The Belly of the Bow

by K. J. Parker

  ‘I shall have to get him to make me another one,’ he said.

  ‘The Director will send for you presently,’ the man said. He nodded at a cold, hard-looking stone bench, and walked away.

  Alexius thought of his piles, groaned inside and sat down on the bench, which was just as cold and hard as he imagined. Perhaps it’d be better to stand; but he thought of his rheumatism and decided against it. All in all, he reflected, he was too old to hang around in stark, miserable waiting rooms outside the offices of people with titles like Director. Come to that, he’d been too old for that game on the day he was born.

  Which was not to suggest that the place didn’t have a certain grandeur about it. The anteroom was wide and high, with a hammer-beam roof and thick ornamental pillars of roughly finished pink granite; no decoration, not even whitewash, but everything built in a way that suggested money and resources were no problem. That impression, he reckoned, was true enough. The Director (whoever that turned out to be) had enough of both effectively to buy him from the Islanders and have him whisked away on a big, fast ship before his rich and powerful friends on the Island had been able to do anything about it. But who these people were, let alone what they could possibly want him for, was beyond him entirely. This didn’t look like the establishment of someone who collected philosophers as a hobby.

  The bench wasn’t getting any more comfortable with the passage of time, so he made the effort to stand up and hobble on his protesting legs as far as the doorway he’d just come through. That at least was vaguely familiar. It was an attempt to copy the grand Perimadeian style, done by somebody who’d never been to the City or seen anything like what he was being asked to copy. It looked bizarre and ever so slightly ridiculous.

  Most of all, he realised, what offended and disconcerted him most about this place was the fact that it was obviously all so new. He was no expert, but if the clean, neat, sharp lines and unfaded colours were anything to go by, this whole building was no more than five years old. It even still had a faint residual smell of new building, the slight musty dampness of new plaster and the unmistakable scene of stone-dust. That tells me something, he said to himself. Not only rich, but suddenly taken rich. He tried not to let the thought worry him, but he couldn’t help it. Being a Perimadeian, he was uncomfortable in new buildings; even the outside privies in the City had been four hundred years old and made of polished basalt.

  Suddenly taken rich; well, that could be honest trade - a newly discovered seam of silver or a better sea-route to the South - or piracy, or revolution and civil war. It could be a new dynasty or a usurping warlord, except in that case he’d be waiting to see a king, not a director. Director suggested trade, and he felt marginally more comfortable with the idea of a merchant prince of some kind. But didn’t newly wealthy merchants fill their palaces with gorgeous and vulgar splendour, the skimmings of five continents jumbled up together in a casserole, statues in every niche and pictures jostling each other for wall-space? This austerity suggested something else, something that was ever so slightly familiar - a contemplative order, perhaps, as it might be some newly schismatic and successful heresy. The combination of sparseness, discomfort and unlimited expenditure put him in mind of some of the establishments of his own Foundation back home, while the lack of ornament might suggest some taboo against pictorial images. Or it could just be a monumental lack of imagination, again not incompatible with contemplation and scholarship.

  The far door opened and a man came out; not the one who’d brought him here, but very similar. He was gone before Alexius could even clear his throat. A busy man, then, which suggested trade or administration - but where were the sumptuous robes and round stomach of the clerk? Could it have been the Director? The man had looked more like a soldier, stiff-backed and quick-moving, and his drab dark-brown clothes could easily have been the sort of thing a fighting man puts on under his armour. Alexius shook his head and sat down again. He was cold, hungry and confused, and his bladder needed emptying as a medium-term priority. He decided he didn’t like this place very much.

  I’m a philosopher, I should be sitting here contemplating the infinite, not the pain in my backside. What I wouldn’t give for something to read. But the only writing in the place was a single line of unfamiliar letters cut into the stone above the Director’s door, and he didn’t need to be a linguist to recognise NO ENTRY EXCEPT ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS when he saw it. He folded his hands, closed his eyes and wished he could go to sleep.

  Curiously enough, he managed it; because somehow the place changed around him, and he was standing in a workshop of some kind, looking at the back of a man’s head. It was dark where he was; the man stood in the middle of a shaft of light that flooded in through the open door. He was standing over a workbench, planing a long, narrow piece of wood. The air was full of floating specks of dust, clearly visible in the limited beam of sunlight.

  The man was Colonel Bardas Loredan, the fencer-at-law. What was he doing here?

  Alexius tried to speak, but his voice didn’t seem to work properly here. Oh dear, this must be the future again. I thought I was done with all that. He noticed streaks of grey in the hair above Loredan’s ears; well, it had been two years, and Alexius was only too aware of how much he’d aged over that time. He tried to move to see Loredan’s face, but his feet appeared to be stuck, so he tried craning his neck instead. That didn’t help either. There was a horrible smell, which he recognised as burning bone, and he looked back over his shoulder and saw an iron pot simmering over a charcoal fire, the smoke drifting slowly up and out through a hole in the thatch.

  A boy appeared in the doorway, briefly interfering with the light, until Loredan told him to shift.

  ‘Sorry,’ the boy replied, offended. ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘All right,’ Loredan grunted. ‘Put it down on the bench.’

  The boy crossed the floor and put down what he’d been carrying: a tray covered in little bundles of some kind of thread or fibre, each bunch about a finger’s length and breadth. ‘Did I do them all right?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Fine,’ Loredan muttered without looking up. ‘Now lay them out where I can reach them. Got to work quickly while the glue’s still warm.’

  The boy did as he was told, arranging the little bundles in a row down the side of the bench, while Loredan put down his plane and ran his fingers over the surface of the wood. Then he turned round, and Alexius caught sight of his face—

  —And felt his head jerk sideways, as the shoulder it had been resting on was taken away. He opened his eyes and grunted.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said a voice beside him, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  Sitting beside him on the cold stone bench was a woman, the owner of the shoulder he’d been using as a headrest. She studied the embarrassment in Alexius’ eyes for a moment, then smiled.

  ‘I do apologise,’ Alexius said, still groggy with sleep and a headache that presumably had something to do with the angle of his head while he’d been asleep. ‘I didn’t realise—’ ‘That’s all right, really.’ The woman was still smiling. She was probably taller than she looked; but she was plump, with a round face, a little knob of a chin crowning the space where her fat, smooth cheeks met at the bottom. Her hair was grey and looked as if it had gone that colour five or so years earlier than it should have. She wore it in a neat round bun secured with an undecorated whalebone comb; it was pulled in tight, like a prisoner’s arm twisted behind his back. She was wearing a plain grey smock, with a moth-hole skilfully darned on the point of the right shoulder. ‘You know, my grandfather was just the same; he’d fall asleep in the evenings and whoever was next to him on the settle had to stay exactly where they were till he woke up.’ She peered at him and frowned a little. ‘Actually, you do look tired,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Alexius replied, straightening his back a little.

  ‘You don’t need to go for a wee or anything?’

  ‘No,’ Alexius
said firmly, ‘thank you. Excuse me,’ he went on, ‘but you wouldn’t happen to know if the Director’s actually in his office, would you? You see, I’ve been sitting here for hours, and I don’t believe he’s really there.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I was in there a moment ago,’ she said. ‘There’s nobody in there.’

  Alexius sighed. ‘Then do you think it’ll be all right if I go now?’ he said. ‘It must be getting late, and I’ve still got to find somewhere to stay the night. The soldiers who brought me here didn’t tell me much, but I gathered that the Director’s summons didn’t include anything about a place to stay. I don’t know,’ he went on, ‘maybe they’re going to give me a guest room, or throw me in the cells.’

  ‘You’re here to see the Director,’ the woman said. Odd, the way she said it; not a question, not quite a statement. ‘You’re right, it is late. And you look as if you should be in bed.’ She stood up and went across to the door of the office. ‘Would you like something to eat or drink?’ she said.

  Alexius considered for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if it’s no trouble I’d quite like a long drink of water.’

  ‘No trouble,’ the woman said. ‘And something to eat?’

  ‘Maybe later. I suppose it depends how much longer I’ve got to sit here.’

  The woman tilted her shoulders a little. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘In that case, we’d better make a start. Let’s go through into the office. It’s more comfortable in there.’

  Fine clairvoyant you are. ‘You’re the Director?’ Alexius said, stupidly. The woman didn’t reply immediately; she pushed open the door, strode across to a big, solid chair behind a big, solid desk - the roof could fall in, and when they dug it out of the rubble the furniture would be as good as new - flumped down and wriggled a little to get herself comfortable. Alexius followed. There was another chair, also monumentally built but smaller and straighter, on the other side of the desk. It was quite dark, and the woman fiddled briefly with a tinder-box to light a plain pottery lamp.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, as the light began to spread. Just the one lamp, in a big, spare, empty room. He was used to corridors, pantries and closed-file stores being better lit than this. ‘Now then.’ She smiled, pinching little birds’-footprints-in-the-snow dimples in the corners of her cheeks. ‘Welcome to Scona.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Alexius replied. His head was hurting badly now, and even the pale yellow light of the lamp was painful. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on, knowing as he spoke that he could only make things worse, ‘I didn’t think you were the Director. I thought . . .’

  ‘Not to worry,’ the woman said briskly. ‘I’m Niessa Loredan. I own the Bank.’

  Alexius nodded, unable to think of anything intelligent to say. He noticed little dots in the lobes of her ears, where they’d been pierced for earrings long ago and left to heal over. ‘I think I know your brother,’ he said. ‘Bardas Loredan?’

  She nodded, with no perceptible change in expression. ‘And I think you’ve also met another of my brothers, Gorgas,’ she said. ‘He’s mentioned you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alexius said. ‘Yes, I met him once. Briefly.’

  She looked at him thoughtfully, as if he was a fairly expensive cut of meat she’d bought for a dinner party, and she was trying to decide which was the best way to cook him. ‘And of course, I’ve got two other brothers back in the Mesoge, but you haven’t met them. Oh,’ she added, ‘I forgot. Your drink of water.’

  Before Alexius could say anything she was on her feet and pouring water from a huge embossed brass jug into a wooden cup. The jug looked like a trophy of war or a gift from a neighbouring ruler on a state visit. The cup was home-made, laboriously hollowed out with a gouge rather than turned out on a lathe. There was a tiny split in the rim. Alexius took it and held it in the palm of his left hand, not quite knowing what to do next. Would it be rude to gulp it down while she was talking to him, or offensive not to drink it now that she’d been to the trouble of pouring it with her own hands? This is a very sparse, tidy room, he noticed, irrelevantly. And she acts as if she’s just rented it for the week and doesn’t want to touch any of the fixtures and fittings in case she breaks something and has to pay for it. That jug’s Southern, there ought to be porcelain cups to go with it. I wonder if she keeps them for special visitors? A strange picture floated into his mind, of this woman busily tidying and dusting the room, just as his mother used to do when company was expected, while he waited miserably outside on a cold, hard bench. He raised the cup to his lips and took a little sip of water. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’

  She smiled again. Her face reminded him of a cooking apple. ‘You mean,’ she said, ‘why did I have you dragged halfway round the world to a place you’ve probably only heard of two or three times, and then dump you in the waiting room for hours? It’s a fair question. The answer to the second part is, I was busy. You will tell me when you want something to eat, won’t you?’

  Alexius nodded and took a deep breath. He had no idea whether he was frightened of her or not. She was thirty years younger than he was, but she reminded him of his grandmother. ‘And the first part?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I’d assumed you’d already guessed,’ she replied. Without taking her eyes off him, she reached out and helped herself to a handful of raisins from a shallow unglazed pottery dish. ‘I want you to do some magic for me, please.’

  Alexius took a deep breath. Not so long ago, he’d had a set speech for these occasions, one that neatly and concisely explained the difference between an abstract philosopher and a conjurer. It had been composed for the benefit of students and the wives of civic dignitaries making small talk at official receptions. Since the Director fitted neither category, he decided to improvise.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I’m not a magician. I couldn’t do magic even if I wanted to. I don’t think anybody can. What I do is study a half-scientific, half-metaphysical concept which we call the Principle, which is all about the structure of Time. Over the years, our studies have occasionally had bizarre and uncontrollable side-effects which could be confused with magic, but since none of us really knows the first thing about these phenomena—’

  ‘Of course,’ Niessa Loredan said, with a touch of impatience. ‘That’s the aggravating thing. You don’t know much about it.’ She laced her plump fingers together, and in that gesture Alexius could see the woman who’d founded and built up a highly successful bank. ‘You don’t understand magic, but you can do it. I understand it all right, but I can’t do it - well, not as much as I want to. So here’s the deal: I teach you, and you help me. Fair?’

  A long time ago, Alexius had had an uncle who ran a sawmill. Now his uncle was very good at sawing wood, and not much else; but his wife (his second wife, fifteen years his junior) had a positive genius for business, and she’d taught the young Alexius a trick or two about negotiation. One: if they talk a lot, summarise and simplify. Two: as soon as possible, get to the deal. Three: let them know some of your weaknesses. Four: make them think you know all about them. Five: never try and strike a deal that doesn’t have at least some small benefit for the other side. Coincidentally, his aunt-by-marriage had been short and substantial.

  ‘You know about magic,’ he said. ‘That’s very interesting. We - the scholars of my Foundation - recognise the kind of person who has a natural ability to understand and even manipulate the workings of the Principle; we call them “naturals”, in fact. Usually they don’t seem to realise what they can do. You’re saying you’re one of them?’

  Niessa Loredan clicked her tongue. ‘You haven’t been listening, have you?’ she scolded. Your “naturals” don’t understand, but they can do it. I’m the opposite. I’m not the natural in this room, Master Patriarch; you are.’

  Alexius had already opened his mouth to reply when what she’d said sunk in. He sat quite still for two or three seconds without speaking.

  ‘And like you said,’ Niessa Loredan went on, ‘you�
��ve never realised what you can do. Come on, think about it. That business with my daughter and my brother Bardas; you did some fairly strong magic there, and I’ll bet you couldn’t tell me how you did it. Well?’

  Again Alexius opened his mouth, then hesitated. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t. Well, in very general terms, yes; but a step-by-step description of the procedure, no.’ He narrowed his eyebrows. ‘You’re telling me that you can?’

  Niessa stifled a yawn. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘It’s what you might call simple but difficult. Like it’s a fairly simple operation to lift a huge boulder, but impossible to do unless you’re very strong. I know how to lift things, but I’m not strong enough to go humping boulders around. It’s the same with magic.’ She looked him in the eye for a moment, then continued, ‘I can see you’re uncomfortable with that word, but I can’t think of a better one. I suppose you’d call it “anomalous physical phenomena associated with manipulation of the Principle”, but that’s too much of a mouthful for me. Well? Do you want to learn, or don’t you?’

  Alexius thought of his uncle’s wife. ‘You’re asking me to buy goods I haven’t seen,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Niessa replied. ‘The deal is this. We agree the terms, then you get the goods, then you pay for them. After all, you can’t do what I want you to until you’ve learnt what I’ve got to teach you.’

  ‘All right,’ Alexius said cautiously. ‘Tell me what you want me to do first.’

  Again, Niessa looked him in the eyes before answering. It was meant to be unnerving, and it worked. ‘It’s no more than you did for my daughter,’ she said.

  Alexius shook his head. ‘I can’t be certain because I don’t know enough about it,’ he replied, ‘but I have an idea that what I did at the very least contributed to the fall of the City. It certainly caused an awful lot of trouble, and also made me very ill. I don’t think I want to get involved in anything like that, even if it means not learning what you know about magic. After all,’ he added, with a slight shrug that his aunt-by-marriage would have approved of, ‘it isn’t actually what I’m interested in.’