The Folding Knife

by Parker, K. J.

  To a certain extent, my life ended that day, when I killed them both. I lost my sister, who I loved best of all. I lost my own sons; I could never be a proper father to them, not after they'd seen me with their mother's blood on my arms and face. I lost my wife, everything human about me. Since then, apart from you, all I've had is the Bank and politics--which are both things I enjoy very much, but they're not a life; they're not people, they're not love.

  Everything I've done has been for you; because of you, I might just turn out right in the end. I guess that, like you, I had to come round in a big loop to get back to the place where I was ambushed and defeated, and turn that defeat into victory.

  Or something of the sort. Reading this, you will immediately conclude that I've been drinking steadily for the last three days and it's high time someone loaded me in a wheelbarrow and took me home. Actually, I suspect I'm one of the very few sober adults in the city right now. Come home, and we'll have a drink together, to celebrate.

  Your loving uncle,

  Basso

  The messenger entrusted with this letter was the fastest and the best. He rode straight from the Severus house to the docks, where a fast sloop lay at anchor; Basso had bought four of them for the Bank's messenger corps, so they wouldn't have to rely on ordinary commercial or naval shipping. On Basso's orders, at least one of the sloops had to be ready and waiting at the Bank's private mooring at all times. Ten minutes after the messenger came on board, the sloop cast off. It was lucky enough to be able to ride out on the last gasp of a brisk south-easterly wind that had been blowing all day, and which took the sloop far enough out to catch the eastern Trade, which also happened to be blowing strong. Twenty-seven hours later, the sloop came in sight of Voroe--a record.

  Experience had shown that it was quicker for the messenger to land, ride across Voroe and take a light galleass than for the sloop to pick its way through the reefs at the southern end of the island. The messenger's approach was signalled by beacons, and when he reached the northern bay, he found a twelve-oar cutter waiting to carry him across the strait to Mavortis. Once again the winds were exactly right, and an experienced captain steered the ship quickly and neatly through the complex shoals on the Mavortine side. The lookout had seen the cutter coming and recognised the Bank-messenger pennant it was flying; there was a horse ready saddled for the messenger when he disembarked. By noon he was on the main road, and two hours later he changed horses at the last fort before the forest.

  Forty hours later, he was back at the City docks. Instead of coming in, the sloop held off, until a coastguard cutter came out to it. By then, the messenger was dead; but he'd had just enough time to write out a message, which the sloop's captain shouted to the coastguard officer, who wrote it down. The sloop then raised anchor and sailed out into the bay.

  The coastguard couldn't leave his post, so he sent one of his subordinates to the post house on the south quay, where a Bank courier could always be found. The courier took the message to the Severus house.

  Basso's letter could not be delivered. Four days after the victory, plague had broken out in the army. Apparently it was the variety that caused black swellings in the armpit. When Basso's messenger arrived at the camp, three-quarters of the army was already dead, including the commanding officer, Bassianus Licinius.

  Seventeen

  The indictment was read out in his absence by the special prosecutor, Gracilis Scaevola, the new leader of the Optimates. The charges were:

  that he had knowingly deceived the House as to the state of the public finances;

  that he had spent public money knowing the Treasury to be insolvent;

  that he had abused his position for private profit;

  that he had appropriated public funds for his own use;

  that he had, in his capacity as First Citizen, arranged loans to the Treasury from the Bank of Charity & Social Justice at excessive rates of interest;

  that he had irresponsibly and recklessly mortgaged public assets;

  that he had irresponsibly and recklessly occupied the island of Voroe, knowing that such occupation was likely to provoke war with the Empire;

  that he had repeatedly lied to the House about the conduct and progress of the war;

  that he had misled the House concerning the threat posed by the Mavortines in order to procure the war;

  that he had culpably mismanaged the affairs of the Republic, by negligence or recklessness involving the Republic in war, knowing the risks such war posed to the well-being of the Republic and its citizens.

  Since he was not present, in spite of a formal summons to attend, the clerk entered a guilty plea on his behalf.

  Scaevola addressed the House. It was impossible, he said, to quantify the damage Bassianus Severus had done to the Vesani people. Quite probably, the full extent of the disaster would not become apparent for some time. What they already knew was, however, quite bad enough. The field army in Mavortis had been devastated. The savages, inspired by this development to new and unparalleled heights of barbarous energy, were picking off the forts one by one, and very soon would be in a position to claim that they had driven the Vesani out of their country. The fleet--what was left of it--was pinned down in Voroe by the huge Imperial armada that had appeared off the island a matter of days after the news of the plague broke. The Empire's declared intention was to retake Voroe and then launch a punitive expedition against the City itself. Thanks to Bassianus Severus, there were no ships, no crews and no money with which to repel them, and the Republic would therefore have no option but to sue for terms. Again thanks to Bassianus Severus, there was no possibility of recruiting soldiers for the defence of the City; horrified by the fate of their countrymen, the Cazars were refusing to enlist, and the other nations from whom the Vesani had traditionally hired mercenaries were refusing to receive ambassadors, for fear of displeasing the Empire. Even if recruits could be found, there was no money to pay them with, and the whole world knew it. Quite possibly, the future of the Republic as they knew it had only a few weeks left to run. Surrender, and reincorporation into the Empire, was a distinct possibility for which the House would be advised to prepare itself. For all these miseries, one man and one man only was responsible; the man who had gambled the nation's wealth, its security, its very survival on a dream of self-aggrandisement and personal gain. The testimony of the chief cashier of the Bank of Charity & Social Justice, Tragazes, who had cooperated fully with the special investigators, was irrefutably damning. By pinning all his hopes on the Mavortine mines, Bassianus Severus had acted with a degree of blind stupidity that bewildered the mind; by concealing the extent of his insane speculations, he had converted a monstrous error of judgement into a criminal offence for which there could surely be only one penalty. Before justice could take its course, however, it was necessary that he be impeached in due form. Whether his failure to attend the House was a tacit admission of his appalling burden of guilt or simply further evidence of the contempt with which he regarded the Republic and its people was of no consequence. No defence having been entered, the House had no option but to declare Bassianus Severus impeached and to discharge him from the office of First Citizen; further, Scaevola recommended, his passport should be impounded and he himself should be arrested without further delay, to await criminal proceedings.

  Motion carried unanimously.

  "You should have gone to the House," she said.

  Basso shook his head. "Not likely," he replied, stuffing two shirts into his bag. "They wouldn't have let me leave."

  "You're going, then."

  "I think so, yes," Basso replied. "Probably a good idea if I cleared out for a while." He pulled open his desk drawer and pocketed a few things. "Is there any cash money in the house?"

  "Sorry," she said. "I just did the month's shopping."

  "Oh." He scowled. "How much?"

  "Eight nomismata and some change."

  He sighed. "That'll have to do, then." She brought him the money. He put the
silver in his pocket and wedged the gold into the toes of his boots. "Pity about that," he said. "Dropping by the Bank and making a withdrawal probably wouldn't be a good idea right now."

  "You can have my jewellery," she said. "That must be worth a good deal."

  "Keep it," he replied, "you'll need it. Might be an idea to pack a bag of your own. Unless..." He paused, a shoe in each hand. "Unless you feel like coming with me."

  She frowned. "All right," she said. "If you want me to."

  "Thanks." He wasn't looking at her. "In that case, grab anything you've got that's gold or silver and won't weigh you down." He lifted his head and grinned at her. "I've never had to do this before," he said. "But I know plenty of people who have. I gather the main thing is small items of great value, and keep them out of sight."

  She took a pillow off the bed, peeled off the pillowcase and started filling it with clothes, shoes and the contents of her jewellery boxes. "I really wish I'd bought you more gaudy and expensive presents," he said. "A diamond tiara or two would come in really handy right now."

  "I never cared for diamonds," she replied. "How about some of your books? Aren't they rather valuable?"

  Basso nodded. "But not safe to sell," he said. "My own stupid fault, for having the covers monogrammed. Could cut the covers off, I suppose, but it'd still be too risky. Besides, too bulky. Never carry anything that might slow you down if you have to run."

  She'd finished filling her pillowcase. "You could stay," she said.

  "What, and fight my corner?" He laughed. "No thanks. My life may have turned to shit, but I'm in no hurry to be rid of it quite yet. And if you're coming with me..." He frowned. "Anyway," he said, "that's going to have to do." He emptied his silver inkwell on the floor, wiped it out with the corner of a tablecloth and dropped it in his pocket. "Time to go," he said.

  On the way out, he propped a letter on the small marble-topped table where visitors were encouraged to leave their hats and gloves. He doubted very much that it would reach his sister, but he knew he had to make the effort.

  It read:

  I know. I killed your husband, and now I've killed your son.

  I love you more than anyone else in the world, now that Bassano's gone. I know. I've got a bloody funny way of showing it.

  I have no excuses, nothing left to say except, I'm sorry. I loved him so much, and my love killed him. You were right about me all along. It'd have been so much better for everybody in the world if I'd never been born.

  Basso

  * * *

  The guards were a problem. They still had their orders: the First Citizen wasn't supposed to leave his house without a full escort. Basso tried sending them away, gave them a direct order; the sergeant mumbled something about the chain of command and looked away. Basso went back inside.

  "How do you feel about climbing out of windows?" he asked her.

  "Depends."

  He couldn't remember if he'd told them how he'd escaped, the night Bassano went away. But he couldn't have; straight out into the street with no problems. "Pretend we're having an argument," he told her. "People tend to look away when they see married couples arguing in public."

  She nodded crisply, then launched into a loud and bitter tirade about how he'd spent the rent money at the dog races. He looked away and quickened his pace; she was trotting along behind him, calling him names. As far as the people they passed were concerned, they were invisible.

  In an alley off the Portway, they stopped to plan their next move. "We can forget about a ship," Basso said. "You can bet anything you like there'll be a crowd down at the docks, offering silly money for three square feet of deck space. We can't afford what the captains'll be asking."

  She nodded. "What about jewellery?" she said.

  He thought for a moment. "Keep it," he said. "This isn't a time for extravagance."

  "So what do you propose?"

  "We walk out," Basso replied. "The Westgate, for choice. There'll be crowds on the road we can hide in."

  "Will the gates be watched, do you think?"

  He shrugged. "For all I know, I'm still First Citizen," he replied. "Besides, they won't be expecting me to run just yet. They assume I'll stay and fight, since I've got so much to lose. Hence the need to hurry."

  "Are you sure?" she asked him. "About running, I mean. You're assuming every man's hand's against you, but..."

  He shook his head. "If it was just the Bank going under and the defeat, I might stick it out. But the Empire's coming. I really don't want to be here when they arrive."

  She nodded; fair point. "So," she said, "once we're out through the gate."

  He frowned. "I haven't thought that far ahead, to be honest," he said. "One place is pretty much like another. So long as it's somewhere they won't expect us to go, and where I'm not known."

  "Is there anywhere?"

  "Must be," he said. "Ready?"

  There was a huge crowd in Portway Square, where all the banks had their offices--hundreds and thousands laying siege to the closed doors, and nobody even trying to restore order. It was so long since a Vesani bank had failed, nobody knew what to do any more. The general consensus seemed to be to break down the doors and get inside, but there was no method or organisation. No looting of shops as yet; at least, not in the centre of town. They couldn't call out the Guard, of course. The City division had been sent to Mavortis, and there were only half a dozen platoons left.

  "What do you think the Empire will do?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "Nothing too drastic, I hope," he replied. "I don't think they'll burn the place down or allow the soldiers to loot. After all, as far as they're concerned it's their property, they won't want it damaged."

  "And the people?"

  "Also their property. Dead men and beggars can't pay taxes."

  At the junction of Coppermarket and Long Lane there was some kind of hold-up. The people in front of them were trying to get through, but couldn't. Basso and Melsuntha elbowed their way to the front of the crowd, and saw that two coaches had met head-on in Coppergate, unable to pass each other because of the streams of pedestrians, and now both streets were comprehensively jammed. One of the coaches was the City mail; he recognised the other.

  "My sister," he said. "On her way to call on me, I imagine."

  Melsuntha looked at him. "She can't have got your letter already," she said.

  "Not with all this traffic," Basso said. "Presumably she wanted to have a final yell at me, before the guards arrive to take me away." He shook his head. "I love her dearly, but she's always had a fatal weakness for making scenes, and if there's one thing I can't be doing with, it's melodrama."

  Melsuntha was pulling on his sleeve. "We don't want her seeing us," she said.

  "That's all right," Basso replied. "She never looks out of coach windows. She gets travel-sick. Come on," he said, "we'll cut through the Poultry and come out on Long Lane further up."

  By the time they came in sight of the walls, the streets were hopelessly clogged with carts and wagons, all ridiculously overladen with people, furniture, sacks, crates and boxes. Children and young lads were darting along the immobilised rows, snatching anything they could reach; their victims didn't dare get down off the carts to chase them, for fear of losing their places. Nobody was making any attempt to direct or unsnarl traffic; not a guard to be seen anywhere.

  "The hell with this," Basso said. "We should cut across town to the Southgate. There won't be so many people there."

  But the Southgate was just as bad; Southgate Street and the Linen Yard were irrevocably clogged with carts, and the watergate was firmly shut. "This is starting to get on my nerves," Basso said. "Let's get off the street for a while and see if things calm down."

  They went to the Memory of Heroes, a big inn on the outskirts of the cattle-market. It was empty, apart from a handful of the sort of men who never really left. Basso went to the bar and asked for a pint of rough cider; two bits.

  "Here, I know you," said a man at th
e bar.

  "I doubt it," Basso said, trying not to sound nervous.

  "I do know you." The man was scowling horribly at him. "You're him, aren't you? The big boss."

  Basso put his glass down, so his hands were free. "Think about it," he said. "If I was the First Citizen, would I be in a place like this?"

  But the man's mind was made up. "You are him," he said. "I know your face, off the money. I got a bone to pick with you."

  Basso tried to see over the top of his head. Luckily, the man was the sort nobody ever listened to. "All right," he said quietly. "Just for the sake of argument, I'm Bassianus Severus. What about it?"

  "You owe me."

  Oh well, Basso thought, and looked for an escape route, once he'd smashed the glass in the man's face. But the man was still talking.

  "You don't know me, do you?"

  "Sorry, no."

  "I'm Bevennius," the man said. "Bevennius the barber. It was me told your General Aelius about the stolen money. Well? Remember me now?"

  "Vaguely."

  The man nodded firmly: vindicated, before the whole world. "I was supposed to have a pension for life," he said. "It was decreed by the government."

  "I remember," Basso said. "So?"

  "They won't fucking pay me," the man said furiously. "Went down the paymasters' to collect, they told me to piss off. No money left, they said, which is bullshit. Course the government's got money. But they said no, no money; if I want my pension, they said I should go and ask the bloody First Citizen. So that's what I'm doing," the man went on. "I want my money."