The Company

by K. J. Parker

  So that was all right.

  “I’m sorry,” Kunessin said, “but there’s got to be a wedding. Otherwise the whole deal’s off, apparently.”

  He was facing three blank, grim faces. It was like walking up to the hedge of enemy pikes (that strange interval between peace and war; like an actor going onstage, or a condemned man walking to the scaffold), but his only weapon was sweet reason, and he had no allies.

  “All right,” he said, lowering his voice, “so it’s undignified. We’re going to look stupid.”

  “Yes,” Aidi said.

  “But,” he went on, “it’ll take, what, half an hour, and then it’ll be over, and we’ll have the resources we need, and that’ll be the end of it. And like I said, if we don’t do this annoying but very minor thing, the whole deal grinds to a halt and we’ve got a serious problem. Come on, gentlemen, we’ve faced massed archers and heavy artillery in our time. We can do this.”

  Kudei looked up. “Did he just say ‘resources’?” he asked.

  “It’s completely unnecessary,” Aidi said. “There’s a civil ceremony that’s just as legal, and it doesn’t mean standing in front of the whole town with garlands of flowers round our necks. Trust me on this, I’m a magistrate. In fact, I could do it myself.”

  Kunessin sighed. “I suggested that,” he said. “They won’t go for it. Traditional ceremony or nothing. It’s your bloody aunt, Fly,” he added savagely. “She’s the one making all the trouble.”

  Alces, who’d been doggedly studying the map, looked up as if he’d only just realised there were other people in the room. “I believe you,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you she’s pure poison?”

  “Talk to her,” Kunessin said. “That’s an order.”

  “I will if you like,” Alces said, with a broad shrug. “Won’t make a blind bit of difference.”

  “It’s all right for you,” Kudei said bitterly. “You don’t have to do it.”

  “Done it already,” Alces replied, with just a trace of a grin. “And you’re quite right, it’s pretty bloody embarrassing and you do feel extremely stupid, with all those horrible old women staring at you and all the kids giggling. But if I had to go through it, I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

  Instinctively, Kunessin looked towards Muri for support, and was depressed to see that his face was as hard and set as all the rest. “All right,” he said, “I’m open to suggestions. Anybody got any ideas?”

  As he’d anticipated, nobody spoke. He gave it a few moments, then targeted the ringleader. “Aidi,” he said. “Think of something.”

  “I’ve already told you what I think,” Aidi replied. “Tell Fly’s aunt we’re going to have a proper legal wedding, but it’ll be the civil ceremony. Be firm. Don’t take any shit.”

  Kunessin nodded. “Agreed,” he said, “with one amendment. Aidi, I’m delegating this mission to you. I’m sure you’ll make her see sense.”

  In their minds, they could all hear the clang of the trap as it closed round Aidi’s ankle. “Fine,” he said, after a long pause. “Leave it with me. It’ll be the proverbial piece of cake.”

  When they met up again that evening, the first thing Kunessin did was home in on Aidi like a hawk on a pigeon and ask, in a perfectly clear voice, “Well? How’d it go?”

  “All dealt with,” Aidi replied, but he sounded tired and just a little fraught. “Civil ceremony, day after tomorrow. Oh, and I’ve checked up, I can do myself when I do the rest of you; it’s perfectly legal. We just need two extra witnesses, but all that means is that for my entry in the register, all four of you sign. Otherwise, couldn’t be more straightforward.”

  (Later, Kunessin found out how he’d done it. After shouting and pleading in vain for a very long time, he’d finally offered her a large sum of money; enough, in fact, to buy a small house for her retirement. Part of the agreement was that she wouldn’t breathe a word of it to anybody, a contract term she breached within half an hour of being given the money.)

  Since Aidi was still technically a justice of the peace - he’d resigned his post but stayed on the book until quarter sessions - he requisitioned the use of one of the public buildings over which he had jurisdiction, and the ceremony accordingly took place in the town jail. Fortunately, it was empty apart from one elderly drunk, who was fast asleep, and the deputy jailer, who locked all the doors before the proceedings began. It was Kudei’s suggestion that a constable be put on guard at the foot of the tall ash tree in the courtyard, whose upper branches overlooked the exercise yard. Even that was a compromise: Aidi had wanted the tree cut down.

  The brides arrived in a covered cart, hired from the livery stable and usually used to take cattle that had died out in the fields to the knackers. The front axle creaked twice each time the wheels turned, a noise uncannily like the braying of a donkey. The carter had brought a wooden crate to serve as a step; perhaps it was old and rotten, because Chaere Doryclyta’s foot went right through it, causing her to stagger and graze her ankle on the splinters. Dorun Oxy refused to get down without a step, but there wasn’t another box or crate to be had; eventually, Clea Andron jumped down, grabbed Dorun Oxy under the arms as though lifting a sack of onions, and hauled her out of the cart. Menin Aeide got down by clambering over the side, using the hub of the wheel as a foothold.

  (‘I know her from somewhere,” Kudei muttered, as he watched them arrive through the half-open yard door. “But I’m damned if I can remember . . .”

  “Leave it, Kudei,” Kunessin hissed. “It’s supposed to be bad luck or something.”

  Kudei grinned. “You don’t believe that.”

  “No, but they probably do.”)

  Thouridos Alces and his wife had been pressed into service as ushers. Alces hung back, but Enyo darted forward and gathered them up, remarkably like someone herding a parcel of skittish heifers to new pasture; she didn’t wave her arms or prod them with a stick, but probably only because they chose to come quietly. Chaere Doryclyta was talking very loudly about her damaged ankle, which was bleeding rather spectacularly and leaving a trail of bloody footprints. She was wearing white satin shoes; the others all wore their yard boots, sensibly greased with goose fat. Alces held the door open for them and let them get well ahead before following them in.

  The four bridegrooms were drawn up in a line with their backs to the front office wall. Aidi was holding a book, closed around his thumb to mark the place. He cleared his throat as the women advanced, also in line, but didn’t actually say anything. Both lines held position about five yards apart. There seemed to be no way in which the silence could ever be broken.

  Fortuitously, that was the moment when the drunk in the cell chose to wake up. He staggered to his feet, made it as far as the door and hung from the bars, staring. “Hellfire,” he said. “What’s all this, then, a dance?”

  “No,” Kunessin said. “It’s a wedding.”

  “Ah,” the drunk said, and stumbled back to his mattress.

  That, apparently, was as much as Aidi Proiapsen could take. He sprang forward, making a large but vague shepherding movement with his arm, and saying, “Right, let’s not stand about here all day. Teuche, you first.” Kunessin took a step forward, like a very brave man volunteering for some desperate mission. Aidi turned, smiled at Dorun Oxy, and said, “You too.”

  She looked at him. “Where do I have to go?”

  “Two steps forward and one left,” Aidi replied promptly. “Right, hold still while I read the magic words. Oh, and when I ask either of you a question, just say yes.”

  She frowned, as though doing long division in her head, then moved forward; and it occurred to Aidi that she’d just made the knight’s move, in which case, properly speaking, Kunessin was in check. Then he remembered that Chaere Doryclyta was reckoned to be a pretty fair chess player, and he smiled. He opened the book but didn’t look down at it. “Fellow citizens,” he began, in a clear and surprisingly steady voice, and got through his opening speech without a single stumble. Afte
r that, it went quite well, though Kunessin barked out his responses and Dorun chewed hers, like a dog with a crust. The whole thing only took three minutes, and then it was done.

  “Thank you,” Aidi said, “fall out.” Kunessin knew what that meant, but Dorun clearly hadn’t got a clue, so Kunessin reached out, caught her by the wrist and gently towed her out of the way. “Muri,” Aidi said, and Muri stepped promptly forward and stood, feet a shoulder’s width apart, weight evenly distributed, as though he was about to fight a duel. Aidi then realised he didn’t know the woman’s name. Fortunately, she didn’t need to be called or told what to do; she took her place quickly and without fuss, then looked Aidi squarely in the eye and said, “Menin Aeide.”

  Aidi nodded gravely. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, then. Fellow citizens . . .”

  Three minutes later, Muri and his wife stepped away. She was watching the show; he was looking sideways at her, clearly interested in something. “Kudei,” Aidi said. “And Clea Andron.”

  Clea took a step forward, then stopped dead. A man had appeared in the yard doorway. He hesitated for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the light, then darted into the room and stood facing Aidi and Kudei.

  “Who the hell are you?” Aidi said.

  “I’m Ennepe Andron,” the man replied, his voice high and harsh with nerves. “Her brother.”

  “How did you get in—?” Aidi started, but Clea interrupted him.

  “Ennepe,” she said, “piss off.”

  Ennepe Andron ignored her. “I’m her brother,” he repeated, “and I’m stopping the wedding. I’m her closest male relative, so I’m within my rights.”

  Aidi frowned, then grinned. “I know you,” he said. “I gave you twenty-eight days for thieving, back end of last year.”

  “Ennepe, go away,” Clea shouted, but he stood his ground.

  “Well,” he said, “you should know the law, then. And the law says you can’t get married unless I say so. And there’s no way you’re marrying him.”

  Kudei looked frozen. Kunessin sighed. “Fly,” he said. “Didn’t your aunt sort all this stuff out?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Alces replied. “But I’d have thought so, yes. She’s usually very thorough.”

  “Ennepe!” Clea shrieked, and her brother winced, though he didn’t look at her.

  “All right,” Kunessin said wearily. “You,” he added, “with me.”

  Andron hesitated, but followed him into the far corner of the room. “I’m her brother, General Kunessin,” he said. “It’s up to me to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid. I promised our mum.”

  “When?”

  Andron looked at him nervously. “Well, before she died.”

  “She’s still alive,” Kunessin said, “and so’s your father. If you’re going to shake people down for money, at least do them the courtesy of assuming they’re not completely stupid.”

  “It’s not about money,” Andron said. “She’s my sister. I’m not having her marrying that—”

  Kunessin stood on his foot, pressing just hard enough on his instep to make him gasp. “Shut up,” he said, “and listen. You don’t have to worry, it’s been sorted out. She’s not marrying Muri Achaiois after all; she’s marrying Kudei Gaeon, and she’s quite happy with the idea, and so’s he. All right?”

  Andron shook his head. “I don’t want my sister marrying any of you freaks,” he said. “You’re all wrong in the head, the whole lot of you. Killers, that’s what you are. I’ve heard the stories. I’m not having my sister—”

  He stopped short, suddenly speechless with pain. Kunessin had shifted his weight; just a little, but that was all it took. “If you make a scene,” he said softly, “I’ll cripple you for life. If you shut up and go away quietly, I’ll pay you fifty thalers. All right?”

  He was used to seeing that look in people’s eyes. Andron didn’t say anything, but he nodded. Kunessin smiled, and shifted his foot, releasing him. “Thank you so much,” he said. “Your money’ll be at the bank tomorrow morning. Now stay away from us till we leave town, or I’ll have you killed.”

  Andron nodded again, backed away and fled, leaving the door open. Kunessin closed it quietly and walked back to where he’d been standing. “Never a dull moment,” he said. “Carry on.”

  Aidi cleared his throat and started the speech. Clea was crying, quietly, with the air of long practice, as though it was something she was good at. As Kunessin turned to watch, Dorun moved close to his shoulder and whispered, “Did you mean that?”

  He frowned. “Mean what?”

  “About having him killed.”

  “You heard that? You must have ears like a bat.”

  “Yes,” Dorun said. “Well? Did you mean it?”

  Kunessin shook his head. “No.”

  “Oh.”

  She didn’t say anything else, but Kunessin got the distinct impression that something he’d done or said had met with her approval; quite what it was, though, he had no idea.

  Aidi, meanwhile, was conducting his own wedding. It was, Kunessin reflected with an uneasy blend of annoyance, amusement and respect, a fine example of Aidi Proiapsen at his best. It was comedy, for sure, but not clowning. The question was, who was the audience? On balance, he decided, probably the girl. He watched her face with interest. She was stuck halfway between laughter and apoplectic fury. Well, he thought, she’d better get used to that. The men were enjoying the joke, forced to extreme effort to keep themselves from laughing.

  “He’s the shopkeeper, isn’t he?” He’d forgotten about Dorun for the moment. He nodded.

  “He’s a very clever man,” she whispered.

  “He certainly thinks so.”

  “He likes her.”

  Kunessin nodded. “Proposed to her once. Got turned down.”

  “Ah,” Dorun said. “That explains it.”

  He thought about that, and she was right, of course. To be sure, it wasn’t a proper ceremony, just an official form of words to seal a contract. Even so, it was still a wedding; and Aidi was contriving matters so that this was one wedding where nobody was looking at the bride. She won’t forget that in a hurry, he thought; so, maybe not so clever after all. “You’re quite the judge of character,” he said.

  “Sh.”

  The ceremony was over, and Aidi was kissing the bride, who was holding still with the pained patience of a child having dirt wiped off its face with the corner of a handkerchief moistened with spit. A bit of her own back, Kunessin thought, but not nearly enough. “Right,” Aidi said, breaking abruptly away and clapping his hands briskly together. “Now what?”

  Kunessin hesitated. The women were all looking at him. Well, he thought. So everything has changed, after all. “Lunch, of course,” he said. “We’ll head back to the Glory. My treat.”

  Which was only a postponement, rather than a solution: sooner or later the situation would have to be faced, and new rules hammered out. For now, though, neither a victory nor a defeat, and Aidi had got them out of there in one piece.

  When lunch was nearly over, he asked her, “Would you like to come and see the ship?”

  The look on her face said: if you want me to. She nodded. “All right,” she said; then, “Is it far?”

  “About half a mile,” he said.

  She nodded. “You’re precise by nature, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  The others watched them go. They left the Glory and walked up the Ropewalk, side by side. He matched his pace to hers. At the junction of the Ropewalk and Stilegate he said, “Do I owe you an apology?”

  She thought for a moment, then said: “That remains to be seen, really. Is it going to be very unpleasant?”

  He laughed. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “I see.”

  “I haven’t answered your question.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t suppose you can,” she said. “But it’s all right. I’m fairly sure it can’t be worse than home, anyhow.”


  He looked at her. “That bad?”

  Shrug. “Well, not really. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. Put it this way: when that dreadful old woman came round, my dad asked me if I wanted to do it, and if I’d said no, he’d probably have cancelled the deal. But I said yes. I guess mostly I’m just bored with Faralia.” She looked sideways at him. “Was that how you felt, when you went away?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t want to leave,” he said. “But I had no choice. We’d lost the farm. I couldn’t bear the thought of working for someone else. But I always had it in mind to come back.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And now you’re leaving again.”

  “That’s right. As soon as I got here, I realised. It wasn’t Faralia, it was the farm. And I’ll never be able to have it, so . . .” He shrugged. “Next best thing.”

  “What you always wanted, you just said.”

  He smiled. “After the farm,” he said.

  “Ah.”

  A gust of chill wind, funnelled down Post Street, made him pull his collar tight round his neck. “Did I just say the wrong thing?”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  “I see. Do I get a hint?”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough.” He waited for a chaise to go by, then led her across the street. “So,” he said, “who are you?”

  She thought for a moment, then said: “I’m the elder daughter of Brotois and Oudemia Oxy. My father is a saddler and harness maker, my mother’s family farm at Noen. I’m twenty-seven, which is far too old. This thing on my face is a hare lip, which I was born with; it’s a damned nuisance, since without it I’d have been reasonably pretty, like my sister, and I’d have been married ten years ago. As it is, I’ve spent the last decade hanging round the house. My father has three apprentices, but none of them want to take over the business badly enough. I’m fully trained in all the usual domestic skills and duties, but I don’t pull my weight around the house because I’m stroppy and miserable. Nobody’s ever asked me what I want to do with my life, but if someone ever did, I’d probably say I’d like to learn to be a clerk. I can read, write and do figures, and apparently there are female clerks in some of the big Adventurers’ companies on the mainland. I’ve been doing my father’s books for six years, but apparently that doesn’t count. That’s it, really. How about you?”