K Parker - The Belly of the Bow

‘Can’t complain,’ the craftsman replied. ‘It’s quite remarkable how little these people know about bow-making. I could get technical and bore you rigid, but that’d be unkind, so let’s just say that for a nation who’re supposed to depend for their survival on their skill as archers, the people of Scona don’t know spit about the tools of their trade. The idea that there’s more to a bow than a bent stick and some string has come to them like some divine revelation. In fact,’ he added, stopping to wipe his forehead on his arm, ‘business is a bit too good, as you’d be able to work out for yourself if you took a walk around here looking for a reasonably straight ash tree. Which you won’t,’ he added, ‘because they’re all up there.’ He pointed up at the billets stacked between the rafters. ‘That lot won’t keep me going for very long,’ he continued, ‘and I’ve got an order for six dozen sinew-backed recurves for the military that I’d loose sleep over if I stopped to think about it. If ever you meet anybody whose doctor’s ordered him six weeks of total and utter boredom, send him to me and I’ll put him on carding sinew.’

The old man smiled. ‘That’s a very good sign,’ he said. ‘You must be doing well if you’re grumbling like that. You sound like a farmer complaining of too much rain.’

‘I think they call it reverting to type. There now,’ he said, putting the plane to one side and picking up a pair of calipers, ‘that’s not looking too bad. Let’s see whether we’ve got that…’ he stood up and turned, and just as Machaera was about to see his face, she lifted her head and blinked, and saw Scona across the lagoon, and herring-gulls circling in the snowy air, and a single ship with a blue sail dragging itself across the wind into the arms of Scona harbour.

Now what was all that about? She tried to imagine the library table again, but when she found the image in her mind, all she could see was an untidy heap of brass tubes, some empty, some with the ends of badly rolled books squashed into them. She shut her eyes and did her best to think, but a savage headache had taken hold about an inch behind her eyes, and thinking was like trying to see through thick fog and driving rain. Which of them was I supposed to see? The old man or the man he was talking to? She made an effort to force the pictures back into her mind, but there weren’t enough of them left to get a grip on. Rationalising, it ought to be the old man. When she’d looked into his eyes, it was as if she’d recognised something there; it was like looking at your friend’s grandfather and saying to yourself, Ah, yes, that’s where the nose comes from . She guessed that what she’d seen was some kind of mark or scar left behind after looking at the Principle, just as she’d been doing, the same kind of flare or burn as if she’d looked too long at the sun and it had left a permanent mark visible whenever she closed her eyes. But he hadn’t said anything; he’d just sat there asking questions, so surely it was the other one who was important, the one she’d been given this special privilege of seeing. But he was just some kind of artisan, a worker in wood like her father. How could anything concerning a man like that be of any relevance to the Principle, or the survival of Shastel and the Foundation? A great warrior might just possibly have some significance; conceivably a mighty engineer, destined to design some fabulous new engine of war that could overthrow the enemy at a stroke. But a tradesman – a small-time tradesman, one who was struggling to meet an order for six dozen (six dozen, that’s five twelves are sixty plus twelve makes seventy-two) seventy-two bows – why, the Foundation’s arsenal probably made that many in a single day. If she didn’t know better, she’d be tempted to think that the Principle was making fun of her.

Remember , Doctor Gannadius had told them last year, just before the written exam, don’t look for what you want to see, or you think you should see, or even what you expect to see. Don’t look for anything. Look at what’s there, and mark it well. What you see is always the truth; the distortions and errors come afterwards, when you think about what you’ve seen .

She frowned. Nobody in the whole world knew more about the Principle than Doctor Gannadius; after all, he was the last surviving member of the Foundation of Perimadeia, designated to succeed the old Patriarch if only the City hadn’t fallen. The mere fact of his coming to Shastel had done more for the morale of the Foundation than a hundred victories against the enemy could have achieved. It was Doctor Gannadius, after all, who’d recognised her special gifts and brought her here to the Cloister, among the top ten per cent of the novices, and taught her the very technique she’d just been using. In which case, she realised, the sensible thing would be to stop trying to puzzle it out for herself – all she’d do would be to muddy the image in her mind and corrupt it – and take it to him for interpretation, so that he could make proper use of this important piece of intelligence, maybe something so important it could win them the war…

And maybe that was going a bit too far. The whole point was, she didn’t know . For all she knew, embedded in the conversation somewhere was some tiny detail that gave the key to understanding some major intelligence issue – invasion plans, a fatal problem with material procurement, an opportunity to recruit a spy who would come across with the vital secret of something or other she simply couldn’t imagine. But wasn’t history crammed with recorded instances of morsels of apparent trivia, overheard in dockside caverns or mumbled by lovers in their sleep, that had resulted in the fall of great empires and the deaths of untold thousands? One thing was for sure; if she kept it to herself and tried to figure it out all on her own, the momentous turning point in history could be the failure of Shastel to pick up on the vital clue that might just have saved them from the deadly and hitherto unforseen danger… She jumped up, slammed the shutters closed and had to make a great effort to stop herself running along the corridor and down the spiral staircase to Doctor Gannadius’ office; which, when she reached it, turned out to be empty.

‘Apparently,’ muttered the sergeant, ‘she’s the Director’s niece.’

The corporal stooped and took another peep through the hole in the door. ‘I heard tell she was her daughter,’ he replied.

‘You don’t want to go hearing things like that,’ the sergeant said. ‘Stunts your growth, listening to that kind of talk.’ He drew his hand across his throat. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘she’s some sort of family, which means she’s none of our business. Just watch her when you take in her food. She can only scratch left-handed, but she knows how to kick.’

The corporal nodded gravely. True, the girl in the cell didn’t look like she was capable of hurting anybody, not with that mangled hand; it was as much as she could do to get the food into her mouth and change her clothes. But it was different when she started cursing and screaming; having to listen to that was enough to sour a man’s beer, even through two inches of oak door, and there wasn’t much anyone dared do to shut her up, what with her being some kind of family of the Director’s. You never knew whether she’d be out the next day and sitting behind a desk in an office putting her seal to transfer orders that’d send a poor soldier to his death. Best to be on the safe side, and keep well clear.

‘Makes you wonder, though,’ the sergeant said. ‘Carved up like that and shoved away in a cell, and she’s one of them. Gods only know what they do to their enemies.’