by K. J. Parker
As he went further down the slope, he lost sight of the pattern, and of course it wasn’t visible at all once he reached the plain, at which point the flat land on either side of the road became invisible and there was nothing to see except the marching column of trees to his left and the untidy, cloud-smudged hills to the right; all he could do was carry the pattern in his mind and believe in what he’d seen, trusting his memory however improbable it might seem.
He remembered the right-angled spur that left the road and led straight to the northern gate; he took the turning when it presented itself and found himself squarely facing the wall about a mile in front of him, with the two square towers visible at the ends, the gate directly ahead of him in the middle. A blind man could have walked from the road junction to the gate without fear of straying, provided he could walk in a straight line and assuming nobody tripped him up or ran him over.
That would be a major assumption; the spur was crowded with people, on foot, on horseback or in carts and wagons. On the right-hand side of the highway, everybody was heading towards the city, on the left-hand side, they were all coming away from it, so that anybody stupid enough to try walking down the middle would’ve been cut neatly in two, as by a pair of shears. Virtually all the people, coming and going, were men; most of them were carrying something or leading pack mules or driving carts with broad beds and high sides, laden or unladen, all of them on business, all knowing where they were going and what they were meant to be doing. It was strange, comic, wonderful, intimidating and not a bit like Sansory.
It took him an hour to cover the last hundred yards or so to the gate. The cause of the hold-up turned out to be soldiers, who were searching carts, turning out the contents of panniers and saddlebags, and generally making nuisances of themselves. ‘Is it always like this?’ he asked the man next to him.
‘Or worse,’ the man replied. ‘It’s a Guild town, what do you expect?’
Not wanting to show his ignorance, he didn’t ask for an explanation; instead he nodded and sighed, which seemed to do the trick. When it was his turn the soldiers waved him through, and he passed under the gatehouse, past the lodge and out into the foregate.
Inside the walls, it looked a little more like Sansory: the same crowds of people, the same slow bustle as they tried to filter through the narrow places, the same awkwardness and tension. It didn’t take him long to start noticing differences, however. For one thing, there were far fewer carts, wagons and carriages, and virtually nobody was on horseback. There were no stalls or booths anywhere; instead, he saw before him what looked like a street of houses, average size by Sansory standards, but with doorways, exactly in the middle of the front elevation, two or three times as wide as Sansory’s. In each doorway stood a table, with the merchandise laid out neatly in rows, small objects at the front, large ones at the back. Invariably, a small wooden sign hung over the lintel with the owner’s name and trade in neat, rather pointed letters, followed by a number. As he walked down the street he could see the workshops behind the tables, in each one a workbench, a tool-rack, the specific equipment of each trade, everything neat and tidy and in its place. It struck him that there were rather more shops than customers, but he assumed that was something to do with the time of day, week or year.
The letter inside his shirt was addressed to Cunier Mohac at the Cunier house, close under Northgate. Gotto had interpreted that as meaning due south of the foregate, not far along, on a straight line toward the centre of town. At the time he’d thought that as an address it was rather too vague to be useful, but in Mael Bohec, he soon realised, it was all the information he’d need; substantial buildings, such as commercial houses, stood at every fifth intersection and were clearly named and numbered. Ten blocks down from the gate, he saw ‘Cunier Mohac 3771’ inscribed in granite over a massive oak door in the exact centre of a large building with no front windows. Success.
There remained the problem of getting inside. He tried hammering on the door, but he guessed from the pain in the side of his fist that the door was three inches thick at the very least, more than enough to soak up any sound he could make. There was a wall round the other three sides, high enough to make climbing it a dangerous experience. Short of digging a sap under the walls like a besieging army, he couldn’t think of any way of gaining entry, and that was ridiculous, surely.
When all else fails, ask. He explained his problem to an elderly man who’d been watching him for some time, and asked what he was supposed to do.
The man smiled. ‘New in town,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
‘It takes a while to get the hang of Mael Bohec,’ the man replied, ‘but once you know the ropes it’s a wonderfully simple place to live. Look, I’ll show you.’
He pointed to a thin slot between the door and the doorpost, just wide enough to slide his little finger into. ‘You put your identification in here, see,’ he explained, ‘Guild ticket, trader’s licence, calling tally, warrant, letter of introduction; the porter sees it, checks it against his list of expected visitors and opens the door – unless it’s a government warrant or a Guild seal, in which case he doesn’t need a name on the appointments list, he’s got to open up, it’s the law. That’s all there is to it.’
Poldarn didn’t say what he thought about that. ‘I’ve got a problem, then,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got anything like that.’
The man frowned. ‘I thought you said you had business with the house,’ he said.
‘I have. I’ve got a letter to deliver.’
The man shrugged. ‘There you are, then. I don’t see the problem.’
Poldarn shook his head. ‘My orders were to give it to Cunier Mohac in person, nobody else. I can’t just go shoving it through cracks in doors.’
‘Why not?’ the old man said. ‘This is the Cunier house, it says so over the door.’
Poldarn thought it over for a moment or so and decided what to do. He shoved the letter into the crack and waited. When he felt the pressure of someone on the other side trying to take it from him, he clung on with thumb and forefinger, put his mouth to the crack and said, ‘Open up.’
‘Let go of the goddamned letter,’ said a muffled voice from the other side.
‘I can’t. Letter for Cunier Mohac’s eyes only. Open the damn door.’
‘No.’
Ridiculous, Poldarn thought, then the porter tried to snatch the letter with a sudden sharp tug; Poldarn tugged back and saw a vivid mental picture of the paper tearing neatly in two. Fortunately, this prophecy went unfulfilled. ‘Cut that out,’ he snapped. ‘Go and fetch Cunier Mohac. I’ll wait.’
The porter sounded horrified. ‘I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘He’ll be getting ready for dinner.’
‘Fine.’ Poldarn exaggerated his sigh so the fine nuances wouldn’t be lost in three inches of oak. ‘Please yourself. I’ll go back to Sansory and tell my boss I couldn’t deliver the letter because some clown of a porter was afraid of disturbing Cunier Mohac while he was shaving. That’ll give you three days’ start before they come after you.’
The pull on the letter relaxed, and after a short but noisy interlude while the porter shot back bolts and graunched keys in stiff-sounding locks the door started to open. As soon as he reckoned the crack was wide enough, Poldarn rammed the door with his shoulder and pushed through. The porter was crouched against the lodge wall, hugging his nose.
‘What did you want to do that for?’ he wailed. ‘Look, it’s bleeding.’
‘I was making a point,’ Poldarn replied calmly. ‘If I ever have to deliver a letter to this house again, I want to be sure you’ll remember me.’
The porter scowled at him, and wiped blood off his lip with his sleeve. ‘I could have you taken in charge for that,’ he muttered. ‘This is a Guild town, you can’t just go around beating people up.’
Poldarn grinned. ‘Are you sure? I like a challenge.’
‘This way,’ the porter said, and as soon as he’d locked up again he l
ed the way under the lodge arch into a large quadrangle with grass and a fountain in the middle. Straight ahead were the living quarters, offices and counting-house, elegantly faced in crisply dressed, recently cleaned sandstone; the other three sides were plain brick and windowless except for narrow slits just under the eaves – warehouse space, presumably, though they might possibly be workshops. In the far left-hand corner there was another archway leading to another yard, or a cloister. Poldarn guessed that the quarters for the help were out there, and probably the stables and the coach-house and any specialised buildings needed for whatever trade the Cunier house made its living from – forge, foundry, smoke-house, curing or cutting shed, millhouse, whatever. There was, of course, a corresponding archway in the far right corner. Poldarn could see far enough through the gate to recognise that it was a formal garden.
The front door of the master’s quarters opened into a smaller, enclosed version of the courtyard outside; there was a square floor, slabbed with beautifully polished and waxed slate, with doors leading off at the cardinal points and stair-cases in the corners that gave access to galleries on all four walls. In the exact centre of the floor there was a large round oak table, on which open-topped boxes rested, slanting inwards like the spokes of a wheel. Each box was labelled – letters out, credits, debits (paid), debits (unpaid), requisitions, memoranda, copies archive – and a third full of papers. In the middle of the table stood a life-sized statue of a crow with a ring in its mouth, exquisitely carved out of coal.
‘Excuse me,’ Poldarn asked the porter as politely as he could after what had passed between them, ‘but that statue; is that a family thing or business or what?’
The porter laughed. ‘Don’t show your ignorance,’ he replied. ‘That’s a shrine. Poldarn, patron god of hearths, forges and useful fires.’ He frowned. ‘You do know what we do here, don’t you?’
Poldarn shrugged. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Didn’t need to know, I’m just a courier. Just interested in the statue, that’s all.’
The porter headed for the front left-hand staircase. ‘Coal and charcoal,’ he said. ‘Biggest wholesale and retail collier in Weal Bohec.’ There was an almost absurd degree of pride in his voice. ‘We dig coal in the Juhaim valley, north of the Mahec; we burn charcoal at a dozen camps between the two rivers; we’ve got seven big stores out of town and two here in Mael, besides the core stock we keep here. One of the biggest houses in Mael, we are, with six seats in Guild chapter and our own chapel in temple.’
‘Good for you,’ Poldarn replied, trying to sound bored. ‘So where’s Cunier Mohac? The sooner I can hand over this damned letter, the happier I’ll be.’
The porter pulled a face. ‘Like I said, he’ll be in dinner, in the long hall. You want to disturb him at table, you go right ahead. I’m going back to the lodge.’
‘Fair enough,’ Poldarn replied. ‘Which one of these doors is the long hall?’
The porter pointed to the back wall. ‘Go right ahead,’ he said. ‘The footmen and sergeant will grab you before you’ve got your nose through the doorway; you can ask them to point Cunier Mohac out to you, that’s assuming you don’t do something to upset them and get your throat cut.’
‘All right,’ Poldarn said. ‘Purely out of interest, what sort of thing do they find upsetting?’
‘Oh, all manner of things. You’ll find out soon enough.’
As it turned out, the guards didn’t grab him, because he stopped as soon as he got through the door and didn’t intrude on their circle. ‘Letter for Cunier Mohac,’ he said, ‘urgent.’
A man in rather splendid blue and white livery held out his hand. ‘I’ll see he gets it,’ he said.
Poldarn shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got my orders, same as you.’
The guard didn’t like that. ‘He’s busy,’ he said. ‘He’s eating his dinner.’
‘Fine. Let me give him this letter, then I can go and have mine. I haven’t eaten for two days, and hunger makes me short-tempered.’
Another man in the same livery joined them. ‘Keep the noise down, will you?’ he said. ‘They can hear you at table.’
‘Man says he’s got a letter for the chief,’ the first guard explained in a tone of voice that suggested that he was reporting to a superior. ‘He says it’s urgent and he’s got to hand it over himself.’
‘I’ll take it to him,’ the other guard said. ‘Happy with that?’
‘No,’ Poldarn replied.
Over the guard’s shoulder Poldarn could see a long, substantial table with about two dozen people sitting round it. All the people whose faces he could see were staring in his direction.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ the second guard muttered. ‘All right, but you’ll have to give me your sword. Or you can leave; or I can make you eat it. Your choice.’
Poldarn shrugged and took the sword from his belt. The guard laid it down on the table, then stepped in front of him. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and as Poldarn did as he was told the first guard fell in just behind his right shoulder. They were cautious people in the Cunier house.
The man at the head of the table had his back to them; he was talking to the woman on his left, apparently the only person in the room who hadn’t been watching the proceedings at the door. The guard waited for him to turn his head.
‘I’m very sorry,’ the guard said to him, ‘but there’s a courier here, insists on delivering a letter personally. He says it’s urgent.’
Cunier Mohac nodded. He was short but wide, noticeably broad across the shoulders, with a bald patch like a desert island in the middle of his thick, curly grey hair. He looked briefly at Poldarn and held out his hand for the letter. ‘Wait there, would you?’ he said as he took it. ‘In case there’s a reply.’
Poldarn watched as he broke the seal. He couldn’t read the writing from where he was standing; all he could see was that the letter was short, only three lines long. Somehow that annoyed him. He thought he could make out the name Tazencius, but it could easily have been something else.
‘Excellent,’ Cunier Mohac said at last. ‘Best news I’ve had all week. Pen, somebody.’
Another man in livery materialised beside him, holding a tray with an inkwell, pen, dish of sand, bar of wax and miniature oil lamp. Cunier Mohac laid the letter down on the table and wrote a few words underneath the original message, sprinkled it with sand and shook it clear, folded it and sealed it with a big fat ring he wore on his left thumb. ‘No copy,’ he told the man who’d brought the tray. ‘Get the messenger something to eat and drink, find him somewhere to sleep. Oh, and give him fifty quarters for doing as he was told.’
The rest of the table were still staring. Nobody had spoken. If their expressions were anything to go by, they’d never witnessed such an extraordinary scene in their lives.
As he escorted Poldarn to the counting-house to get his money, the guard’s attitude was rather less abrasive. ‘You got any idea what was in that letter?’ he asked a second time. (Poldarn had apparently not heard him the first time.)
‘No. None of my business.’
The guard nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but what line of business is your house in?’
‘Shipping, transport, carrying messages.’
‘Oh. So the letter may have been from somebody else, and you lot were just delivering it.’
‘Highly likely.’
The guard frowned as he waited for his knock on the door to be answered. ‘Ah come on,’ he said. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not curious?’
‘I suppose I am, yes.’
Fifty quarters, in a dear little red velvet purse, duly changed hands. ‘Sign here,’ the paymaster said. Poldarn took the pen without thinking, then realised that he didn’t know whether he could write.
‘What’s the matter?’ the paymaster said.
‘Nothing.’ Poldarn leaned over and made a conscious effort to stop trying to remember. He closed his eyes and moved his hand; it moved as if guided by
the grooves of a stencil, but when he looked to see the name he’d written he saw only three loops and a squiggle.
The paymaster was looking at him curiously. ‘There,’ he said, ‘that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
‘Sorry,’ Poldarn replied, ‘my mind just went blank for a moment, you know how it is.’
The guard led him across the yard and through the left-side arch into the far yard, which, as he’d guessed, was where the bunkhouses were. ‘Guest quarters are the loft over the stables,’ he said, ducking under a low doorway. ‘They’re all right, if you don’t mind horse smells.’
Poldarn hadn’t been expecting luxury so he wasn’t disappointed. There was a plain plank bed, a chair and a window looking out over the yard; no lamp, but so what? ‘Thanks,’ he said to the guard, expecting him to go away. But he seemed inclined to linger and talk. Poldarn had no problem with that, either.
‘That was quite something, the way you good as kicked the door down,’ the guard was saying. ‘Good fun to watch, but take my advice and don’t make a habit of it, not in Meal. Not that kind of place.’