The Folding Knife

by Parker, K. J.

  "Yes. Thought you'd ask. Well, you can meet her for yourself. I'd like to know," he added, in a voice Bassano hadn't heard before, "what you think."

  (And Bassano realised, with a shock like twisting your ankle: I could put a stop to it, with just a few words. If I said no, you can't possibly marry this woman, he wouldn't.)

  "I'm hardly an authority," Bassano said.

  Basso gave him a scowl. "I'm not asking you to field-test her for me," he said, "just give me your opinion."

  "I didn't..."

  Basso laughed. "Of course you didn't," he said. "I just want to know if you like her, that's all."

  "What do the twins think?"

  "They have no opinion," Basso said.

  "Have they met her?"

  "No."

  "Really? Why not?"

  Basso shrugged. "They haven't asked to meet her, I haven't suggested it. That would imply that all three of us think it's not really any of our business."

  "Ah," Bassano said; and then the guard knocked on the door of the carriage, which meant they could leave.

  Eight

  The First Citizen's decision to increase the purity of the Vesani nomisma had a number of far-reaching effects. The most obvious of these was an influx of foreign money, as Auxentine and Sclerian bankers sent hundreds of tons of gold, in coin and metal scrap, to the Vesani Mint to be exchanged for the new high-standard coins. Basso had stipulated that the differential should be kept low: five per cent to begin with, rising to five and a half when the mint supervisor complained that his staff were being overwhelmed, and the new dies were wearing out faster than the engravers could cut replacements. Even so, the income generated was far in excess of what had been expected. The whole world, it seemed, wanted to buy and sell in Vesani currency, and those who didn't soon found they had no choice. In Auxentia, it was practically impossible to pay anything other than taxes in Auxentine coin; not that that mattered, since at least two-thirds of the country's circulating medium (according to conservative estimates) had already been shipped to the Vesani Mint, melted down and reissued as nomismata, with Basso's head on one side and Victory advancing left on the other. The fact that the Victory in question could only be the recent Vesani---Auxentine war didn't seem to bother anybody. The Sclerian government tried to ban the use of Vesani currency; and when the new law was universally ignored, the King made an example of some Auxentine merchants, which prompted the Auxentines to cut off all trade with Scleria for two months, after which hunger riots in the capital induced the King to relent. By then, however, Vesani banks and trading companies had taken full advantage and concluded long-term deals for a number of desirable commodities that had hitherto been staples of Sclerian commerce. The King had his finance minister disgraced and thrown in jail, but for some reason that didn't serve to woo the Auxentines back. Meanwhile, the differential income...

  "I don't understand," she said. "How does it work, exactly?"

  Basso smiled. "Simple," he said. "Suppose you're an Auxentine trader. You need to be able to pay for your stuff in Vesani nomismata, because that's all your trading partners are prepared to accept--"

  "Why?"

  "Because our coins are guaranteed ninety-eight per cent pure gold. Other people's coins have got all manner of old rubbish in them. So a hundred pounds' weight of nomismata is guaranteed to be ninety-eight pounds' weight of good stuff. A hundredweight of Mavortine staters, on the other hand--no offence intended--means you've got about seventy pounds of gold and thirty pounds of copper, tin, zinc and God knows what else."

  "But the Auxentine coins are ninety-six per cent."

  "I know," Basso said. "Really, there's no sense to it, but that's what happens in business. You insist on the best coin available, which now means nomismata." He stopped and flicked the dead head off a flower. "Anyway, the Auxentines and everybody else have been bringing their domestic coins to us; we melt them down, take out the rubbish and mint nomismata, which we give back to them."

  "Less five and a half per cent."

  Basso nodded. "For our trouble. It's done on the pure gold content, of course. You're an Auxentine; you bring me a hundred tons of your coins, from which I get ninety-six tons of pure gold. I rake off five and a half per cent--just over five and a quarter tons, which I keep. Then I add two tons of copper to the pure stuff, mint it into coins and give it back. My profit is therefore just under six tons, because I'm not paying you back in pure gold, I'm giving you ninety-eight per cent pure."

  "I see," she said, and he thought: yes, she does. He was impressed. "That's a good deal."

  "Particularly," Basso added, "since the bankers organising the exchange--it's all got to be done through banks, of course--take one per cent commission on top of what the government takes."

  "That's you."

  He smiled. "That's me. May not sound much, one per cent, but it's a lot. Eight hundred thousand nomismata so far. It'll pay for the new shipyard."

  She frowned. "With which..."

  "With which I'll build a new fleet for the Navy, cheaper than the government yards could do it but still quite profitably."

  "With which?"

  "With which," Basso said, "when the time comes, we'll drive the Auxentines out of the White Sea altogether and get a monopoly of the main grain routes to the East."

  "Using ships paid for with their money."

  "Essentially, yes." He grinned. "The differential income will pay for the ships, so yes, we're getting our new empire for free. Once we've got the monopoly, of course, every Auxentine ship carrying grain from the Auxentine farming colonies to the homeland will have to pay us half a nomisma on the ton, or risk ending up at the bottom of the sea. In due course, when the price of grain in Auxentia gets so high that people can't afford to pay, we'll offer them membership of the Vesani Commonwealth. It's all right," he added, "you don't know about that, because it doesn't exist yet. That's about ten stages down the line."

  "An empire."

  "An empire, and no stupid great wars of conquest," Basso said. "Better still, an empire that doesn't feel like an empire, so nobody will mind. All they'll see will be the valuable benefits: free trade inside the Commonwealth, Vesani currency, weights and measures, Vesani law, Commonwealth citizenship, a single Commonwealth army--which won't have anybody to fight, of course, so it won't cost a fortune and thousands of young men won't die. All that for a slight increase in taxes, probably offset by lower prices in the marketplace. And all that," he added, "because, on a whim, I wanted to annoy the Optimates."

  She looked at him, then turned away and watched the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. "You don't feel apprehensive," she said, "changing the world to suit yourself."

  "No." He took her hand and led her to the stone bench. "The secret is, always to give something back." He sat down; she sat beside him. "A hundred of my predecessors tried to make the world a better place," he said. "They tried so hard, we've had poverty, economic collapse, and so many wars I lose count. My approach is, I try and make money for myself in a way that benefits the Republic. It's not exactly difficult. If it was, I don't suppose I'd be able to do it."

  "Really."

  "Quite true. That sort of thing's always come easily to me. Like the Reserve, for example. Did I tell you about that?"

  (Maybe I love her, he thought, because at last I've found someone I can brag to.)

  "What's the Reserve?"

  "My big idea," Basso said proudly. "The government pays a living wage, not a fortune but enough to support a man and his family, to any man between the ages of eighteen and sixty who's fit and strong enough to row a galley in the Fleet. In order to get the money, he doesn't have to do anything; all he's committing himself to is serving in the Fleet when we're at war, plus a few weeks' training every year. He gets paid extra for training and active service, and the rest of the time, he can do any job he wants to earn more money. Or, if he can't get a job or if he doesn't like the way that working for a living tends to cut into your free time, he can ge
t by and his children won't starve. Result: we have a fully trained standing navy when we need it, but which we don't have to pay through the nose for, like they do in other countries; and nobody need ever go hungry again, which is something my predecessors have been trying to achieve for a thousand years, with a total lack of success."

  She frowned. "That's the thing," she said. "You add on getting rid of starvation and poverty like it's a fringe benefit. Like the slice of lemon you get with a plate of whitebait."

  He laughed. "That's why I succeed," he said, "where the men with beautiful souls always fail. If you walk through the market asking the stallholders to give you a slice of lemon for free, they'd laugh in your face. Pay for the whitebait and you get a good meal of whitebait for your money, plus the free lemon. It's like the jury pay scheme."

  She smiled. "You want to tell me about the jury pay scheme."

  "Yes."

  "Please," she said. "Tell me."

  He laughed. "You don't want to--"

  "Yes I do."

  "All right." He realised his arm was round her shoulders. It had sort of grown there, like ivy climbing a wall. "Men over sixty, or those who can't work because of sickness or injury, can volunteer for jury service, for which they get paid a living wage. It covers the people who aren't looked after by the Reserve, and it means that anybody I want found guilty will be found guilty, and anybody I want let off will get let off. Which means," he added pleasantly, "that my enemies won't stand a chance."

  She frowned. "That sounds expensive."

  "It will be," he replied. "Like the Reserve. But the figures work out fine. Partly it depends on keeping the price of food as low as possible--which we'll be able to do, when we've got the grain monopoly. Also, since we import all our food, it helps a lot that the nomisma's so strong against other currencies; we get far more for one nomisma than we used to before we put in that extra two per cent. Also, we'll help pay for it with a tax on business profits."

  She laughed. "Go on, then. Explain to me how paying more tax will make you richer."

  "Easy." He smiled. "I can afford to pay more tax. My rivals can't. I stay in business, they don't. I buy them out cheap and take over their banks and companies. My additional profits more than cancel out my higher tax bill. I proved that that works with the land bubble, directly after the plague. And," he went on, "the more money I make, the more I can afford to give ostentatiously away, thereby making the people love me; which means I get re-elected, and I can do what I like."

  "Basso," she said solemnly, "you're a monster."

  "Yes." He nodded. "I'm corrupt and ruthless and I change the world for my own personal gain. Which is why it's so good to be on my side." He took his arm off her shoulders and leaned forward. "In our history," he said, "there have been a number of genuine reformers, men who really wanted to make life better for their fellow men. All but two of them were bashed to death by the mob. The other two killed themselves in prison, because they didn't fancy being tortured to death. That's just stupid. I, on the other hand, will make life better for my fellow men. The difference is, I've got a very strong motive for succeeding. Also," he added, "I'm not stupid. Not bright, perhaps, but definitely not stupid."

  She smiled at him. "If you say so," she said.

  The priest Chrysophilus had his own special chair now. He'd happened to say how comfortable it was on one of his early visits; now it was kept specifically for him, and only brought out when he came to call.

  "Let's sit in the garden," Basso said. "We might as well enjoy the warm weather while we can."

  The chair followed them, carried with great solemnity by two footmen, like the Throne of the Sun at the start of Ascension Week. A third footman followed with the brandy.

  "It's very kind of you," Chrysophilus said. "And you may not like me very much after I've delivered my message."

  "Heralds are sacrosanct, even in war," Basso replied. "Here'll do. This time of day, the breeze wafts over the scent of lavender from the big commercial herb garden across the valley." They set down the chair, making sure it was level on the gravel. "At other times of day, we get the breeze from the tannery. Not nearly as pleasant."

  Such an easy man to read. He was thinking: civilisation, the way things ought to be. The way they aren't, back at the Studium. Basso made a mental note, and said, "The message."

  "Yes." Chrysophilus hesitated, unwilling to risk saying the words that would spoil all this. Heralds-are-sacrosanct meant that he had the First Citizen's word that he'd be allowed to leave with his head still on his shoulders, but fine old brandy with the scent of lavender in the rose garden would be over for the day, and possibly for ever. No wonder the poor man seemed reluctant to speak.

  "Sorry to interrupt," Basso said. "I'm forgetting my manners. Join me for dinner?"

  The look on the priest's face was enough to break anyone's heart. "That's very kind--"

  "Splendid," Basso said, "I'll tell them you're staying. I gather it's duck from the lagoon, with a sort of cream and pepper sauce." He clapped his hands and a footman materialised next to him. "This gentleman's staying to dinner," he said. "Tell the cook. Now, then," he went on. "The message."

  Chrysophilus took a deep breath, like a man about to dive. "Your sister isn't happy about your betrothal."

  "No," Basso said, "I don't suppose she is."

  "She sees it as an affront to the family name and her father's memory."

  "Quite." Basso nodded. "And so it is, in a way. It certainly goes against everything my father stood for. Then again, so do I." He grinned. "I loved my father, and in a way I respected him, but he was an idiot. For one thing, he married my mother. No choice in the matter, either of them. But they weren't suited to each other. It wasn't a disaster--anything but--but it diminished both of them. She was an intelligent woman married to a fool: a fool who was quite happy being a fool, he never saw anything wrong with it; I don't suppose he ever wanted to be the slightest bit different from how he was. And he was married to a woman who didn't care, let him get on with it; she never challenged his unshakable belief in himself, mostly because she wasn't all that interested in him. They lived together for a very long time, and neither did the other the slightest bit of good." He paused; Chrysophilus was wearing a dazed look. "I'm only telling you all this to give you an idea of the sort of criteria my sister's working from. Did she say what she proposes to do about it?"

  Blank look. "I'm sorry?"

  "Threats," Basso said. "If I marry Melsuntha, will she immediately marry Olybrias? Or has she dreamed up some alternative form of sanction?"

  He shook his head. "She didn't say anything about sanctions," he replied. "Just that she'd be bitterly offended and she'd never forgive you."

  "Which is more or less where we stand at the moment," Basso replied briskly, "so, no threats. But what do you think?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "About my marriage. What do you think about it?"

  Startled look; as if he was riding very fast in a racing chariot, and the driver had just handed him the reins. "It's not for me to..."

  "You must have an opinion."

  "Not really." Pause; then, "Well, actually, yes, I do. I think it's rather good, actually."

  "Thank you," Basso said gravely. "Why?"

  A man pinned down and surrounded by a simple question. "Well," he said, "you've got nothing to gain from it, politically or socially or in business terms, so I'm assuming..."

  "I'm marrying for love. Yes. And?"

  "And I think that's rather fine," Chrysophilus said feebly. "It's not the sort of thing people do. But maybe they should."

  Basso thought for a moment. "I disagree with you there," he said. "For most people, love is a bloody stupid reason for getting married. It's like buying a house because you like the pretty flowers in the garden. But in my case, I'm a middle-aged man who's performed all his family and dynastic obligations; I've achieved all my ambitions, so I don't need to marry for money or influence. And Melsuntha will be good fo
r me. She answers me back. She doesn't agree with me." He smiled. "She's the only person I know who doesn't agree with me. Do you see what I mean?"

  Chrysophilus nodded. "I think so, yes."

  "Marvellous," Basso growled. "Even you agree with me, and technically, you're the enemy. Maybe you can understand why I put such a high premium on a little dissent." He drank his brandy and stood up. "Tell my sister I'm sorry she feels that way, but I have no intention of changing my mind to suit her or anybody else. That's it." Then, seeing the sad look on Chrysophilus' face, he added, "It's all right, you're still invited to dinner. Come into the house, and you can tell me about this strange business with my nephew."

  As he'd expected, Chrysophilus couldn't tell him anything he didn't already know. That evening, after the priest had gone, he received a letter he'd been waiting for and wrote four letters of his own. Then he rang for a clerk.

  "Deliver these," he said, "quick as you like. Then, in the morning, go round to the Studium and ask Father Chrysophilus, the priest who was here tonight, if he'd mind dropping in tomorrow afternoon. That's all."

  Bank business all morning, followed by a Treasury committee meeting to approve the draft of the new finance bill. Three letters he'd been expecting were waiting for him when he came out of the meeting; he had to wait for the fourth and fifth until he got home. He read all five carefully several times, wrote one reply, and told the servants to get out Father Chrysophilus' chair.

  "In my study," he added. "Show the Father up there as soon as he arrives, and no interruptions. And get a bottle of the good brandy, the Auxentine stuff in the green bottles. We'll probably be celebrating."

  He went to his bedroom and changed into a comfortable gown, an old favourite with full sleeves and pockets, then climbed the stairs to the study, where the special chair and the brandy were waiting. Since he still had a little time in hand, he sent for Bassano.

  "Won't keep you," he said. "But you might like to send out for your stuff, everything you've got in store. You'll be moving in here permanently. Assuming," he added, as Bassano stared at him, "that you'd like to."