K. Parker - The Proof House

I quite understand. In your position …

‘I don’t think I’m going to like this, Alexius,’ Gannadius interrupted. ‘In fact, if it’s all the same to you I think I’d like to stop now and have another go some other time. I have the feeling that if I try to do it now I’ll make a mess of it, and since it’s something you only ever get to do once…’

Ah. But how do we know that?

Gannadius scowled. ‘Oh, for gods’ sakes,’ he said. ‘This is hardly the time to discuss bad doctrine.’

Sorry. I was only trying to be upbeat.

‘Well, it’s not helping. Alexius, can’t you do something? ’

I … What did you have in mind?

‘I don’t know,’ Gannadius snapped. ‘You’re the bloody wizard, you think of something.’

It doesn’t work like that. You know that as well as I do.

‘Yes, but-’ Somehow, he didn’t have the strength to get angry; he didn’t even have the strength to be properly frightened. Not being able to feel frightened – now that was frightening. ‘I was going to say,’ he went on, ‘that you’re the Patriarch of Perimadeia, there must be something you know that the rest of us don’t, some special secret that only the Patriarchs are allowed in on. But that’s not true, is it?’

I’m afraid not.

‘I knew that, really. It’s just that when you’re – well, like I am now, you’d rather go with the hope than the logic, just in case. No hard feelings, old friend.’

Thank you. How are you feeling?

‘Strange,’ Gannadius admitted. ‘It really isn’t the slightest bit like I thought it’d be.’

Oh? In what way?

Gannadius thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I was expecting – well, theatre, I guess. Melodrama, even. Mystical stuff: bright lights, swirling mists, shadowy figures draped in shining white. Either that or pain and fear. But it isn’t like that at-’

His eyes opened; really opened this time.

‘It’s all right.’ A woman was standing over him. ‘It’s all right.’

‘Alexius?’ Gannadius tried to move his head to look round, but couldn’t. He didn’t know whether that was bad or good. He’d been able to move quite freely before.

‘He’s coming out of it,’ the woman was saying to someone he couldn’t see. ‘Whatever that stuff was, it worked.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said a man’s voice behind the woman’s shoulder. ‘Usually a dose like that’d kill you. I’m glad it works.’

The woman looked unhappy. ‘You mean you’d never tried it before?’

‘Like I said, it’s usually a deadly poison,’ the unseen man said. ‘Been wanting to try it out for years, but this is the first one we’ve had where it really didn’t matter – I mean, properly speaking he was dead already, so what the hell?’

Gannadius realised what was so odd about the woman. Well, not odd; unexpected. She was a plains-woman – eyes, skin colour, bone structure. He felt an instinctive wave of panic – Help, I’m in the hands of the enemy! The woman saw him shudder and try to move, and smiled.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be all right.’

So you keep saying. ‘…’ he said, then realised he’d forgotten the rest.

She was a round-faced, stocky woman in her late forties, with short grey hair, bright black eyes and a prominent double chin. ‘You’ve been very sick,’ she went on, ‘but the doctor’s given you something that’ll sort you out, just you wait and see.’

Gannadius felt annoyed at that; bloody doctor’s been using me to try out his lethal new remedies , he wanted to say. Dangerous clown, he shouldn’t be allowed near a patient. ‘Thank you,’ he croaked. ‘Where…?’

The woman smiled. ‘This is Blancharber,’ she said. ‘Have you heard of it?’

Gannadius thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Ah. Well, it’s a little village about half a day’s walk inland from Ap’ Amodi’. She pronounced the name as one word, not two. ‘Roughly the same distance from Ap’ Amodi and the old City.’

‘Where…?’

‘Perimadeia. You’re in King Temrai’s country,’ she added. ‘You’re safe now.’

Eseutz Mesatges, free trader of the Island, to her sister in commerce Athli Zeuxis; greetings .

This is a horrible place, and the people are loathsome. On the other hand, they surely do have a lot of feathers.

Which is where you come in. I’m now in a position to supply, FOB the Market Forces , sixty-seven standard volume barrels of premium white goose-wing feathers, all graded by wing polarity – to be precise, thirty-five barrels of right-wing, thirty-two of left-wing – suitable for fletching all standard-spine military arrows, at the ridiculously low price of twelve quarters (City) per barrel – well, almost. There’s just one trivial shard of detail standing between me and this fantastic opportunity. I’m as broke as a dropped pot.

But I wouldn’t be, beloved sister in commerce, if you supplied me with a letter of credit drawn on that bank of yours in the paltry sum of 268 quarters (City); then I’d have my feathers, you’d have your usual one-third cut, these people here would have an incentive to set up a regular, ongoing deal and everybody would be happy. Except the geese, of course; but I don’t think they were planning on going anywhere.

Now then: if the Squirrel gets in as per schedule, you should be reading this on the sixth – plenty of time for you to scribble out the magic words and send the letter round to the master of the King of Beasts , which I happen to know is expected here on the seventeenth (so presumably it’s not leaving the Island till the eighth at the very earliest). Provided you do your stuff with all due diligence, I can close the deal on or before the twentieth and be home on the Market Forces , with feathers, by Remembrance. As simple as that.

Well, that’s it, really; but there’s still plenty of space left on this sheet of high-quality paper, so I might as well fill it with something.

Let’s see; what sort of thing do you want to know? Of course, you’ve actually been here, as I recall – didn’t you come here with your friend the fencer, before the coup and all? I don’t suppose it was much better then; worse, probably. Say what you like about the military regime and Butcher Gorgas, they give every impression of being good for business. If they made or grew anything at all worth selling (except, of course, for these utterly magnificent feathers you’re getting a vicarious slice of), there’d be some nice opportunities here in the import/export line, since there’s basically zip local competition; no merchant venturers, no producers’ cartels, no aristocratic or royal monopolies, and even the government tariff is only two and a half per cent. It’s what comes of having a government run by amateurs, I suppose.

It makes me wonder, though. Why did Gorgas Loredan go to all the trouble of taking the place over if he’s not going to do anything with it now he’s got it? After all, it’s such an extreme thing to do, steal a country from the people who live there. Usually, of course, it’s pretty obvious – someone wants the iron ore, or the warm-water port, or the osier beds, or the growing timber or the saffron plantations, or to stop someone else having it, or just so as to be able to draw a nice straight line down the map, or to have the complete set of islands. And when it isn’t something blindingly obvious like that, you can bet it’s a steady source of revenue – poll taxes and sales taxes and import taxes and road taxes and spice taxes and wedding taxes and taxes on every third heifer and scutage and heriot and tithes in ordinary. There’s always a reason – except in this case, and it’s bothering me to bits trying to figure it out. For one thing, a cool, calculating type like Gorgas Loredan doesn’t do anything without a reason. What’s he up to, Athli? You know about this sort of thing. Won’t you let me in on the secret?