‘Twenty-five? Fifty?’
Dousor laughed. ‘Do me a favour,’ he said. ‘There’s also lost production time to consider. This window of opportunity isn’t going to last for ever, you know. Pretty soon this soldiering craze is going to wear off, and if I don’t get up and running pretty damn quick, I’m going to look round and see I’ve missed the boat. And now you’re telling me to drop everything-’
‘A hundred and seventy-five.’
‘No way,’ Dousor said. ‘No way I’m even going to consider it for less than three-two-five.’
‘Three-two-five? You must be-’
By way of replying, Dousor picked up the hammer and started laying into the bloom of iron on the anvil; it had long since gone cold, but he didn’t seem to have noticed that. Before Venart had a chance to make himself heard again over the noise, his sister pushed past him, swept into the shop and grabbed Dousor by the wrist.
‘You,’ she said. ‘Pack it in.’
Dousor looked at her.
‘Don’t start,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a splitting headache thanks to you and your incessant banging. It’s got to stop, understood?’
Presumably Dousor intended to explain, as he’d explained to Venart, about the war effort and his patriotic duty. But he didn’t, possibly because with her other hand Vetriz had picked up the pincers, the jaws of which were red hot on account of being carelessly left in the fire, and was holding them about an inch under Dousor’s beard.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just as soon as your brother and I work out the compensation.’
Vetriz stared him in the eye. ‘It’s all right,’ she said quietly, ‘we don’t want any compensation. Now start packing up all your silly tools and things, while Ven sends out for the carrier’s cart.’
After that, there were no more loud noises from next door, and Venart was able to get back to work. Even without the ring of hammer on steel, it wasn’t easy to keep his concentration; the revised heads of agreement from the provincial office were couched in such ambivalent terms that they could mean anything, nothing, or both simultaneously.
‘You’re going to have to tell someone about this,’ Vetriz said. ‘Tell him, Athli. You can’t make a peace treaty with the enemy and not tell anybody.’
‘I’ve told the Council,’ Venart replied irritably. ‘And the Ship-Owners’, and the Guild. Who does that leave, really?’
‘You’ve told the bigwigs,’ Athli pointed out, ‘and made them promise to keep it to themselves. That’s not the same thing at all.’
‘You think they can keep a secret? Come off it.’ Venart allowed himself a small, weary smile. ‘Telling Ranvaut Votz something and making him promise not to repeat it is the most efficient means of disseminating information the world has ever seen. I expect they know about it in Colleon by now.’
‘All right,’ Athli said. ‘But you haven’t told us. Which means that everybody’s rushing around in a panic, not knowing what’s going on. You know what Eseutz Mesatges did when she heard the news? She went out and bought up fifteen crates of swords and a dozen barrels of armour parts, on the basis that when all the swords and armour are confiscated, the government’s going to have to pay compensation, and she’s figuring that the difference between market value and assessed value’s going to be a substantial profit. You can’t let people carry on like that, there’ll be chaos.’
Venart blinked, then said, ‘I’m not responsible for the way people like your friend Eseutz choose to behave. I just want to keep the lid on things till we’ve had a chance to lick these bloody terms and conditions into shape; and I don’t want to do that yet, for obvious reasons.’
‘Obvious to you perhaps,’ Vetriz said. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘Simple.’ Venart put the parchment down, and it rolled itself back up into a tube. ‘If I can spin things out till Bardas Loredan finishes with Temrai, then we’ll be talking to him and not some devious bastard of a Son of Heaven. Well? Can you think of a better way of handling it, because if so I’d love to hear it. Playing diplomatic chess with these people is way above my head, but unless we can put up some sort of a show, we’re in deep, deep trouble. Or didn’t you read that extradition clause?’
Neither Vetriz nor Athli seemed to have anything to say; the name Bardas Loredan had somehow put them off their stride.
‘I’ll take that as agreement then, shall I?’ Venart said. ‘Although since when I had to get your approval for acts of state I’m not entirely sure. It’s bad enough trying to keep Votz and that lunatic from the Guild off the premises without you two ganging up on me as well.’
Athli seemed to pull herself back from an entirely different train of thought. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But really, Ven, trying to win a cleverness match with the provincial office isn’t very – well, clever. You’re playing on their side of the court.’
Venart nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but at least I know that. Remember what Father used to tell us, Triz? Properly handled, the other man’s strength can be his greatest weakness? They know perfectly well they’ve got me completely muddled and confused; what I’ve got to do is find a way of staying muddled and confused long enough for Bardas Loredan to win his damned war. Look at it from that perspective, and I think you’ll see what I mean.’
Athli stood up. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘Remember, this is politics, not a sardine deal.’
Venart groaned. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I’m well aware that I’m out of my depth, haven’t got a clue what I’m doing and shouldn’t be trusted with running a whelk stall, let alone a government. Just because something’s true doesn’t always mean it’s helpful.’
Athli put a hand on his shoulder, then walked out across the courtyard to the small room she was using as an office. Not that there was much to do; business was at a standstill, she had no means of communicating with head office in Shastel, and nothing to tell them even if she had been able to get a message through. It was all rather depressing; everything she’d achieved by luck, hard work and native ability had somehow managed to melt and drip out between her fingers.
Maybe-People were leaving the Island, she knew that. At first they’d been circumspect about it; they’d announced their intentions of going off to buy food, loaded everything they could aboard their ships, slipped out of the Drutz in the early morning and not come back. Now they weren’t even bothering to lie. Looked at from a more rational perspective, it was remarkable that so few, relatively speaking, had done the sensible thing – of course it had been the same in Perimadeia, except that only a few hopeless pessimists had really believed the City would fall. She’d been one of them; and now it was time to go again, without shame or regret, taking with her any of her friends who chose to come with her, as calmly and sensibly as (say) Niessa Loredan abandoning Scona…
It was true to say (she decided, reviewing the facts like a historian) that once upon a time she’d cared about Bardas Loredan; cared a lot. Loved? Sloppy, imprecise term. She’d worked with him, done what she could to keep him in one piece when the horrors of his trade started to get to him, been there for him, worried herself sick every time he’d stepped out on to the courtroom floor but never once shown it – always so confident that she knew and understood him, the way nobody else did. Now it was true to say that she didn’t love him, although that didn’t stop her thinking about him all the time – but that had been then and there, this was now and here, and she’d carried his luck this far, to this conclusion. She’d always known, somehow, that as long as she cared for him he would survive. It was as if she’d been keeping his life safe for him, in a stout steel-banded locked wooden box, while his body went out and did violent, irrevocable things to the world. After all, she was a banker; he’d deposited his life, his luck with her, made it her responsibility. She’d carried it safely out of Perimadeia, guarded it for him while he tried to make something of his life on Scona, been entrusted with his apprentice and his sword; she’d taken it from him again when he’d lost his last hopes and dreams in the Mesoge, and sent her away. Well; and now he was coming to the Island, where she’d set up in business on her own account as a taker of deposits and creator of opportunities. Time to hand it back, to render her accounts and be discharged; to leave it for him here, in the condition he would expect to find it, paid up, balanced and signed off, and then to go away.