horses.
"That's right," Basso said. "I've neglected you, and I'm sorry. Sit down, let me get you a drink."
Bassano sat. "Not for me," he said. "Wine gives me a headache." He smiled. "They keep telling me it's an acquired taste, but I can't see why anyone would bother." He flicked his fringe away from his eyes; a deliberate mannerism, Basso decided, that had escaped from captivity and become unconscious. "So," he said, "what did you want to see me about?"
"Bassano." The First Citizen stopped there. It was a rule of his, when making an important speech, always to have the next sentence prepared in his mind while he was speaking. If he couldn't, he paused, and tried to make it seem like he was doing it on purpose. "We've never really talked," he said (it sounded all wrong). "About your father."
Bassano looked at him. "Well, understandably," he said.
Basso had always had the knack of knowing when he was doing something completely misguided and stupid, though only once he'd embarked on it, and it was too late to turn back. "Maybe we ought to," he said. "I mean, it's not something we can just ignore. Especially--"
"I'd really rather not," Bassano said, "if you don't mind." He turned his head away and addressed the curtained window. "I think the town house is going to be a great success," he said. "Of course, so much depends on getting the basic colour scheme right
before
you start choosing furniture. Doing it the other way round's just asking for trouble."
"Bassano--"
"And how are the twins?" He was pushing with his head, straining against an imaginary rope. "The last time I saw them was at the Midsummer ball. Is Festo still mad about cockfighting? It was all he could talk about at one time."
It was like tripping over something small when you're running flat out. "Cockfighting?"
"Good heavens, you're not supposed to know. Forget I said anything."
"No, it's all right." Basso frowned. "Since when?"
Bassano grinned feebly. "I gather it was one of your coachmen who got him started on it. They used to sneak out at night and go to the fights at the racecourse. Festo said he'd made a lot of money betting. Chip off the old block, you might say."
"Cockfighting?"
"I know." Bassano shrugged. "Never could see anything in it myself. All that noise, and people shouting; mostly people who don't smell very nice, with fat stomachs and missing teeth. I imagine that's what Festo likes about it; so different from what he's used to."
Basso was quiet for a moment. "You've been with him, then."
Bassano nodded. "Just the once," he said, "that was plenty for me. There was this little skinny thing, like a stretched bantam, and they put it up against this huge redpoll. I put a nomisma on the redpoll, naturally, but Festo put ten on the skinny object, at twenty to one. I think the fight only lasted a minute, and then there were red feathers everywhere and bits of raw chicken, and the skinny bird didn't have a mark on it, apart from the other bird's blood. Two hundred nomismata," Bassano added with a sigh, "one of them mine, if you like to look at it in those terms. You're not going to get nasty with him about it, are you?"
Basso laughed. "When I was Festo's age," he said, "I used to go to the prizefights down on the docks."
"You're joking."
"Quite true. You paid sixpence to get in, and a quarter if you wanted to fight. It was all quite organised, there were even rudimentary weight classes. I was a featherweight, naturally."
"You
fought
?"
"That," Basso said coldly, "could be interpreted as an insult. Of course I fought. I never could see the sense in just watching anything."
Bassano was staring at him, eyes wide. "So what happened? How did you do?"
"I got bashed silly, of course," Basso replied. "The first time, and the second, and the third. The fourth time I made it through to the third round, and the fifth time, I won. Fifteen nomismata, first money I ever earned. I fought an apprentice from the rope-walk; big lad, very fast, but no
"That's right," Basso said. "I've neglected you, and I'm sorry. Sit down, let me get you a drink."
Bassano sat. "Not for me," he said. "Wine gives me a headache." He smiled. "They keep telling me it's an acquired taste, but I can't see why anyone would bother." He flicked his fringe away from his eyes; a deliberate mannerism, Basso decided, that had escaped from captivity and become unconscious. "So," he said, "what did you want to see me about?"
"Bassano." The First Citizen stopped there. It was a rule of his, when making an important speech, always to have the next sentence prepared in his mind while he was speaking. If he couldn't, he paused, and tried to make it seem like he was doing it on purpose. "We've never really talked," he said (it sounded all wrong). "About your father."
Bassano looked at him. "Well, understandably," he said.
Basso had always had the knack of knowing when he was doing something completely misguided and stupid, though only once he'd embarked on it, and it was too late to turn back. "Maybe we ought to," he said. "I mean, it's not something we can just ignore. Especially--"
"I'd really rather not," Bassano said, "if you don't mind." He turned his head away and addressed the curtained window. "I think the town house is going to be a great success," he said. "Of course, so much depends on getting the basic colour scheme right
before
you start choosing furniture. Doing it the other way round's just asking for trouble."
"Bassano--"
"And how are the twins?" He was pushing with his head, straining against an imaginary rope. "The last time I saw them was at the Midsummer ball. Is Festo still mad about cockfighting? It was all he could talk about at one time."
It was like tripping over something small when you're running flat out. "Cockfighting?"
"Good heavens, you're not supposed to know. Forget I said anything."
"No, it's all right." Basso frowned. "Since when?"
Bassano grinned feebly. "I gather it was one of your coachmen who got him started on it. They used to sneak out at night and go to the fights at the racecourse. Festo said he'd made a lot of money betting. Chip off the old block, you might say."
"Cockfighting?"
"I know." Bassano shrugged. "Never could see anything in it myself. All that noise, and people shouting; mostly people who don't smell very nice, with fat stomachs and missing teeth. I imagine that's what Festo likes about it; so different from what he's used to."
Basso was quiet for a moment. "You've been with him, then."
Bassano nodded. "Just the once," he said, "that was plenty for me. There was this little skinny thing, like a stretched bantam, and they put it up against this huge redpoll. I put a nomisma on the redpoll, naturally, but Festo put ten on the skinny object, at twenty to one. I think the fight only lasted a minute, and then there were red feathers everywhere and bits of raw chicken, and the skinny bird didn't have a mark on it, apart from the other bird's blood. Two hundred nomismata," Bassano added with a sigh, "one of them mine, if you like to look at it in those terms. You're not going to get nasty with him about it, are you?"
Basso laughed. "When I was Festo's age," he said, "I used to go to the prizefights down on the docks."
"You're joking."
"Quite true. You paid sixpence to get in, and a quarter if you wanted to fight. It was all quite organised, there were even rudimentary weight classes. I was a featherweight, naturally."
"You
fought
?"
"That," Basso said coldly, "could be interpreted as an insult. Of course I fought. I never could see the sense in just watching anything."
Bassano was staring at him, eyes wide. "So what happened? How did you do?"
"I got bashed silly, of course," Basso replied. "The first time, and the second, and the third. The fourth time I made it through to the third round, and the fifth time, I won. Fifteen nomismata, first money I ever earned. I fought an apprentice from the rope-walk; big lad, very fast, but no
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