The Belly of the Bow f-2

by K. J. Parker

  He left the barn, closing the door behind him, and crossed the yard to the house. That proved to be empty as well; not just of people, but of pretty well everything. It reminded Gorgas of his brother’s sparse, horrible apartment in one of the ‘island’ blocks in Perimadeia. Obviously, Bardas had some sort of hang-up about accumulating possessions, which was a new development since they were children, but understandable in the light of what had happened in between. Still, he reflected as he surveyed the main room, it takes a special skill to be sparse and scruffy at the same time.

  He poked about for a while until he found what he was looking for – a cloth bundle tied up with hemp cord and shoved under the mattress, containing a rare and extremely valuable Guelan broadsword. No chance whatsoever that Bardas would go away for good and leave that behind. Quite apart from its monetary worth, it was one of the finest swords ever made and no fencer who’d once owned such a thing could possibly bear to be parted from it by choice. If the sword was still here, Bardas would be back. Gorgas sat in the solitary and uncomfortable chair – for a bowyer, brother, you’re a piss-poor carpenter – and settled down to wait.

  What with one thing and another, Venart didn’t really feel in the mood for conducting business. Still, he didn’t have much choice; he had money to pay out and collect, loading to supervise, charter-parties and bills of lading to read through, provisions and chandlery to buy before he could leave Scona, and if he didn’t do it, it wasn’t going to get done.

  It’s one of the immutable laws of trading life that the busier a man is and the less time he has, the more complicated every simple thing becomes. The people who owed him money weren’t at home; if he was quick he might just catch them at the Quay, or at the Golden Square, or on their way back from the Bank. His creditors, on the other hand, had no trouble at all in finding him, and he didn’t seem to be able to make them understand that the longer they kept him hanging about talking, the longer it would be before he’d be able to collect his money and pay them. Then he couldn’t find any porters to load his cargo, and when he finally managed to round up a gang of dead-beats and loafers who belonged to the necessary guilds, he arrived at the customs house to find that the portmaster was away for the rest of the morning and might be back later, or not, depending on how things went generally. Then there was a mistake in the cargo manifest that meant the whole thing had to be written out again (but the clerk who’d done it wasn’t in his office, and all the other clerks in Scona Town were all apparently too busy to take on a rush job), the provisioners were clean out of raisins, and the price of four-ply sailmaker’s twine had somehow managed to shoot up overnight from three quarters a roll to ten. All in all, for a town that apparently didn’t want him, it was making it very hard indeed for him to leave.

  ‘Wool grease,’ the last chandler in town muttered, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘Wool grease. I might have some. There’s not a lot of call for it.’

  Venart waited long enough to count to ten. ‘Then would you mind looking for it?’ he suggested. ‘I need two gallons, minimum. I’ll take three if you’ve got it.’

  The chandler shrugged. ‘If I’ve got any, it’ll be in the cellar,’ he replied, and Venart couldn’t tell from his tone of voice whether this was just a statement of fact or the chandler’s roundabout way of saying that the cellar was blocked off or he didn’t dare go in there because of the spiders.

  ‘Would you mind going down into the cellar and looking, please?’ Venart said.

  ‘I could do,’ the chandler conceded. ‘Can you come back tomorrow, say about midday?’

  Venart released a sigh that had been building up inside him for the last twenty minutes. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’ll try somewhere else.’ He turned to go, but just as he was about to pass through the door, the chandler said, ‘Wait there, I won’t be long,’ and disappeared, apparently straight down through a hole in the floorboards.

  Half an hour later he came back empty handed. ‘I’ve got olive butter,’ he said, in a slightly awed voice, ‘barrels and barrels of it. You can have as much of that as you like.’

  Venart explained that he needed wool grease to proof his hull against shipworm, and olive butter would be not just useless but counter-productive. ‘You sure you haven’t got any?’ he asked.

  ‘I might have some in the roof,’ the chandler replied.

  Venart drew in a deep breath; but before he could say anything, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  ‘I can lend you some if you like,’ said Athli. ‘You can pay me back when I get home.’

  For the first time in several days, Venart felt relatively happy. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’ he added.

  ‘You’re looking at the Zeuxis Commercial Bank,’ Athli replied smiling. ‘All five foot three of it. Come on, I’ll get you that wool grease. And you look like you could use a drink.’

  ‘I didn’t know your other name was Zeuxis,’ Venart admitted as they walked together towards the Quay. ‘Come to think of it, it never occurred to me to ask.’

  Athli shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose the topic ever came up,’ she said. ‘You look harrassed. Things not going well?’

  Venart pulled a face. ‘You could say that,’ he said. ‘But don’t get me started on that subject. What’s all this about a bank, then?’

  ‘I’ve got the Island agency for Shastel,’ Athli replied. ‘Clinched it just the other day, in fact. And, since I was passing, I thought I’d stop off on Scona and see what the soft-furnishing market’s like here. To tell you the truth, I don’t reckon much to it. These people strike me as a miserable lot.’

  Venart frowned. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed,’ he said,’ but there’s something of a war going on between Scona and Shastel. I’m not sure that makes you being here such a terribly good idea.’

  Athli shrugged. ‘Nobody seems to mind,’ she replied. ‘As far as I can tell it doesn’t seem to work like that. Actually, if we’re going to be pedantic about it, there isn’t actually a war, just a series of unfortunate incidents that are being actively reviewed by representatives of both parties in the hope of reaching a meaningful settlement in the short to medium term. Which,’ she added, ‘is just a way of saying “war” in gibberish, but it does open up interesting possibilities for an imaginative trader.’

  Venart looked at her. ‘Does it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Think about it, Ven. Without imaginative traders, with a war going on, how are they supposed to do business with each other?’

  ‘I didn’t think they wanted to.’

  Athli grinned. ‘It’s hardly a matter of choice. There’s at least five big merchant companies on Scona who’re heavily involved in joint ventures with Shastel houses, and the Faims – that’s one of the leading Poor families – have most of their working capital invested on Scona.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ Venart objected.

  ‘True,’ Athli agreed. ‘But Niessa Loredan pays a better rate of interest. It’s one of the things I like about this part of the world,’ she added. ‘They don’t let war get in the way of sound commercial propositions.’

  Venart couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and while he was recovering Athli asked after Vetriz. He closed his eyes for a moment. One good thing about the endless aggravations of doing business on Scona was that they could be made to occupy his full attention and keep his mind off other things.

  ‘She’s in trouble,’ he said. ‘Very bad trouble.’

  ‘Oh.’ Athli stopped walking. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  Venart made a despairing gesture. ‘That’s the worst part of it, almost. I don’t know. As far as I can tell, it’s something to do with Patriarch Alexius, magic and Colonel Loredan. But as for trying to make sense of it all-’

  ‘Colonel Loredan,’ Athli interrupted. ‘You mean Gorgas Loredan.’

  ‘No, Bardas. You know, your Bardas. Him you used to work for. If you remember, he’s the Director’s brother, but they don’t get on.
It’s all mixed up with some stuff about Perimadeia, but I couldn’t follow it.’

  ‘What’s Bardas Loredan got to do with it?’ Athli asked quietly.

  ‘Like I said,’ Venart replied, ‘it all went way above my head. At first, it looked like Triz and I had been arrested; then it seemed the Director wanted her help with something, and then Triz said it was all right, she wanted to stay and do whatever it is the Director wants her to. And here I am, worried out of my head about her – are you listening?’

  ‘What? Yes, of course I’m listening. Look, let’s get that drink and you can tell me all about it, right from the beginning. You never know, I might be able to help.’

  Venart thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘My mind’s a complete blank, I’m afraid, so if you can suggest something, or make sense of what’s going on, that’d be wonderful. Gods, I wish we’d never come here,’ he added savagely. ‘This is the most awful place I’ve ever been in my entire life. If only we can get away and make it safely back to the Island-’

  ‘Yes,’ Athli said impatiently, ‘all right. Look, there’s a wine shop on the corner, we’ll go there. And for pity’s sake, pull yourself together and start again at the beginning.’

  ‘Six quarters,’ the old man repeated. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  Bardas Loredan looked at the eel, then at the old man, then back at the eel. Pare off the man’s limbs and there’d be a strong resemblance. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘but on balance I think I’d rather starve. You can’t get food poisoning from starvation.’

  The old man blinked. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ Bardas replied. ‘A bunch of Shastel soldiers roam about the island for a couple of days and smash up some villages, and suddenly there’s nothing to eat on the whole of Scona?’

  ‘Six quarters. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘Four.’

  The old man didn’t say anything. He had a knack of sitting perfectly still, like a lizard.

  ‘Five,’ Bardas said. ‘And that’s just because if I don’t buy it you might eat it yourself, and I don’t want your death on my conscience.’

  ‘Six quarters. Take it-’

  ‘Oh, for gods’ sakes.’ Bardas fumbled in his pocket and produced the money. The old man tucked the eel under the crook of his knee while he held the coins up to the light. Five of them he reluctantly passed after a thorough inspection. The sixth he laid on a flat stone beside him, fished a chisel and a small hammer out of his pocket and cut into the coin on the edge of the rim. Then he held it up again and moved it about in the sunlight until the nick he’d just cut caught the light and sparkled. He clicked his tongue and handed it back.

  ‘Plated,’ he said.

  Bardas looked for himself. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘How the hell did you spot that?’

  The old man looked at him. Bardas produced another coin, which passed muster. The old man lifted his knee and handed over the eel.

  ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ he croaked.

  Bardas found the boy, who was sitting in the village square beside the well, eating an apple. ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked.

  ‘Old woman gave it to me,’ the boy replied with his mouth full. ‘Want some?’

  ‘What? Oh, no, you carry on,’ Bardas said, looking wistfully at the apple. ‘Never could stand the things. Give me heartburn. Here’s supper, look.’

  The boy took one look at the eel and backed away a little. ‘I’m not eating that,’ he said. ‘It’s gross.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, it’s a perfectly good eel. Delicacy where I come from.’

  ‘Bet you’re glad you left, then.’

  ‘It’s this,’ Bardas said with his last drop of patience, ‘or I give you a bow and one arrow and you can go bunny-bashing. Your choice. No obligation.’

  The boy looked at the eel and swallowed. ‘It might be all right,’ he said, ‘with some sage and chives and a lot of pepper.’

  ‘No sage. No chives. Certainly no pepper. If you’d rather have rabbit,’ he added, ‘again,’ he stressed, ‘then be my guest. We haven’t had it stewed yet, have we?’

  ‘Day before yesterday,’ the boy replied sullenly. ‘All right, we’ll have your rotten eel. But tomorrow we go into Town and buy some bread, all right?’

  Bardas shook his head. ‘No. I’ve told you, I don’t like it there. We’ll try up around Seusa, there’s bound to be food out that way. Remember the time we made a delivery up there and had those doughnuts?’

  The boy studied him carefully. ‘Why don’t you want to go to Scona?’ he said. ‘It’s much nearer than Seusa and there really is food there. And we won’t be ripped off like we’re being in the villages.’

  ‘I don’t like it there,’ Bardas repeated.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because. Now jump in the cart and let’s go home before it gets dark.’

  Bardas was being over-optimistic. By the time they got back it was pitch black and starless, and the boy had to walk in front of the cart with a lantern for the last two miles of the journey. When they reached the top of the lane, the boy stopped dead.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘There’s a light in the house,’ the boy called back.

  Bardas thought for a moment, then jumped down and handed the reins to the boy. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘If you see anyone coming who isn’t me, run for it back to that old tower we were in and wait there a day.’ He reached in his pocket and pulled out a purse. ‘Don’t lose this, for gods’ sakes. There’s enough there to buy a passage to the Island. Find a woman called Athli Zeuxis and say I sent you. All right?’

  The boy stared at him, his eyes wide with terror. ‘What’s happening?’ he said. ‘If it’s something bad, why don’t we both just go away and hide till they’ve gone?’

  Bardas shrugged. ‘You remember my brother sent some men to round us up and bring us in?’ he said.

  The boy nodded. ‘You bashed them,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. Well, figure it out for yourself. Whoever that is waiting for us down there, he doesn’t seem bothered about letting us know he’s here. I think that rules out thieves, or the odd stray halberdier. I don’t think it’s more of my brother’s soldiers, for the same reason. So, who else is left? A big party of halberdiers, possibly; and if so, I’ll see the sentries and come right back. But I don’t think so, If they’re wandering about openly and lighting fires, we’d have heard about them by now, with all the travelling round we’ve been doing. I think I know who that is.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  Bardas nodded. ‘Or it could be someone completely harmless, I don’t know. Anyway, you wait here, and remember – Athli Zeuxis, on the Island. You got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ the boy replied. ‘Can’t I come with you?’

  ‘No. Stay here. Pay attention.’ He reached into the cart and took out the short heavily recurved ninety-pounder and the quiver of short reed arrows, looked at them and put them back. ‘The hell with it,’ he said, ‘I can’t shoot straight in broad daylight, let alone the pitch dark. Serves me right, I suppose.’

  He walked quietly along the side of the barn as far as the woodshed. Fortunately, he knew everything there was to know about the woodshed door, including the precise way to lift it to stop the hinge squeaking. It was impossible to see anything in there, but he was able to find what he was looking for by feel: a hatchet-head fitted to a felling-axe handle, hanging from a strap from a hook in the centre beam. It was a weapon in the way rabbit was food; a significant improvement on nothing at all.

  Why he felt so angry he didn’t know. If it was Gorgas in there, he was glad he’d had some warning. The way he was feeling right now, he’d have gone for him straight away, without even thinking about it, and since Gorgas was most probably better armed than he was, that would have been a bad mistake. The advance notice hadn’t changed how he felt; time to think about it had given him an opportunity to choose some
semblance of a weapon, but it hadn’t cooled his temper. And that was odd. He’d spent so many years killing for money that he couldn’t imagine himself ever killing for free again. He hadn’t felt this way when he first came to Scona and was confronted with Gorgas and Niessa. He’d even managed to be civil to them both while making it clear that he wanted to be as far away from them as the cramped geography of the island would permit. He hadn’t enjoyed the interview and it had been hard work being in the same place with them, but he hadn’t felt this terrific urge to see their blood.

  Since then, nothing in particular had happened. They’d left him alone, just as he’d asked. Once he’d turned away a few messengers with gifts of money and clothes and the like, Gorgas had taken the hint and stopped trying. Recently Bardas had been able to go days at a time without feeling their presence in this enclosed space they owned. He’d worked hard, very hard, at shutting them out of this mind; and although he knew it was all entirely artificial, this pretence that he was a simple artisan making a satisfactory living by honest toil, that his bows were of such exceptional quality that the procurement officers paid a premium for them and took whatever he could produce, nevertheless it was an illusion that he believed he could maintain for a while yet (as his mind slowly took a set, like a bow left strung and put away, until the wood forgets the tension in the back and the belly and follows the string in a permanent bend), perhaps even indefinitely. He wondered about the physics of it, and considered the old saying in his trade that a bow at full draw is nine-tenths broken. He concluded that all he wanted to do now was break, and the hell with everything; but why this should be he couldn’t quite grasp. Perhaps it was nothing more than this heavy-handed reminder of how shallow the illusion was, as simple as that; the act of walking into his home and lighting a fire. In Perimadeia, where houses quite often went without an owner (because someone had died childless and without family, or had gone abroad and not come back) it was the law that ownership was asserted by treating the property in some way as if one owned it – moving in furniture, whitewashing the walls, cleaning the curtains or even something as simple and ordinary as lighting a fire in the hearth. He’d have taken it without a word from a couple of stray Shastel halberdiers, even if they’d burnt the place down, because they’d have been passing through and wouldn’t have been asserting ownership. Gorgas lighting a fire in his grate was another matter entirely; that made it a legal issue, and he’d spent long enough in the lawcourts of the City to know what to do about that.