He managed to keep from smiling. A sensible young woman, he decided, after all; load up on the cakes while they're going, and the day won't have been completely wasted. "Help yourself," he said. "Our cook made them. I'll get him to send you round a couple of dozen."

The Twenty-Second Law of Ba.s.sia.n.u.s Severus, more usually referred to as the Enfranchis.e.m.e.nt Act, sc.r.a.ped through the House like, as Ba.s.so put it, a fat dog squeezing through railings. To general surprise, the faction led by Tertullius voted against, whereas the law received unexpected support from Olybrias and his hard-core Optimates. The two surprises effectively cancelled each other out, and Ba.s.so won by a margin of six wards.

"Why?" he asked later.

The priest-Ba.s.so had taken the trouble to find out his name, since it seemed like they'd be seeing a lot of each other in the future: Chrysophilus-made his distinctive don't-blame-me gesture. "Your sister," he said, "felt that if you lost the vote, your government would probably fall."

"Unlikely," Ba.s.so interrupted. "But so what? She'd want that, surely."

"Not," Chrysophilus said, "under those circ.u.mstances." He hesitated, and Ba.s.so read the pause as "I owe her my loyalty, but I like you more than her." "To be blunt," he said, "she wants to be the sole author of all your misfortunes. If your government falls, she'd like it to be because she made it happen. I'm sorry," he added quickly, "but that's the way she thinks."

Ba.s.so nodded slowly. "I know," he said. "She's as jealous in hate as normal people are in love. Not your fault," he said brightly. "Have another brandy."

Chrysophilus hesitated for as long as he could; five seconds. "Thanks," he said, "I think I will. There are times when the wishes of my patroness..."

"Quite." Ba.s.so poured a large measure. "So she told Olybrias to save my neck, so she could have the pleasure of stretching it later."

"More or less," the young priest replied, after he'd swallowed his drink. "I believe her instructions were that he was to vote with you if there seemed like there was a serious risk that you'd fail. Otherwise, he was to vote against."

"Bless her," Ba.s.so said. "She's a bit like her mother. By and large a kind-hearted woman, but when she wanted to, she could spin out a grudge like a tramp with a drink in a bar. Talking of which," he added, lifting the decanter. Chrysophilus smiled and shook his head.

"You put up with a lot from her," he said.

"She's my sister," Ba.s.so replied. "I'd do anything to make her happy, except I don't think she's capable of happiness. Well, almost anything. I draw the line at cutting my own throat."

Chrysophilus smiled weakly. "One must draw the line somewhere, I agree. I can't help thinking, though, that your forbearance-"

"Forbearance has got nothing to do with it," Ba.s.so cut him off. "I ruined her life-not intentionally, in self-defence and maybe she's contributed to it a bit, but that doesn't matter. She's ent.i.tled to want to hurt me, which is why I let her do it. You don't think I couldn't stop her if I wanted to." He stopped talking, looked up at the ceiling. "There's a thing," he said. "You're a priest, and this room contains some of the finest examples of pre-Reformation religious art in the City. Had you noticed?"

"I'm not an art person," Chrysophilus replied. "Wasted on me, I'm afraid."

"We used to use it as a lumber room," Ba.s.so said. "Which is probably how it survived. If we'd ever come in here, we'd have redecorated, a hundred years ago, and now you'd probably have cheerful hunting scenes or tasteful shepherdesses on the walls instead of some of the most sublime expressions of the human spirit you'd ever hope to find. When I was a kid, my mother had a full-sized Advancing Victory by Sositheus smashed into gravel for the herb garden path. Waste not, want not, she said, and she didn't like old-fashioned ornaments. With the possible exception of my nephew and myself, my family..." He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm being embarra.s.sing. You don't want to hear me moaning about my family."

"I understand," Chrysophilus said. "It's often easier to talk to strangers."

"I find it easiest to talk to my enemies," Ba.s.so said. "Of whom, technically, you're one. Which reminds me. Please be good enough to tell my sister that I'll be getting married at the end of the month."

"Congratulations," Chrysophilus said automatically, which made Ba.s.so smile. "So, you were able to find a suitable-"

"Not a suitable." A private-joke grin, width but no depth. "But she fits my sister's criteria. Which reminds me, I must remember to tell her. Another brandy before you go?"

"Why?" she asked.

Not a reaction he'd have expected from anybody else. From Melsuntha, it made sense.

"Personally," he said, "I'm very much a leg man, unlike my father and my two sons, all of whom belong to the mammary school of human beauty. My first wife-"

"Why?" she repeated.

"I haven't had s.e.x since my wife died. It's been a long time."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Maybe because you're one of the few women I've met who, on receiving a proposal of marriage from the First Citizen, who also happens to be the richest man in Vesania, would ask that question. Most women would say yes. Sensible women who know me or know about me would say no. But why puts you in a rather special category."

She looked at him. "Originality of mind," she said. "Is that why you want to marry me?"

"To annoy my sister," he said.

She nodded. "Better," she said. "But still not good enough, I'm afraid."

He grinned at her. "Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

"I'm afraid my answer depends on yours," she said. "Therefore-"

"Fine." He looked at, then past her. "Do you know why I pa.s.sed the Enfranchis.e.m.e.nt Act?"

She shook her head. "No. Do you?"

That made him laugh. "Actually, yes. So I could marry someone who, before the Act was pa.s.sed, wasn't a citizen and therefore couldn't marry me."

Her face was stern, full of concentration. "That's very romantic," she said, "but it doesn't answer my question."

"Love?"

She shook her head. "You love your nephew," she said, "and your sister. I believe you feel a degree of affection for the old eunuch Antigonus; at least, you'll miss him when he's dead, and not just because he's such a good worker. You may have loved your wife-it would explain why you killed her-but not in the sense most people understand the word."

"And my mother," Ba.s.so said.

"You may believe that, but I doubt it. You don't love your sons; mostly, I think, because of their mother. Excuse me if I find it hard to believe that you could possibly love me."

He turned his head sideways and looked at the ground for a moment. Those who knew him well recognised that as a sign that he was structuring his case before speaking. "You know why I haven't had s.e.x since I killed my wife? Not guilt, as such. More that I really couldn't summon up the enthusiasm, and why should I do something that's supposed to be fun if I didn't want to?"

"And I've changed all that, I suppose?"

"I'm trying to answer the point you made," he said irritably. "Am I capable of loving someone? The answer is, I really don't know. Until recently, you might as well have asked me, Can you hold your breath underwater for two minutes? I don't know, and I really don't want to find out."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not familiar with courtship protocols in your culture," she said. "But this isn't how a man proposes marriage where I come from."

"You asked why," he said. "I'm trying to explain, but you keep interrupting."

She shrugged. "Men always take so long to say things," she said. "Not just you, men in general."

"That's because we think before we speak."

"And while you're speaking. You always like to finish your sentences, even when it's obvious what the end's going to be. I find that very strange."

Ba.s.so frowned at her. "Fine," he said. "On behalf of all men everywhere, I apologise. Look, if you're going to say no, please do it now. I'm finding this painfully embarra.s.sing."

"We agreed," she said. "I'll answer your question after you've answered mine."

He took a deep breath, as though he was about to try and lift something heavy. "Why," he said. "Well, there's several reasons. As you know, I've got to get married because my sister's blackmailing me. All the women of my own cla.s.s that we've been considering as potential wives either don't want anything to do with me, or else bore me to death. I know that's not a particularly good reason-"

"On the contrary," she interrupted. "Marriages of convenience are often the most sensible way to resolve a particular difficulty." She looked at him thoughtfully. "If I thought that was the only reason, I'd probably accept."

He smiled thinly. "If that was the only reason," he said, "I'd have asked someone else."

"Another reason, please."

"I wouldn't be afraid," he said.

"Afraid," she repeated. "Of what?"

"Of another day like the worst day of my life."

She gave him one of her businesslike looks. "I can rea.s.sure you on that point," she said. "Adultery is reckoned to be a major sin in my culture. Also," she added, "I wouldn't want to get killed. I can see why that would be a substantial reason, though predicated on the first."

He looked at her. "Predicated?"

"Did I use the wrong word? I'm sorry. I meant it to mean, it's only a good reason in the context of the first one."

He nodded. "But if it was just a marriage of convenience, I don't think the situation would arise. I don't think I could murder someone I didn't love."

"Ah." She frowned a little. "We come back to that, then. Is that your third reason?"

He closed his eyes wearily. "I wish you'd just say yes or no," he said.

"At this point, I would have to say no. But I'm prepared to listen to a fourth reason, if you have one."

He opened his eyes wide. "You'd do well in business," he said.

"Was that a reason?"

"No, an observation."

"Ah. I'd have accepted that as a reason."

"It's not on offer."

She shrugged. "Well?"

"Because," he said, "usually I only shout at someone once. If I need to shout at them, it follows that I can't be doing with them. They get fired, or rea.s.signed, so I don't have to deal with them any more." He paused. "I shout at you a lot."

"That's your fourth reason?"

"I suppose it is."

"In that case..." She leaned forward a little, kissed the tip of her index finger and rested it lightly on the point of his nose. "I accept."

Sentio's face reminded him of a clenched fist. "Why?" he demanded. "For crying out loud, Ba.s.so."

"To annoy my sister," Ba.s.so said.

"I don't understand."

"I know. But you asked why, and I told you."

Sentio dropped into a chair and breathed out, until Ba.s.so was sure there couldn't be any air left in his body. "You know what they'll say," he said. "They'll say you only forced through the Enfranchis.e.m.e.nt Act so you could marry your mistress."

"To a certain extent, that's true," Ba.s.so said. "Though she's not my mistress."

Cinio stared at him. Sentio made a soft, sad noise. "Now he tells us."

"It wasn't any of your business," Ba.s.so said. "And there were other reasons."

Cinio stood up, like a man about to walk to the gallows. "We're finished," he said. "Oh well, it was interesting while it lasted, I suppose."

Cinio was wrong. The announcement of the First Citizen's betrothal-to a commoner, an immigrant, one of the new citizens created by the Act-stunned the entire City. The first reaction was that, this time, he'd gone too far, but fairly soon the consensus started to break down. The ordinary voters decided they rather liked the idea of a First Citizen marrying a n.o.body, instead of some bland aristocrat. The only reason, they decided, was that he'd married for love, which was nice; interesting, too, that Ba.s.so of all people should turn out to be human after all. They didn't seem to mind the idea that he'd increased the citizen roll by a third just so he could marry the woman he loved; after all, it made sense of a drastic change that most of them couldn't really understand the need for. b.l.o.o.d.y good luck to him, they said, and decided they'd probably vote for him next time, if only to stick up a finger at the great lords who were making so much fuss. The newly enfranchised foreigners would, of course, never vote for anyone else; but the fact that the First Citizen was marrying one of their own kind made their support for him almost embarra.s.singly fanatical. As for the great lords, the news went down surprisingly well with the hard-core Optimates. It displayed arrogance, they thought, a total lack of interest in what anybody thought about him; that was a characteristic they couldn't help but admire. Furthermore, if Ba.s.so was dead set on getting married again, it was probably the sensible thing to do. A marriage alliance with any of the suitable families would have thrown the delicate balance of Vesani politics into chaos. Arrogant and considerate too. Maybe they'd misjudged the man.

So intense was the interest in Ba.s.so's engagement that the minor scandal surrounding his nephew's expulsion from the Studium pa.s.sed almost unnoticed.

The door in the high, bleak wall opened, and a small procession came out: five monks, four of them heavily laden with trunks and boxes, one with a bundle of books in his arms, and Ba.s.sano, m.u.f.fled up in a huge brown robe against the cold, looking very young. He saw the carriage and grinned.

Ba.s.so opened the door. "Get in," he said.

The monks loaded the luggage onto the roof. Ba.s.sano sat down and reached out two red hands towards the gla.s.s of brandy Ba.s.so had just poured.

"Not yet," Ba.s.so said, moving the gla.s.s out of reach. "Ba.s.sano, what the h.e.l.l...?"

"Please," Ba.s.sano said. "I'm frozen."

Ba.s.so relented, and Ba.s.sano swallowed the brandy like a dog fed at table. Ba.s.so poured him another.

"It wasn't my fault," Ba.s.sano said. "Well, it was, but not-"

"From the beginning."

The coach moved off, flanked by ten dragoons in full armour; an extraordinary sight in the Studium close, but there didn't seem to be anybody around to see it. "You broke the Patriarch's arm," Ba.s.so said. "This should be interesting."

Ba.s.sano nodded. He was shivering slightly; he'd always felt the cold. "It was my fault," he said. "I shouldn't have let him get to me. But it all seemed so unlikely, if you see what I mean."

"From the beginning."

"Well." Ba.s.sano wriggled himself into the corner of the seat and pulled the rug over his knees. He was definitely thinner, and his hair had grown. "I was sitting in my cell-technical term for your living quarters-reading Dalissenus on the immutability of the soul, when two monks came and hammered on my door."

"Hammered?"