The Belly of the Bow f-2

by K. J. Parker

  As soon as the glue was hard and he’d slipped off the clamps and unwound the cord, he’d mixed up another batch and begun the tedious, messy work of putting on the sinew backing. First, he’d sized the back of the core once again, this time with the residue of the last batch of hide glue. Next, he set it up on blocks at the front of the workbench, on which lay forty neatly sorted bundles of sinew fibres at convenient intervals. The glue was right – still warm and the consistency of new thin honey. He picked up the sliver of bone he’d chosen to use as a smoother and put it in a small clay cup full of water.

  He selected the first bundle of sinew, the longest he had, and dipped it in the glue until it was saturated and limp. He squeezed out the excess, starting at the top and working the runout down to the bottom, flattening the bundle in the process, then carefully laid it down the middle of the core’s back above the handle, spreading it from the centre outwards with the piece of dampened bone until it was just over half an inch wide. The next bundle he butt-ended onto the first, pushing firmly with the smoother to stretch the fibres slightly, and repeated the process until he’d covered a strip up the centre of the back from nock to nock. When that was done he paused briefly to wash some of the surplus glue off his hands.

  As he laid in the next row, to the left of the first, he made sure that the butt-seams didn’t line up to create a weak spot, two seams side by side; instead he staggered them like rows of bricks in a wall, then worked each bundle over with the smoother until it was indistinguishable from the material above, below and beside it. He continued until the whole of the back and sides of the core were covered in a homogenous mat of glue-sodden sinew, a long, flat artificial muscle that, once dry, would be next best thing to impossible to break no matter how hard it was stretched. As soon as he’d done one layer he laid on the second, working fast while the glue was still tacky and malleable so that each bundle of fibres would be fused with its neighbour and no weak spots could form. Finally he used up the last of the sinew in wrapping the joints in the bone on the belly, and smoothed all the leftover glue over the back; every last fibre of sinew and smear of glue used up, without waste or spoilage.

  Because time was so short, he’d made up a drying oven out of slabs of firebrick; he heated the bricks in the fire until they were just too hot to hold and stacked them round the blocks on which the bow was mounted, where the sunlight through the window would catch them and keep the bricks warm once the heat of the fire had dissipated. He’d never used this technique before, and was afraid that the intensity of the heat would warp or spoil the bow, or that the glue would dry brittle, or that the sinew would dry too fast and pull away from the back as it shrank (and those were only the disasters he could easily anticipate; the unforeseen problems would doubtless be even worse).

  Now all that was done, and he held the bow in his hands, to be strung and tillered, trimmed, smoothed and polished, the final layer of parchment-thin rawhide to be wrapped round.

  In his hands now, it was as ugly and messy as a new-born baby; a man-made limb, put together out of bone, tendon, blood and skin, with all the body parts refined, corrected, pulled out and put back together again in a better, more efficient way. On the back, the tendons to be stretched, in the belly the bone to be crushed and compressed, the two held apart by an intrusive wafer of timber, held together by blood, skin and bone-dust; an arm stronger than any man’s arm when stretched and crushed to the very point of destruction, made by violence for violence out of body parts, heat, desiccation and skill. Wonderful beyond words, if the dead muscle still remembered its function, if the dead bone withstood the unbearable force of compression, if dead limbs could take lives, if nothing but a smear of blood and the scrapings of skin could bind the bits of dead body together as they strove with all their stored-up might to tear apart from each other-

  (Like the Loredan family, Bardas thought with a smile; some of us bend and stretch, some of us crush and are crushed, but a little blood and sawdust and a shared skin keep us glued helplessly together, and when we bend and stretch and crush together, at the moment before breaking, we have infinite capacity for doing damage. I have been at the back of this family for many years, and now I’m in the belly of the bow, in the place where compression turns to expansion, where the stored force is converted into violence. And I have made this bow for my brother Gorgas.)

  He lifted his left leg and stepped over the handle, trapping the lower limb over the instep of this right foot and drawing the belly-side of the handle up into the hollow of his left knee, then pulled as hard as he could with his left hand on the upper limb, bending it back until he could slip the top loop of the string over the nock. It was amazingly stiff to bend; he could feel the bone trying its utmost to break – but there was nowhere for it to break to, it was trapped against an equally unbearable tension in the sinew of the back, each tension preventing the other from giving way; trapped like the members of a family at war with each other, held by bonds they can never escape but which create the very tension that stresses them to their limit. Just when he thought he would never be able to string the bow, he managed to edge the loop of twisted gut over the sinew-wrapped nock. The bowstring took the strain, the loops and serving held, and Bardas let the bow lie across the palm of his hand, finding its balance around its centre of gravity. Against all his expectations, the tiller was perfect: two beautifully balanced convexes on either side of the concave handle, utterly symmetrical, the recurves bent back on themselves to create yet another tension. He held his breath and lifted the bow – how light it was – set his fingers to the served middle of the string, pushed with his left hand and pulled with his right (again the power of forces in opposition, working against each other to produce force, violence), straining the tendons and bones of his arm, back and shoulders; carefully testing, an inch further with each flex, until the base of his thumb touched his chin, and then it would go no further.

  He rested for a moment, flexing his tortured muscles, thinking, So, the wretched thing draws short and stacks like crazy; that’s a hundred-pound bow with a twenty-five-inch draw. It’ll never be much for accuracy, but the power’s there. Well, it wouldn’t suit me. But Gorgas was always the strong one in our family, he can draw a hundred without breaking into a sweat, and a short draw suits fast, instinctive shooting. And Gorgas has always shot on instinct, ever since he was a boy. He picked an arrow out of the quiver that leant against the doorframe, fitted its nock to the string, aimed at a flat oak board three inches thick on the the side of the room, drew and loosed, letting the force of the draw pull the string off his fingers. The arrow struck high and its shaft disintegrated, leaving the bodkinhead driven clean through the board. The power was terrifying, and Bardas stood and stared for a while before unstringing the bow and laying it carefully down on the bench.

  Later he tidied it up with scarpers and abrasive reeds and grits, wrapped the handle with more fine rawhide, waxed it thoroughly to keep out the damp and finished it with two thick coats of pure, horrendously expensive Colleon lacquer, which dries fast and is completely waterproof. It looked a bit smarter now, all milk-white except for the dark line of the wooden core, and shining.

  He took the last scrap of the fine hide, which was every bit as good for writing on as the best parchment, and wrote To Gorgas, from Bardas, with love. Then he opened the door and yelled. Quite soon a clerk came hurrying up.

  ‘Is Gorgas Loredan still in the Bank?’ Bardas asked.

  ‘I think so,’ the clerk replied. ‘But he won’t be here much longer. Word’s come in that Avid Soef and the third army have just turned up, away to the south. He’s getting ready to leave.’

  Bardas smiled. ‘Wonderful timing,’ he said. ‘Take him this bow, quick as you like, it’s very important.’

  The clerk nodded. ‘Straight away,’ he said.

  ‘Good man. It’s just what he always wanted, so he ought to be pleased.’

  When the clerk has gone, Bardas shut the door, sat down on the floor, put his hea
d in his hands and tried not to think about what he’d just done.

  Gorgas took the handle in his left hand and rested the raw, scabbed pads of his draw fingers on the centre of the string. The bow was perfect, as if it was part of him, his own arm, but made infinitely more strong. He felt as if he’d owned it for years, knew it and was familiar with it, the easy familiarity of flesh and blood.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘And Bardas made it for me.’

  The sergeant was tapping his foot. ‘That’s really nice,’ he said. ‘But we do have a war to fight, so when you’re quite finished playing with it-’

  Gorgas didn’t look up. ‘I’ve got to go and say thank you,’ he said. ‘You don’t realise. I’ve lost my sister, but I’ve found my brother. We’re a family again.’

  The sergeant breathed out through his nose. ‘Gorgas, we’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘If we don’t get down the mountain before dark, we won’t be able to see to get in position. We could lose the battle-’

  ‘You’re right,’ Gorgas said. ‘Bardas didn’t make me a bow so I could lose the war with it. I guess it’ll just have to wait till I get back.’ Reluctantly, he slid the bow into his bow-case, letting his fingers glide over the lacquered back. ‘It’s funny,’ he said. ‘The last bow he made me I did some pretty bad things with. I have the feeling that this time it’s all going to be different; like a whole new start.’

  ‘Really,’ the sergeant said. ‘You mean, with this one, you might miss?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Sten Mogre is dead,’ Gannadius said.

  The people he was talking to looked at him as if he’d just taken off his clothes. ‘I beg your pardon?’ one of them said.

  ‘Sten Mogre,’ Gannadius repeated. ‘He’s dead. His army’s been wiped out too. In fact, we’ve lost something in the order of four thousand men, and nothing to show for it. Avid Soef’s still alive, of course.’

  Mihel Bovert’s wife came in with a tray of doves marinaded in bacon fat. ‘Eat them while they’re hot, everybody,’ she announced. ‘Oh dear, what long faces. Is everything all right?’

  There was an embarrassed silence, broken by one Bimond Faim saying, ‘According to our mystical friend here, the army’s been cut to ribbons.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mihel Bovert’s wife. ‘Which army? You mean the great big one that’s dealing with those horrid rebels?’

  ‘That’s right,’ grunted Mihel Bovert, ‘the one our son’s serving with. Doctor Gannadius, would you say you’re mad, divinely inspired or just very, very tactless?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gannadius said. ‘I – Something came over me, I suppose.’

  ‘Quite,’ replied Bimond Faim, lifting a dove off the tray with his fingers. ‘The spirit moved you, or whatever. Apart from what your inner voice tells you, have you any proof of this rather disturbing claim?’

  ‘No,’ Gannadius said. ‘Please, I’m so sorry, forget I said anything. Really-’

  One of the dinner guests, a big grey-bearded man, shook his head. ‘Easier said than done, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘The plain fact is, you don’t import a genuine Perimadeian wizard and then ignore his occult sayings. Be straight with us, Doctor: should we pay attention to what you’re saying or not? Presumably this sort of thing’s happened to you before.’

  Gannadius nodded. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘Well, similar things.’

  ‘And on these previous occasions, has the little angel voice been right or wrong? Or is it hit and miss?’

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ Gannadius replied defensively. Mihel Bovert’s wife went out, and came back a moment later with a silver sauce-boat. ‘You see, I’m only telling you what someone else is telling me.’

  ‘Someone on Scona, though,’ said a small, stout woman at the opposite end of the table. ‘Your spirit guide, or whatever the technical term is.’

  Gannadius didn’t correct her choice of terminology; his head was starting to hurt, making it hard for him to concentrate. ‘Someone on Scona, yes. Patriarch Alexius, as it happens. And he wouldn’t lie to me, so I do know for a fact that Alexius believes that Sten Mogre is dead and his army has been defeated. That’s all I can be certain about, though.’

  A bald, heavily built middle-aged man opposite him frowned. ‘But you can’t be certain,’ he said. ‘Let’s be scientific, shall we? After all, we’re supposed to be men of science. On previous occasions, when you’ve had these-’ He hesitated.

  ‘Funny turns?’ suggested Bimond Faim.

  ‘These experiences,’ the bald man said. ‘On your word of honour as a philosopher, can you honestly tell me you’ve proved to your own satisfaction that these insights are genuine? That you’ve somehow communicated with someone far away?’

  Gannadius nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to the other person involved – face to face, I mean, in the usual way – and they’ve confirmed that they had the same, or roughly the same, experience, and that they said the words I heard. Particularly Alexius; I’ve communicated with him quite a few times, it’s as if we have some sort of link. I’m not saying there aren’t alternative explanations,’ he added. ‘For a start, it’s perfectly possible that two people of very similar backgrounds who know each other well, thinking about the same problem, might come up with the same idea at roughly the same time, in a way that makes it look like they’re in contact with each other.’

  ‘Highly likely, I’d say,’ Bimond Faim said, through a mouthful of rye bread.

  ‘I think so too,’ Gannadius replied. ‘In fact, I have an idea that’s something to do with how this link works; literally, a meeting of like-thinking minds. But that’s just theory. I know Alexius thinks what I just told you is true.’

  The silence that followed was distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘All right,’ said Mihel Bovert, his thick brows furrowed. ‘As scientists and philosophers, we’ll take your word for it that you’ve verified your findings in an acceptable manner, at least for now. Obviously, the next question is what we do about it.’

  Faim looked up from his plate. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Mihel. You aren’t seriously suggesting we should base policy on this magical nonsense?’

  Bovert shook his head. ‘That’s not up to us,’ he said, ‘it’s up to Chapter. If you’re asking me whether we should pass this information on to Chapter, then I think I have to say yes, we should.’

  ‘Leave me out of it, please,’ someone else said hastily. ‘I really don’t like the mental image I’m getting of what our esteemed Separatist colleagues are going to say when we tell them we want to rethink the war because some – excuse me, Doctor – some foreign self-proclaimed wizard has been hearing distant voices in his head.’

  ‘There’ll be bite-sized bits of our credibility scattered between here and Tornoys,’ growled Bimond Faim. ‘We’ll be lucky if any of us gets so much as a junior fellowship ever again.’

  Bovert smiled. ‘There’s ways and ways,’ he said. ‘Jaufre,’ he continued, turning to the young man on his right, ‘you play chess with Anaut Mogre’s son, don’t you?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘Splendid. Go round there now, spin him some yarn about having fallen out dreadfully with your uncle or me, and by way of a terrible revenge on us, tell young Mogre we’ve got vital information about the war but we’re keeping it hushed up for faction reasons. You don’t know what the information is, of course, you just know it’s terribly important, and we’ve all been locked in a secret meeting for the last couple of hours. If you’re quick, we’ll get the summons to Chapter in about an hour and a half, just time to finish dinner and digest.’

  Bovert’s prediction was reasonably accurate; two hours later he was getting to his feet in a packed, bad-tempered Chapter.

  ‘Essentially,’ he said, ‘what Anaut’s just said is true. I have received what could be important news about the war, and I haven’t told anybody. The reason is, I don’t believe a word of it.’

  On the Separatist benches, Anaut Mogre didn’t seem to be aware
of his closeness to the mouth of the trap. ‘Perhaps this assembly ought to be the judge of that,’ he said. ‘Be so kind as to share your news with us.’

  Mihel Bovert was only too happy to oblige. ‘So you see,’ he concluded after making his report, ‘I really didn’t feel justified in troubling this assembly with a cock-and-bull story based on magic and mysticism, when even the magician himself isn’t sure the message is actually true.’ Redemptionist laughter; awkward silence on the Separatist side. They knew they were now going to have to believe officially in Doctor Gannadius’ inspiration – it was that or agree with the Redemptionists, and admit they’d wasted everybody’s time calling the Chapter – and demand that action be taken based on it. If the crisis turned out to be a false alarm, they’d be ridiculed for believing in magic. If the crisis proved to be real, the Redemptionists wouldn’t find it hard to snatch the credit for sending the reinforcements, since it was their man, at their dinner-party, who’d obtained the vital information. It was time for quick thinking.

  ‘I’m a scientist,’ said Anaut Mogre. ‘And one of the most important things in science is being able to admit you don’t know. I admit, I don’t know whether to believe in this magic story or not. For all I know, it could be meaningless babble, or a true vision, maybe something in between. Personally, I’ve always preferred to keep an open mind about this whole applied-philosophy issue, as anybody who heard my keynote address at Convocation last year will confirm. But what I’d like you all to consider is this. If there’s no crisis and we send another army, what’s the worst outcome? We look idiots – I look an idiot, as do my colleagues on this side of the chamber – the army comes home again, no harm done. Now, suppose we ignore this message and there really has been a disaster on Scona? Worst outcome: we lose the war. Colleagues, in this case I’d far rather be humiliated than justified, because I’d really like this all to be a hoax or a mistake, I really want to find out that my cousin Sten and his army are safely in one piece and getting on with the job in hand. But if there’s the slightest chance otherwise, I say send an army, and I don’t care who hears me.’