by K. J. Parker
They’ll have trashed the boats. That’s the first thing they’ll have done. And we’re on an island.
At the head of his men (when running away, always lead by example), Renvaut dragged himself over the brow of the ridge only to find that it was no such thing; in front of him was a patch of dead ground, a dip leading up to a slightly more gradual slope that extended to the true brow, about a quarter of a mile further on. He signalled a halt; there was something in this dip that might solve his problems, at least in the short term.
Yet another poxy little village. This one, however, had much to recommend it. First, there was a seven-foot-high stone wall all round it, with two substantial-looking gates controlled by gatehouses. Second, there was no river or stream running through, which meant the water supply must come from a well-spring inside the village, something that couldn’t easily be cut off or diverted. Third, it had the look of having been abandoned, thoroughly and in a hurry.
‘Penna?’ asked the sergeant.
‘What?’
‘On the map,’ the sergeant said, ‘there was a village called Penna.’
‘Yes, but that was miles away. Over there somewhere.’ Renvaut waved vaguely in the direction they’d come from. ‘It could be Penna, I suppose. Or was that one of the ones we trashed? Anyway, doesn’t matter. Take an advance party and look around.’
But the name Penna tugged at his memory, and he remembered; the priory of Penna, founded early in the Foundation’s history, abandoned about seventy years ago and turned into a village; the hermit crab in the limpet shell. That would account for stone walls and gatehouses, and the handful of rather fine stone-built houses he could just see beyond the wall. Better and better. Defence had always been the first priority of the Foundation’s architects. Quite by chance, they’d stumbled on a purpose-built fortress just when they needed one. Luck, he mused, is having us and eating us.
‘Nobody home,’ the sergeant reported a little later. ‘And there’s water, flour, bacon, geese and chickens running about everywhere, even a couple of carp-ponds and a dovecote. So, what are we going to do?’
Good question. They could load up with supplies and try struggling on to the coast, or they could dig in and be besieged. The courageous, military thing to do would be to press on, make the most of their small lead and trust that the barges would still be there waiting for them. Holing up in a village on a hostile island might make them feel safer for a day or so, but in the long term it was suicide. Once inside, they’d never find a way of getting out again; their only hope would be a relief party from Shastel, and as a patriot and a staunch believer in the Foundation, Renvaut devoutly hoped they wouldn’t try anything so stupid.
‘So, what do we do?’ the sergeant repeated. ‘Whatever, we’d better hurry.’
Renvaut took a deep breath. One day, the whole of Shastel could end up looking like this, and the Foundation would be dead and gone.
‘We’re staying here and digging in,’ Renvaut said.
CHAPTER SIX
‘I seem to have this knack,’ the young merchant muttered, ‘of stumbling into other people’s wars. It’s a bad habit and I think I’ll try and break it.’
His sister sat down on a coil of rope and opened her writing tablet. ‘I wouldn’t,’ she said without looking up. ‘Wars have always been good for business. Think of yourself as a pig with a talent for sniffing out truffles.’
‘That’s not really—Look out, he’s coming back.’ The merchant, whose name was Venart, straightened his back and tried to look bored as the soldier came stomping down the deck towards him. ‘Finished?’ he asked. ‘Because we do have work to do, you know. This lot isn’t going to unload itself, and—’
The soldier looked at him, and he subsided. ‘All seems to be in order,’ the soldier said grudgingly. He opened the small wooden box he was holding and produced a strip of clay, stamped with three columns of small writing and kept wet between two layers of damp cloth. From his satchel he took a signet ring on a length of flax string and pressed it into the clay; then he closed the box and handed it over. ‘Here’s your docking clearance and licence to trade,’ he said. ‘You should be prepared to offer it for examination whenever required to do so by an officer of the Bank, and you’ll need to produce it when changing money or sealing any bill or document with a Scona resident. It must also be endorsed with an excise stamp indicating that all duty has been paid before you’ll be permitted to leave Scona. Is that clear?’
Venart nodded wearily. ‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘Now can we please start unloading?’
‘Go ahead,’ the soldier replied. He called out an order to his three subordinates and led them down the gangplank and off the ship.
‘You realise,’ said the merchant’s sister, whose name was Vetriz, ‘that if you’d been even half polite to that man, we’d have been spared all that poking about in sacks and opening of barrels. Honestly, why do you always insist on carrying on as if you were an Imperial envoy?’
‘I wasn’t,’ Venart replied, stung. ‘I just resent it when some lout in a uniform—’
‘Of course you do,’ Vetriz said soothingly. ‘You don’t see why some horrid little man should push you around when all you’re doing is carrying on an honest trade. And that’s why we spend so much time sitting at the dock having our cargo ransacked. You’re a merchant, you’re suppose to cringe and fawn and kiss their smelly boots. It’s called business, or hadn’t you heard?’
Venart sighed. ‘I don’t like this place,’ he said. ‘Never have. It’s sort of—’ He paused while he carefully sorted through the resources of his vocabulary. ‘Sort of creepy,’ he went on. ‘There’s a bad feeling about this island, I don’t know what it is.’
‘You don’t? How extremely unperceptive you are. Come on, let’s make a start, or it’ll be dark before we’re finished.’
Vetriz got up and walked away briskly, leaving her brother to trot after her. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘if you’re so clever, what is it about this place?’
‘What do you expect in a country run by an ex-slave trader?’ Vetriz said casually. ‘Oh, don’t say you didn’t know. Everybody knows that.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, now you do. That’s how the Director of the Bank made her money, back in Perimadeia. She ran a chain of brothels.’ She stopped and smiled sweetly. ‘You do know what a brothel is, don’t you?’
‘Don’t be aggravating,’ Venart said irritably. ‘But isn’t she supposed to be related to that man we met, the one who killed people for a living?’
‘That’s right,’ Vetriz replied. ‘Her name’s Niessa Loredan. Anyway, she made her fortune buying women and children from the South Coast pirates and selling and hiring them in the City. At least, that’s how she started. And now she runs Scona. Which probably has something to do with why it’s not a particularly nice place.’
Venart thought for a moment. ‘Well, she’s done all right for herself, at any rate,’ he said. ‘You get the bill of lading sorted out while I go and see the warehouse people.’
Most of the cargo was made up of barrels of raisins and sacks of pepper and cloves, none of which were likely to be improved by being left standing out in the rain for any length of time. The warehouseman wasn’t in his office, but Venart eventually ran him to ground in the harbourmaster’s office, where he was playing knucklebones with three of the clerks. He didn’t seem to be in any great hurry to leave the game, but eventually Venart was able to persuade him to open up the warehouse and take his money.
‘And the porters’ fees,’ the warehouseman added.
‘That’s all right,’ Venart replied. ‘We do our own unloading.’
‘Not on Scona you don’t,’ the warehouseman said with a grin. ‘Not unless you want all your stuff pulled out of store and dumped in the sea.’
‘But that’s outrageous,’ Venart protested. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Custom and practice,’ the warehouseman said with a shrug. ‘Nothing to do with me.�
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‘It isn’t custom and practice,’ Venart insisted. ‘Or at least it wasn’t three years ago, when I was here last.’
‘It’s a new custom,’ the warehouseman said. ‘I mean, customs have got to start somewhere. Sixty quarters, and you won’t have any trouble.’
Venart looked him in the eye. ‘How about if I take this up with the harbourmaster?’ he said sternly.
‘Can if you like,’ the warehouseman replied in a bored voice. ‘But he’s a busy man, and by the time you get to see him, all your gear’ll be being washed up on Shastel. The choice is yours.’
Venart paid him the sixty quarters and went back to the ship. There was no sign of any porters, but that didn’t surprise him in the least. He told his men to start unloading.
‘I’ve been through the list and everything’s fine,’ Vetriz said, sitting next to him on the sea wall. ‘Oh, and by the way, don’t let them sucker you into paying porters’ fees. Apparently they try it on with newcomers, but it’s all a scam.’
‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’ her brother answered. ‘I’ve told Marin and Olas to take first turn watching the cargo. Let’s go and find somewhere out of this rain and get something to eat.’
‘The Unicorn, just off the Strangers’ Quay,’ Vetriz said. ‘It’s not too expensive, for Scona, and if we’re lucky we might get out again without having our throats cut.’
There was no point asking how she knew that; there were just some things that Vetriz knew, and that was that. Venart guessed that she asked people.
‘We’ll leave making a start till the morning,’ he announced, dumping his kitbag in the corner of the room. ‘I don’t suppose anybody does any business around here in the evenings.’
‘Actually, the time to do business is the evening promenade, ’ Vetriz corrected him. ‘There’s three or four taverns where the provisioners hang around, over on the other side of the Dock. We’ll need to take samples along, and it’s customary not to start talking business until after the second drink. Once we’ve told them what we’ve got, we leave it to them to have a sort of informal auction, and whatever we do, we don’t name a price ourselves, because that’s a sign of weakness. They make the offer, and we take it or leave it. They don’t haggle much.’
‘How the hell do you know? Never mind.’ Venart shook his head. ‘You’d better lead the way, then.’
‘I don’t know where to go,’ Vetriz replied. ‘I’ve never been here before in my life.’
The provisioners’ pitches turned out not to be hard to find. The fifth tavern they looked in smelt overpoweringly of cardamom and cumin, and they saw ten or twelve men sitting on cushions on the floor passing round a pewter jug, while all about them were open bags and sacks of fine-grade produce. When the two Islanders joined them, they were greeted with cheerful curiosity, more cushions and more cups were called for, and a space appeared in the ring. Two boys hurried up with the cushions, the cups, another quart jug and two wide copper plates of raisins, dates and dried figs. To Venart’s surprise, three of the men in the circle turned out to be women, dressed in the same heavy brocaded coats and trousers, embroidered slippers and big shapeless felt hats as the men.
After the barest minimum of small talk, the circle got down to business. Venart produced his samples, handed them to the man next to him to pass round, fixed a pleasant smile on his face and resolved to say nothing, while Vetriz (who was hungry) kept herself occupied with the plate of dried fruit. As predicted the merchants started haggling and arguing among themselves, for all the world as if the two strangers weren’t there. It was only when one man opted out of the negotiations after a good deal of arm-waving and furious language that he leant forward with a warm, friendly smile on his face and said, ‘Welcome to Scona.’
‘It’s a pleasure to be here,’ Venart replied inaccurately.
The provisioner acknowledged the formula with a slight bow from the neck. He was an elderly man with a round face, pale brown eyes and four hairless chins. ‘I can see you’re familiar with our way of doing business,’ he said, ‘so presumably this isn’t your first trip here.’
‘Not for me, no,’ Venart said. ‘But my sister, who’s learning the business from me, hasn’t been here before.’
The provisioner nodded two or three times. ‘It can be a very offputting place when you’re new here,’ he said. ‘But once you’re used to it, and you know better than to be taken in by the dockers’ scams and the excisemen’s bluster, you find it’s more or less the same as any market place anywhere. If people want to buy what you’re selling, it’s easy enough; if you’re not carrying the right lines, you have to work harder.’
‘And what about the war?’ Venart asked. ‘Is that making much difference?’
The provisioner grinned at him like a tired dog. ‘War?’ he said. ‘What war? Oh, I know what you mean, but it’s like an unspoken rule, you don’t call it that. You say “the state of tension existing between the Foundation and ourselves”, or “the intense rivalry between the Scona Bank and its local competitors”.’
Vetriz frowned. ‘Not meaning to be rude,’ she said, ‘but why not call it a war when it is one? It seems - well, a bit silly.’
Venart scowled ferociously at her, but both Vetriz and the provisioner ignored him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to your eminently reasonable question,’ the provisioner said. ‘That’s just what’s been decided, and so we do it. To give you an example, our forces have just wiped out a larger enemy unit right in the heart of the Foundation’s territory, which effectively gives us control of the area. Now what’ll happen is that the accredited Scona representatives in Shastel will call at the offices of the Foundation and hand over a letter of credit - drawn on Scona, needless to say - for the value of the mortgages held by the Foundation in the territory we’ve just taken, and the Foundation will seal receipts on the mortgage deeds acknowledging that all sums due have been paid in full. Then as soon as they’re able, they’ll send a larger army to chase us off again, and if they succeed, their agents will call on us and give us a letter of credit (drawn on Shastel, needless to say) and we’ll receipt our mortgage deeds back again, and so it’ll go on. Neither side can actually cash the letters, obviously, but I know for a fact that we solemnly enter them in our accounts as fixed assets, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they do the same.’
Vetriz bit her lip. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘It still seems a funny way to do business.’
The provisioner shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is; but, to use our favourite phrase, it’s custom and practice. And it does make a sort of sense, in a way; we treat warfare as one of the many forms that commercial activity can take. And if you ask me, running commerce and warfare in parallel is no sillier than simultaneously waging war and playing diplomacy, which is what all governments do.’
The rest of the circle had stopped arguing and gone back to talking pleasantly among themselves - except when they’re negotiating Venart noticed, they’re a very soft-spoken lot - and a middle-aged woman on the opposite side of the ring got up, sat down next to Venart and started talking terms. Vetriz tried to follow the conversation for a while, but it wasn’t particularly interesting stuff, and for all her determination to learn the business she still found it hard to get enthusiastic about warranties of actual state and condition. Instead she turned to the man they’d been talking to.
‘I was wondering,’ she said. ‘Do you happen to know a man called Bardas Loredan? I think he’s the Director’s brother.’
The provisioner raised both eyebrows. ‘Not personally,’ he said. ‘I know of him, naturally. If I may ask, why?’
‘Oh, I met him once in Perimadeia,’ she said, with slightly exaggerated lack of concern. ‘We did some business with him just before the City fell.’
‘Really,’ said the provisioner softly.
‘Oh, yes. We bought a lot of rope from him.’
The provisioner nodded slowly. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Colonel Loredan - that was his of
ficial rank, wasn’t it? - he’s something of a mystery to us, if the truth be told. He came here immediately after the City fell, but as far as anybody knows he’s having nothing to do with either the Director or his brother—’
‘His brother,’ Vetriz repeated. ‘Gorgas Loredan?’
‘That’s right. Our Chief Executive. Do I take it you know him as well?’
‘We’ve met,’ Vetriz replied, looking past him rather than at him. ‘I gather he works for his sister.’
‘Gorgas Loredan’s a very important man here on Scona,’ the provisioner said, deadpan. ‘If you know him personally, that could be a great help to your business dealings here. For one thing, he’s in charge of all the buying for the military.’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose he remembers me,’ Vetriz said quickly. ‘Does anyone know why there’s bad feeling between Bar—between Colonel Loredan and his brother?’
The provisioner shook his head. ‘Rumour and speculation,’ he said, ‘and no two stories agree. It’s not all that uncommon for brothers to fall out, you know.’ He paused, apparently thinking something over, and then went on, ‘If you knew the Colonel in Perimadeia during the siege, did you ever come across a man called Alexius, the Patriarch?’
