Into the Hinterlands-ARC

by David Drake; John Lambshead

  Rimmer hesitated before choosing the word “prominent”, steering a middle course between precision and loyalty. The Rodrigez wielded little power in modern Brasilia as their glory days had long expired. Their illustrious name was now their primary asset. They stayed mostly on their estates and wrote academic theses on obscure history. That was why their clients like Rimmer failed to get plum positions and were obliged to accept lesser positions like Laywant Agent.

  A painting of a narrow-faced woman in severe formal dress hung in a dark corner. She surveyed the room with pursed narrow lips. Allenson was reminded of the old joke about the painting whose eyes followed you around the room. The woman in the picture gave that impression and her eyes disapproved ofwhat they saw.

  “My, ah, wife,” Rimmer said, following Allenson’s gaze.

  “Has she joined you here?” Destry asked.

  “Ah no,” Rimmer replied. “She elected to stay in Brasilia.

  He adopted an expression that suggested resilience in the face of hardship.

  “But I forgot my manners, gentlemen. Sit and I shall order tea.”

  He sat in the master chair and tapped an interface.

  “Tea for my guests, Fleur,” Rimmer said.

  The group made small talk until a petite brunette of perhaps twenty years pushed the door open with her bottom, her hands being occupied by a tray. She wore the short sleeveless tunic of an indentured servant. The girl arranged the cups for the guests.

  “Thank you Fleur, I think we shall have rich tea biscuits as well,” Rimmer said. “And some garibaldis.”

  “You told me not to bring you any more biscuits for the rest of the week,” Fleur said, scolding him. “You said you wanted to eat more healthily.”

  “Yes, yes, well now I am telling you something different. Just this once and then I will be good. Now scoot, there’s a good girl,” Rimmer said, slapping her bottom playfully. He darted a half-guilty, half triumphant look at the portrait of his wife.

  “Hmmf,” Fleur exclaimed. She pouted and headed for the door, wiggling her rear as she went.

  “We are, ah, quite informal here,” Rimmer said.

  “Indeed,” said Destry, neutrally. “No doubt that is because the house lacks its mistress.”

  Hawthorn put his hand across his mouth and turned a laugh into a cough. The house undoubtedly had a mistress. Fleur was no doubt the reason that Rimmer could bear the disappointment of his wife’s absence with such fortitude. Being scolded by Fleur was likely to be a lot more agreeable than being chastized by the sour faced woman in the portrait.

  “Is there a suitable hotel or hostel, nearby?” Destry asked.

  “I think not,” Rimmer answered. “You must stay in my guest wing.”

  * * *

  Fleur showed them down the central corridor of the villa and out of the door at the end into a rectangular dirt courtyard enclosed by one story buildings. Chickens and servants scattered before the party, bustling about various errands. Hawthorn chatted with the girl who flirted outrageously with him, flashing her eyes and patting her hair.

  She showed them to their rooms, shrewdly sorting her guests by social status so that Destry had the first and, presumably the grandest accommodation, Allenson the next, and Hawthorn the last.

  Allenson was pleased to see that his room contained all essential utilities. He dumped his gear and poured out a basin of water from the jug provided. Giggles and a squeal sounded from Hawthorn’s room next door. Allenson sighed. His friend was a fine fellow with many sterling qualities but they did not include discretion, at least not where women were concerned. To his relief, he heard Hawthorn’s door slam and Fleur’s silhouette was briefly outlined at his bedroom window as she went about her duties.

  Allenson splashed water on his face. He threw himself on the bed and was almost instantly asleep.

  * * *

  The noise through the open door hit like a gust of wind almost physically pushing Allenson back. The Taproot’s sound system sacrificed clarity for sheer volume. The room smelt of too many warm bodies and not enough ventilation.

  “Perhaps we should go somewhere quieter,” Allenson said, hesitating.

  “You cannot possibly leave Laywant without visiting Taproot’s,” Rimmer said, firmly.

  “Time we let our hair down with some old fashioned fun,” Hawthorn said, pushing his friends further in.

  The main area of the bar was clear of furniture so that customers could cluster around pedestals where girls in cages, who were more or less wrapped in wispy thin cloth, wriggled in time to the music. Tables in three-sided cubicles around the walls gave more discerning patrons a degree of privacy. Rimmer ushered the friends to an empty cubical.

  The noise levels precluded conversation so Allenson looked around the bar. People always interested him. Allenson was not the sort of young man who was the life and soul of a party but he liked to observe. When he was younger, he used to imagine the back stories of strangers, a harmless game that had honed his powers of observation and judgment of character.

  The dancer nearest them had managed to get her nipple tassels rotating in opposite direction by dint of dexterous torso gyration. Men in working clothes clutching glasses of tonk cheered and tossed coins into the cage. The woman’s eyes flashed and she preened in the attention. A handful of slatternly women of indeterminate age moved among them, exchanging kisses for drinks.

  The sharp dressers were in the cubicles. Some observed the dancers, while others entertained hard-faced young women who wore too much makeup.

  Other men negotiated, exchanging sharp glances and, in one case, a small bag. The man receiving the bag must have felt Allenson’s gaze for he looked up and their eyes locked. Allenson held the man’s gaze until he looked away first. It was just like dealing with Riders. Never show weakness.

  A brunette in a spangley one-piece, cut up to the waist, appeared. She placed a damper on their table and slapped the top. The background noise subsided from impossible to merely inconvenient.

  “What can I get you sars,” she said, remembering to grimace in imitation of a smile.

  “A flagon of beer,” Rimmer said. “Imported.”

  The waitress nodded and moved to take the damper.

  “Leave it,” Rimmer said, intercepting her hand. He passed her a half-crown, a rectangular jet-black Brasilian coin that flashed indigo as it passed from hand to hand to demonstrate its authenticity.

  This time the waitress’ smile was genuine. “At once, Sar Rimmer.”

  She bustled through a door into a back room, pointedly ignoring seated customers who tried to catch her eye.

  “That’s better,” Rimmer said.

  “The damper does make conversation possible,” said Destry. “Now we can hear each other.”

  “As could a concealed microphone,” said Hawthorn, cynically.

  Rimmer winked at him.

  The waitress reappeared with a three liter container of beer and glasses. She showed the unbroken seal to Rimmer who nodded approval. The waitress cracked it, setting off an endothermic reaction that chilled the contents. She poured a glass of sparkling liquid for each of them.

  “Enjoy,” she said, with a bob of the head before leaving to deal with the increasingly impatient customers in the next cubicle.

  Allenson sipped the beer carefully. He suspected that its alcohol content was near wine strength. “This is exceedingly smooth, Sar Rimmer. I am not familiar with it”

  Destry turned the flagon to examine the brand. Beads of water had already condensed on the outside.

  “Savara Plain,” he said, approvingly. “This is a premium brand even in Brasilia. How odd to find it out here?”

  “Taproot has a taste for fine living. He imports some for his personal use and generously allows me to lay down a tranche in his cellar for my own use,” said Rimmer.

  “Taproot being the proprietor?” Hawthorn asked.

  “Of Taproot’s Tavern, yes,” Rimmer replied. “Talk of the devil. Here is the gen
tleman.”

  A bald man of middle age approached their table. He was powerfully built but had run to seed with a pronounced paunch produced by too many beers and not enough exercise. Nevertheless, he still exuded an impression of strength. The two minders who flanked him at a respectful distance showed no such physical deterioration.

  “Agent Rimmer. I had no idea that you were coming in tonight or I would have prepared a private room.”

  “Not at all, Taproot, I wanted my guests to experience the full flavor of your establishment. Can’t do that in a private room, what?”

  Rimmer played a fat little official exaggeratedly aping the manners of a gentleman awfully well.

  “Ah yes, your guests.” Taproot looked expectantly at the survey team.

  Rimmer made the appropriate introductions.

  “Will you not join us, Taproot?” Rimmer asked.

  “Well perhaps for a moment,” Taproot replied.

  He clicked his fingers and a minder pulled a chair back and seated him at a table. The waitress materialized with an additional glass, into which she poured beer from the flagon. Taproot stopped her with a gesture when his glass was but a quarter full.

  “Bring some sweetmeats from my personal stock,” Taproot said.

  The waitress bowed so low that her hair fell over her face and hurried away.

  “What brings such gentlemen to our little backwater?” Taproot asked.

  “A little sight-seeing,” Allenson replied. “It is interesting to see how civilization is spreading into the Hinterland.”

  “We do our best,” Taproot said.

  The waitress returned with a wicker basket. She passed it around, starting with Taproot. Allenson selected a twisted spiral of candied fruit covered with honey. It was a little sugary for his taste but he expressed his enjoyment for form’s sake.

  “Master Taproot is quite the central pillar of our little community,” said Rimmer.

  Taproot waved a hand in a depreciating gesture that was belied by his smug expression.

  “Sar Rimmer insists you own the best establishment in Laywant Town,” Allenson said, politely.

  “And many other businesses beside,” Rimmer said. “There is the Gentlemen’s Club and the Supply Stores for starters. I think there is hardly a business of any size that Master Taproot has not invested in at least to some degree. You must have increased your capital a thousand fold in the few years you have been here.”

  “The fruits of hard work and a little luck, sars,” Taproot said, shrugging.

  “I keep telling him that he is wasted in our inconsequential colony,” Rimmer said. “A man with his business acumen deserves a bigger stage.”

  “I am content,” Taproot said.

  “Is not Taproot a Terran name?” asked Destry.

  “Is it?” Taproot replied. “I really could not say.”

  He finished his drink in three gulps and rose. “I won’t disturb your evening any further, sars,” Taproot said. “I have obligations to attend to.”

  “Dianah,” he said to the waitress. “See these gentlemen have whatever they desire. Charge it to my account.”

  “Yes, master,” Dianah said, bobbing her head.

  “Most generous,” Destry said. “I hope your business is profitable.”

  “It normally is,” Taproot said. With that he left, minders in tow.

  “An impressive man,” Destry said.

  “Indeed,” Rimmer said. “I rely on his support to enforce Cutter Stream regulations. The town watchmen are next to useless.”

  “If that specimen who greeted us in the customs shed was typical, then you have my sympathies, Sar Rimmer,” Hawthorn said.

  “Typical? Hardly,” Rimmer said. “Ruget is one of the more reliable ones. At least he turns up for work even if he does not actually do any. Most of the rest just draw a salary. I am not sure some of them even exist.”

  Rimmer finished his drink.

  “I must also leave you, sars. I have to go over some figures with Fleur.”

  Hawthorn and Destry waited until Rimmer had gone before bursting out laughing.

  “He has a very rounded set of figures to go over, to be sure,” Hawthorn said.

  “Gentlemen, no unseemly comments about our host, if you please,” Allenson said, suppressing a chuckle. “I am sure his motives are entirely . . .”

  “Understandable.” Hawthorn finished the sentence for him.

  “I was about to say unimpeachable,” Allenson said.

  “Always the romantic,” Hawthorn said, shaking his head. He recharged his glass from the flagon. “This beer slips down remarkably easily.”

  He demonstrated.

  “Why do you say that?” Allenson asked, somewhat nettled.

  “Because it does, don’t you like the beer?” Hawthorn asked.

  “Why do you say that I’m a romantic,” said Allenson, refusing to be deflected.

  “You’ve started a new poem,” Destry said.

  “What makes you think so?” Allenson asked.

  “We saw you writing on paper,” Hawthorn replied.

  “Paper is organic,” said Allenson. “One can’t write poetry on a datapad. It has no soul.”

  “Will you give us a reading?” asked Destry.

  “I don’t see why I should,” Allenson replied.

  “Of course not, if you are embarrassed,” Hawthorn said.

  “I am not embarrassed,” Allenson said.

  He pulled out a notebook and selected a page.

  “I have only put a couple of lines together, so far,” Allenson said.

  “From your bright sparkling eyes, I was undone,

  Rays, you have, more transparent than the sun,

  Amidst its glory in the rising day,

  None can you equal in your bright array,

  Constant in your calm and unspotted mind,

  Equal to all, but will to none prove kind.”

  There was silence.

  “Well!” Allenson said, a note of challenge in his voice.

  “It has a charming allegory—a lady as the rising sun,” said Destry, finally.

  “It rhymes,” Hawthorn noted, helpfully.

  “Is it about any particular lady or an ideal of womanhood?” Destry asked hurriedly, quelling Hawthorn with a glance.

  “It’s an acrostic,” Allenson said. “Or it will be when it’s finished. That’s why I haven’t got very far.”

  “F-R-A-N-C-E,” Destry spelt out. “So the next line has to start with an S.”

  “Frances Alexander,” Hawthorn said to Destry. “He danced with her at the Smethwick ball.”

  “She was so poised, so regal,” Allenson said, wistfully, “So innocent, so pure, a friend to all but giving her favors to none.”

  Destry and Hawthorn exchanged meaningful glances when Allenson was not looking.

  “We are getting maudlin,” Destry said, recharging their glasses. The flagon was empty when he came to fill his own so he signalled to Dianah for another.

  “I am not entirely clear why Rimmer brought us here?” Destry asked.

  “He wanted us to meet Taproot,” Hawthorn said, flatly.

  “Yes,” Allenson said. “I wonder why?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Greenfey Island

  Allenson heard the cry at the edge of his consciousness. “Ayoh, ayoh.”

  He attempted to ignore it but it got louder, tugging him from sleep.

  “Ayoh, ayoh,”

  Allenson drifted in that dream-zone when one was not truly asleep but not yet properly awake. A child cried out and a woman’s voice scolded. The slow metallic scrape of someone cleaning a pan marked time.

  He opened his eyes, taking a moment to orientate. Dust sparkled in a ray of light thrusting through a chink in the curtains. Focussing on the clock on the wall required rather more effort than was usually necessary. He sat up, immediately regretting the sudden movement when a dull pain struck him between the eyes. For some reason, the pan cleaner elected to beat the utensil
. Allenson’s head rang in sympathy with each blow.

  He poured himself a glass of water and used it to push down a detox pill. He then filled the wash bowl and thrust his face in. Either the pill or the cold water worked because the thudding pain in his head faded to the point that he thought it quite likely that he would survive the next twenty minutes. Completing his toilette, he went out into the yard.

  The pan-cleaner turned out to be a mechanic making subtle adjustments to the motor of a tractor unit with a hammer. In one of the buildings a pig squealed and grunted, throwing its body against the wooden door. A startled chicken shot off with an alarmed squawk. It clucked in anger when it was safely away, ruffling its feathers like an indignant dowager duchess.

  Spotting him, a servant began to set up a breakfast table outside the kitchen wing of the villa, where a small area was paved and separated off by a low wall.

  * * *

  Allenson knocked on the door of Hawthorn’s room.

  “Yes, come,” Hawthorn said.

  When Allenson went in, his friend was sitting on the edge of the bed running his fingers through his hair. His eyes were bright and alert. Allenson was exasperated. Hawthorn had consumed two drinks to his one and yet still managed to look as if he had spent the evening reading an uplifting book.

  There was a groan behind him from the outline of a body still abed. Hawthorn turned and Allenson saw a spread of brunette hair on the pillow. Not Fleur, he prayed. Please don’t tell me he has bedded the Agent’s favorite.

  Hawthorn pulled the sheet back revealing a face, that of Dinah from the tavern. Allenson tried to work out how Hawthorn had arranged the liaison. The three friends had been together all night, though admittedly his memory of the end of the evening was a little hazy.

  “Ah, breakfast is served,” Allenson said.

  He beat a quick retreat and made his way over to the breakfast table. Destry was already seated.

  “Cafay?” Destry asked, pouring out a mug without waiting for a reply.

  Allenson sipped the hot, dark, bitter drink, welcoming the caffeine rush. Cafay was made from a variety of sterile hybrid plant whose origins supposedly reached back to Old Earth. It tasted not unlike aromatic coffee. He selected an oatmeal biscuit and broke it into eatable chunks. The sweet, spicy flavor perfectly complimented the cafay.