"Thank you so much."

Antigonus smiled. "In fact," he said, "I'm sure of it. Think. You lost part of your hearing when you were a boy. Later, when you were a young man, you lost most of the use of your left hand. But you've learned to adapt. You instinctively turn your head so as to listen with your good ear. You've acquired exceptional dexterity with your right hand, so you barely ever use your left. If you've lost the capacity to feel, I'm sure you'll adapt. Knowing you, I imagine you'll turn the loss into an advantage."

Ba.s.so looked at him. "That's a terrible thing to say."

"And when I'm dead, who'll be there to say terrible things to you?" Antigonus shook his head. "Which means you'll miss me, and therefore you'll remember me, and therefore I shall not wholly die, as the poets say. You know," he went on, stretching out his feet, implying cramp. "I believe you're the best investment I ever made. You didn't cost me very much when you were young, and now you're paying dividends."

Ba.s.so laughed. "Delighted to hear I've come in useful at last. I always hoped I'd be good for something."

But Antigonus was suddenly looking very serious. "I do worry," he said, "about what'll become of you after I'm dead. I think I'm the only person you've ever had any respect for-which, if true," he added with a faint smile, "is enormously flattering, but it makes me wish I wasn't going to die quite so soon. I believe there'll be a crisis in your life, bigger and more dangerous than anything you've run into before, and I won't be there to help. But there," he said, making one of his rare big gestures, "I'm probably wrong and almost certainly overvaluing myself. I can't actually recall a single instance where I've told you not to do something and you've listened to me, and things haven't worked out so badly in spite of that."

Ba.s.so didn't say anything for a while. Then he changed the subject.

A priest called to see him. Usually he didn't see priests without an appointment.

"My sister sent you," Ba.s.so said.

The priest nodded. He was a tall man, not much older than Ba.s.so, with a strong, intelligent face. He didn't seem at all happy about the job in hand. "Thank you for finding the time to see me," he said. "You must be very busy right now."

"Yes," Ba.s.so replied. "Sit down. You're not allowed to drink alcohol on duty, are you?"

"Actually, that's law-enforcement officers," the priest said, "and I believe doctors. Since, in theory, a priest is never off duty..."

"Wine or brandy?"

"Brandy," the priest replied immediately. "We don't get that at the monastery. It's cla.s.sed as a luxury, therefore prohibited under our vow of poverty. Wine, on the other hand, is a necessity of life, even if it's a thirty-year-old vintage Faralean."

Ba.s.so poured out two gla.s.ses. "You've got a sense of humour," he said. "I'd have thought that precluded you from being in my sister's confidence."

"She's been quite extraordinarily generous to our foundation," the priest said.

"Ah." Ba.s.so nodded. "With my money."

The priest seemed to have no opinion on that. Instead, he nibbled at his brandy and smiled.

"Do you know my nephew?" Ba.s.so asked.

"Indeed." The priest put his gla.s.s down. "One of the most promising candidates in his year."

Ba.s.so looked up. "One of?"

"He has the intellect," the priest said, "and-what's the right way of putting it?-he has the necessary disposition of mind. Not many people do," he added. "And not many of them join the Order."

"But?"

The priest shrugged. "A large part of being a priest is wanting to be a priest. I'm not talking about faith," he added. "That's a gift from the Invincible Sun, and not everyone is blessed with it. But wanting to be a priest is something rather different."

"And Ba.s.sano doesn't?"

The priest paused, then said, "He tells me you suggested it to him."

"That's right. For entirely secular reasons."

"Perfectly good reasons," the priest said. "A man can want to be a priest and still have no more interest in religion than-well, no disrespect: than you have." Ba.s.so grinned at him. "Your nephew doesn't seem to be motivated by those reasons. Let me put it this way. He appreciates the holy offices for the quality of the words and the music-especially the music-and his att.i.tude to the more worldly aspects of the vocation-property management, finances, that side of things-is that one should hire a good chief clerk and not get under his feet. Everybody likes him," the priest added, almost involuntarily. "Even Father Prior, who doesn't really like anybody."

"Thank you," Ba.s.so said. "Now, what's my sister got to say?"

The priest hesitated, drank most of his brandy, and put the gla.s.s down. "She wants to know why you haven't married anybody yet," he said. "Also, she wants you to know how angry she is that her mother's body was burned in the street in a common pyre, rather than decently buried in temple."

Ba.s.so looked at him until he turned away. "I'll answer the second point first," he said. "My mother died of the plague. It's the law that plague victims have to be burned, as soon as possible, and in any event no later than twenty-four hours after death. It's a good law. My father pa.s.sed it, as a matter of fact. I approve of it, and even if I didn't, there's nothing I could have done."

The priest looked very sad. "I'm sure your sister would argue that since you're the First Citizen, you could have found a way..."

"Precisely because I'm First Citizen, I had absolutely no choice in the matter." He stopped, looked down at his hands, then went on: "I'm not inclined to argue the point with you, I'm afraid. There's no earthly point in us having a debate about the issue, and I know my sister won't change her view, no matter what anybody says to her. No offence," he added.

"None taken." The priest dipped his head in acknowledgement. "The other matter..."

Ba.s.so sighed. "We've just come out of a national disaster," he said. "I'd have thought I'd be allowed a little extra time, considering. For one thing, I haven't left this building since the plague struck. She's got to admit, that'd cramp anybody's style."

"Your sister antic.i.p.ated that line of argument," the priest said carefully. "She instructs me to say that you have two months from today. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise what?"

The priest pulled a mournful face. "She didn't confide in me," he said. "Presumably you know."

"Yes." Ba.s.so closed his eyes for a moment. "Fine," he said. "Two months. Agreed." He looked up. "Anything else?"

"That was all."

"In that case, thank you. You did a perfectly wretched job very well."

The priest smiled and stood up. "Thank you very much for the brandy," he said.

"Take the bottle."

"I couldn't. I..."

"Take the bottle," Ba.s.so repeated, "and walk home slowly. So long as you don't actually take it into the Studium with you, I don't see where you'd be breaking any rules."

"I have to report back to your sister first," the priest said. "She has strong views..."

"Ah." Ba.s.so shrugged. "That I can well imagine. Give Ba.s.sano my regards."

There was a Day of National Grief. It rained. Not many people could be bothered to turn out for it; most of the citizens of the Republic had other things they needed to do. Compared with earlier outbreaks of plague, the death toll had been low. Even so, the fact remained that there were fewer pairs of hands to do the work, and extra work for which time had not been allowed in the daily routine.

Ba.s.so went straight from Temple to the House, where the finance committee were waiting for him. It was one of the Optimates' last surviving strongholds (they had a majority of two, left over from the old regime) and they were trying to make him reduce the gold content in the nomisma, from ninety-seven per cent fine to ninety-four, to cover increases in public spending without resorting to an emergency tax.

"No," Ba.s.so said. "If we start debasing now, we'll damage confidence overseas. Look what happened to the Auxentines when they tried it ten years ago."

"That was a ten-point debas.e.m.e.nt," someone replied. "We're only asking for three."

"And the Sclerians have increased the purity of theirs by two," Ba.s.so pointed out, "with the result that we're now paying four nomismata on the Sclerian drachma instead of three, which is way out of proportion to the actual gold content. The Sclerians are buying nomismata, melting them down and minting them into drachmas. It's insane. If you cut the nomisma by three points, it'd be like writing the Sclerians a draft for half the reserves in the Treasury. No, what we ought to be doing is putting more gold in, not taking it out." Then, when they scowled at him, he went on, "In fact, let's do that. We'll purify by one point, up to ninety-eight, and see what happens."

They gave him a hard time over that, but he had the authority, and wouldn't let them leave the room until they'd all signed the order, which was sent straight to the Mint for immediate action.

("Why?" Sentio demanded later.

"Because they got on my nerves," Ba.s.so replied. "Besides, it's the right thing to do, especially now. It shows we've got confidence in the economy, in spite of our recent spot of bother. It's all right," he added, "the Bank's got enough cash in hand to cover the immediate shortfall."

Sentio shook his head. "Must be nice," he said, "to be so rich you can personally guarantee something like this out of your own pocket."

"Yes," Ba.s.so said. "It is. It means I can indulge myself in little fits of temper without ruining the economy of the Republic.") Later that day, he announced his decision to the House, explaining in detail the many and complex factors that had led him to make the decision. To be sure, he said, in the short term, a debas.e.m.e.nt would have eased the public deficit quickly and relatively painlessly, but the long-term cost would, he believed, have been more than the Republic could afford, disproportionate to the short-term advantage, and causing lasting damage to the foreign trade on which the state depended. Instead, he proposed that both the deficit and the purification of the nomisma should be funded by an emergency tax; not a tax on private citizens, but on the larger corporations, those with a capital value in excess of one million nomismata.

When he was able to make himself heard again, he pointed out that he himself would be facing the biggest tax bill in the Republic. If the House saw fit to approve his proposal, he would find himself having to pay over to the Treasury more money than he'd inherited when his father died. He wasn't asking anybody else to make anything like such a sacrifice. As far as he was concerned, it was the least he could do for the survivors of the plague, and he had sufficient faith in the integrity and public spirit of the House to recommend the proposal to them.

"Pa.s.sed unanimously," Cinio said, after the session closed. "I'll have to look it up, but I think that's the first unanimous vote for seventy years."

Ba.s.so's hands, he noticed, were shaking slightly. "I certainly didn't make any new friends today," he said. "Did you see how they were glowering at me? I reckon I was lucky to get out of there in one piece."

"Was that true?" Cinio asked. "About your tax bill being bigger than your inheritance?"

"Perfectly true," Ba.s.so replied. "I wouldn't dare lie about something like that, not when I was making the grand gesture. Mind you, it's still considerably less than the profits we've made on short-term land deals." He grinned. "If we had an Opposition worth a d.a.m.n, someone would've pointed that out, but I can only a.s.sume they're all too stupid to do simple arithmetic. Bonosus would've been onto it like a snake on a rat, G.o.d rest his insufferable soul."

Cinio looked at him. "You really want an effective Opposition?"

"Of course not," Ba.s.so said. "What I'd like is for everybody who disagrees with me about anything to get eaten by wild dogs. Otherwise I wouldn't be in politics."

He stayed late in his office in the House, dealing with the horrendous backlog of work that had built up during the emergency: bills to be signed into law, bills to be amended, diplomatic correspondence, viability a.s.sessments, interminable reports. As a reward to himself for being good and doing his homework, he wrote a letter to Ba.s.sano, though he hadn't yet figured out a way of getting it to him. While he was there, Tragazes called to see him; the twins were doing very well at the Bank, he said. They showed considerable promise.

"Good," Ba.s.so said. "What does that mean?"

Tragazes explained that they'd done all the work they'd been a.s.signed quickly and efficiently, and that they'd been no trouble at all.

"And?"

That, Tragazes said, was all he had to report on the matter.

"So they're doing as they're told. I see, thank you. Please carry on."

The interview left him feeling vaguely depressed. He realised he must have been expecting considerably more of them, without quite knowing what. I expected them to surprise me, he told himself, which is basically ridiculous.

It was dark by the time he left. Ever since the time he'd escaped his escort and gone drinking, his guards had taken to treating him like a dangerous prisoner, on whom they daren't turn their backs for an instant. Usually he submitted meekly, since it really wasn't their fault. But he was still feeling out of sorts after his meeting with Tragazes; so, when he told the guard sergeant to take him home by way of the Rug Market instead of by the usual route and the sergeant replied that he was sorry but that wouldn't be possible, he lost his temper.

"Why the h.e.l.l not?"

The sergeant looked deeply unhappy. "Operational reasons, First Citizen."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The sergeant didn't know, and why should he? "I'm very sorry, First Citizen, but I've got my orders. I can't..."

Ba.s.so scowled at him and stomped to the door where the covered chair was waiting. He was acting like a child, and knowing that made him angrier. "Come on, then, if we're going," he snapped, and slammed the door.

Four bearers, two torchbearers, six soldiers and the sergeant: thirteen grown men, just to see him safely home. He wriggled in the seat, trying to get comfortable, and ended up throwing the cushion out of the window. He saw the sergeant stoop and pick it up, which made him feel like an idiot. The sergeant handed it back, and he put it down on the seat beside him.

There were three alternative routes from the House to Ba.s.so's home; it was up to the sergeant to decide, on the spur of the moment, which one to take. Today, they were going across the Lion Square, through the Blue Portico, down Linenyard to the Winches, from which Ba.s.so deduced that the sergeant was a cautious, unimaginative man. He found his place in Machaeon's Auxentine Paradoxes, and started to read.

He was interrupted by a yell: a drunk, he a.s.sumed, or a lunatic, which meant they must be pa.s.sing under the Portico, where those people tended to gather. But the chair stopped suddenly, and he heard a thump, a bit like a nail being driven into wood. The chair tipped over; he grabbed at the door, then bashed his head against one of the uprights. Something touched his cheek, at the same time as another nail-in-wood noise. He opened his eyes, and saw a feather.

Odd place for a feather to be. Then he saw that it was one of three, the fletchings on a crossbow bolt, which had buried its head in the wood of the upright he'd been clinging to a second or so earlier. Made no sense. Who'd be stupid enough to go loosing off a crossbow in the middle of town?

The chair lurched again and hit the ground, jarring his back and knees, and he heard a scream, a man in great pain. Accident, he thought, we've been run into by a cart or something. No, because we're not on a carriageway. In which case- He kicked open the door and slid out feet first onto the pavement (reddy-pink marble slabs; the Portico). As his head emerged through the chair door, he could see two pairs of legs, a soldier and someone else, a civilian. Another nail-in-wood noise, and the soldier fell over. He'd been shot.

Now he understood. Very bad. He had no idea what to do: try and run away, which would mean standing up in the open, or crawl back into the chair, very low-quality cover and he'd be trapped. He looked up, as a soldier rushed past him, banging Ba.s.so's shoulder with his knee. Then he went down too, with a bolt in the small of his back.

Someone yelled, "Where is he?" One of the torchbearers appeared out of nowhere; he was wrestling with a man, trying to twist a knife out of his hand, but he wasn't strong enough. The man punched the torchbearer in the stomach with his other hand, then stabbed him in the neck. As the torchbearer dropped to the ground, Ba.s.so and the man with the knife found they were staring straight at each other.

There was a moment when nothing happened. Then the man with the knife called out, "Here." He didn't move. Another man came up behind him. He had a deep cut on his cheek, from just below the ear to an inch short of his chin, and he was holding a hunting sword with a closed bra.s.s hilt. Oh, Ba.s.so thought.

The swordsman barged past the man with the knife and took a long stride forward. Ba.s.so tried to push himself backwards onto his feet, but the chair was in the way; he was stuck, on the ground. The swordsman drew back the elbow of his sword arm, the first stage of a thrust. Without thinking, Ba.s.so shoved out his left hand, presumably to try and block, and saw a steel triangle appear through the back of it. No pain; just the enormous incongruity of seeing something coming at him through his hand, like some kind of conjuring trick.

The sword-point pulled away. As it left his hand, he felt a staggering wave of pain, which he forced himself to ignore. He could see the swordsman's elbow going back for another thrust. He scrabbled with his right hand for something to pull himself up by, and felt his fingers close in the soft fabric of the cushion. Why not? he thought, and threw the cushion at the swordsman's face.

The swordsman ducked out of the way, but he'd stopped his thrust, and Ba.s.so realised that he'd come half a pace closer in, as he moved his feet in avoiding the cushion. It was, in essence, a simple question of distance. If he was close enough, it might work. If not, that would be that. Please, Ba.s.so said to himself, and kicked out hard with his right leg.

He'd intended to kick the swordsman in the groin. Instead, he got his right knee, which turned out to be even better. The swordsman froze, just for a moment; then his right leg buckled, like a tree falling, and he collapsed, twisting sideways, bashing his head against the base of a pillar.

Ba.s.so arched his back, edging forward like a caterpillar, and pushed against the ground with his right hand. That got him on his feet, but the man with the knife was suddenly in his face, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to do anything quickly enough to stop the knifeman stabbing him. A pity. He waited.

It didn't happen. A man charged into the knifeman: the sergeant, with his sword drawn. The knifeman pivoted on his back leg, letting the sergeant pa.s.s him, and as he stumbled forward, the knifeman lifted his blade just a little and let the sergeant cut his own throat on it as he went past.

(I've read about that, Ba.s.so thought. There's a name for it, in Auxentine.) The swordsman was getting up, but he'd dropped the hunting sword. The hilt was closer to Ba.s.so's hand than to his. Unfortunately, on Ba.s.so's left side; he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up but it immediately fell out, the fingers refusing to close and grip, and clattered on the marble. He saw the swordsman dive for it, and in the process block and get tangled up with the knifeman, whom he hadn't seen.

I could run, Ba.s.so thought. There may be just enough time.

He turned. n.o.body in front of him, just an empty five yards of pavement to the Portico steps. He threw his weight forward and ran: four paces, and then he was falling, and then the pavement hit him like a trip-hammer.

A woman was standing over him, looking at him, frowning. There was a silver bowl in her left hand, and a sponge in her right.

He tried to remember what they'd taught him when he was a boy. Clearly not Victory; she holds a torch and a wreath, and wears a fiery garland. Charity has a bowl, but carries a banner on a long pole in the other hand. Mother Earth holds a basket, not a bowl. None of the G.o.ddesses or the allegorical personifications, to the best of his recollection, has a sponge. Also, for that matter, they tended to be younger. Prettier. Better dressed.

If you don't know, ask. "Who are you?" he said.

The woman didn't answer. She was ignoring him. Maybe, he thought, she's Death. The artistic convention was that Death was a tall king in black armour, but how the h.e.l.l would anybody know? Maybe Death was a dowdy old woman with a bowl and a sponge.

"Are you...?" he started to say, but she'd left the room. Probably not Death, then. It occurred to him that maybe she was just a human. A (there's a word for it). A nurse.

He closed his eyes, because seeing is such a lot of effort, and when he opened them again, she was back. Beside her, an elderly man with a face like a cat. Doctor. Doctor?