The Belly of the Bow

by K. J. Parker

  Gorgas shook his head. ‘Not evil,’ he said. ‘Unlucky. There’s no such thing as evil, Bardas, it’s a myth, a sloppy, wasteful way of thinking. There’s just bad luck that makes us do things, even though we’re trying to do what’s best. You can’t fight bad luck, you’ve just got to accept it, the way I did when I—’

  ‘When you killed our father.’

  Gorgas nodded. ‘It was bad luck, but I was practical, I knew I’d done a bad thing but I knew I could make amends for it, if I really tried hard. That’s why it doesn’t matter, Bardas, what either of us has done. I’m still your brother.’

  Bardas walked away, back into the main room, and sat down. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if that doesn’t beat cock-fighting. What have I got to do to stop you loving me, Gorgas? There must be something, sort of killing you. I can’t kill you, Gorgas, that’d mean you’d have won, you’d have escaped, got away free.’

  Gorgas came through and sat opposite him. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

  ‘Me? The gods know, I haven’t given it any thought. I’d assumed I’d be dead about two minutes after you saw that thing in there.’

  ‘You don’t know me, then, do you?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Bardas replied. ‘I made the mistake of thinking you’d react like a human being rather than a Loredan.’

  Gorgas grinned at him; his face was like the face in the other room. ‘We’re one hell of a family,’ he said. ‘On balance, it’s probably just as well there’s not more of us.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Anaut Mogre stood in front of his army and gazed across the downs to the southern gate of Scona Town, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

  The horrible fact was that the three thousand or so men behind him were more or less all that was left; if they went the same way as the armies led by Sten Mogre, Avid Soef and the third man whose name he couldn’t for the moment remember, the Foundation would have more senior staff officers than halberdiers. Unlike his three predecessors, he was proposing to lay siege to the enemy in a highly defensible town, as opposed to fighting a pitched battle in the open with an overwhelming advantage in numbers. For a man who hadn’t left the Citadel for thirty-two years, it was a daunting prospect.

  ‘The scouts are back,’ said a sergeant, appearing at his side. ‘No sign of any activity. The gates are shut, but if there’s anything more than the usual number of sentries on the wall, we can’t see them. It’s as if they aren’t interested.’

  Mogre said nothing. So far, if what he’d been told was correct, twenty-six members of the Mogre family had been killed in this war, or were at the very least missing in action and unaccounted for. Two of them, Juic Mogre and his son Imerecque, had been pulled out of the disused stone quarry in the mountains a few days ago, starved to death; not, as far as he knew, by deliberate malice, but simply because they’d been forgotten about. Twelve men were all that were left of cousin Sten’s army.

  So far, he’d met with no resistance at all. He’d sent detachments to the sites of the three battles, found out as much as he could about what had actually happened, taken his time, all without seeing so much as a single archer. He felt like someone who’s come a long way to pay a visit, only to find he’s come on the wrong day and everybody’s gone out.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s Scona Town. If anybody’s got any suggestions for what we do next, I’m willing to listen.’

  There was a long silence; then somebody said, ‘Why not try talking to them?’

  Anaut Mogre thought about that. ‘It has the merit of originality, ’ he said. ‘How do you suggest going about it?’

  Half an hour later, he was standing under the gatehouse with a small escort, all visibly unarmed, with a nervous-looking lance-corporal trying to hide behind a long banner with the pennant reversed. When he’d asked, he found that nobody knew what the Scona convention for a flag of truce was, so he’d ordered them to set up a flag using the Shastel protocol and hoped to hell that the enemy were better informed than he was. It had been a long and nervous walk from his camp to the gate, but the storm of deadly arrows he’d been more than half expecting hadn’t materialised. There was, in fact, no indication that anybody inside the city had even noticed that they were there.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said, looking up at the empty rampart above his head. ‘What do we have to do, ring the bell?’

  ‘There isn’t a bell,’ someone pointed out.

  Anaut Mogre stepped back a pace or so and craned his neck upwards. He wanted to pick up a stone and throw it, or shout; something he hadn’t done since his student days, when he’d tossed pebbles at the shutters of girls’ bedrooms while their fathers slept.

  ‘Look up,’ someone observed behind him. ‘Signs of life.’

  A man’s head appeared above the rampart. The face was vaguely familiar, or at least it reminded Mogre of faces he knew. ‘Hello?’ the man called out.

  ‘Hello,’ Mogre called back self-consciously.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ the man replied. ‘Are you the commander of the Shastel army?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mogre called back. His neck hurt. ‘My name is Anaut Mogre.’

  ‘Bardas Loredan,’ the man replied. ‘Have you come to demand the surrender of the Town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’ Something flew through the air and landed in the dust with a metallic clang. Everyone had jumped back, Mogre included, as if they’d been expecting some diabolical weapon; a jar of burning pitch, or a hail of white-hot caltrops. It was, in fact, a large steel key.

  Mogre looked up again. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  The man smiled. ‘I think I’m the Director of the Bank of Scona,’ he replied. ‘Do you mind talking like this, or would you rather let yourselves in and we can talk somewhere more comfortable?’

  Mogre hesitated. ‘Explain what you just said,’ he called back. ‘Then we’ll come in.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ the man said. ‘Niessa Loredan’s gone and so has Gorgas Loredan; between them they’ve taken all the money and the movable valuables and skipped off. Since I’m their brother, arguably I’ve inherited the Bank. More to the point, I found that key in Niessa’s office. One thing, though. If I’ve got this right, it’s the Bank you’re at war with, rather than Scona itself, yes?’

  Mogre had to think before he replied. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I thought so.’ The man made an all-reasonable-men-here gesture with his arms. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘rather than any more fighting and killing and waste of resources, wouldn’t the simplest thing be if I were to give you the Bank - what’s left of it, anyway; like I said, Niessa and Gorgas took pretty well everything that wasn’t pegged down, but there’s still the realty and the mortgages, of course. I mean, you can’t be at war with something you own, can you?’

  A sergeant had picked up the key and handed it to Mogre. He took it without looking at it. ‘What about your army?’ he said.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ the man replied. ‘And to tell you the truth, I don’t know the answer. I haven’t spoken to any of them. In fact, the closest I’ve come to an official act since I acquired the Bank was to go into my sister’s office to look for that key. To the best of my knowledge, the army sort of disbanded itself when the news broke about Niessa and Gorgas running out on them. I don’t think any of them wanted to be associated with government authority around here when you arrived.’

  ‘You mean they’ve run away?’ Mogre asked.

  ‘Sort of, though not really as energetic as that,’ Bardas replied. ‘I gather they just dumped their weapons and kit in the street and went home. What do you think of my proposal?’

  Mogre rubbed the back of his neck where it hurt most. ‘I’ll accept it as your unconditional surrender,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever,’ Bardas replied. ‘If you feel nervous about coming in, bring up the rest of your army. All I can do to prove it’s not a trap is give you my word.’

  ‘You could open
the gate,’ Mogre replied.

  ‘I can’t. You’ve got the key.’

  Mogre scratched his head. ‘How do you know we won’t burst in and start killing and looting?’ he said.

  ‘Up to you,’ Bardas said. ‘But from what I know of you people, I don’t see you as the types who’d go smashing up your own property, or killing your own citizens. To be honest with you, the way things have been going, I imagine you’ll be grateful for all the manpower you can get.’

  ‘I’ll be straight with you,’ Mogre said. ‘I don’t know what to make of this. Even if what you’re saying is true, I find it hard to believe that your army, which has killed thousands of our people, wouldn’t be actively defending the wall.’

  ‘Like I told you, I haven’t talked to anyone in authority. I don’t think there’s any authority left to talk to, except conceivably me. But Gorgas is their commanding officer and he’s jumped ship. Who exactly are they supposed to fight for?’

  ‘So, after three massive victories, you’re just going to let us walk in and take over the Town?’ Mogre shook his head. ‘I don’t see it.’

  ‘Please yourselves.’ Bardas Loredan shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Anyway, you’ve got the key. If you’ll excuse me, I’m getting packed ready to leave.’

  ‘Wait.’

  Bardas hesitated and turned back. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ Mogre said. ‘Provided there’s no resistance, nobody will get hurt and there won’t be any looting or damage. The first sign of any trouble, though, we’re going to burn this Town to the ground.’

  ‘Entirely up to you,’ Bardas said. ‘It’s all yours, you do what the hell you like with it. I’ll leave it up to you to announce the terms.’

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Mogre shouted.

  ‘Haven’t decided yet,’ Bardas replied. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to get down to the dock while there’s still space on a ship out.’

  As it turned out, he needn’t have worried; there was a berth reserved for him on the Squirrel, Venart Auzeil’s ship. What had prompted Venart to come back to Scona at this precise moment, with a war in progress and a severe risk of Shastel privateers in the Straits, he couldn’t say. But the privateers all flew the Island pennant and paid him no attention; and as soon as the news spread that Scona was being evacuated, they immediately pulled into the Strangers’ Quay and started taking on paying passengers. By midday, the harbour was flecked with heavily laden Island ships setting out for the open sea, and Shastel no longer had anything to ferry its army back home in except a few lame, slow-moving barges.

  Most of the people who left Scona, however, went by the land gates rather than the Quay. They went light, generally taking with them only what they could carry in their hands or on their backs. Some of them had families inland to go to; some were talking about heading for the burnt, empty villages in the middle and the west. But the number of people leaving was relatively small; fewer than five hundred out of a population of over ten thousand. There was a substantial minority prepared to welcome the halberdiers as liberators, most of them workers in Gorgas’ factories, though the majority of these people either went quietly home or hung about at the workshop gates, waiting for someone to tell them it was all right to carry on working. Once Anaut Mogre had made his proclamation, there was no hint of any attempt to try and stop him entering; Scona Town was holding its breath, as if to say of the Loredans that they’d never seen these people before in their lives.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Venart said, not for the first time. ‘But you still haven’t told me what she wanted you there for.’

  Vetriz Auzeil sat down on a wooden crate full of Tornoys pottery lamps and looked across the bay to the harbour. ‘I’m not sure myself,’ she said. ‘It was something to do with magic, but I don’t know any more than that because I can’t remember what happened when I was - well, doing the magic. Whatever it was it can’t have done her much good, or she wouldn’t have lost the war.’

  Venart sighed and sat down beside her. ‘So long as you’re all right,’ he said. ‘That’s the main thing.’

  ‘I think I’m all right,’ Vetriz said. She moved her eyes a little, so that she was looking at Bardas Loredan, sitting on the stern-rail looking back. ‘I have an idea there were lots of dreams, or visions or whatever you’re supposed to call them, with him in. It’s a great pity I can’t remember them, because I have a feeling that some of them were fun . . . Oh, stop pulling faces, Ven, it was just dreams or hallucinations or whatever. I bet you have dreams like that sometimes.’

  Venart frowned a little. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Really? Oh. Anyway, whether they were Niessa’s magic or just stuff I had in my head already, I really don’t know. A bit of both, I suspect.’

  ‘Triz,’ Venart said, ‘sometimes I - well, I don’t know. If you can come through being abducted and held hostage during the most bloody war in history, I suppose you can look after yourself. Still, I worry.’

  Vetriz smiled. ‘I was worried too. About you, I mean. I had this dreadful idea that you’d try and rescue me, and then we’d probably all have ended up dead or in prison.’ She looked up at her brother. ‘Have you looked in on Alexius? Is he all right?’

  ‘Oh, I should think so. He’s just a bit seasick, that’s all.’

  ‘Ven! He’s an old man, he needs looking after.’

  ‘Tough as old boots, more like,’ Venart replied, standing up. ‘But before you ask, yes, I suppose he can come and stay with us, at least till he finds something he wants to do. Isn’t there a branch of his what-d’you-call-it on the Island, his Foundation or whatever? He can go and be the boss of that.’

  Vetriz nodded. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘it was more like a Perimadeian embassy-come-trade-mission, and it’s looking a bit run-down these days. But I’ll mention it to him.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Venart furrowed his brows and jerked his head towards the stern of the ship. ‘What about him?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vetriz replied. ‘I haven’t said a word to him since we left.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll want me to look after him as well, find him a job or something.’

  Vetriz laughed. ‘Ven, all he’s good at is making bows and killing people. And somehow I don’t see him settling down to learn book-keeping. Besides, I expect Athli’ll want to do something for him.’

  ‘Athli Zeuxis? Oh, I forget, she used to work for him.’ Venard thought for a moment. ‘Were they ever . . . you know?’

  ‘I don’t think so; too straight-grained and wholesome for his taste, I think. Mostly, though, I guess he just had other things on his mind.’ She lowered her voice a little. ‘I think he had some kind of confrontation with his brother before he left; at least, there was a story going around that they had a big falling-out and that was something to do with why Gorgas suddenly upped and left like that.’

  Venart shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Gorgas saw that he couldn’t possibly win in the long run, and for once did the decent thing by clearing out and making the peace possible. Or, more likely, he lost his nerve and ran, especially once Big Sister had slung her hook. Everybody knows she’s the one with the real brains.’

  ‘Really?’ Vetriz wrinkled her nose. ‘Ven, he slaughtered six thousand halberdiers virtually without loss; Anaut Mogre’s army’s practically all the Foundation’s got left. He’d won the war. That’s what’s so odd about it. I shall have to ask Gannadius if he knows anything about what really happened there.’

  ‘What, Doctor Gannadius, the one who used to work for us? Triz, if you think we’re going to Shastel just so you can—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Vetriz replied. ‘Go and steer the ship or something.’

  Alexius?

  ‘Go away,’ Alexius replied, ‘I’m asleep.’

  Of course you’re asleep, otherwise you couldn’t hear me. You seem to be still in one piece, I’m glad to see.

  �
��Never felt better,’ Alexius grunted. ‘Leaving Scona has a wonderfully therapeutic effect.’

  You don’t mean that. After all, I did what I promised I’d do. I taught you about magic.

  ‘You did not,’ Alexius replied stiffly. ‘Oh, you used me as a pair of supernatural lazy-tongs, I’ll grant you that. I suppose you’d hammer a wedge into a block of wood and then say you’d taught it carpentry.’

  It was there for you to learn. It you chose not to, that’s your fault, not mine.

  Alexius sighed. ‘I can’t envisage myself ever wanting to learn the sort of thing you’d have taught me,’ he said.

  Really? How ungrateful. I’ve given you, on a plate, the key to understanding the true nature of the Principle - something you’d never have figured out in the abstract if you lived to be two hundred.

  ‘That’s true,’ Alexius admitted. ‘And how I can ever have been interested in something so - so banal, I really can’t imagine. Wonderful, isn’t it, finding out that your whole life’s work’s been a complete waste of time.’

  Alexius, Alexius. You sound just like my brother.

  ‘Which one?’

  Both.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Alexius asked. ‘Or is this just a social nightmare?’

  One small favour. You remember my daughter? She was your student, for a very short while. Iseutz Hedin.

  ‘I don’t suppose I’ll forget her in a hurry.’

  Splendid. And you remember that curse you laid for her? On Bardas?

  ‘In the same way as a one-legged man remembers the cart that ran him over. What of it?’

  I want you to go back and lift the curse. No, be quiet, you can do it now. I’ve taught you how.

  ‘I - Yes,’ Alexius reflected, ‘I suppose you have—’

  —And he was standing in the courtroom in Perimadeia, under the high-domed roof with the peculiar acoustic, the one that made the clack of swords meeting echo. The floor under the thin soles of his shoes was sandy, and scrunched when he moved. There was a man directly in front of him, his back turned, Bardas Loredan, in a fencer’s white shirt; and over Bardas’ shoulder he could just see the girl, Iseutz Hedin, holding a sword in fingers she no longer had.