli had kept for him for a time. Vetriz could feel the needle-sharp point just pricking the middle of her neck. ‘Well, go on, then,’ he said; and she was aware that everybody in the courtroom was staring at her, all the thousands of people packed into the spectators’ galleries - plainsmen, Perimadeians, Scona, Shastel, people from Ap’ Escatoy, Islanders who he’d killed over the years, all come to watch him fight. She could see herself, and Ven, up in the back gallery where they’d been sitting all those years ago. She felt the urge to wave to herself, but didn’t.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

‘How should I know?’ he replied. ‘You’re the plaintiff.’

She shook her head and felt the sword-point nick her. ‘I don’t see why,’ she said. ‘In fact, I really don’t see why I got mixed up in all this in the first place. Is it just because I can - well, see all this stuff, which other people can’t? I know Alexius thought I was somehow making things happen, but—’

‘You don’t want to believe in all that Principle stuff,’ he replied. ‘If you ask me, that’s making it unnecessarily complicated. You ask Gannadius, next time you see him. No, it’s a question of cause; we can leave the blame and guilt out of it too, that’s just lubricant. What I really want to know is, did I start it, or was it him?’