The Folding Knife (14 page)

Basso smiled thinly. "People reckon that my answer to that question would be no. If we want to keep our neighbours and enemies on their toes, we have to do what they least expect from time to time. Otherwise, we're predictable, and that's not good for business. My father used to say: every now and then, fly off the handle, overreact, pick a fight for no reason; it makes people a bit more cautious about pulling your tail."

Aelius paused for a moment. He'd only just registered how the room was lit: by four long, narrow vertical windows, made up of dozens of small panes of yellow glass, which turned the light to gold. Then he said: "You're not entirely happy about it."

If Basso was surprised, he covered it up quickly. "Well done," he said. "Presumably Cinio said I've been acting strangely. Well yes, I'm not happy about it at all. War is an admission of failure, and I've failed to uphold the Republic's reputation for brutality and ruthlessness. People are starting to think of us as civilised, which is another way of saying soft. So, sooner or later it's got to be done, and if we do it now, we get something useful out of it."

"The timber."

"Correct. That'll be your main objective. Once we've secured Opoion and garrisoned it, we'll declare peace. All right?"

Aelius dipped his head. "If that's what you want. I don't actually know where Opoion is, but I'm sure we've got a map somewhere. Can we do it?"

"You're the soldier."

"Yes, but can we do it?"

Basso nodded. "Piece of cake," he said. "It's a tongue of land sticking out into the sea. Simultaneous amphibious landings on either side of the narrowest point. When they see our fleet in the Gulf, they'll assume we're headed for Perigouna--that's their second city--so you should have an unopposed landing. In fact, you may get it done without having to fight."

"That would be good," Aelius said gravely. "And then what? Do we start chopping down the trees, or do we just sit around waiting for something to happen?"

Basso laughed. "I'll let you know when the time comes," he said. "Seriously, though, it's possible. It all depends on who gets the upper hand in the political dogfight they're going through right now. If it's the old families allied with the city people, they probably won't fight. If the small to medium landowners manage to patch up a deal with the southern gentry, they'll want a proper war. I'm afraid you won't find anything to help you in your book," he added. "Much too recent. When that was written, the Eumolpidae were still in power."

Aelius smiled and pushed the tube deeper into his pocket. "I only bought it for the pictures," he said.

"Oh, there's useful stuff in there," Basso replied. "Good sections on geography and topography, and some of what he says about the legal system is still valid. Most of the rest of it's copied out of an even older book, and everything else I think he just made up."

They discussed equipment and supply issues for a while, agreed a provisional timetable and managed to avoid falling out over a budget. Then Aelius left, and Basso leaned forward across the desk, his head in his hands. He was still sitting like that a quarter of an hour later, when his nephew walked in.

"Headache?" Bassano asked.

"You could say that," Basso replied. "I've just started a war, and I'm not quite sure why."

"Oh." Bassano walked round the desk to the gilded cedarwood cabinet where Basso kept the wine. "Can I get you one?"

"No, thanks. There's enough garbage in my head without adding to it chemically."

Bassano poured himself a drink, and brought the bottle with him. "I heard about the war," he said. "I was a bit surprised. I thought you always reckoned war's an admission of--"

"Yes," Basso said. "And I do. Which makes me ask myself why I did it. If I'd failed at something, I'd have thought I'd have known about it." He sighed and opened the biscuit box.

Bassano shook his head. "So?" he asked.

"The only explanation I can come up with is that I lost my temper," Basso replied. "Which I rarely do." He took a biscuit and put it down on the desk. "I've been playing stupid diplomatic games with those clowns, and they're a little bit better at it than I am; not good enough to beat me, but I haven't been able to beat them, and meanwhile they keep on poking me with a stick, to try and needle me into making a mistake. Usually I pride myself on my patience," he added, "but I guess they caught me on a bad day."

Bassano nodded. Yesterday had been his mother's birthday. He'd been there when she sent away Basso's present unopened, as she always did.

"It's not a mistake, though," Basso went on. "We ought to do quite well out of it, in fact. It's good to be a man of peace, but it's bad when that's how people think of you. Did you ever meet Gannarus? No, he died before you came to the City. He used to be our coachman, when I was a boy. Anyway," Basso went on, lifting his head to look at the painting directly above him, "he told me once that when he was a boy and his parents sent him to school--he came from a good family in his own country, poor devil--the first thing he did on his first day there was find the biggest boy in the playground, pick a fight with him over some nonsense or other, and smack him round the head with a lump of rock. After that, he said, he never had any bother from the other kids, even though he was small for his age and a born coward. Really, I suppose, I should've done this earlier."

"You started off with the war with Scleria," Bassano reminded him. "Maybe you thought that'd do."

Basso shook his head. "They attacked us," he replied. "That's different. That's where the school bully picks a fight with you, and you deck him. The virtue of the Gannarus protocol lies in your attack being unprovoked and gratuitous. If you let the bully start it, you're inviting his competitors to have a go at you later on, to see if they can do better. But people generally steer clear of someone they suspect of being dangerously unbalanced." He yawned, and picked up the biscuit, while Bassano refilled his glass. "I've made a lifetime study of violence," he said. "I like to tell myself I study it in the same way a doctor studies a disease, but that's not entirely true. Trying to run a business, or a country, come to that, without using violence is like playing the harpischord and only using the white keys. No," he added with a frown, "bad example. I'll have to think of a better one sometime. Anyway, how are you? How's your mother?"

Bassano pulled a face. "Hard to live with," he said. "This religious phase she's going through shows no sign of wearing out. It's a pain in the bum, believe me."

"I do," Basso said earnestly. "Really I do. How far has it gone?"

Bassano scowled. "When I left home this morning," he said, "there were six priests in the house, and Mother had them debating the indivisibility of the soul." He drank half his glass of wine. "She wants me to read for the priesthood," he said. "It's getting quite embarrassing."

"Have you thought about it seriously?"

"Uncle Basso, don't say things like that. Not funny."

Basso leaned across the table and topped up his nephew's glass. There was something, subtle but not capable of misinterpretation, about the way he did it that told Bassano there wouldn't be any more. "It's not the worst idea ever," he said. "No, really, think about it. I can get you fast-tracked through seminary, so you won't actually have to read anything, and then, as soon as you're ordained, we'll find a way of getting you a good monastery."

"Uncle Basso..."

"Hear me out," Basso said. "You don't have to run it in person. You don't ever have to go there, even. Half the monasteries in the Republic are held by absentee priors and abbots. What matters is, you get control of the land and the endowment money. A hundred years ago it was a recognised career path, like the House or the army. Even now, the major temples own nearly a fifth of the fixed capital in this town. Meanwhile, you can put in a good freedman as manager and do what the hell you like." He smiled. "And wouldn't your mother be pleased."

Bassano wriggled, as if trying to slip out of a net. "I'll think about it," he said.

"You mean no." Basso shrugged. "Face it," he said, "sooner or later you're going to have to do something. I only suggested it because it's as close as anything to what I know you really want to do."

"Which is?"

"As little as possible. Which is fine," Basso added quickly. "The less you do, the less chance there is that you'll do something wrong. Really, I think the priesthood would suit you much better than the law. Too much work in the law. Could seriously impinge on your free time."

Bassano pulled that face: tease me if you enjoy it, but please get it over with. "Actually," he said, "I've been thinking. How would it be if I joined the Bank?"

Basso sat very still for a moment or so, and when he spoke his voice was much quieter. "Your mother wouldn't want that," he said.

"No, but I think I would. No," he added quickly, "please listen. A few months back, I started following the markets; just for fun, to see how I got on. I pretended I had a hundred thousand to invest, and I've kept a ledger and accounts; you can see them if you like. The fact is, if it'd been real money, I'd have made fifteen thousand profit by now. I really do believe I've got the touch. Inherited, of course, from my uncle."

Basso sighed. "For a start," he said, "it's not quite the same when it's real money. Also, the market's been rising steadily all this year--too much, as it happens, which means there's going to be a nasty fall. Have you predicted that? No, I don't suppose you have. It's not something you can pick up just by light of nature."

"You did."

"No offence, but you're not me." Basso looked away, apparently concentrating on a painted angel just above the door. "For which you should be eternally grateful. I don't doubt you could learn it easily enough," he went on, "particularly if I taught you; even better, if Antigonus taught you, like he taught me. But your mother wouldn't stand for it, so that's that. Sorry." He kept his eye on the angel, so he wouldn't see Bassano's face. "If you like," he went on, "I'll give you some money, so you can bet for real. Just don't let your mother--"

"I don't want to play at it, Uncle Basso," Bassano interrupted. "And if you gave me money I'd probably spend it. I want to learn the business. I think it's what I want to do."

For some reason, the Invincible Sun chose that moment to drive a shaft of bright light through the thick yellow glass of the long windows. It caught the gilded mosaics just right; exactly how the man who'd designed them must have intended. If Basso had been so inclined, he might have taken it as an omen, or at least some sort of expression of divine interest. Unfortunately, the Invincible Sun had never acquired the knack of making His meaning clear; like a man with a cleft palate, Basso decided, or a sad old man who shouts in the street. "Bassano," he said, "I want you to listen to what I'm going to say. Please don't interrupt, and if you want to be mortally offended, please do it after I've finished talking. All right?"

The pained, long-suffering look; Bassano did it ever so well. If it had been anybody else, Basso would have suspected him of practising in front of a mirror. But Bassano never had to practise anything. "Sure," he said. "Fire away."

"All right," Basso replied. "Feel free to take notes; there may be questions afterwards. Because of me," he went on (and his voice hardened just a little), "you grew up without a father, and with a neurotic, overprotective mother. It eases my conscience a little to try and offer you a little guidance from time to time. Now guidance isn't always the most welcome present an uncle can give. It's better than socks or a nice illuminated hymnal, but it's no match for a pedigree falcon or actual coined money. Never mind. Here we go."

He paused. Bassano was looking at the wine bottle over the rim of his empty glass. Basso moved his head almost imperceptibly from side to side.

"What you are," Basso continued, "is a typical product of your class and background; a better specimen than most, I'll grant you, but even so, pretty much standard issue. Thanks to your excellent education you're perfectly equipped to debate philosophy with a Master or literature with an Arbiter, but you couldn't boil an egg or sew on a button. You're smart, lazy, fussy, a perfectionist--if you can't do something perfectly first time, you can't be bothered with it at all; fortuitously, you've got so much natural talent that you actually can do most of the things that interest you by light of nature, but all that means is you get bored easily, and move on to the next thing. You've got maybe a bit too much charm, but on balance I'd be inclined to say there's no real malice in you--"

"Thank you so much, Uncle."

"You're welcome. It's actually a major compliment. Your cousins the twins are good lads, both of them, and I love them dearly, but they've both got a vicious streak in them that worries me to death. You, on the other hand, are genuinely kind-hearted, when you can be bothered to take notice of anything that calls for kindness. In other words, you're ideally suited to the life you were born to, and I think you'd probably make a very good job of it. I can see no reason why you shouldn't keep yourself harmlessly amused for a good long lifetime, and everybody will like you, and you won't make many very bad mistakes. You want to watch your drinking, mind. It's getting to be a habit."

"Noted," Bassano said dryly. "Is that it?"

"Not quite. You remind me ever such a lot of my father; not as I knew him, but what people have told me about how he used to be when he was a young man, before he married my mother. Objectively considered, that was a bad decision. My mother was a strong woman, intelligent, rather more so than Dad was. It made him want to do things, make something of his life rather than just let it wash over him. She was why he went into politics, and why he was always trying to do well in business, and both of those ambitions nearly ruined him. But he had a ridiculous amount of good luck, which balanced out his appalling judgement, so he ended up breaking more or less even." Basso paused, reached for the wine bottle and Bassano's glass, poured a small measure and drank it. "He wasn't nearly as intelligent as you are," he went on. "In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, he was an idiot. But he had other qualities that made up for that: he was brave, loyal, never particularly self-indulgent, and he had enough sheer force of personality to punch his way through. That's what he turned out like. That's not how he started out. With me so far?"