The Belly of the Bow (43 page)

‘Oh, gods,’ Iseutz. ‘I’d forgotten him.’

‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ Gorgas said, stooping to pick up an empty plate. ‘Your father didn’t rape your mother; it was just good business, at the time. There now,’ he said, frowning, ‘I don’t think I’ve left anything out, have I? At least I’ve been straight with you, and that’s one thing I do pride myself on, being straight with people. It’s like the proverb says, you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.’

 

‘Doctor Gannadius!’

Now if only I was as old as I feel, I’d be deaf and not be able to hear you
. Gannadius quickened his pace a little.

‘Doctor Gannadius! Wait!’

No chance, Gannadius thought sadly. He couldn’t have failed to hear a voice that loud if he’d been stone deaf, or even dead. He looked round and saw Volco Bovert bearing down on him like a fashionable prophecy. ‘Master Bovert,’ he said politely.

‘You’re a hard man to find, Doctor,’ Bovert said, catching his breath. There was an awful lot of Volco Bovert, probably more than would ever be necessary except in the direst of emergencies; ironic, in a way, since his official post was Tribune of the Poor. ‘I think it’s time we talked seriously about the Scona problem.’

‘My pleasure,’ Gannadius sighed. He’d only spoken to Tribune Volco a handful of times, at this or that faculty reception, but he knew him well enough to anticipate that insufferable habit of his of reducing the world and everything that happened in it to an order of business; thus, everything to do with Scona and the war became ‘the Scona problem’, just as anything connected with the Foundation’s commercial activities was swept into ‘the balance of payments issue’, while the sum of human knowledge and all attempts to expand or clarify it was lumped together under ‘the syllabus debate’. It went without saying that the quality that had earned him such a high position in the Shastel hierarchy (apart from being fifth in line to be head of the Bovert family) was his exceptional clarity of thinking and ability to pare away all the fat and concentrate on the meat. Where I come from, Gannadius reflected, we had a word for people like that. It was five letters long and rhymed with ‘midiot’.

The enormous presense of Tribune Volco backed him into a ledge in the Cloister wall, and he perched on the head of a low-level carved lion while Volco settled comfortably on a wide stone seat. ‘Thank you for sparing the time,’ Volco said. ‘Now then, about Scona. We need you to
do
something.’

For a moment, Gannadius was completely confused. All he could think of was that Volco, for some reason to do with the bizarre complexities of faction politics, wanted him to lead the next raiding party; and he didn’t really want to do that. He was still swimming in circles round the idea when Volco went on ‘You see,’ he said, in a low whisper that was probably inaudible a mile away, ‘we believe that the military option - the
conventional
military option - is not the ideal solution for us at this time. We therefore believe that the time has come to explore
other approaches
.’

Gods, Gannadius realised with a mixture of amusement and horror, the fat fool’s talking about magic. He wants me to hex the rebels into oblivion. He actually thinks—

The vision, or whatever you choose to call it. The great armada, with the ruins of Scona in the background. And Bardas Loredan leading the army
.

He shook himself, like a dog climbing out of a river. ‘With respect,’ he said, ‘I don’t see how an abstract philosopher like myself can really presume to advise a practical man of affairs such as yourself—’

‘Other approaches,’ Volco repeated. ‘Oh, I’ve heard all about the sterling efforts made by yourself and Patriarch Alexius on behalf of Perimadeia. Now it’s true that in the long run, those efforts were conspicuously lacking in success; but we feel that in the context of the Perimadeian war, any such efforts, however well conceived and ably executed, were doomed to failure from the start. Whereas in the matter of the Scona problem—’

Gannadius looked into the Tribune’s eyes. No doubt about it, the man sincerely believed in magic - of course he did, because magic was such a perfect solution to the problems besetting his faction and the Bovert family, in which case it
had
to work. It would work, if only because Volco Bovert needed it to.

‘I see what you mean,’ Gannadius interrupted; and then inspiration struck. ‘And of course, I’ve been actively investigating the possibilities for quite some time. But I’m sorry to say I’ve run up against a difficulty.’

‘A difficulty,’ Volco said, as if referring to some abstruse type of mythical or heraldic beast. ‘I see. What kind of difficulty? ’

‘It’s very simple,’ Gannadius said. ‘You have me, but Scona has the Patriarch Alexius. I’m afraid we cancel each other out. Which means,’ he persevered, doggy-paddling frantically in a sea of self-contempt, ‘that I’m fending off his curses, and he’s fending off mine. The end result is that neither of us can actually achieve anything, other than making sure that magic can’t be used as a weapon by either side.’

Volco’s nostrils twitched as Gannadius spoke the fatal word
magic
, a word he wouldn’t have used if he wasn’t more or less at the end of his rope with the enormous Tribune and therefore tending to be dangerously sloppy in his choice of vocabulary. But as soon as the word was out, Volco’s whole demeanour changed; suddenly he was like a pig that’s heard the sty gate creaking on its hinges.

‘Fascinating,’ he said, ‘But really, we mustn’t despair of the, um, metaphysical approach so lightly. If it’s simply a matter of resources—’

Ah yes, here we go. Build more ships. Enlist more soldiers. Buy bigger and stronger magic
. ‘Resources, yes,’ Gannadius said, ‘but sadly, not resources that are readily available. To put it in its simplest terms, to beat their magic we need more and better magicians, and I’m afraid that as far as our resources of magicians go, you’re looking at them.

Volco blinked, as if a horse had just galloped through a puddle at his feet, spraying him with muddy water. ‘I understand, ’ he said. ‘And what about the rebels? Do they have further and better magicians?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ Gannadius replied cautiously. ‘Though to be honest with you, I’ve really got no foolproof way of knowing. I’m afraid that’s the nature of the beast, Tribune, we won’t know what they’ve got till they hit us with it.’

Volco thought for a moment; he looked like a volcano trying to remember the words of a song ‘This Alexius,’ he said. ‘Would you be able to neutralise him, render him harmless to us?’ Unfortunate tone of voice. ‘In which case, surely, you would then be able to—’

‘Tribune,’ Gannadius broke in with what he hoped was a disarming smile, ‘I would if I could but I can’t. I’m sorry to have to say this, but really, there’s nothing doing. I’d hate for you to waste your energies on a dead end.’

Volco stood up. ‘Thank you for your opinion, Doctor,’ he said. ‘No doubt you’ll let me know as soon as the situation changes.’

Wonderful, Gannadius reflected, as he watched the Tribune barrelling off down the Cloister, now I’ve made an enemy of the sort of man who never forgives his hammer if he knocks a nail in crooked. He got up, thought for a moment, and headed back up the Cloister in the direction of the Clerk of Works’ office.

The post of Clerk of Works, like every job on Shastel that could be done with manicured nails, was purely formal; that is, the Clerk was a busy man with an important and responsible position, but not the one his title implied. The responsibility for making sure the buildings didn’t fall down resided with the Refurbishments Steward, who was nominally in charge of supplying fresh flowers for the war memorials.

What the Clerk did was infinitely more important. Because, once upon a time, the Clerk had been in charge of allocating meeting rooms to the various groups who wanted to hold regular discussions, the post had gradually mutated into that of semi-official referee of all faction activity. In formal debates in Chapter, the Clerk made sure that all appropriate protocols were observed, and outside Chapter he was the only man who could be seen to act as a mediator in faction disputes. Since the post had to be held by a man of unimpeachable neutrality, all the factions fought like tigers to secure it for one of their leading partisans, and for the time being the Separatists held the prize, in the shape of Jaufrez Mogre.

‘Hello, Doctor,’ Mogre said, looking up from whatever it was he’d been reading. ‘This is a rare treat. Come to get your feet dirty in the political sewers?’

That, Gannadius reflected, was what he liked about Jaufrez Mogre. Alone of all the Shastel factioneers he’d met, Mogre freely admitted that his life’s work was a game, and a dangerous and silly one at that.
Useless, yes, and potentially disastrous, almost as bad as abstract philosophy
, he’d cheerfully admitted, when after a long and lugubrious evening over a jar of genuine Colleon applejack Gannadius had actually voiced his opinion of Shastel politics.
The difference is, we don’t pretend we can turn each other into frogs. Good applejack, this, have another
.

‘Jaufrez, I want to tell you something,’ Gannadius replied, sitting down and looking meaningfully at the jug on a nearby table. ‘You may remember, a while back, we were talking about various things and I admitted that I couldn’t do magic?’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Well,’ Gannadius said, with a sheepish grin, ‘I was lying.’

Carefully, not allowing his attention to wander, Jaufrez poured two cups of Mavoeson perry in such a way as to make sure the bitter sediment stayed in the jug. ‘Is that right?’ he said. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘It’s true, Jaufrez. Not the sort of magic you’re thinking of, in fact it’s not
really
magic, but it’s not, well, normal either. I suppose you could say it’s halfway between the two.’

‘I believe you,’ Mogre replied, putting one cup down in front of Gannadius. ‘Don’t think you’re telling me something I don’t know, because you’re not. That’s why I’ve always regarded you as a dangerous bugger; you can sometimes do this stuff, but you don’t know how or why, and usually you can’t make it do what you want.’ He smiled over the rim of his cup. ‘I do read the intelligence reports, you know. I was reading about all this while you still thought the plainspeople would never take Perimadeia.’

‘Oh,’ Gannadius said. ‘I wish you’d told me.’

Jaufrez shrugged. ‘I thought you knew. Oh, right then, I’d better tell you some other stuff you might not know. Niessa Loredan,’ he went on, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘She’s a witch.’

‘Niessa Loredan?’

Jaufrez nodded. ‘Straight up. She knows more about the Principle than you ever will. And if you want proof,’ he added with a wry grin, ‘you used to live in it.’

Gannadius frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

‘Think,’ Jaufrez replied sternly. ‘The original curse, right? And before you ask, this is straight from the bitch’s mouth, via one of our most valuable snitches on Scona, so you keep this to yourself and don’t even think about it without telling me. The original curse was placed on Bardas Loredan by Alexius at the instigation of Iseutz Hedin, Niessa’s daughter. Alexius - and you, of course - then do everything you possibly can to lift the wretched thing, by which time it’s got hopelessly tangled up in the affairs of Perimadeia itself, because Bardas Loredan has become Colonel Loredan and is in charge of the City defences. Bardas doesn’t get killed by Iseutz, and the City falls. Now that’s history. The connection you don’t seem to have made is that the City falls
because
Bardas doesn’t get killed. Or had you grasped that already?’

Gannadius sat still and quiet for a moment. ‘Why?’ he said.

‘Because Niessa Loredan’s a witch,’ Jaufrez replied. ‘Easy. She brought together two unwitting agents: her daughter, and a man with an innate ability to manipulate the Principle - natural, I think you call them - Patriarch Alexius.’

‘What?’ Gannadius lurched forward in his seat, spilling his drink. ‘Alexius?’

‘Ah, you didn’t know that either. Interesting.’ Jaufrez nodded. ‘It’s got something to do with the really rather bizarre history of the Loredan family - you do know about that, don’t you? Oh, good. Niessa wanted the City to fall, and she wanted Bardas back, and she wanted her daughter back as well. Now I won’t even attempt to go into the theoretical stuff, which is all equations and funny notation and long words, but basically, because of all the history of Bardas and Maxen and the systematic destruction of the plainspeople’s society, the fall of Perimadeia was Bardas’
fault
. Niessa recognised that, she knew that in consequence the City would be destroyed by them, sooner or later, and it was just a matter of leaning on the right supernatural levers and tweaking the right pulleys to make it happen. But to save Bardas, not to mention Iseutz - remember, she’s caught up in this ghastly Loredan family thing, her mother was Maxen’s niece just as much as Bardas was Maxen’s nephew - she needed to find some way to protect them that wouldn’t jeopardise the fall of the City, which she very much wanted to happen. The purpose of the curse was to make Alexius avert it; to keep those two safe from each other, and therefore safe generally, by churning up the Principle all round them with shields and defenses and all manner of such things; the result being that while all this was going on, Bardas Loredan could have jumped in the sea with lead boots on and still not have drowned - charmed life, completely safe from anything you care to name.’

Gannadius pulled himself together; not easy to do. ‘But that doesn’t explain what you said about the City falling because Bardas wasn’t killed,’ he said. ‘Does it?’