The Folding Knife

by K.J. Parker

Genres: War & Military; Epic Fantasy; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

A new stand-alone novel from the acclaimed author of the Engineer Trilogy and The Company. Basso the Magnificent. Basso the Great. Basso the Wise. The First Citizen of the Vesani Republic is an extraordinary man. He is ruthless, cunning, and above all, lucky. He brings wealth, power and prestige to his people. But with power comes unwanted attention, and Basso must defend his nation and himself from threats foreign and domestic. In a lifetime of crucial decisions, he's only ever made one mistake. One mistake, though, can be enough.

Release date: February 10, 2010

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 465

Sample

A man is sitting on the roof of a coach, crawling through a dusty plain. He wears an expensive coat, dirty and stained, and
ruined good shoes. Next to him, avoiding conversation, sit a liveried porter, an armed man and a gloomy individual in a faintly
comic footman’s outfit. In front of them there’s an impressive pile of luggage, trunks and cases and chests, secured to the
rail with strong rope. The coach rolls over a stone and all four men sway precariously.


The man in the dirty coat looks down at his fingers, notices a hangnail, drops his right hand into his pocket and fishes out
a beautiful gold-handled folding knife. He finds it awkward to open; there’s something wrong with his left hand, the fingers
are stiff and it doesn’t work properly. He trims the nail, but then the coach hits another stone and lurches wildly. The folding
knife flips out of the man’s hand. He makes a wild attempt to catch it as it falls, gets two fingers on it, fumbles the catch.
The knife slips out of his grasp, hits the rail, bounces off and flies over the edge of the roof.


The man stares for a moment at where the knife suddenly isn’t. Then he shouts, “Stop the coach.”

Nobody reacts.

“I said, stop the damn coach,” the man shouts. Nobody reacts.

The man scrambles up, sways with the motion of the coach, forfeits his balance and lands ingloriously on his backside. The
armed man, some kind of guard, grins at him.


The man looks over his shoulder. By now, the coach has moved on some thirty or forty yards; even if he hurls himself off the
roof without breaking his leg or his neck, his chances of finding the knife are too slim. It’s gone, and that’s that. Also,
he recognises and concedes that he’s not the man he once was. Until very recently, any order he chose to give would have been
obeyed without question; now, nobody even hears him. The folding knife has gone, as quickly, suddenly and irrecoverably as
someone dying.


The man—if any of his three companions on the roof had thought to ask him his name, he’d have lied to them—closes his eyes.
As soon as he does so, a moment from the past fills his mind. It always does, the same image, the same moment, every time
his eyes close. Twenty years.


He sees a bed, in a well-furnished room. On the floor beside it lies a naked man, face down, holding a fancy costume dagger.
His throat has been cut. On the bed there’s the body of a woman, and her throat’s been cut too, but she lies face upwards;
her lips are still moving, but her eyes are just taking on that cold, hard look. If a speck of dust were to land on them,
or a fly, they wouldn’t blink. He sees her through a red blur, because the blood from her jugular vein spurted in his face.
In his right hand he feels the handle of the folding knife.


(Always the same, always there. By now, surely, it should be familiar enough to be invisible. Once, when he was extremely
rich, he’d bought a painting by one of the great masters. He’d hung it on the wall opposite his bed, so it’d be the first
thing he saw when he woke up. A man could never get tired of looking at this picture, they reckoned. In its perfectly inclusive
lines, its total sublimation of symmetry and asymmetry, it contained every possibility in the world. After a week, he stopped
noticing it was there. A month later, he sold it, made a profit, and had a mirror put in its place, as a form of punishment.)


The woman’s lips stop moving, part-way through an unvoiced word, and then she just falls sideways, like a piece of furniture
carelessly knocked over. Her head cracks against the leg of the bed, making a wooden sound, like a stick hitting a ball.


He hears his name spoken; not his name, a word equally familiar, amounting to the same thing. Oh, he thinks, and turns round.
Twin boys, about seven years old, stand in the doorway, looking at him.


“Daddy?”

For some reason, he folds up the knife and puts it back in his pocket. “Go to your room,” he says. “Now.”

Neither of them moves. They stare at him, and it occurs to him that the look on their faces must be very much like the look
on his own, when he’d first entered the room.


(Still there, he thinks, and still the same; interesting. Surely, by now, that should have been the least of my problems.)

He opens his eyes.

On the morning of the day when Basso (Bassianus Severus, the future First Citizen) was born, his mother woke up to find a
strange woman sitting at the foot of her bed.


Her husband was away somewhere on business, and the servants slept downstairs. The woman was dirty and shabby, and she was
holding a small knife.


“Hello,” Basso’s mother said. “What do you want?”

Over the woman’s shoulder, Basso’s mother could see that the skylight had been forced. She was shocked. It had never occurred
to her that a woman could climb a drainpipe.


“Money,” the woman said.

Basso’s mother assessed her. About her own age, though she looked much older; a foreigner, most likely a Mavortine (blonde
hair, short, fat nose, blue eyes); there were always Mavortines in the city at that time of year, seasonal workers. She was
wearing the remains of a man’s coat, several sizes too big.


“I’m terribly sorry,” Basso’s mother said, “but I don’t have any. My husband doesn’t let me have money. He does all the…”

The woman made a strange grunting noise; frustration and annoyance, all that work for nothing. “I’m sorry,” Basso’s mother
repeated. “If I had any money, I’d give it to you.” She paused, then added, “You look like you could use it.”


The woman scowled at her. “What about downstairs?”

Basso’s mother shook her head sadly. “All the money in the house is kept in my husband’s iron chest,” she said. “It’s got
seven padlocks, and he carries the keys about with him. The servants might have a few coppers,” she added helpfully, “but
it’s nearly the end of the month, so I doubt it.”


The woman was holding the knife rather than brandishing it. Basso’s mother guessed she’d used it to work open the skylight
catch. It was a folding knife, an expensive item, with a slim blade and a gold handle; the sort of thing a prosperous clerk
would own, for sharpening pens.


“If you’re that hard up,” Basso’s mother said, “you could sell your knife. It must be worth a bit.”

The woman looked at it, then back at her. “Can’t,” she said. “If I went in a shop, they’d know it was stolen. I’d be arrested.”
She gasped, then burst into a noisy coughing fit that lasted several seconds.


Basso’s mother nodded. “So jewellery wouldn’t be much use to you either,” she said. She was feeling sick, but managed to keep
her face straight and calm. “All I can suggest is that you help yourself to some decent clothes. The dressing room’s next
door, just there, look.”


The woman was looking at her, considering the tactical implications. “Shoes,” she said.

Basso’s mother wasn’t able to see the woman’s feet. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of shoes,” she said. “I think a pair of good stout
walking shoes would be the most useful thing, don’t you?”


The woman started to reply, then broke out coughing again. Basso’s mother waited till she’d finished, then said, “I’m sorry
about the money, but at least let me get you something for that cough. How long have you had it?”


The woman didn’t answer, but there was an interested look in her eyes. Medicine clearly didn’t feature in her life. Basso’s
mother pushed back the sheets and carefully levered herself out of bed and onto her feet. She didn’t bother putting her slippers
on.


“Rosehip syrup, I think,” she said, waddling across the room to the table where her apothecary chest stood. She took the key
from the little lacquered box and opened the chest. “There’s a jug of water on the stand beside the bed. Would you mind?”


The woman hesitated, then brought the jug. Her feet were bare, red, nearly purple; quite disgusting. “While I’m fixing this,
have a look in the shoe closet. It’s just there, look, on your left.”


Not that the woman would be able to read the labels on the bottles. Basso’s mother poured a little dark brown syrup into a
glass and added water. “Here,” she said, “drink this.”


The woman had already pulled out two pairs of boots; she was clutching them, pinched together, in her left hand. The knife
was still in her right. She hesitated, then threw the boots on the bed and took the glass.


“When you’ve drunk that,” Basso’s mother said, “I’ll ring for some food. When did you last have anything to eat?”

The woman was staring at her, a stupid look on her face. Basso’s mother counted under her breath. On five, the woman staggered;
on seven, she flopped down on the floor. Usually it was at least ten before it had any effect at all.


Later, Basso’s mother decided she must have given her too much (understandable, in the circumstances). Also, the woman may
have had a weak heart or some similar condition. It was sad, of course, but just one of those things. Basso’s mother paid
for a coffin and a plot in the public cemetery. It was, she felt, the least she could do.


Whether the shock induced early labour the doctors couldn’t say. In the event, there were no complications and the baby was
perfectly healthy, though a little underweight. Basso’s father had bars fitted over the skylight. A better catch would have
done just as well, but he was that sort of man. Basso’s mother tried not to notice the bars, but they were always there in
her mind after that.


The woman must have dropped the folding knife when she fell over, and knocked it under the bed. A maid found it and put it
away in a drawer. Basso’s mother came across it some time later and decided to keep it; not quite a trophy, but not something
you just throw away. Besides, it was very good quality. When Basso was ten years old she gave it to him. He knew the story
that went with it, of course.


Back home his name was seven syllables long, but here, in the army of the Vesani Republic, he was Aelius of the Seventeenth
Auxiliary, the youngest captain in the service, kicking his heels in barracks in the City when men with half his ability were
shipping out to the war in charge of a battalion. He was checking supply requisitions in his office when a flustered-looking
sergeant interrupted him.


“We’ve arrested a boy, captain,” the sergeant said.

Aelius looked up. “And?” he said.

“He beat up a sentry.”

The culture of the service demanded that enlisted men addressed officers as rarely and as briefly as possible. Aelius thought
it was a stupid rule, but he observed it rigorously. “You’d better bring him in,” he said.


A boy, sure enough. Fourteen rather than fifteen, Aelius decided, mostly on the evidence of the face; on the tall side for
his age, but still only a kid. “And this child assaulted a sentry?”


The sergeant nodded. “Broken arm, broken jaw, two cracked ribs and knocked out a couple of teeth, sir. Unprovoked attack.
Two witnesses.”


The boy didn’t seem to have a mark on him. Correction: skinned knuckles on his left hand. “This boy attacked a grown man for
no apparent reason and broke his jaw,” Aelius said. The boy was looking past him, at the far wall. “Well?” he barked. The
boy said nothing. “I’m talking to you.”


The boy shrugged. “I hit that man, if that’s what you mean.”

Aelius nodded slowly. “Why?”

“He spoke to my sister.”

“And?”

The boy frowned. “He made a lewd suggestion.”

Aelius managed to keep a straight face. “So you beat him up.”

“Yes.”

Aelius looked sideways at the floor. Bringing charges was out of the question. A soldier of the Seventeenth beaten to a jelly
by a child; they’d never live it down. The face was vaguely familiar. Not a pleasant sight: his nose was a little concave
stub, and his enormous lower lip curled up over his upper lip, smothering it. “What’s your name?”


“Arcadius Severus.”

That made Aelius frown. The boy wasn’t dressed like a gentleman’s son, but he had a formal name. The voice was completely
nondescript, and Aelius hadn’t been in the Republic long enough to distinguish the subtleties of class from a man’s accent.
Harder still with a boy with a tendency to mumble. “That’s a big name for a kid,” he said. “Who’s your father?”


The boy felt in his pocket, produced a copper penny and held it out on his palm, heads upwards. “He is.”


No wonder the face was familiar. “Sergeant,” Aelius said, “get out.”

As the door closed, Aelius leaned forward across his desk. The boy was watching him, to see what would happen next. He wasn’t
afraid, he wasn’t smug. That alone was enough to confirm that he was who he said he was. “What kind of lewd suggestion?” Aelius
asked.


“None of your business.”

Aelius shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “All right, you can go.”

The boy turned towards the door, and Aelius rose smoothly to his feet, snatched his swagger stick off the desk and slammed
it against the side of the boy’s head, hitting him just above the left ear. He went down, started to get up, staggered, recovered
and got to his feet.


“Can I go now?” the boy said.

Aelius nodded. “I think that makes us all square,” he said. “Do you agree?”

“Yes,” the boy said. “Yes, that’s fair.”

Fair, Aelius thought. Not the word he’d have chosen, but surprisingly appropriate. “Then go home,” he said. “And maybe you’d
like to think about the relationship between the military and the civil authorities. Ask your dad; he’ll explain it to you.”


Outside, the boy’s sister was waiting for him. She was flanked by two sentries; not physically restrained, but held in place
like a chess piece that can’t move without being taken. “It’s all right,” the boy said. “They let me go.”


She said something to him as they walked away. He couldn’t make out the words—his ears were still ringing from the blow on
the head—but he didn’t really need to. His sister wasn’t happy at all.


“You won’t tell Father,” he said.

She scowled, then shook her head. “I ought to.”

“I settled it with the captain,” the boy replied. “You’ll only make trouble.”

She made a tutting noise, like a mother reproving an infant. “They’ll know something’s happened when they see you like that,”
she said.


“I fell out of a tree.”

Scornful look. “Since when did you climb trees?”

He grinned at her. “That’s why I fell,” he said. “Lack of experience.”

“I’m sick of covering up for you,” she said, walking a little faster. It cost her disproportionate effort, because she would
wear those ridiculous shoes. “I’m always having to lie for you, and I’ve had enough. Next time…”


“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the boy said. “It was all your fault anyway. If you hadn’t been making eyes at that soldier…”

(Which he knew was a lie; but a lie he could pretend to believe, thereby putting her on the defensive.)

“That’s just rubbish,” she snapped. “And you’re stupid. I’ve got a good mind to tell Father what happened. It’d serve you
right if I did.”


She didn’t, of course. As it turned out, there was no need for anybody to say anything. The First Citizen and his wife were
out for the evening at a reception, and off early the next morning for the state opening of the Assembly. Undoubtedly the
servants noticed his scabbed knuckles, and when the ringing in his ears didn’t go away, they quickly learned to talk to his
right side or speak a little louder. He had no trouble hearing his father, because the First Citizen’s voice was plenty loud
enough, even at home, and his mother never had anything much to say for herself at the best of times.


*   *   *

Six months later, the boy’s father lost the election and was replaced as First Citizen by Didius Vetranio, whose father had
been a sausage-maker. That is to say, Didius Maesus had owned a twenty per cent stake in a slaughterhouse where they made the
best-quality air-dried sausage for the export trade, along with a large number of other sound investments. As far as the boy’s
father was concerned, that made him a sausage-maker. He sulked for a month, then bought a ship—ridiculously cheap, he told
anybody who’d listen, the most incredible bargain—and cheered up again. His good mood lasted five weeks, until the ship sank
in the Strait of Essedine with a full cargo of pepper and saffron.


“Fucking disaster,” the boy overheard his father telling one of his business associates (a small, dried man with hollow cheeks
and a very sharp nose). “Eight hundred thousand, and that’s without what that bastard gouged me out of for the ship.”


The little man frowned. “Borrowed?”

“Six hundred thousand.” The boy’s father sighed. “Unsecured, which is a blessing, I suppose, but it puts me where I squelch
when I walk. Bastard had no business selling a ship that wasn’t seaworthy.”


The little man thought for a moment. He was a study for a major sculpture, Man Thinking. “You need capital,” he said.


“Yes, thank you, that had in fact occurred to me already.” The boy’s father took a peach off the top of the fruit dish, bit
off a third and discarded the rest. “You wouldn’t happen to…”


“No.”

A slight shrug; no harm in trying. “Looks like marriage, then,” he said. “That or mortgage the vineyard, and I’d be reluctant
to do that.”


The little man nodded. “Which one?”

“Oh, the boy,” the boy’s father said. “I’ve already done a deal for the girl, but it’s a long-term job, I’d hate to spoil
it by rushing it along. The good thing about children,” he went on, “is that when you run out you can always make some more.
Friend of mine used to say, a man of good family carries his pension between his legs. No, I had an offer for the boy only
last month, but of course I was flush then and told them to stuff it.”


“Good offer?”

The boy’s father leaned back in his chair and let his head droop forward. “It’d be enough to see me out of this mess, and
a bit left over, but that’s about it. On the other hand, it’d be cash up front on betrothal, with the real estate settled
till he comes of age. I could borrow against the realty, invest it, pick a winner, clear off my debts with the profit and
break off the betrothal. It’s a thought,” he added defensively, though the little man hadn’t said anything. “No, I suppose
not. I have an idea my luck’s not at its best and brightest right now.”


The little man folded his hands in his lap. “None of this would’ve happened if you’d insured the ship,” he said.

“Yes, well.”

But the little man was like a little dog that gets its teeth in something and won’t let go. “How much have you got left, Palo?”

A long sigh; and the boy saw that look on his father’s face, the one that meant he was about to answer quietly. “Not enough,”
he said. “Oh, I’ve got assets to show for it, land and good securities, but either they’re tied up or they’re long-term. Like
the brickyard,” he said, rubbing the sides of his nose with both forefingers, like a man just waking up. “I’ve put a lot of
money into that. Fifteen years’ time it’ll be a gold mine, but if I sold it now I’d be screwed. Actual ready cash…” He shook
his head. “Hence the short-term unsecured loans, which are eating me alive, of course. And I spent a lot of money on the election,
of course, and that was a joke. Beaten by a sausage-maker, very funny, ha ha. Makes you wonder why you ever bother in the
first place.”


The little man coughed, a strange noise, a bit like a bone breaking. “I never could see the point in running for office,”
he said. “I’ve always had better things to do with my time. People talk about the contacts and the influence, but I don’t
see it myself. Personally, I prefer to concentrate my energies on business.”


The boy’s father grinned. “With hindsight, I tend to agree with you. Still, your circumstances are a bit different. You could
always afford the best senators money could buy.”


A very slight shrug, to concede an inconsequential point. “The offer for your son.”

“Quite.” (The boy shifted to ease the cramp in his leg and banged his foot against the leg of a table. Fortunately, neither
man heard.) “Malo Sinvestri’s daughter. Could be worse.”


“The Licinii have done very well in bulk grain,” the little man said. “You have those warehouses down by the weir standing
empty. Presumably your intention—”


“Actually, I hadn’t thought of that.” A suddenly-cheering-up lilt in his father’s voice. “Thanks, Galba, that puts quite a
nice edge on the deal. Of course, I’d have to use proxies.”


“Licinius doesn’t know?”

“Why should he?” A short laugh, like a hammer on an anvil, or a bell. “Not in my name, you see, so not on the register. It’d
be worth it just to see the look on Malo’s face.”


On the day of the betrothal ceremony, he wasn’t well. He had an upset stomach, ferocious stabbing pains between his navel
and his groin that made him twist like a dancer.


His mother didn’t appear to believe him. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “This is a serious occasion. It’s not something you
can get out of by pretending you’re ill.”


He couldn’t answer immediately. When he’d got the use of his mouth back, he said, “Tell you what, you can come and inspect
the contents of my chamber pot. Will that do you?”


“Don’t be—”

“That’s evidence,” he said. “Solid proof. Well, maybe not solid. For pity’s sake, mother, I’m not well. I can hardly stand upright.”


His mother’s look held the unique alloy of pity and contempt she reserved just for him. “Well, you’ve nobody but yourself
to blame,” she said, dipping her hand into the linen pocket she wore on her belt and taking out nine plum stones. “You don’t
even like plums,” she said.


He nodded. His mistake had been throwing the stones out of the window, instead of burying them in the midden. Attention to
detail. “Oh, I like them,” he said, “but they don’t like me.” A particularly sharp spasm put him out of action for a while,
and then he said, “It doesn’t alter the fact that I’m not well enough to stand through a long formal ceremony. Unless you
want me to make a spectacle of myself in front of all those people.”


His mother shook her head. “I haven’t told your father about these,” she said, moving the plum stones a little closer to his
nose. “You don’t have to go to the ceremony, I’ll send a note to say you’re ill, but I’ll tell your father the truth. It’s
entirely up to you.”


He breathed in deeply. “All right,” he said. “What do you suggest?”

She nodded briskly. “I’ll get you some medicine,” she said.

Her words coincided with yet another spasm, so the face he pulled was submerged in a greater reaction. His mother collected
medicines, rather in the way a boy collects coins or seals or arrowheads; one or two genuine pieces, along with a whole load
of junk. “Thanks,” he said, “but I think I’ll be—”


“Stay there,” she said, and a few minutes later she came back with a little blue-glass cup. “Drink this,” she said, “it’ll
get you through the ceremony.”


The last attack had left him gasping for air. “Does it work?”

“I don’t know,” his mother replied, “I’ve never tried it myself. The man said it’s a miracle cure, but I’ve never dealt with
him before. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”


He took the cup and stared into it; off-white sludge, like the scum on top of new cream. “What is it?”

“The man said it’s a special sort of clay dust,” his mother answered blandly. “Apparently there’s a magic mountain in Sigaea,
which is the only place in the world this stuff’s ever been found. It’s mined by an ancient order of monks exclusively for
the Imperial court, but somehow this man managed to get hold of a jar.” She shrugged. “You never know,” she said. “Anyway,
drink it if you like. It might do you good.”


Remarkably, it did. At least, it stopped up his bowels like a cork for three days. It didn’t do anything for the pain, but
he handled that himself, and if any of the guests at the betrothal noticed anything, they didn’t mention it. In a way, he
was almost glad of it, since it gave him something else to think about apart from the bride and her family. The latter would
have scared the life out of him if he’d been in any fit state to care; several huge men, tall, broad and fat, with close-cropped
beards that came up to the tops of their cheekbones, and tall thin women who looked at him and shuddered. His father was extremely
subdued, which was unnerving, and sober, which was unprecedented. He couldn’t see his mother most of the time, because she
had to sit on the far side of the temple with his sister and the other women, but he could feel her eyes on him like a bridle.
As for the bride, she was muffled up in veils like a beekeeper (what’s the matter, he thought, is she afraid I’m going to
sting her to death or something?) so she registered with him as little more than a shape in a gauze mist and a small, sullen
voice that mumbled the words after the priest. But when she first saw him, she stopped dead in her tracks, the way a horse
stops when it sees something it doesn’t like, and no amount of booting and spurring will get it to shift. Her father and uncle
whispered something to her, “what do you think you’re playing at?” or words to that effect; she whispered back, and then her
father put his hand between her shoulder blades and shoved so hard she nearly fell over. An auspicious start, he couldn’t
help thinking; not that he blamed her in the least. He owned a mirror. It was a small comfort to know there was someone who
was even more wretched about the performance than he was, but the pain in his stomach was the only thing he could think about.


The priest got his name the wrong way round: Bassianus Severus Arcadius. On the way home, he asked if it was still legal.
His father assured him that it was.


His cousin Renno came up from the country. On balance, he liked Renno. He was easy to talk to, usually had money and was handy
in a fight. Since he’d last seen him, Renno had grown, and the dark fuzz on his top lip had pretensions of coherence.


“You got married, then,” Renno said.

He sighed. “Hardly,” he replied. “That doesn’t happen for another four years.”

“Something to look forward to, then.” Renno hopped up onto the gate and sat swinging his legs. His feet nearly touched the
ground now. “You’re lucky,” he said.


“Am I?”

“Are you kidding?”

The boy scowled. “I never actually got to see what she looks like.”

Renno laughed. “Is that right? Well, the first thing you notice is the moustache.”

He didn’t look round. “You know her, then?”

“Met her, a couple of times.”

“And?”

Renno yawned and stretched, wobbled a bit and sat up straight. “Let’s see,” he said. “Nice boobs, good arse, a bit top-heavy
but she could still grow out of that. In four years, she could be all right.”


The boy shrugged. “What’s she like?”

“I just told you.”

“Apart from that.”

“Let’s walk into town and get some fruit. No disrespect to your family, but the food around here’s a bit bloody sparse.”

The boy nodded. “You got an