The Belly of the Bow (9 page)

 

Alexius sat up, startled.

‘Your sister?’ he queried.

‘My sister,’ Gorgas replied. ‘All on her own, to begin with; and then I joined her, and we carried on from there. But she was the one who started it all; credit where credit’s due.’

‘I see,’ Alexius said. ‘And what did she do?’

‘Simple.’ Gorgas stifled a yawn. ‘She founded another bank.’

‘Another bank?’

Gorgas nodded. ‘The Loredan Bank, which she established here on Scona fifteen years ago, when this was an uninhabited island with only the ruins of the farmsteads the Foundation had cleared out after a minor revolt. Actually, she was clever; she
bought
the island from the Foundation, and a trading franchise which she never intended to operate. But it gave her a reason for being here while she was setting up the Bank and starting to put out feelers among the hectemores, planting the idea in their heads. Then, when the time came, she anticipated the Foundation’s first strike and formed a business alliance with some long-term trading associates who also conveniently happened to be pirates: safe haven on Scona in return for stopping the Foundation from crossing the straits. They did a wonderful job, proper warships against the barges and tenders which were all the Foundation had available; I believe about seven hundred of Shastel’s finest went to the bottom that day, heavy armour and all. They’ve never tried it since, and as soon as Niessa had put together her own army she soon got rid of the pirates—’

‘Your sister has an army?’ Alexius asked mildly.

‘Yes indeed. Well,’ Gorgas said, ‘I’m in charge of it; that’s mostly what I do. But it’s her army, just as it’s her Bank. Let’s say it’s all in the family.

Alexius took a deep breath and let it go. ‘So what exactly did she do? I mean, how does this Bank of yours work?’

‘It’s all very straightforward,’ Gorgas replied. ‘The hectemores borrow from us to pay off the capital of their loans to the Foundation. Then they pay us. But we only take a seventh, just like in the original deal. And we don’t throw our weight about quite so much as they do, in the parts of Shastel we now run. Of course,’ he went on, ‘the Foundation doesn’t just sit there and take it; when a family remortgages, they send a raiding party to burn down the house and kill the people. And we send a raiding party to stop them; or, if we don’t happen to get there in time, to stop them doing it again. We’re very popular with the hectemores, of course; and we’re gradually opening up more and more territory where they can join us if they want to. They always do. You might say,’ he added with a wry grin, ‘that we’re a benevolent institution, just like the Foundation used to be.’

‘I see,’ Alexius said. ‘It sounds like a good idea.’

‘Oh, quite,’ said Gorgas Loredan. ‘It always does.’

From her window on the fifteenth floor of the east wing of the Citadel of Mount Shastel, on a clear day, Machaera could see across the lagoon to the small, rocky island of Scona. It wasn’t an impressive sight. At best, she could make out a brown hump on the skyline with no particular features, and when the sky was grey and grainy with snow-clouds there was nothing to see except a slight variation in colour and texture. But she often sat for hours at a time at her window, looking out and wondering why the Scona people hated her, and her family, and the wonderful Foundation she had worked all her life to belong to.

This afternoon there was a slight flurry of snow on the sea and the island was indistinguishable from the slate-coloured water of the lagoon, which made it hard for her to focus her thoughts and send them there. She sat with her elbows on the stone window ledge and let her eyelids droop; she’d be able to see better with her eyes closed (there was a paradox for Doctor Nila’s collection) and her mind open. A little snow drifted in through the open window and flecked her face with moisture, like tears.

As a lifelong student of the Principle, Machaera had been taught various techniques for focusing her mind. Most of them were more tricks than anything else, ways of fooling herself into believing that she was in a heightened state of awareness and thereby more closely attuned to the Principle than usual; she found them annoying, because surely it was stupid to try and trick oneself. But there was one, a simple mental exercise, that she did sometimes find useful. It was basically just a way of clearing her mind of irrelevant thoughts, a room-tidying procedure, mental housework, but the fact that it was prosaic didn’t make it any less effective.

She screwed her eyes shut, as if forcing her eyelids together could some how wring out the recollection of what she’d been looking at and make them lightproof, then allowed the muscles of her face to relax. That part of the exercise alone always made her feel more at ease, less concerned with success or failure. She took a couple of deep breaths and began the job of locating the various parts of her body and relaxing them. After a few minutes she yawned, which was a sign that she was doing the exercise properly.

One by one she examined the thoughts and memories she found cluttering up the floor of her mind. She imagined that she was in a library, and that the floor and tables were covered with books, left open and abandoned. She imagined herself picking up each book in turn, dusting it off, winding it tightly and sliding it into its tube, slotting it back into its proper place on the shelf. Here, for example, was the book of trivial distractions, containing such things as the pair of sandals that had to be collected from the cobbler, the raw patch of skin on her elbow where she’d grazed it on the chipped rim of the well, the slight headache that always bothered her when there was snow in the air. All those she solemnly rolled up and filed away, then turned to the book of intrusive preoccupations—

(
Choose a place at random and read before rolling it up: the war, the enemy; why must there be a war now, in my lifetime? Why now, it isn’t fair; I have so much to do, so much to learn, I’m only young for such a short time, why must the war descend on me like an obnoxious relative who comes visiting when you want to be alone and refuses to leave? So many things impractical, impossible because of the war - the chance to travel, to visit great libraries in other cities, to learn; Mazeus on active service, instead of here, to talk to and listen to when there’s something I’ve read or thought of that has to be discussed; roll up this book, it’s fatally distracting
.)

One by one she rolled them up and put them back, even the bewitchingly tempting book of speculations, in which was written all her thoughts on theories and interpretations, everything she wanted the truth to be (
that one especially; roll it up and put it on the top shelf
) until the desk was clear and her mind was ready to receive a new book. She visualised it, lying on the polished wood in front of her. She imagined the burnished brass tube with the label pasted on it; pushing her first and middle fingers into the top and opening them, pulling back to slide out the rolled-up book, taking the slender wooden batten to which the top edge of the roll was pasted in one hand, easing back the rest of the roll with the other, nudging across her heavy wooden ruler to stop it coiling back, reading the first section, which was always the same—

The one Principle that pervades all things - the concept is nebulous and vague enough to deter all but the most determined. Sometimes the thread is so wide and clear that it seems mundane and obvious, therefore not worthy of study. At other times, the stream dwindles down into so slight a trickle that it appears to be a figment of the imagination, something one deludes oneself into perceiving because one desires it so urgently. Between the general and trite, the doubtful and the self-made evidence, there is a dangerous temptation to steer a middle course, to assume that the truth must be the average of the available alternatives; which is like trying to write history by taking a vote from a convention of historians, assuming that the majority opinion must be the truth. But in the pursuit of the Principle, there is no place for common sense, belief or democracy. The Principle cannot be amended or simplified or improved. The Principle is that which it is
.

Dry, uncompromising words that all students were required to know by heart; not something to believe, since belief presupposes scope for doubt - rather something to accept, in the same way one accepts the fact of death, which does not need to be believed in. So much for the preface; she pictured herself bobbing an awkward curtsey before a stone image standing in front of an archway, waiting uncomfortably for a moment before being allowed to proceed.

And then she was through the gate and into the open air, with no roof or walls crowding around her; she always pictured the contemplation of the Principle as a garden (how foreigners laugh at the Shastel people for their obsession with little patches of organised nature, regimented grass and troops of well-drilled flowers that stand to attention and present petals at the word of command!) where she was free to sit or walk, to work for the benefit of the garden or to cut whatever she wanted without fear of spoiling the display. Sometimes she came here to weed out errors and false conclusions, to dig and mulch and flick out stones, to mow and prune and break off the dead heads of redundant enquiries. At other times she came with a basket over her arm to gather what she wanted and take it home, although it wasn’t quite as straightforward as that - the garden gave her what it wanted her to have . . .

She opened her eyes and saw a workshop. It reminded her of the cooper’s yard where her father used to work, because she could see a long bench with a heavy wooden vice clamped to it, and on the wall hung familiar-looking tools, the drawknife and the spokeshave and the boxwood plane, the H-framed bowsaw, the heavy rasp and the wooden blocks inset with pads of sandstone, the bundle of horsetail rushes, the chisels, the gouges, the hickory mallet and the small copper hammer. The floor was carpeted with curled white shavings, and on the crossbeams that braced the rafters of the roof rested billets of rough-sawn green timber, adding the sweet smell of sap to the more delicate scent of newly sawn cedarwood. Light slanted into the shop through an open shutter, and fell across the back of a man crouched over a billet clamped in the vice, which he was working down with a large block plane, his arms and shoulders moving with an oarsman’s rhythm. She could only see the back of his head; but the old man who was sitting just outside the light was facing her, although the shadows masked his features.

‘And then what happened?’ he said.

The other man stopped working and straightened his back with a little grunt of discomfort. ‘Oh, it was all anticlimax after that,’ he said. ‘It turned out that my confounded sister had sent the ship to pick me up - if I’d known that, I’d have taken my chances swimming. But I didn’t, and they delivered me here like a parcel, FOB as per the bill of lading, and I was marched up the hill to pay my respects and be properly grateful.’ The man picked up his plane and fiddled with the set of the blade for a few moments. ‘Kept me hanging about in her damned waiting room for best part of an hour, which didn’t improve my attitude.’

‘And were you?’ the old man asked. ‘Properly grateful, I mean.’

‘I don’t think our old friend the City Prefect would have approved of my manners,’ the craftsman replied. ‘I can’t say that I behaved terribly well. And no, I wasn’t. On the other hand, I did manage to get out of there without hitting anybody, which was probably just as well. There as an awful lot of professional muscle lounging about in there along with the pen-pushers. I have the feeling that if I’d lost my temper, I’d have left there in a sack.’

‘It didn’t strike me as a particularly friendly place,’ the old man said. ‘So then what did you do?’

‘I wandered down to the harbour, that place where everybody takes their evening stroll, and sold my mailshirt. Got a reasonable price for it, too; enough to buy some tools and have enough left over for the makings of a fine hangover the next morning, which was when I started walking. When I got tired, I stopped, and here I am.’

The old man nodded and lifted a wooden cup to his lips. When he put it down again, the craftsman topped it up from a tall terracotta tub that stood on the floor in a pail of water to keep it cool. ‘And the boy,’ the old man went on. ‘What about him?’

The craftsman laughed. ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he said, ‘once we’d reached Scona and I’d made my duty-call on my sister, I’d more or less forgotten about him. Pets, waifs and strays, charity cases - I’ve never had much time for that sort of thing. I’d gladly dump my loose change in some poor devil’s hat if I felt sorry for him, but my rule was always that charity ended at home, and if a stray dog follows me in the street, it’s asking for trouble. No, I reckoned I’d done enough for the kid pulling him out of the bonfire, and the rest was up to him.’ He sighed. ‘No such luck.’

‘No?’

He shook his head. ‘He turned up one morning looking all lost and sorry for himself, and as luck would have it I was trying to put in a gatepost, which is an awkward job to do single-handed; so without thinking I said, “Grab hold of that,” and he held the post while I knocked it in, and then he held the crowbar while I dug the hole for the other post, and then he helped me get the lintel up and held one end while I closed up the dovetails. And then, when the job was done and I realised he’d been helping me and never said a word except, “Like this?” and, “Where d’you want this to go?” I hadn’t got the heart to tell him to get lost, so he’s been here ever since. I’m teaching him the trade, and on balance he’s more help than hindrance. It’s funny, though,’ the craftsman went on with a chuckle. ‘When I’m trying to teach him something and for some reason he just can’t or won’t get it, and I stop and listen to myself, all patient and reasonable to start with and finally losing my temper and bawling the poor kid out - it’s like I’m the kid and I’m listening to my father, back in the long barn at home. And that makes me stop shouting, at any rate. I remember it all too well myself.’