K Parker: The Belly of the Bow

‘Not another penknife,’ Heris sighed. ‘You’ve got a whole box of them you never even look at, and you insist on using that old thing you made out of a pan handle that you’ve had ever since I’ve known you.’

Gorgas shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that if I take the good ones out of the house I’ll lose them somewhere. You know what I’m like. But if I leave the old home-made one somewhere or it falls out of my pocket, then it’s no great loss. Besides,’ he added, ‘it gets the job done. You can sharpen pens with it. What more do you want from a penknife?’

‘Rubbish,’ his wife replied. ‘You just prefer using things that are old and tatty.’

‘Old, tatty and functional ,’ Gorgas said gravely. Heris laughed, but with just the trace of an edge; and that’s why you’re still with me, and not one of those girls you pick up when you’re away … She called to the children. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Time we were getting back.’

Niessa protested, needless to say, and made a specious but basically ill-founded case for being allowed to go paddling in the fountain, which her parents wisely ignored. Luha swallowed the last of his honey-cake and licked honey and the last flake of almond off his thumb. They were just about to go back when Gorgas stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘You go on, I’ll catch you up. There’s someone I haven’t seen in a long while.

Heris nodded and led the children away. Gorgas stood motionless for a while under the shadow of the fountain, hard to see in the dim light, studying an old man who was buying the last loaf of bread from the last remaining stall. It was two years since Gorgas had seen him last, in the city of Perimadeia, on the night before it was stormed by the plainsmen. He’d heard since that the old man had escaped and was still alive, but the rumours had placed him on the Island, where he was said to be living off the thinly disguised charity of a young merchant and his sister. Gorgas frowned. He knew without understanding why that the former Patriarch Alexius was a very important man, important enough to have come to the attention of his sister. If he was here in Scona, it followed that she had had him brought here; and if that was the case, what was he doing pottering about in the Square buying stale bread at a discount?

He crossed the Square quickly and quietly, keeping in the shadows more from force of habit than for any conscious reason; but the old man saw him and recognised him before he spoke.

‘Gorgas Loredan,’ he said.

‘Patriarch,’ Gorgas replied, with a polite nod. ‘You’re looking well.’

Alexius smiled. ‘I can say the same of you,’ he said, ‘and with the added advantage of telling the truth.’ He hesitated, having nothing else to say; he remembered their last conversation, in his lodgings at the Academy.

‘Would you like to join us for dinner?’ Gorgas said. ‘We’re having lentil soup and a leg of lamb, and my wife’s just bought some rather fine-looking sausages. It’s not far, just around the corner.’

Alexius looked at him, and Gorgas was reminded of the expression in the stationer’s eyes as they argued over the price of the penknife. A bargain was being struck here, compromise traded for compromise. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Alexius said, and he glanced down at the lump of hard barley bread he was holding in his hands. ‘But your wife won’t thank me for rolling up for dinner at a moment’s notice, I’m sure.’

‘Not at all,’ Gorgas replied. ‘We enjoy having people for dinner, and there’s plenty to go round. Our cook always makes at least one helping more than we need, and then eats it himself. He could do with losing weight, before he ends up getting hopelessly wedged in the scullery doorway.’

‘In that case,’ Alexius replied, ‘I’d be delighted.’

In the short time he’d been on Scona, Alexius had seen rather more than he’d wanted to of a couple of large, apparently official buildings and slightly less of the very cheap inn where he’d deposited his second-best coat and shoes. So far, he hadn’t seen inside a real house, and he had to admit to himself that he was curious. Why this should be, he didn’t know. Since he left home and joined the Foundation, he’d spent most of his life in dormitories, cells and lodgings, and the only ordinary dwellings he’d ever got to know properly were his family home and the house of Venart and his sister Vetriz, the merchants from the Island who’d rescued him from the sack of Perimadeia. The two establishments had been so unlike each other that any scientific attempt to extrapolate a model of an Ordinary House was clearly futile. Nevertheless, he wanted to see inside Gorgas Loredan’s house, and that was all there was to it.

If he’d been hoping to find anything in common between the Loredan house and either of his two previous samples, he was disappointed. It was as if his old home had been cut open and turned inside out, like a rabbit’s skin; instead of the house being surrounded by the garden, what passed for a garden was in the middle of the house. A more inconvenient arrangement, he couldn’t help thinking, would be hard to devise. If you wanted to go from one room to another that happened to be on the opposite side of the square, you’d either have to traipse all through the intervening rooms or else walk across the grass – aggravating if it was dark or raining. Also, because the little patch of open space was surrounded by high walls, it was overshadowed at all times of day, which meant there was no chance of growing vegetables or fruit, and surely that defeated the whole object. He could only guess that this style of building was forced on these people by the needs of defence and security, so that each house was enclosed by high walls like a little city. A strange way to live, he reflected, and not to his taste.

On the other hand, it was better than the inn, although since the same could be said of virtually any building with a roof, that wasn’t a supreme compliment. Loredan’s wife, a pleasant-faced woman in her late thirties, seemed genuinely pleased to have company, and the little girl immediately understood, with that special sense that small children have, that here was an old man not particularly used to children who could be charmed to death. All in all, it seemed like a fine specimen of a family, the sort of household you might show students round as a field exercise for the part of the course dealing with human relationships. It was almost as if it had been designed that way, and the accessory family members carefully selected for the purpose; or was that just his knowledge of Gorgas’ past life colouring his judgement? Quite possibly. After all, he had about as much hard data on families as he had on dwelling-houses, and for all he really knew, the Loredan household might easily be as typical as it seemed.

There was one thing about normal family life that he was fairly sure of, however: in unhappy homes the cooking is usually lousy, and vice versa. On that basis, Gorgas Loredan and his family were as happy and contented as they looked. And, since he had no idea where his next good meal was coming from, he made the most of this one with all the professional thoroughness of the lifelong student. If his hosts were offended or amused, they showed no sign of it. If Loredan was deliberately trying to create images of normality about him, then as far as keeping a good table as befitted a man of his position went, he’d done a good job.

When the last plate had been cleaned off and taken away, the wife and children discreetly withdrew in the approved manner and left the two men alone. There was a well-laid fire in the hearth, with a kettle simmering over it to provide hot water for the spiced wine, the chairs were deep and comfortable and a fine chessboard stood conveniently at hand on a rosewood pedestal, though Alexius somehow had the feeling that it had never been used. Normally a heavy meal and a warm fire would have sent him straight to sleep, but he wasn’t even feeling drowsy. He nodded his thanks as Gorgas handed him a cup, and took a careful sip. The stuff was quite hot, almost black, highly aromatic and extremely sweet.