The Folding Knife (27 page)

She looked at him. "Originality of mind," she said. "Is that why you want to marry me?"

"To annoy my sister," he said.

She nodded. "Better," she said. "But still not good enough, I'm afraid."

He grinned at her. "Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

"I'm afraid my answer depends on yours," she said. "Therefore--"

"Fine." He looked at, then past her. "Do you know why I passed the Enfranchisement Act?"

She shook her head. "No. Do you?"

That made him laugh. "Actually, yes. So I could marry someone who, before the Act was passed, wasn't a citizen and therefore couldn't marry me."

Her face was stern, full of concentration. "That's very romantic," she said, "but it doesn't answer my question."

"Love?"

She shook her head. "You love your nephew," she said, "and your sister. I believe you feel a degree of affection for the old eunuch Antigonus; at least, you'll miss him when he's dead, and not just because he's such a good worker. You may have loved your wife--it would explain why you killed her--but not in the sense most people understand the word."

"And my mother," Basso said.

"You may believe that, but I doubt it. You don't love your sons; mostly, I think, because of their mother. Excuse me if I find it hard to believe that you could possibly love me."

He turned his head sideways and looked at the ground for a moment. Those who knew him well recognised that as a sign that he was structuring his case before speaking. "You know why I haven't had sex since I killed my wife? Not guilt, as such. More that I really couldn't summon up the enthusiasm, and why should I do something that's supposed to be fun if I didn't want to?"

"And I've changed all that, I suppose?"

"I'm trying to answer the point you made," he said irritably. "Am I capable of loving someone? The answer is, I really don't know. Until recently, you might as well have asked me, Can you hold your breath underwater for two minutes? I don't know, and I really don't want to find out."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not familiar with courtship protocols in your culture," she said. "But this isn't how a man proposes marriage where I come from."

"You asked why," he said. "I'm trying to explain, but you keep interrupting."

She shrugged. "Men always take so long to say things," she said. "Not just you, men in general."

"That's because we think before we speak."

"And while you're speaking. You always like to finish your sentences, even when it's obvious what the end's going to be. I find that very strange."

Basso frowned at her. "Fine," he said. "On behalf of all men everywhere, I apologise. Look, if you're going to say no, please do it now. I'm finding this painfully embarrassing."

"We agreed," she said. "I'll answer your question after you've answered mine."

He took a deep breath, as though he was about to try and lift something heavy. "Why," he said. "Well, there's several reasons. As you know, I've got to get married because my sister's blackmailing me. All the women of my own class that we've been considering as potential wives either don't want anything to do with me, or else bore me to death. I know that's not a particularly good reason--"

"On the contrary," she interrupted. "Marriages of convenience are often the most sensible way to resolve a particular difficulty." She looked at him thoughtfully. "If I thought that was the only reason, I'd probably accept."

He smiled thinly. "If that was the only reason," he said, "I'd have asked someone else."

"Another reason, please."

"I wouldn't be afraid," he said.

"Afraid," she repeated. "Of what?"

"Of another day like the worst day of my life."

She gave him one of her businesslike looks. "I can reassure you on that point," she said. "Adultery is reckoned to be a major sin in my culture. Also," she added, "I wouldn't want to get killed. I can see why that would be a substantial reason, though predicated on the first."

He looked at her. "Predicated?"

"Did I use the wrong word? I'm sorry. I meant it to mean, it's only a good reason in the context of the first one."

He nodded. "But if it was just a marriage of convenience, I don't think the situation would arise. I don't think I could murder someone I didn't love."

"Ah." She frowned a little. "We come back to that, then. Is that your third reason?"

He closed his eyes wearily. "I wish you'd just say yes or no," he said.

"At this point, I would have to say no. But I'm prepared to listen to a fourth reason, if you have one."

He opened his eyes wide. "You'd do well in business," he said.

"Was that a reason?"

"No, an observation."

"Ah. I'd have accepted that as a reason."

"It's not on offer."

She shrugged. "Well?"

"Because," he said, "usually I only shout at someone once. If I need to shout at them, it follows that I can't be doing with them. They get fired, or reassigned, so I don't have to deal with them any more." He paused. "I shout at you a lot."

"That's your fourth reason?"

"I suppose it is."

"In that case..." She leaned forward a little, kissed the tip of her index finger and rested it lightly on the point of his nose. "I accept."

* * *

Sentio's face reminded him of a clenched fist. "Why?" he demanded. "For crying out loud, Basso."

"To annoy my sister," Basso said.

"I don't understand."

"I know. But you asked why, and I told you."

Sentio dropped into a chair and breathed out, until Basso was sure there couldn't be any air left in his body. "You know what they'll say," he said. "They'll say you only forced through the Enfranchisement Act so you could marry your mistress."

"To a certain extent, that's true," Basso said. "Though she's not my mistress."

Cinio stared at him. Sentio made a soft, sad noise. "Now he tells us."

"It wasn't any of your business," Basso said. "And there were other reasons."

Cinio stood up, like a man about to walk to the gallows. "We're finished," he said. "Oh well, it was interesting while it lasted, I suppose."

Cinio was wrong. The announcement of the First Citizen's betrothal--to a commoner, an immigrant, one of the new citizens created by the Act--stunned the entire City. The first reaction was that, this time, he'd gone too far, but fairly soon the consensus started to break down. The ordinary voters decided they rather liked the idea of a First Citizen marrying a nobody, instead of some bland aristocrat. The only reason, they decided, was that he'd married for love, which was nice; interesting, too, that Basso of all people should turn out to be human after all. They didn't seem to mind the idea that he'd increased the citizen roll by a third just so he could marry the woman he loved; after all, it made sense of a drastic change that most of them couldn't really understand the need for. Bloody good luck to him, they said, and decided they'd probably vote for him next time, if only to stick up a finger at the great lords who were making so much fuss. The newly enfranchised foreigners would, of course, never vote for anyone else; but the fact that the First Citizen was marrying one of their own kind made their support for him almost embarrassingly fanatical. As for the great lords, the news went down surprisingly well with the hard-core Optimates. It displayed arrogance, they thought, a total lack of interest in what anybody thought about him; that was a characteristic they couldn't help but admire. Furthermore, if Basso was dead set on getting married again, it was probably the sensible thing to do. A marriage alliance with any of the suitable families would have thrown the delicate balance of Vesani politics into chaos. Arrogant and considerate too. Maybe they'd misjudged the man.

So intense was the interest in Basso's engagement that the minor scandal surrounding his nephew's expulsion from the Studium passed almost unnoticed.

The door in the high, bleak wall opened, and a small procession came out: five monks, four of them heavily laden with trunks and boxes, one with a bundle of books in his arms, and Bassano, muffled up in a huge brown robe against the cold, looking very young. He saw the carriage and grinned.

Basso opened the door. "Get in," he said.

The monks loaded the luggage onto the roof. Bassano sat down and reached out two red hands towards the glass of brandy Basso had just poured.

"Not yet," Basso said, moving the glass out of reach. "Bassano, what the hell...?"

"Please," Bassano said. "I'm frozen."

Basso relented, and Bassano swallowed the brandy like a dog fed at table. Basso poured him another.

"It wasn't my fault," Bassano said. "Well, it was, but not--"

"From the beginning."

The coach moved off, flanked by ten dragoons in full armour; an extraordinary sight in the Studium close, but there didn't seem to be anybody around to see it. "You broke the Patriarch's arm," Basso said. "This should be interesting."

Bassano nodded. He was shivering slightly; he'd always felt the cold. "It was my fault," he said. "I shouldn't have let him get to me. But it all seemed so unlikely, if you see what I mean."

"From the beginning."

"Well." Bassano wriggled himself into the corner of the seat and pulled the rug over his knees. He was definitely thinner, and his hair had grown. "I was sitting in my cell--technical term for your living quarters--reading Dalissenus on the immutability of the soul, when two monks came and hammered on my door."

"Hammered?"

"There's monks and monks," Bassano said. "These monks were from the porter's lodge. I knew them; they usually do security. Beating up poor people who sneak in looking for food and throwing them out. Not your usual messengers."

"When was this?"

"Late," Bassano replied. "After midnight prayers. Most people are asleep by then, but I don't need that much sleep, and it's a nice, quiet time to catch up on your assignments."

"Go on."

"Well," Bassano said, "they took me to the Patriarch's office. Never been there before, but I knew where I was going; there isn't anything else down that end. I asked the monks what was going on, but they just said, 'You'll see,' which didn't sound promising."

"And?"

"Basically," Bassano said, "he'd called me in so he could have a go at me. I have no idea why. He started off by saying I was the most useless student they'd ever had there, which is simply untrue; I've been doing really rather well, and all the tutors seemed very pleased. I couldn't make head nor tail of that, so I just stood there looking blank. Then he told me I was idle and arrogant and various other things, some of them perfectly true; then he accused me of making advances to the novices, which wasn't true at all; then he started going on about my father."

"I see. Saying what?"

"This and that," Bassano replied. "Mostly, how he deserved everything he got." Bassano shrugged. "I just stood there thinking, this is really strange. It didn't bother me."

"And?"

"Then he started talking about you."

"Really," Basso said quietly. "What did he--?"

"Lots," Bassano said. "How you were a disgrace to your family and your class, how you'd betrayed the purity of our race for a few easy votes; political stuff."

"Did you say anything?"

Bassano shrugged. " 'I'm sorry you think that way,' or words to that effect. I was embarrassed more than anything else."

"Then what?"

Bassano pulled the rug across his chest. "Then he told me you were getting married. It was the first I'd heard of it. I assumed he was lying."

"Actually--"

Bassano nodded. "I asked, afterwards. And I remembered, my mother's clever idea and all that. Uncle--"

"He told you about the betrothal. And?"

"I said I didn't believe him, and he got quite worked up. Started shouting, instead of drawling. I'm afraid I shouted back."

"And?"

"And then I hit him," Bassano said. "With a candlestick. It seemed to be the only way to make him shut up."

Basso sighed. "You couldn't have just left the room."

"I know," Bassano said. "Violence is an admission of failure. It didn't occur to me to walk out. I think I thought I couldn't, because it wasn't allowed."

"Your logic--"

"I wasn't thinking straight," Bassano said. "He said it was really just as well you were marrying your foreign whore--he didn't say foreign, he used a different word--because when you went crazy and cut her throat, it'd be no great loss."

"So you broke his arm."

"I was aiming for his head," Bassano said. "But he moved."

Basso clicked his tongue. "Anticipate your opponent's reactions," he said, "it's the first rule of hand-to-hand combat." He paused, then said, "Your mother--"

"Won't be happy, no."

"She'll blame me."

Bassano frowned. "How? It was nothing to do with--"