The Folding Knife (8 page)

"You're getting old," Basso replied, with a broad grin. "Five years ago--"

"Just a moment," Antigonus interrupted. "You're not trying to tell me it was you."

The grin became a beaming smile. "All me," he said. "Well, the Coritani boys helped, by being greedy. But they couldn't have done it without me."

Antigonus sat still and quiet for a moment, clearly struggling. Then he snapped, "Well?"

Basso settled himself comfortably in his chair. "What brought them down," he said, "was the two-million-nomismata loan they made to General Tzimiscus."

"Good heavens." The old man's eyes were wide open. "Whatever possessed them to finance a private war?"

"Ah." Basso nodded. "You may well ask. Naturally, any sensible man called upon to lend two million to a soldier of fortune on the security of a ten per cent share in the anticipated plunder of an impregnable walled city would run a mile. But," he went on, raising his voice over the sound of Antigonus' spluttering, "when I let it be known that I'd put in three million and didn't want anybody to know about it..."

"They believed you?"

Basso sighed. "It was their own stupid fault," he said, "for planting a spy in the office. As soon as I found out..."

"From your spy in their office."

Basso dipped his head in confirmation. "Naturally, I made sure all my most sensitive and confidential papers were carefully secured in my beautiful new safe. How was I to know that the Coritani's spy was an expert locksmith? At least, that's what he'd told them, but he was exaggerating. It took him a week to get the thing open, and the lock was nothing special. I came within an inch of having to leave the keys lying about on my desk."

Antigonus stroked his chin. "So they made the loan?"

"And Tzimiscus and his band of inadequates duly set out and got chopped into little pieces, and I bought what was left of the Unity for sixpence on the nomisma. Their loan-book on its own is worth a million, quite apart from their government debt. Best deal I ever made, as Father would say. It'll cost me a bit to stop the run, but once the investors find out it's been taken over by the Charity, things'll settle down soon enough." He picked up his gold-handled penknife and tested its point against the pad of his forefinger. "And you honestly didn't see it? Really?"

Antigonus shook his head. "Like you said," he replied quietly, "I'm getting old. Maybe I should think about retiring come the spring."

"Balls," Basso said. "No offence intended," he added. "It's no reflection on you if your star pupil turns out to be even more brilliant than you are. Couldn't have done it without your invaluable early guidance, and so forth."

"Perfectly true," Antigonus replied. "So, did you call me in here just so you could gloat at an old man?"

"Partly." Basso folded the penknife, turned it over a couple of times in his hands and put it in his pocket. "Mostly, though, I want you to mind the store for me for a day or two. Now this thing's safely over, I fancy a break and a breath of fresh air. I'm going to go home, sweep up Cilia and the twins and head for the Horn. Business is all very well, but there's other things in life."

Antigonus got up. "So I gather," he replied. "Well, enjoy yourself. I'll tell the lynch mob you neglected to leave a forwarding address."

Once Antigonus had gone, he spent half an hour dealing with the things that really couldn't wait, then slipped out of the office by the back door, past the coal shed and the stables and into the street. On his way home, he stopped in the covered market and bought flowers for Cilia and honey-cakes for the twins. The steel-grey clouds that had hung over the City for the last three days were beginning to splinter, though he had no idea what the weather would be like at the Horn.

The porter seemed surprised to see him; reasonably enough, since he hardly ever came home before close of trading. "Is my father in?" he asked.

The porter shook his head. "Went out soon after you did, sir," he replied. "Not expected back till tomorrow."

No point asking if he'd said where he was going. "When he gets back, tell him I'd like a word." He walked quickly across the courtyard and ran up the back stairs to the day gallery. It occurred to him that at this time of day he was a stranger in this house, unaware of its routines and operating procedures. There didn't seem to be anybody about, so presumably the maids had finished the morning chores and the twins were with their tutor in the schoolroom. She wasn't in the day solar; the sampler she was working on lay on the table by the window, next to a stack of books and a chequers board. She wasn't in her dressing room either, so he tried the bedroom.

She was there all right. She had her back to him as he pushed open the door; she was kneeling, naked, on the bed and he could see a man's feet and legs sticking out under her. For a moment he simply didn't understand. Then a man's voice said, "Shit"; he recognised it. Palo and Cilia, which was impossible.

She couldn't have heard him, or didn't detect the sudden change in his voice; she carried on shoving with her hips, but he was trying to scramble to his feet, pushing with his hands against the sides of the bed. Basso opened his mouth, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

Palo must've pushed her, quite hard, because she toppled sideways and landed on the floor with a bump. Palo was on his feet, grabbing for his shirt; no, for something under it, something hanging off the back of the chair it was draped over. He looked ridiculous. Cilia had turned to see what he was staring at. Their eyes met. He saw anger.

"Palo," she said. "Do something."

Palo was still fumbling with the shirt. Whatever he was trying to get at was jammed in one of the sleeves. Basso heard himself say, "Cilia, what the hell do you think you're doing?" and wondered what had made him say that. Mostly he felt numb, but also embarrassed. He'd been taught it was rude to walk in on people with no clothes on.

"Palo, for God's sake," Cilia said, and Basso realised what was slung over the back of the chair, tangled in the shirt. Palo, a conscientious follower of fashion, had adopted the soldier-of-fortune look that was so popular in the City right now, mostly with junior clerks and apprentices. Palo liked to dress common, in a savagely expensive way.

It was, of course, only a dress dagger, jewelled gilded hilt and a bit of old tin for a blade. But Palo was coming straight at him, the dagger held overhand and low; he was doing the exaggerated crouch, the mark of someone who's watched a few exhibition bouts and wrongly assumed he's learned something. "Palo, don't be so bloody stupid," he said, but then Palo lashed out at him, and the tin blade slid across the muscle of his forearm. He didn't feel anything, but out of the corner of his eye he could see a big, gaudy patch of red, like a rose petal. He jumped backwards and found he had his back to the wall, and Palo was crowding him, to stop him using his arms.

For some reason, that cleared his mind, and he was able to decide what to do. His right hand let go of the flowers, dropped into his pocket and found the gold-handled penknife; he pinched the blade between forefinger and thumb and shook hard, opening the blade until the spring clicked in place. Palo chose that moment to stab him. With his left hand, he caught the blade, gripping tight. He felt the blade cut him, but that really didn't matter. Palo froze; he hadn't been expecting that, and for a moment he didn't seem to be able to decide what to do next. Then he tried to tug the knife out of Basso's hand. That made it cut deeper, but Basso tightened his grasp, at the same time working the penknife back a little further into his right hand, until he had a sort of a grip.

Palo hadn't registered the penknife; he was staring into Basso's eyes with a weird mixture of fury and terror, as he yanked on the dagger-hilt. Maintaining eye contact, Basso reached wide round behind Palo's head with his right hand, applied the point of the penknife to where he guessed the jugular vein must be, and pressed. He was shocked at how little pressure it took; and then a jet of blood hit him in the face. He let go of Palo's knife and jerked sideways, hoping very much that the fight was over, since he couldn't see a thing. He heard a bump while he was mopping at his eyes with his sleeve. He breathed in, which took some doing. His left hand had started hurting, and the pain made him feel sick.

Someone was yelling, making a fuss. "Palo," she screeched, and the sound of her voice disgusted him. The first thing he looked at was his left hand, which was a sodden mess of red around two deep purple lines. Then he looked at her. She was standing at the foot of the bed, and there was so much hate in her face, in every line and contour of it, that he realised there was only one thing he could do. He looked down at the body (it was a body now, not his brother-in-law; a man he'd never really liked much, but hadn't seriously wished any harm to) and stepped carefully over it, to avoid slipping in the blood. He didn't know whether he'd expected her to try and get out of the way. She didn't. Presumably it simply didn't occur to her that she was in any danger. She was too blazingly angry with him for that.

Three paces (he didn't hurry) and he was close enough. He grabbed for her hair with his left hand, caught a handful but his fingers wouldn't close. She smacked him across the face, spitefully hard, and was drawing her hand back for another strike when he stuck the knife under her chin and gave it a flick, like opening a letter. She opened her mouth to say something, but simply couldn't. Then her eyes went blank, and she dropped.

Basso had never seen anyone die before. It was only later that he figured out what it reminded him of: a glass of water being poured out, one second full, the next empty. Her lips were still moving when the last drop left her, and then she just fell sideways, like a piece of furniture carelessly knocked over. Her head cracked against the leg of the bed, making a wooden sound, like a stick hitting a ball. From a woman to a thing in the time it takes to blink.

He heard someone calling him. Not Bassianus, not Basso, the other thing he was called. Oh, he thought, and turned round. The twins were standing in the doorway, looking at him.

"Daddy?" he heard.

For some reason, he folded up the knife and put it back in his pocket. "Go to your room," he said. "Now."

Neither of them moved. They were staring at him, and it occurred to him that the look on their faces must be very much like the look on his own, when he'd first come in. "Now," he repeated, raising his voice as though he was angry, as though
they
were the ones who'd just done something bad.

They were properly brought-up children, and did as they were told. Once he was sure they'd gone, he stepped away from the bed and looked at her, slumped on her side, as though nobody could be bothered to pick her up and put her away. She lay with her back to him, so he couldn't see the huge red gash, but there was no way he could've mistaken her stillness for sleep. I did that, he thought.

The pain in his hand made him shiver. He looked at it again, and tried flexing it. Something was badly wrong, it wasn't working properly. Well, he told himself, it was that or be stabbed. I had no choice, with either of them.

And it had started out to be such a nice day. He had to close his eyes before he could turn away, as though some kind of lock or latch held him in place as long as he could see her on the floor. Blood everywhere. Mess. He breathed out slowly, in again slowly. Now he was going to have to clear it all up.

He went to the doorway, opened his mouth, and realised he couldn't remember the names of any of the maids; and without names, he couldn't call them. That was ridiculous, so he shouted, "Hello," as loudly as he could. It came out thin and squeaky, like a non-singer trying to sing a hymn in temple. "Here," he shouted, "quick as you can." Pathetic, he thought.

Probably just as well that it was a footman who came first, rather than a maid. He didn't scream or anything like that. He stood in the doorway, mouth open, eyes bulging, throat moving. For crying out loud, Basso thought.

"Run to the guardhouse and bring the duty officer," he said. "Now, come on. And get the house steward to round up the maids." He paused. Properly speaking, nothing should be touched till the Guard got here. "Tell them to stand by," he added, though he wasn't quite sure what he meant by it.

The footman bolted and left him alone. He wanted to sit down, but he couldn't bring himself to sit on the bed, and the chairs were soaked in blood. He knew he should be thinking, calmly and methodically; figuring out what his position was, what he needed to do in order to secure it. Maybe; but he couldn't. How long was it since he'd come bounding up the stairs? It couldn't have been long; maybe about as much time as it takes to make an omelette. Surprising how much of a difference you can make in a few minutes.

The guardhouse was on the corner of the Clockmakers' and the Ropewalk. The footman would run there; then there'd be a short exchange with the sergeant, who'd go and fetch the captain, who'd probably, in the circumstances, send out for the ranking officer of the department before setting out himself. He'd walk, but quickly, and he'd bring two, no, four troopers with him. He went into the dressing room, picked up a chair and carried it through into the bedroom.

The Guard arrived sooner than he'd anticipated. There was a tall man with a short ginger beard, about eight years his senior, followed by six soldiers. The officer (no brigandine, just an arming shirt--hardly regulation) looked at him and said, "You."

Basso wanted to laugh, but he knew it wouldn't be seemly. "I know you," he said. "What's your name?"