Heritage of Fire

by Dave Luckett

  Even the food was plentiful and tasty, he thought. Meals were regular, always the same thing on the same day. Gerd found it comforting after so many years of getting by on chance kitchen scraps. The room where they ate was half of the ground floor of the keep. Long trestle-tables were set out, and the troops - nobody seemed to call themselves knights within the company - sat on benches. Wednesday's midday meal always started with split pea soup. Gerd rather liked it. It was hot and filling.

  But a man two places down from him did not. It was the same man who’d been guarding the gate, on the first day Gerd had come to the fort. Gerd knew him slightly, by this time. His name was Field. He was older, generally unsmiling but quiet. He wasn't quiet now.

  He tasted, then abruptly slapped his spoon down on the table, and got up holding the wooden bowl in his hands. He looked as if he was about to throw it against the wall, but instead he put it back down again, hard enough to slop soup on the table, hard enough to make a sharp cracking sound. Then he glared around.

  The hall was usually noisy, people eating and talking and scraping benches and calling for salt, but it was quiet by the time he had finished. There seemed to be a breathless expectation, as if everybody knew what was going to happen.

  Field took a deep breath, like a man about to dive into a deep pool, and then he bellowed: "Complaint!"

  That one word and no more, but a hundred men hushed to hear it. The silence held for a slow count of ten. Men looked sidelong at their neighbours, as though asking for one another's reaction. Footsteps sounded from within. Then the door to the inner hall opened, and Captain Mannon stood framed in it. His hands were locked behind his back, and he paused on the threshold, in full kit with sword and helmet, rocking backwards and forwards on his toes. His face was blank as a snowfield, only the eyebrows a little raised, the mouth a little pursed, as if he were surprised.

  Field glared fiercely back at him, but the Captain's face did not change. He sauntered across the hall, his hands remaining behind his back. The two faced each other across the table, the men on the benches pushing over to either side to clear the way.

  Captain Mannon considered Field for a moment. His voice, when it came, was carefully mild, but the hush in the hall was such that he could be clearly heard.

  "And what is your complaint, Brother?" asked Captain Mannon.

  The form of address was not the usual one. The captain usually called them by name, family name. But Gerd suddenly remembered that when the watch changed at night, the man who was relieved was always asked, "What of the night, Brother?" and always replied, "All's well, Brother," before standing down. What did the Captain mean by calling Field "Brother"? His face was giving nothing away.

  "The soup, Brother." Field, if he had made anything of the word, threw it back in the Captain's face.

  "What of it?" The Captain still spoke mildly, without heat.

  "It's supposed to be pea and bacon soup, Captain. Says so on the rations-sheet, the one we all read and signed. And paid for, too, stopped out of our wages. But there was never a pig within five miles of this bellywash, I'll swear. It's mostly pea-flour and turnip-water, with just enough dried peas to give it a name."

  Gerd had no idea what the soup was supposed to be like. He had made his mark on one more piece of paper they put before him. The sergeant had called it a ration sheet, but Gerd couldn't read it. He looked down at his bowl of soup in surprise.

  The Captain also looked down at the bowl before him. He leaned across. From his own belt-pouch he produced a spoon, dipped it in the soup, and tasted carefully, staring Field in the face. After a moment, he nodded slightly, smacking his lips. "It's fit," he said. "Eat it or not, just as you please, Field. If you knew the price of things, you wouldn't complain. If the company doesn't like it -" His voice was louder now, and clearly was meant to address all present - "- we can always increase the messing fees. Even though a Western Knight isn't supposed to spend his life coddling his belly."

  Field only seemed to gain heat from the Captain's lack of it. "Coddling, nothing. I want what I'm paying for, no more. Increase the fees? That cook's raking off half our money as it is. That's what comes of selling the job to the highest bidder - he has to make it worth his while.You know he's doing it, and you're letting him. Was that part of the sale price too, Captain?"

  Captain Mannon's face changed at that. His eyebrows climbed higher still. But his voice stayed mild. "If you don't like the soup, Field, that's one thing. But insults is something else. Neither the cook nor I have anything to hide. If you want to go over the books with me …"

  "And which set of books would that be, Captain? The ones in your office? Or the real ones, that you keep in your head?"

  Field was leaning forward, and Captain Mannon made no reply. Not by word, anyway. His hands came up as if he were going to take his head in them, a gesture of despair, Gerd thought. But half-way up they suddenly grabbed Field's shoulders and pulled him forward sharply. At the same time the Captain jerked his helmeted head in a sort of nod, ending in a solid thud. Field stiffened suddenly, was shoved backwards, and then fell in a sprawl of limbs, hitting his chin on the edge of the table as he went down. His bowl of soup, the cause of it all, was upset too, and ended spilling over him, dripping from the table to where he lay on the floor. Gerd remembered thinking, stunned, I hope it's cooled down enough.

  The Captain gave the fallen man no more than a glance. He turned around. "Does any other man here want to call me a thief and a liar?" His voice rang off the far walls. "Because if he does, he'd better be able to back it up." He glared around at them. Not a man moved. After a long, frozen moment, he nodded. "Good. Now, any man who doesn't like the pay, conditions and rations is welcome to buy himself out, or just leave when his hitch is up." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Like Field here, who'll be out of the fort by sunset and off the island by the first ship outbound."

  Silence. Gerd glanced sideways at his neighbours, and found that they were glancing the same way at theirs, and at him. But nobody said anything else.

  "Corporal Sankey." The Captain's voice was flat, now.

  Sankey stood, and the scrape of the bench as he pushed it back was loud in the hush. "Sir."

  "Your section is making the patrol out to Sherringford this afternoon, I think."

  "Yes, sir. Collecting the hearth-tax."

  "Go by the back road, as if you were going out to the farms, but cut across just after the second stream. You know the place. That way they shouldn't see you coming."

  "Yes, sir."

  "There's new houses up there. Make sure you include the new ones when you collect. And another thing. If old Wat, the smith up there, has any blade longer than a knife in stock, it's because he's selling them. Probably to bandits - he's got no other call for weapons. If you find any, confiscate them and bring him in for questioning."

  "Sir."

  "And get rid of that." Captain Mannon gestured to the slumped Field. "Close arrest, confined to quarters pending expulsion from the company."

  "Sir."

  Captain Mannon glanced around. "Twenty more minutes to eat. Then there's work to be done." He said no more, but turned on his heel, marched to the inner door, opened it, and stepped through, closing it behind him.

  There was a sort of collective sigh. Talk started. Men dipped bread into their bowls and ate. Gerd did the same. He was thinking that he would be going on that patrol, and he had better get ready for it. Only after that did it occur to him to think about what Field had said, and to reflect that it wouldn't be possible now to ask him what he knew, and how he knew it. Those things bothered Gerd - both that he hadn't known what Field knew and that he hadn't thought about it. And more than that, as he watched them carrying Field out, his feet dragging and head lolling. He ate, thoughtfully.

  His dagger was finished, and he praised the work to the smith. Alissa was pleased, clearly. She smiled. The smile caused Gerd to revise her age down by five years, and then she turned to finishing up in the forge.
He wondered... "Can I buy you a mug of ale at the inn?" he asked, before he realised he was going to.

  She halted, fire-rake in hand, and then she turned her head. "Ladies don't drink in taprooms," she said. "Unless they're... um... ladies only in a commercial sense, if you understand what I mean." Her mouth twisted. "That's one of rather a lot of things that ladies don't do."

  Gerd felt his eyebrows rise. "They don't, for instance, forge steel. Huh." He inspected the sky. "There's a bench by the outer wall, and it's a fine evening. Anybody can sit on a bench, and if they feel like a drink, I'd like to see the man who'd have anything to say about it."

  She tugged on the rake again. Her lips pursed, slightly. Then she nodded to herself. "You know, it's hot work, forging a good blade. I could do with a drink. Be right with you."

  "You'll do well," said Gerd, several swallows later. "Your work is fine."

  Alissa shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I do my best. But I still have a lot to learn about swordsmithing. That's only a small stall, and it's only mine because my father had it before me. Dad taught me most of what I know - though he never specialised, it's true. Most of the actual bladework I had to teach myself, and there's a lot I don't know."

  "Your father was a smith, too?" Gerd asked. It was common enough, son following father into a trade, but this...

  Alissa squinted, looking aside. "Not always. Not all his life. He'd been in the company himself for twenty years. Corporal, too. Could have been Captain, but he met my mother, married, and took up a lease on the smithy instead. It runs for two lifetimes, Dad's and mine." Alissa's gaze became reflective, looking out at the harbour lights, not seeing them. "And the Company elected Mannon as captain, a few years later. If I had a child, I wouldn't want to leave the workshop to him - or her - even if I could. They won't extend the lease, anyway."

  Why not? Gerd wondered. "The captain doesn't seem to think much of your work. Maybe he thinks you charge too much." He smiled, to show he didn't mean it.

  Alissa smiled, too. "The captain's prices are pretty high, too. To those who pay them." She looked down into her tankard, as if she thought she'd said enough, then drained it. "Another, if you'll fetch it, and it's my turn to pay. And then I'm for home."

  Gerd wore the dagger at the next parade. The captain's eyes flicked over it, noted Alissa's mark on the pommel, and then rose to Gerd's face. They stared, as if committing his face to memory. "Your sidearm's a bit showy, recruit," said the Captain, after a moment. "Got a woman's touch about it. Best to be plain and simple. Word to the wise, now."

  Clearly the Captain didn't like Alissa's work. Gerd wondered what was behind that; but the Captain was the Captain. He ended by oiling the dagger's sheath and stowing it at the bottom of his locker, puzzled. Yes, life had been harder at the inn, but it had also been easier to understand there. He knew what the villagers thought and did, and how they acted towards him and why. It had been harsh, but there was nothing hidden about it. He had known what to expect. But here he didn't know what was going on.

  It wasn't right, not knowing. It was like a burr in the foot, or an unscratched itch. It had to be dealt with. He had to find out.

  Slowly, it became clear to him that to find out, he had to learn to read, at least a little. After all, it had been the squire's wish. He had taught Gerd his letters, and Gerd began piecing together the odd bits of writing he saw around the castle - watch bills, kitchen receipts, notices.

  Corporal Sankey helped him. He could read and write, often writing letters for other men. As he explained, an under-officer needed to be able to, and he was glad to see that Gerd wanted to get ahead. So Gerd went to the corporal several times a week, and by the time spring had come fully to the island, he was able to spell through a list of words, slowly increasing the number he could read at sight. At least, his progress seemed slow to him, beginning with letters that he scratched on the stone floor of the guardroom with a stick of charcoal, but soon he could write numbers as well. He wondered if anyone kept records about the rations. Sankey would know. "Corp?" he asked.

  "Aye?" Sankey looked up from the boots he was working on. "That's good," he added, looking at the letters. He grinned crookedly. "I never thought I'd end as a schoolmaster, back when I joined. Maybe I missed my trade."

  Gerd changed what he had been going to ask. "How long have you been in the company, then, Corp?"

  Sankey's dark little eyes grew wrinkles at the corners. "Longer than I like to think of, lad."

  "No, really. How long?"

  "Well, let's see." The corporal scratched his chin. Like most of the Company, he cut his beard very close, and it rasped. "I would have been nineteen that year, I think. Yes, that's right. The old captain had died not long before. I'm a year younger than my brother Rob. He inherited the farm on his eighteenth birthday - our Dad died when I was twelve. I worked for Rob for two seed-times before I joined up, and he was saying only the other day that this'll be his twentieth harvest. Remembers things like that, does Rob. So that makes me - let's see now -"

  "Thirty-seven," said Gerd.

  The corporal had been counting on his fingers. Now he looked up. "Thirty-seven? Not that many, surely?" He looked at his hands again. "Why, I suppose it is." His voice held mild surprise. Then he blinked and shook his head, like a man denying knowledge, and went on: "So I've been in for eighteen years - with a clean sheet, corporal for seven of them. Senior corporal this last year. Second in command, in the field." He frowned, as if confused. "Thirty-seven years old already. Huh. Makes you think, doesn't it?"

  For a moment, Gerd saw himself sitting in that guard-room at thirty-seven, shaking his head and wondering where the years had gone. He recoiled from the vision, and that was when he made his mind up. This was not the life he wanted.

  He could almost hear the Squire's voice in his ear, murmuring an agreement. And yet …

  Sankey was still staring at the boot he was working on, still frowning. Gerd remembered what he had been going to ask in the first place. "Corp?" he said again.

  "What now?"

  "Could Field have been right?"

  Sankey's face closed in. "What about?" he asked. It was uninviting, but Gerd felt he had to go on.

  "The rations." Sankey simply stared at him. Gerd looked down, and then up again. It was a fair question, and Gerd thought Sankey knew it. "See, it seems to me that for what they're taking out of my pay I could buy more food, and better, at the market."

  "Oh, aye?" said Sankey. "And how much would it cost you to build the cookhouse to cook it in, and pay someone to cook it, and buy the fuel for the fire, and the table to eat it at, and the chair to sit on, and the hall to eat it in, and the roof to eat it under?"

  Gerd frowned and looked back at his letters on the floor again. There was something not quite right about those questions. What was more, there was a sort of doggedness about the way they were asked that made him feel that Sankey was attacking. The thing was, Sankey had not denied that food was cheaper in the market. Was he attacking because he couldn't defend?

  Gerd decided to press, just a little more. "Suppose he was right, though, Corp. Just suppose. The cook's on the take, and the Captain's in on it."

  Sankey grunted. "Well." He went back to his boots, working dubbin into them with fierce concentration. After a while: "Well, you better be able to prove it, then. That's all I can say. And you better not ask a lot of questions, trying. Otherwise you'll end up the same way Field did, with a broken head and on the first ship out for your trouble." He spat on the boot, for emphasis. "Or worse."

  He would say no more, and Gerd went back to his letters, frowning, still undecided. Did it really matter about the rations? He could just buy himself out and leave, if he wanted - he had the money. It was the squire's money, though. Should he stay his year out? All right, this wasn't the life for him. But what was? He didn't know. He wanted to know - about that and about the other things, too.

  All right, then. He would start finding out.

  8

&nbs
p; He started volunteering for cookhouse duty - the most disliked fatigue. Without telling anybody about it, he started writing things down. How much food came in, how much went into what they ate. Slowly a picture built up.

  He also made a habit of passing by Alissa's stall in the castle yard at sunset. She would be finishing her day's work about then.

  She seemed to have enough small jobs to keep the smithy going, despite Captain Mannon. Mostly they were repairs and odd jobs, though. Tools and general ironwork, anchorstocks and ploughshares. But at the end of the day, she liked to work on something a bit different.