The Folding Knife

by Parker, K. J.

  Basso rubbed his face with his hands. "This is just a theory," he said. "We had theories of our own. At the time, they seemed to make perfect sense."

  "Excuse me." This time, he'd definitely given offence. "My theory, as you call it, has been proved by extensive research and controlled experiment. In Scleria, I fed Auxentine salt beef, from a batch I had excellent reason to believe to be tainted, to condemned debtors in a town prison. Eight out of twelve of them developed symptoms; five of them died. I repeated the experiment with Hus prisoners of war in Auxentia, with comparable results. My researches in Auxentia--"

  "Just a moment," Basso said. "You took perfectly healthy people and you gave them the plague."

  The doctor frowned. "I think I mentioned that the subjects were prisoners," he said. "And besides, if we can prevent plague in future, we'll save thousands of lives; quite possibly millions. If you have reservations about the morality of the experiments, you might care to consider the ethics of sending soldiers to fight in a war."

  Basso shook his head. "I don't want to talk about ethics," he said. "I just find it hard to believe a human being could do something like that. I've always had this idea that death is on one side and the human race is on another, and you don't do deals with the enemy. But," he went on, before the doctor could interrupt, "your point about soldiers is trite but basically valid, so we won't go there. I guess that so long as you haven't actually murdered anyone in Vesani territory, it's none of my business."

  The doctor wasn't even trying not to scowl at him. No matter. "I have extensive notes," the doctor said, "and observations verified by independent witnesses. My theory is proven fact. Accordingly, I can prevent further outbreaks of the disease."

  Basso sighed. All he wanted to do was get rid of the man as quickly as possible. "Tainted meat," he said. "So how do we know if it's tainted?"

  "By testing," the doctor said. "And quarantine. Samples of all preserved beef brought into the country should be fed to prisoners. Should no symptoms occur within seven days, the meat is safe and can be released for sale. Follow this simple precaution, and you will effectively eliminate the threat. Of course, there's still a danger from smuggled beef, so you may care to step up your border and customs controls. Generally, though, it should be self-regulating. Once people know that smuggled meat may kill them, the appetite for it should diminish, or at least restrict itself to the lower orders of society."

  Basso nodded slowly. "And the other sort of plague," he said. "The one spread by fleas. What do you suggest we do about that?"

  The doctor shrugged. "That's up to you," he said. "I would recommend setting up a facility on one of your offshore islands where all incoming ships must wait for twenty-eight days before being allowed to dock in the main harbour. I don't suppose you'd find that acceptable, politically or commercially."

  Basso smiled at him. "Not really," he said.

  "In that case, I suggest you keep your streets swept, and offer a bounty of a florin a dozen for rats' tails. It may help. It'll almost certainly win you votes."

  Basso's smile widened, to reveal all his teeth. "I might just do that," he said. "Jobs for poor people, and it may even be useful. I think we'll just have to take our chances with the beef imports. If we get another outbreak, at least we'll know what to tell people."

  The doctor looked at him, then shrugged. "My fee," he said, "is one million nomismata."

  Basso shook his head sadly. "Five thousand," he said. "Buy yourself another pair of shoes. Oh, and you have forty-eight hours to leave the city. If you're still here after that, I'll have you arrested for murder."

  ("But he was right," Melsuntha said later. "You should have paid him properly. Not a million, perhaps, but more than five thousand. Think of the lives that could be saved."

  "I know," Basso replied. "And I couldn't think of an answer when he said I was as bad as him, because I send soldiers out to die for the greater good. So I was rude to him, and I underpaid him, and I told him to get out of town; I was just being spiteful, because he's disgusting and he's right." Basso spread his fingers wide. "Or at least, I couldn't show he was wrong, which really annoyed me."

  "That's life," Melsuntha said. "Sometimes bad people are right, and sometimes good people are wrong. I'd have thought by now--"

  "It's why Bassano has to be First Citizen," Basso said. "When he faces something like this, he'll know what to do. All I could manage was to act like a child.")

  A messenger brought him a book: Cyanus' Dialogues, not the sort of thing Basso went in for. No name; his benefactor wished to remain anonymous.

  Basso sent for Captain Tralles, a long, skinny Cazar recently assigned by General Aelius to be his personal security adviser. So far, Captain Tralles had spent his time wandering about the house, examining the windows and muttering about angles of fire. It was about time he did something useful.

  "Someone sent me this," Basso said.

  Tralles looked at the book, lying on a desk in the cartulary annex, as though it was some rare variety of venomous reptile. "I see," he said. "Do you know who sent it?"

  Basso shook his head. "I heard something once about a book with poisoned pages," he said. "For all I know, it could just be an extended metaphor, but I thought..."

  "Well-known technique in the Eastern Empire," Tralles said. "Several well-documented cases." He leaned over the book, taking great care not to let any part of his clothing brush against it, and sniffed. He had an enormous nose. Basso wondered whether he'd had it cut off someone else and sewn on, specially.

  "None of the commoner poisons," Tralles said. "Could be wormsbane or ceraunus oil; they don't have a smell. But in that case, I'd expect some slight discoloration of the pages." He drew a long, slim dagger and carefully flipped open the front cover with its point. "Someone's written something here, look," he said. "Does it mean anything to you?"

  Basso peered over his shoulder, then laughed. "It's all right," he said. "That's my nephew's writing. Thanks anyway, but I've wasted your time."

  Tralles didn't look at all convinced, but Basso shooed him away. Then he read the message again.

  I need to see you. This evening, the House?

  No way of replying. He tried to put it out of his mind for the rest of the day. Normally, there would have been enough work on his desk to keep him fully occupied, but as luck would have it, the world was maliciously quiet, and he was reduced to reading diplomatic dispatches from the Republic's man in Scleria--a waste of time, since the Sclerians never told anybody anything. He found a mildly entertaining account of the election of a new cardinal, to replace Magnentius IX, who'd finally died at the monstrous age of ninety-six. Apparently, the college of electors had been unable to reach a decision. They'd been in continuous conclave for three months, and the King, after dropping increasingly heavy hints, had tried to concentrate their minds by having the tiles stripped off the roof of the chapter house--quite an incentive, in the middle of a Sclerian winter. But even that hadn't been enough, and so the King had brought matters to a head by proposing his own compromise candidate: his nephew, a boy of nineteen, whose only known talent was the ability to swallow pickled eggs whole. The boy was not, of course, a priest, but that was by no means an insuperable obstacle. He was, the report said, ordained on the first of the month, made a deacon the next day, and elected abbot of a monastery by the end of the week. The compromise would have worked, the report went on, had it not been for one Constituatus, abbot of Barcy, an outsider in the pre-compromise race; when the King's nephew had been duly elected and was in the process of being invested with the symbols of office, Constituatus snatched the sacred cope, mitre and mantle from the attendants, wriggled into the mantle, jammed the mitre on his head, planted himself firmly on the episcopal throne and declared himself to be cardinal Magnentius X, equal of the apostles, vice-regent of the Invincible Sun. In his haste he'd put the mantle on the wrong way round and hadn't even tried to assume the cope, but when they tried to drag him out of the throne he clung to the ar
ms and bit the attendant's hands; since he weighed a good twenty stone and had started life as a stevedore in the dockyards, it proved impossible to dislodge him. After he'd been there forty-eight hours, the King gave in and ratified his election, on the grounds that if he wanted the job that much, he might as well have it. The royal nephew's reaction had not been made public, but was assumed to be one of profound relief.

  Basso wrote a polite note to the new cardinal, congratulating him on his election and expressing the wish that the excellent relations between the Sclerian Curia and the Vesani Studium would continue to flourish. He resisted the temptation to append a gift of the justly famous Vesani birch-syrup toffee (sure to be appreciated by a man with strong jaws), sending instead a richly illuminated copy of Xenophanes' commentary on the Western Psaltery (Constituatus, according to the dispatches, couldn't read and had to sign his name with a stencil) and a large box of candied figs.

  Then, quite suddenly, there was a clerk standing in the doorway, telling him that his nephew was there to see him. Basso jumped up, knocking papers off his desk. The clerk stood there, waiting for something. Basso remembered he'd been asked a question.

  "I'll see him in the treaty room," he said. "Get a fire lit, and fetch some brandy."

  Not that Bassano drank brandy any more. The clerk went out; Basso hesitated, though he wasn't sure why. He pulled himself together, put the letters he'd written on the table by the door, to be collected in the morning, and went slowly down the stairs.

  Bassano was sitting by the fire, looking cold; he had his coat on and his collar up. He felt the cold more than anybody Basso had ever known, apart from his sister.

  "You walked," Basso said.

  Bassano nodded awkwardly; he was shivering. "Habit I picked up at fencing school," he said. "Exercise. It's funny, I always hated exercise, and now I do some every day. Can't seem not to, if you see what I mean."

  Basso poured him a small brandy, which he gobbled down. It stopped him shivering. "Well?" he said.

  "My mother." Bassano was flexing his fingers. "She says that unless I promise never to speak to you again, she'll have you charged with killing my father."

  "That's right," Basso said calmly. He was pleased with himself for that. "She came to see me. First time in a long time."

  "Well?"

  Basso shrugged. "I told her to go ahead. I said she'd be doing me a favour."

  "Maybe you'd care to explain that."

  Basso explained. When he'd finished, Bassano sat up straight in his chair and said, "Is that true?"

  "Yes," Basso replied. "If she were to go ahead, I'm not sure yet how I'd play it. Killing the charges would be the safest way, but I'd be tempted to let it go to trial. Show the people that the First Citizen doesn't consider himself to be above the law."

  "And you're sure you'd be acquitted. You're sure."

  "Yes," Basso said. "For a start, I'd take a few simple precautions, like choosing my own jury. Say, two newly enfranchised foreigners, two Bank employees, a couple of clerks from the House and someone who owes me money--a truly representative cross-section of society, when you think about it. Also, for what it's worth, I'm innocent. And I can prove it, even without suborning false witnesses, which of course I'd do anyway. Also, I'd retain the best lawyers in the City for my defence, and hire all the other half-competent lawyers on other matters, so they wouldn't be available to act for your mother. Apart from that, and a few well-chosen words to the judge beforehand, I'd be happy to let justice take its course."

  Bassano frowned, then laughed. "I guess I didn't really think it through," he said. "I was scared. She sounded so convincing."

  Basso smiled. "She thinks I'd be afraid of the scandal," he replied. "But the killing's been common knowledge for twenty years, and apart from the daily patter of jokes and sly comments, it's never done me any harm. Getting it out in the open would probably do more good than harm. No, what she's relying on is that you'll believe there's a serious threat. I think it may be hard for me to forgive her for that, but I'll try."

  "Well, then." Bassano stretched like a cat. "In that case, three cheers for our legal system."

  "Best in the world," Basso replied gravely. "Did you know she tried to have me killed?"

  There was a silence so brittle that a sound would have splintered the world. "Do you mean that?"

  Basso nodded. "Ask Aelius if you don't believe me. She arranged it through the Studium, which is really high-class; I dread to think how much it cost her, and she's comfortable, but not exactly rich, by social-register standards." He shook his head. "They shot at me with an artillery piece, of all things. Came this close." He held his hands about eight inches apart. "Not bad shooting, at two hundred and fifty yards."

  Bassano looked at him. "Why?"

  "I don't think she likes me," Basso replied. "Also, my guess is, she knows as well as we both do that her grand threat isn't going to work. Frustration, I suppose, at losing to me yet again. She always did have a nasty temper when she couldn't get her own way."

  Bassano was sitting very still. "What are you going to do?" he said.

  "Nothing," Basso replied. "Well, I'm hardly going to hang my own sister, and if I take it out on the hired hands, one of them's bound to try and drag her into it. Better to let the whole thing slide and blame it on the Mavortines." He paused. "I wasn't going to tell you," he went on, "and probably I shouldn't have done. It doesn't change anything, and you'll think I'm being spiteful, turning you against her. I'm sorry."

  "No," Bassano said, his voice a little shaky. "No, you had to tell me."

  "I had to tell someone," Basso replied. "Couldn't tell Aelius, he'd be livid, try and make me do something. Antigonus is dead. Melsuntha would probably arrange to have your mother poisoned; she's rather protective of me, which is sweet, but not appropriate in this instance. So that just leaves you. Like I said, I'm sorry." He took a deep breath, then went on, "Please, if you can, don't hold it against her. She's quite right that I ruined her life. I'd let her have her precious revenge if I wasn't quite so selfish. Also," he added, "I've got you to think about, though that probably comes under the heading of my selfishness. Anyway, try and forget about it."

  Bassano grinned. "You know," he said, "that may not be possible. It's the sort of thing that tends to stick in your mind."

  "Your mother," Basso said with a sigh. "My sister. You know, there are times when I catch myself thinking that my life would be a whole lot more pleasant without her. Oh, I don't mean have her killed," he added quickly, "and I was worried to death when the plague was on, in case she caught it. No, what I mean is, I find it hard not to blame her, for a whole lot of things that are really my fault. And every time something good happens, or something turns out just right, and I'm inclined to feel happy about it, I think about your mother, and how I've made her life so utterly miserable, and I'll be honest with you, I don't know what to do. Worst possible thing for someone like me, knowing there's a problem that can't ever be fixed."

  Bassano said carefully, deliberately weighing each word: "I find it hard to remember that I'm her son. Like this last business. She'd have stopped me if she could; not because it's wrong for me, but to spite you. I find that..." He paused, then went on, "I find that inconsistent with the proper functions of motherhood. I don't think she really feels anything for me."

  Basso nodded. "My fault, again," he said. "I should've stayed away from you. But I was misguided enough to think that helping you along might make it up to her in some way; and by the time I realised that was the last thing she wanted, it was too late. I'd got to know you, and you weren't just her son any more, you were Bassano, and I couldn't make myself give you up, not even for the sake of doing the right thing. With the result," he went on, "that as far as she's concerned, you're a weapon in the fight between her and me; a bit like two men struggling over one knife, and whoever gets control of it kills the other. I think it was Sostratus or someone like that who said people are the best weapons. Always thought it was rather
a glib little quote, but actually it's about right. And that's my fault," he said. "That was my second unforgivable crime; and it wasn't self-defence, and I did have a choice, and I was selfish. For crying out loud, Bassano," he said, and his voice was loud, half-joking, "look what I've done to you. Killed your father, turned your mother against you, messed your whole life up for you. Don't you feel that?"

  Bassano shook his head. "No," he said. He thought for a while, then went on: "It might have been different if I could remember my father, but I can't. And I think my mother stopped loving me when I was quite young, so that's another thing I never knew and so haven't missed. And you were the first person who ever talked to me like you were talking to a grown-up."

  Basso laughed. "Funny you should say that. I don't think anybody ever noticed I was a child. Gloriously self-centred man, my father was, and my mother treated everybody like they were a bit stupid." He shrugged. "I guess love when I was growing up was a bit like the heating in a big house, where they've got a great big boiler out back and pipes under the floor. It's there, but you don't see an open fire in the hearth. Result, you're never cold but you're never really warm, either." Suddenly he yawned, and said, "I get the impression you've made up your mind."

  "Have I?" Bassano frowned. "Yes, now you mention it, I suppose I have, without noticing. Because when my mother said, I'm doing this, which means you can't go, I felt hurt and angry, like someone had taken something away from me. So, yes, I'll go."

  "Splendid," Basso said crisply. "Only now there's a condition. You can only go if you can promise me you're not just doing it to get back at your mother."

  Bassano pursed his lips, swallowing a smile. "All of a sudden you're so concerned about reasons, Uncle Basso. You of all people should know there doesn't have to be just one reason."