The Folding Knife (65 page)

"No," he said. "Right now I'm more concerned with not being in the City, if you see what I mean."

"I'm going east," she said.

He looked at her. "Why?"

"I'm going home," she said. "To Mavortis."

That made no sense. "Why the hell should we want to go there?"

"You're not coming with me," she said. "You got me out of the City. Now I don't need you any more."

"Oh," he said.

She was looking thoughtful, as if trying to decide what to wear for a reception. "You don't want to go to Mavortis," she said. "And you won't want to go anywhere with me."

Very rarely, Basso woke up with a headache. He reckoned it came from lying wrong in the night. Nothing could be done about it; it always went away of its own accord in the late afternoon. While it lasted, though, he was always utterly wretched, because the constant nagging pain broke his concentration and made him temporarily stupid; the worst thing he could possibly imagine was being stupid, not being able to think. That was how he felt now.

"Why not?" he said.

She lifted her head and looked straight at him. "I have a confession to make," she said.

Confession. He frowned, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. "Well?"

She'd kicked off her shoes and was lying with her back to the tree trunk, legs stretched out in front of her. She looked like a child. "During the war," she said, "I wanted to help my people. I found out who the leaders of the insurgency were. Turned out they're distant relatives of ours. Of course, in Mavortis everybody's related to everybody else, if you go back far enough."

No sense whatsoever. "You were
spying
?"

She laughed. "I suppose so, yes. Only I really wasn't very good at it. Nothing I could tell them was any use to them. By the time they heard it from me, they knew it already. And I did so want to help."

He looked at her. "Why?"

"They're my people," she said, as if the question was too ridiculous for words. "And every time you sent more soldiers and more money, I told them and they wrote back: but what can we
do
? And I couldn't suggest anything. Aelius was going to win, we all knew that. Even when he went into the forest, we knew he'd win. There were simply too many of you and too few of us."

He tried to concentrate, to crack her words and pull out the meaning, but he couldn't get a grip.

"And then there was that dispatch from Permia," she was saying. (Permia? He groped for the name. Somewhere north-east. He'd heard the name recently.) "The outbreak of plague there. Actually, we've got you to thank. All that research you had done about the different types of plague and how they work. I got a copy of the report you had the doctors draw up, and I realised that the plague in Permia was the really bad sort, the one that people catch off each other, and it spreads really quickly and kills you in a few days. Among the case histories in the report were several armies that had been wiped out by that sort of plague; armies besieging cities, mostly, or in places where they were all cooped up together. So I wrote to the leaders back home and told them to send their best men to Permia and get hold of at least a dozen people dying of the plague, and bring them back to Mavortis. Then they'd sneak into the field army's camp and leave them there." She was looking down into her cupped hands. "They didn't want to, but when Aelius went into the forest they did it; just in case Aelius won. Well, it wasn't Aelius, but that didn't matter. They couldn't get close to the camp, so they left the plague victims in a village, along with a load of corn. When the foragers from the army came to get the corn, they caught the plague and took it back with them." She shrugged. "I knew it'd work, and it did."

Basso knew the feeling. He'd felt it once before. This time, though, it made him numb. "You did that," he said. "You killed Bassano."

"I suppose so, yes," she said.

He was on his feet, though he couldn't remember having moved. Something was in his right hand, and his useless left hand was fiddling with it, his fingernails picking at the slot on the spine of the blade, for folding the blade out of the handle.

"Oh," she said, looking at him, "I see. You're going to kill your second wife as well."

Was he? He'd managed to get the blade out. He looked at the thing in his hand, the pretty slim gold-handled penknife. He'd brought it because it was worth money.

"No," he said, and tipped his hand so it fell to the ground. "There wouldn't be much point."

"Suit yourself," she said. "I was prepared for it. I wouldn't have blamed you."

He stooped slowly, picked up the knife, folded it, put it away. It was still worth money. "But why the hell did you do it?" he asked, quietly, not understanding.

"To save my country," she said.

"I didn't realise..." He shook his head. Too stupid to be able to think through the mess in his head. "I didn't think it mattered to you."

"Shows how well you know me."

He tried to sit down, slipped, landed heavily on his backside, jarring his back. "If you'd come to me and said, don't do this, for my sake."

"Would you have stopped the war?"

"Of course." Bloody stupid question. "Of course I would."

She looked stunned, quite empty. Then she said, "It never occurred to me."

Stupid woman, he thought. "You realise what you've done," he said. "Didn't you see the reports? They've got the bloody plague in the villages now. It'll kill half your precious people."

"I know," she said. "But we'd rather die than be conquered."

That was so ridiculous, so utterly stupid, it made him want to scream. But that wouldn't help. He looked at her, and all he could see was a stupid woman. He was sick of the sight of her.

"Fine," he said. "You go, then."

Obediently she stood up. "If I'd asked," she said, "would you really...?"

He didn't answer. He wanted her to go away as quickly as possible. She'd killed Bassano; but he wasn't angry, somehow. You can't be angry with someone that stupid; just nauseated. "Get out of my sight," he said.

She walked away. He didn't look up until he was sure she'd be out of sight, in case he saw her again. When he lifted his head and looked round, there was just the road. He didn't even know which way she'd gone.

He pulled off his boot and fished out a gold nomisma. He turned it over and looked at his face on it. Bassianus Honorius Arcadius Severus, by the grace of the Invincible Sun First Citizen of the Vesani. His head in profile, facing left; his deaf ear turned toward the viewer. Private joke. After a while he put it back and pulled his boot on.

He didn't feel stupid any more. Nor did he have any interest in looking over his shoulder, towards the City. His sister was still there, presumably. By now, the mob would have looted his house, probably set fire to it. They'd have smashed in the doors of the Bank. He tried to remember, but Basso the Magnificent, Basso the Fortunate eluded him. Just the face on the money. He grinned.

True, his own wife had betrayed him; committed a crime so extraordinary, so bizarre, that he could barely get his mind around it. She'd done it for her side, so that they'd won, even though it meant half of them dying in misery, pain and fear. Sides were all that mattered; Bassano had said that, so it had to be true. He thought about the picture on the beautiful yellow coin--Bassianus Severus on one side, Victory advancing left on the other side. Two sides of the same coin; and there's no such thing as good or bad luck. Things just happen.

He stood up, and he felt wonderful. He knew it wouldn't last. Fairly soon, the full weight of loss would drop on him and crush him, like a stone from a siege engine. Fairly soon, hunger and weariness would turn him into an animal. Right now, however, he was a free man, with nothing and nowhere to go, and all his enemies behind him, not knowing where he was.

He drew his sister up into his mind, and felt nothing. Also, he reminded himself, he hadn't killed his wife. The penknife had been in his hand, and he'd folded it and put it away. He felt proud, as though he'd achieved something.

A middle-aged man, deaf in one ear, useless left hand.

He walked until it was too dark to see, then lay down beside the road with his bag for a pillow. He was too hungry to sleep, and Melsuntha had taken the biscuits. He lay with his eyes open, looking at the stars. They seemed hostile, like tiny white insects. He tried to analyse the situation he found himself in, but he found he couldn't accept any of it. Really, he was still head of the Bank, First Citizen, the bewilderment and admiration of the world, and Bassano was still alive, and for some reason which he'd doubtless remember in due course he was choosing to sleep out under the stars. He watched the sky grow dark, and saw orange and red oozing out of the seams. When the dark was thin enough for him to see the road, he got up, winced at six different variations on cramp, and started to walk. His feet hurt.

He had the road to himself; nothing to be seen anywhere, not even sheep. He found a stream, leaking out of a hillside; the water was slightly brown and tasted of mud. How long, he wondered, can you keep walking without food?

When he reached the top of the hills and looked down, and saw the road below him divide north and east, he decided to go east after all. Somewhere in that direction was Auxentia. He was fairly sure the Auxentines would kill him if they realised who he was; that or lock him up and send him home, or to the Empire, so same difference. Like it mattered.

He walked all day, and mostly he thought about food, about how hungry he was, though from time to time he thought about how much his feet hurt. As the sun went down, he saw a building beside the road, a grey stone square block. One of the Bank's post-houses.

The resident was an old man, who didn't want to open the door. Basso showed him a silver coin, which changed his mind.

"There's no food," the old man said.

"Pity," Basso replied, and put the coin back in his pocket. The old man gave him a poisonous look, went into the back room and came out again with a third of a loaf of grey bread and a yellow brick that might once have been cheese.

"Do I get pickles with that?" Basso asked, but maybe the old man was deaf. Basso put the coin down on the one ancient table. The old man picked it up and put the plate down where the coin had been. That's the epitome of trade, Basso thought; really, that's all you need.

The bread was so hard it cut his mouth.

The old man wanted more money for letting him sleep on the floor. Basso grinned at him. "I haven't got any more money," he said.

"Fuck you, then," the old man said, and went out back, slamming the door behind him.

In the morning he set off again, before the old man emerged. At nightfall he came to the next post-house, but it was shuttered and the door was barred from the outside.

At noon the next day he met a man and a woman driving an empty cart. They stopped and looked at him. He asked them if they could sell him some food. They looked at each other as if he'd made an obscene suggestion. He took out his other silver coin and held it up between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand.

"We got bread," the woman said (the man scowled horribly at her). "And cheese and sausage."

Basso nodded, but didn't move his hand. "Can you give me a ride?" he asked.

"Where are you headed?" the woman asked. Basso shrugged. The man dug the woman in the side with his elbow. "Sorry," the woman said. "You want the food or not?"

His portrait in silver bought him a whole loaf of grey pumice, enough cheese to cover the palm of his hand, and eight inches of plaster-cased sausage. He thanked them. They drove on without saying anything.

He rationed the bread, a flake at a time; then he cut shavings off the cheese with his penknife; then he ate the sausage all in one go. That night it rained, and he had no shelter; he sat with his arms wrapped round his knees, and the rain crept between his collar and his neck. In the morning, he stood up and faced the road. There seemed to be just as much of it as there had been the previous day, and the day before, and the day before that. On balance, he thought, force of habit is the most compelling reason for staying alive.

In the middle of the afternoon he climbed up a hog's back and saw in the distance a cart. As he came closer, he saw it was actually a coach. The horses had been unyoked and hobbled to graze. He had six turners in copper, and the contents of his boot.

He came closer, and saw a man sitting inside the coach, with the doors shut; no sign of a driver or anybody else. He walked up and tapped on the door. The man inside was asleep, his chin on his chest. He was magnificently dressed in a purple and red gown crawling with gold thread and gold buttons. He was fat, about sixty, with thin grey hair brushed over his bald patch.

Basso knocked again. The man woke up and looked at him. "Get lost," he said.

Basso was no expert, but he had an idea the purple gown was some sort of priestly vestment. "Excuse me," Basso said. "Can you spare me some food?"

The priest scowled at him, opened his mouth, then froze. "I know you," he said.

Oh for crying out loud. "I don't think so," Basso said, trying to be pleasant.

The priest was rummaging in his copious sleeve. He found a purse, opened it and took out a coin; a gold nomisma. Basso sighed. "I get that all the time," he said. "But I'm not him, really."