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 head 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?’
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.’