Basso's eyes widened. "It seems a bit hard to believe," he said. "That's a hell of a long way."
"It can be done," Aelius replied. "Seen it myself. I saw a general shot off his horse at well over two hundred yards once. In fact," he went on, leaning over the plan and laying a ruler across it, "they didn't miss by all that much, look. There's the fountain, so you'd have been sitting there--the table was just under the awning, as I remember, so your chair would've been..." He laid his fingernail on the edge of the ruler. "I'm surprised you didn't hear it go past," he said. "It's a sort of swishing sound; you can actually hear it rotating in flight."
Basso didn't ask how Aelius came to know that. "I don't remember hearing anything," he said.
"You were lucky," Aelius replied. "If you'd stayed put an extra minute, there's a fair chance they'd have had you with the second shot."
Basso turned away, so he couldn't see the bolt. He had an irrational feeling that it might wake up and come after him again. "Even if they did take it to bits," he said quietly, "they couldn't have got the bits up into the tower without someone noticing. There's always half a dozen priests in the main hall, not to mention the novices and the cleaning staff."
"That's right," Aelius said. "They couldn't, could they?"
He had the priests arrested. They angrily pleaded benefit of clergy, a concept with which the Cazar guardsmen sent to round them up claimed not to be familiar. Not all of Aelius' distant relatives had gone home after the recovery of the money. One of the priests resisted arrest, which made it all much simpler.
Some time later, one of the priests confessed; a genuine confession, rather than the I'll-say-anything-if-you'll-stop-hitting-me kind, in Aelius' professional opinion, though of course it wouldn't be admissible in evidence. All the priest knew was that he and his colleagues had been told to stay out of temple that day. Where had the order come from? The deacon, presumably, though he couldn't actually remember how he'd heard it. Someone had told him; that was how orders were passed along. If someone told you something, you assumed it was true. Why wouldn't you?
The deacon denied giving any such order. Aelius, who'd taken the trouble to look up benefit of clergy in the book, and who therefore knew that unless he could make his charges stick he was in deep trouble, handled the deacon's interrogation personally. When the deacon quoted the law at him (word-perfect; almost as if he'd recently read up on the statutes himself ), Aelius replied that the law didn't apply in a treason investigation. That was a lie, but the deacon clearly wasn't sure. Aelius then had him taken down into the stores, where they kept a lot of broken machinery; harmless enough, bits of old pump mechanism mostly, but the deacon was no engineer. He looked at the ratchets and gearwheels and drive chains, and admitted that yes, he'd given the order. Who'd told him to do it? The prior of the Studium.
"This is getting out of hand," Basso said, when Aelius reported to him. "What did you find in the tower, by the way?"
"This." Aelius opened his hand; on his palm lay a hexagonal nut, about the size of a thumbnail. "It's the capstan axis pin retaining nut off a late-model scorpion. It's a special thread," he added, when Basso looked at him. "One they only use in the armoury. Machine-cut, so it can't be a home-made copy. Also, there's places in the stonework where the stone's been chipped. When a scorpion goes off, the carriage jerks sharply backwards. There's not much room up in the tower. The back end of the trail fittings would've gouged into the back wall."
Basso sat down. "Thanks," he said. "I'm grateful to you for all your hard work. Now I'd like you to send the priests home and close down the investigation. I'll deal with it from here."
He knew the look that appeared on Aelius' face; he tended to think of it as his Oh-for-crying-out-loud expression. As far as he knew, Aelius didn't pull it for anybody else. "Bassianus, we're talking about someone trying to kill you. I really think--"
"What did you just call me?"
Aelius pulled up short. "Bassianus," he said. "Sorry, was that wrong? Only..."
Basso smiled. "No, nothing wrong," he said. "It's just, I don't think you've ever called me by name before, in all the time we've known each other. I'm trying to remember, but I'm pretty sure."
Aelius frowned. "I don't know," he said.
"Nor me. But I have an idea you've always found a way not to--presumably because you don't know what to call me, so you've cleverly ducked the issue. Bassianus is fine, by the way, though it's rather a mouthful. Call me Basso."
Aelius looked at him. "Is that all right?"
"Don't see why not," Basso said. "After all, you're the man I trust most in the world, now that Antigonus has gone. When I think of all the rubbish that gets to call me by my name, I guess it's all right if you do too." He grinned, and Aelius laughed, something he didn't do often; he had a strangely high-pitched laugh, a bit like a heron calling. "And it's all right about the investigation," Basso went on, "believe me, it is. I'm pretty sure I know who's behind it, and I can put a stop to it without the need for a fuss. Talking of which, I don't suppose we can hush this thing up, but try and keep a lid on the details. If they ask you, yes there was an attempt on my life, all been taken care of, state security prevents you saying more. That sort of thing."
Aelius nodded. "We all know what to say by now," he said. "And you're sure about this? There's nothing more I can do?"
"Quite sure," Basso said.
It was perfectly normal for the First Citizen to ask the Patriarch of the Studium for a private audience, particularly when the government was about to embark on a controversial initiative or go to war. In fact, it was expected; the people liked to think that the Invincible Sun had been consulted (by proxy) and had given his approval.
"I need your help," Basso said, when they were alone together. "Someone tried to kill me the other day."
The Patriarch's face was a study in horror. "How appalling," he said. "That the First Citizen of the Vesani Republic should be attacked, with murderous intent, in his own house. These Mavortines--"
"We don't think it was them," Basso interrupted gently. "Actually, we know precisely who it was."
"Thank heaven for that," the Patriarch said fervently. "And has an arrest been made?"
"Not yet," Basso replied. "In fact, that's where you can help me. I need you to waive benefit of clergy so I can interview a priest."
The Patriarch looked very grave. "That would be difficult," he said. "What crime do you think the priest has committed?"
"That's the thing," Basso replied. "We won't know until we ask him. He could have been deeply involved, or he could just have been an innocent dupe. But without his evidence, I don't see how we can possibly get a conviction. He's the only link, you see, between the men who actually carried out the attack and the person who was really behind it."
The Patriarch turned his head away; a man wrestling with his conscience. "I would have to know who this priest is."
"Oh, I can tell you that," Basso replied. "It's you."
There was a very long silence, during which Basso kept perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the Patriarch, who stared back at him. Like two cats on a wall, Basso later said, though without the hissing.
"Alternatively," Basso said at last, "we could have you impeached and removed from office, in which case benefit wouldn't apply and we could interrogate you as much as we like. Of course, we'd need a priest of archepiscopal rank to lay a formal complaint, but apparently that won't be a problem. If I may say so, that's one of the great drawbacks about appointments for life. When someone's got the top job, the only hope for his rivals is to get rid of him, one way or another. I have to say, I'm surprised how many rivals you have. I've always thought you've done a splendid job, but it seems a great many of your peers would disagree."
The Patriarch lowered his chin a little. "There are no grounds for an impeachment," he said quietly. "The only possible charges..."
Basso nodded. "Gross incompetence, corruption or doctrinal error," he said. "Naturally, gross incompetence is out
of the question. I wouldn't want to try corruption; I don't think your colleagues really want to go there, if you see what I mean. Doctrinal error, on the other hand, would appear to be a distinct possibility. I'm not really up on that sort of thing, I'm ashamed to say, but I know a great many very intelligent men who are. There would have to be an ecumenical council, of course. We're quietly confident we could get the necessary seventeen votes, and that's without offering any incentives."
The Patriarch shivered. "What are the alternatives?" he said softly.
"I think we've already covered that," Basso said pleasantly. "Waive benefit and let me ask you a few simple questions. Off the record, if you like. I just want to know the answers." He shook his head sadly. "It's a great shame we've had to be unpleasant about it, but I guess you had to be made to believe how serious I am about this."
The Patriarch breathed out long and slow. "You may ask your questions," he said.
"Splendid." Basso leaned back a little in his chair. "All right," he said. "First, who's your inside man in the armoury? The one who got you the scorpion."
The Patriarch hesitated, then said: "I don't know the man's name, of course, but I believe he's a clerk in the supply department. My understanding is that the machine was in fact built up out of spare parts, smuggled out of the building over a long period of time. I gather that the individual in question has quite an inventory of such things for sale."
Basso nodded. "Thank you," he said warmly. "That's a great help. Presumably, he'll be able to tell us who he dealt with, unless you'd care to save us the trouble."
The Patriarch mentioned a name. Basso managed not to react. "And he would have been the chief intermediary," he said. "Between yourself and the person behind the attack."
"One of several," the Patriarch replied. "Do you want all the names?"
Basso shook his head. "I'm not interested," he said. "You know as well as I do that I'm not going to take any action, not unless I have to."
"Indeed." The Patriarch's face didn't change, but Basso noticed that the hand gripping the arm of the patriarchal chair had tightened its grip. "That was our assumption," he said. "I must ask your forgiveness. It was very wrong and foolish--"
But Basso held up his hand. "Not official action, at any rate," he replied. "Unofficially, there's a great deal I'm minded to do, if I can be bothered. I've got twelve distinguished theologians going through every word you've written over the last forty years, for instance. I'm rather looking forward to reading their report, though I don't suppose it'll make a great deal of sense to me. Still, I'm not the one they need to convince. Of course, it depends how patient I can bring myself to be. Not one of my outstanding virtues, I'm afraid." He stood up and walked over to the table in the corner, on which a number of fine crystal decanters were arranged. "May I?" he said, and poured himself a small brandy. "Would you like anything?"
The Patriarch was looking at the decanter in Basso's hand, and at his other hand, poised over the decanter's neck, forefinger and thumb pinched tight togeher. It was a somewhat melodramatic gesture, but Basso had no great opinion of the Patriarch's capacity for subtlety. "Of course, you could employ a taster," Basso said. "Probably a wise precaution, in fact, though you may have a little difficulty explaining to your colleagues. Though personally, I don't put much stock in food-tasters. A lot of poisons work slowly, they tell me, not that I'm any sort of expert. Same goes for bodyguards and all that sort of thing. You can't rely on them, believe me. You're protected to a certain extent from the lone maniac with a knife, and that's about it." He put the decanter down, and rolled the brandy round the bottom of the glass. "I've come to the conclusion that the only reliable way to keep from getting murdered is not to have any enemies. What do you think? Is that a realistic objective?"
The Patriarch had flattened himself against the back of his chair, like a man about to have a tooth pulled. "I can think of only one person who could truly be described as your enemy," he said. "Otherwise, I don't believe you have much to worry about."
Basso smiled. "Thank you," he said. "You've set my mind at rest." He put the glass down, and the Patriarch couldn't help noticing he hadn't drunk any of it. "Do take care of yourself," he said. "Like I said just now, I think you're doing a wonderful job. I can't really think of anybody who could do it nearly as well."
The doctor was an Auxentine, though it was fairly obvious he hadn't been home in quite a while. His clothes were expensive and colourful, his shoes perhaps the most impressive objects Basso had ever seen (though perhaps the jewelled rood screen in the Studium temple equalled them, in value of materials if not in aesthetic excellence). Basso was surprised to find that he was quite young. He looked like a child who's been in the dressing-up box.
"I've found a cure for the plague," the doctor said.
"Is that right?" Basso let his eyes feast on the shoes one more time, then sat down. "That's quite an accomplishment," he said.
"Yes," the doctor replied. Then he shrugged. "You don't believe me, naturally."
"I didn't say that," Basso replied. "And I'm prepared to accept that other people believe you. I don't suppose you could afford to dress like that if you made your living setting bones and lancing boils."
The doctor shrugged. "The King of Scleria believes me," he said. "And the Emperor is very interested. So far, though, I've only advised private individuals, in Scleria mostly. They had a bad outbreak the year before last, as I'm sure you know."
Basso nodded. "Different symptoms, though."
The doctor smiled. "I can see you're an intelligent man, First Citizen. You'd be surprised how many people take the view that plague is plague, and the symptoms don't really matter. In fact," he went on, "I was greatly impressed by the scientific approach you adopted during the recent outbreak. Partly, that's why I'm here."
"Partly," Basso repeated. "Well, for your information, we got it completely wrong. Everything we did was useless. We might as well not have bothered. But of course, you must know that."
The doctor nodded. "Since you raise the subject, yes," he said. "Your methodology was sound, but your conclusions were false. Understandably," he added; "after all, you were trying to figure out a cure while an outbreak was actually in progress. Hardly ideal conditions."
Basso shrugged. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "What better time to study something than when it's actually happening? But now we've got you," he said, "so all our problems are over. Yes?"
The doctor looked away, as though mildly offended. "What you call the plague," he said, "isn't just one disease. As far as I can tell from my researches, there are at least two quite separate diseases, both of which tend to get lumped together under the one description."
"Ah," Basso said. "Which one have you cured?"
The doctor looked at him. "Actually," he said, "it's more a matter of prevention."
"That's not what you said just now."
"True." The doctor dipped his head in formal acknowledgement. "But I had to make you listen to me."
Basso shrugged. "You shouldn't have done that. All you've achieved is to make me rather more sceptical than I would've been if you'd told the truth. Still, no great harm done. Tell me about it."
The doctor frowned. "Forgive me," he said. "There's the question of remuneration. If I tell you what I've found out..."
"I see." Basso sighed, then raised his right hand, mock-solemn. "If what you've got to say has any value, I'll see to it you get paid. If not, not. If you don't like the terms, go and advise somebody else."
He didn't like that, but Basso didn't care. "Very well," the doctor said. "Now, then. As I said just now, there are two different diseases. One of them, which I prefer to think of as the real plague, is spread by fleas."
"Fleas," Basso repeated.
"That's right."
"In that case, we're screwed," Basso said. "Nothing anybody can do about fleas. They're everywhere."
"A specific variety of fleas," the doctor said.
"There's more than one ki
nd?"
"Hundreds," the doctor said. "And only one kind spreads the plague. The fleas live on the backs of rats and mice; they can survive for a short period on a cat or a dog, and on humans, though we aren't their host of choice. They spread the plague that gives you boils and swellings, and death follows in about a fortnight. The plague you had here recently was the other kind."
Basso nodded. "Quicker," he said, "and no boils."
"Exactly. That's the other sort. Basically, it's a strain of cattle sickness. The early symptoms--fever and so forth--are common to both diseases, but the sort you had kills you in a matter of days. You catch it by contact with infected animals or infected people, or from eating tainted meat."
Basso held up his hand for silence; then he winced. "Auxentine salt beef," he said.
The doctor nodded eagerly. "Exactly," he said. "Because of the sharp, early winter last year in Auxentia, they killed off substantially more cattle at the end of autumn, salted the beef and sold it cheap. I've read your doctors' report, and spoken to some of your leading merchants. Just before the outbreak, the market was flooded with cheap Auxentine salt beef. That's what caused the disease."
Basso stared at him. "So the ships..."
"Coincidence," the doctor said, smiling. "I managed to see a copy of the ships' inventory. They were carrying barrels of Auxentine beef as part of their provisions. They started exhibiting symptoms a day or so earlier than the people here simply because they'd started eating the poisoned meat earlier. If you like, they were the first victims, but not the cause."
Basso nodded slowly. "So the steps we took..."
"Actually," the doctor said, "you almost certainly saved thousands of lives. You herded large numbers of people together, away from their homes, and fed them mostly bread, with some cheese and dried fish; no beef. I'm prepared to bet that the ones who died were the ones who had the foresight to take food with them from their homes when they were evacuated. Of course," he went on, "once the disease was well established, there was a certain amount of cross-infection; it's mildly contagious, as far as I can tell, though there has to be substantial contact. Being in the same room or breathing the same air won't do it."
The Folding Knife Page 31
