She was middle-aged. Her uniform of dark blue dress indicated that she was an employee rather than a servant. Servants would only be used in backroom positions where they would not be seen by the guests. That was one reason the Wayfarer’s prices were so high; employees were expensive. Another reason was to keep out the riff-raff.
“I think a cafe-chocolat,” Allenson said, perusing the menu. He left the final T silent, to demonstrate that he was a gentleman. “A carafe, please, book it to room seven.”
“Room seven, one carafe of cafe-chocolat,” the waitress repeated. “At once, sar.”
The waitress took a long time over such a simple order. Allenson reflected that the more expensive the house, the greater the expected gratuity, and the slower the service. Presumably, in a really top-hole establishment on a Home World, one ordered a drink three weeks in advance or camped out on the porch.
While he waited, he perused the latest financial figures for Mowzelle that the steward had downloaded for him. They made grim reading. The estate was barely holding its own. To be fair to his stepmother, it was only Bella’s frugal life style that balanced the books. The trouble was that she applied the same frugality to everything. Mowzelle had not enough workers, not enough automatons and no fleeks.
He agreed with Bella about the fleeks but for different reasons. His stepmother disliked fleeks as naughty smelly things and she had often remarked that their cawing gave her the shivers. Allenson disliked them because they were expensive and inefficient. They could be decent workers if properly trained. Fleeks were not exactly intelligent but they could be taught to do repetitive work, even manually dexterous work, but you needed a decent fleekmaster and they were in short supply. As like as not, a devastating plague would sweep through the trained flock and one would have to start all over again.
Mowzelle should be prosperous, situated as it was on good agricultural land within easy reach of Farnen Port, but the system in the Cutter Stream Worlds was so wasteful and inefficient. The indentured servant system meant that the colonies were awash with the unwanted underclass of the Home Worlds. Such people had few skills and even less motivation.
Skilled employees were in short supply. One had to pay ridiculous wages to attract capable young people on short term contracts. Most employees were drawn from people who had already failed to make a living in the Home Worlds, or had some pressing reason to emigrate.
One demesne manager had recommended that Allenson hire drunks on the grounds that at least you knew what their problem was, and you could get some decent work out of them if you kept them off the sauce. That particular manager had fled Brasilia after a scandal concerning underage girls, one of which had turned out to belong to a gens powerful enough to demand retribution.
Mowzelle was trapped in an economic swamp. It could not afford to hire a more dynamic assistant to support the steward as two salaries were beyond its means. Allenson could not countenance replacing the steward, who was a loyal and long standing retainer. Therefore, the indentured servants barely did enough work to cover their food and clothing expenses. The smallholding relied heavily on automatons, which had to be replaced from an outside supplier when they broke—something that happened with monotonous regularity. It was not just Mowzelle. The Cutter Stream socio-economic system stank. Mowzelle was just a rather worse example than most.
Allenson shrank from forcing Bella to sign over the property so that he could sort the place out for many reasons. Not least was that he dreaded the life of a smallholder. He classed the problem as one for another day and put down his datapad. His immediate problem was how to persuade the Governor to confirm him in Todd’s place as Inspector General of Militia. He needed to think this through carefully.
The singer had moved on to a song about unrequited love and was pondering whether to cast herself into the Continuum or to wander the streets as a beggar, a permanent admonishment to the man who had done her wrong. Looking around the room, Allenson was struck by how little interest most of the ladies showed in the song. Surely the entertainment was the whole point of the exercise? What other reason could they have to climb into uncomfortable finery and sit exchanging polite chit-chat while drinking endless cups of overpriced tea?
Allenson had a sudden flash of insight. The singer was the excuse, not the reason. The purpose of a lady attending such a function was to be seen in the right company. In that way she cemented her social status. That was why the ladies were wearing the most fashionable and expensive clothes that they could afford. The display was all.
He almost laughed out loud. Now he had a plan.
* * *
“Oy, watch your back!”
Allenson leapt to one side of the unpaved road just in time to avoid a tractor towing a container trolley. It splashed mud onto his trousers.
“Tosser!” yelled the brawny woman driving the tractor.
Allenson raised a hand in acknowledgment. He had been standing in the middle of the road, checking his datapad with his back to the traffic. Farnen Port bred an independent class of self employed workers who were notorious for their lack of deference to their betters. The woman probably owned her own vehicle and worked under contract rather than being an employee or a servant.
He picked up his datapad and wiped the mud off. It proved once more what a tough piece of kit it was by flashing. Hawthorn was still not answering but his datapad was switched on, so Allenson could easily track him down.
The trail led to a one floor wooden tavern on the edge of the main strip. From the noise level, a party of some intensity was in process. Allenson sighed and stowed his pad safely away in a sealed pocket. He took a deep breath and entered. A fight was in progress. Fight was perhaps too coherent a description of the scene. A seething mass of individuals swayed backwards and forwards in an attempt to assault each other with fists or blunt instruments.
Allenson picked his way clockwise around the edge of the room, stepping over casualties as necessary. An elderly drunk circled towards him in an anticlockwise direction, on the lookout for untended drinks. A bottle tempted the drunk to venture too far into the fray and he disappeared beneath the throng.
The barman was engaged in leaning over the bar waving a blackjack. He struck out at indiscriminately at any customer within range. A man in a check shirt pinned an opponent against the bar. He proceeded to throttle his victim until the latter’s face turned purple. The barman took check shirt down with a single forehand strike to the temple. Purple face turned to express his thanks but the barman got him on the backswing.
Allenson searched the struggling bodies for his friend. Occasionally he caught sight of a flash of blonde hair. Hawthorn suddenly flew through out of the scrum and landed almost at Allenson’s feet.
“I need to talk to you,” Allenson said.
“Did you see that big bugger in the red bandana?” Hawthorn asked. “He got in a lucky blow when I wasn’t looking. But I’ll have him, see if I don’t.”
Hawthorn jumped to his feet and threw himself back into the fray. Allenson sighed. A drunk in a boiler suit reeled towards him and swung a roundhouse blow. The punch was so slow that Allenson could have read a good book before dealing with it. He leaned back so the punch missed. Momentum swung the drunk around. Allenson took a firm grip on the neck and seat of the boiler suit and hurled the drunk head-first into the confused mass. Several fighters broke his fall, the whole lot going down like dominoes. Hawthorn crawled out from underneath.
“I had him. I had the swine cold when someone dropped a drunk on my head,” Hawthorn said, indignantly.
Allenson took a firm grip on his friend’s arm and hauled him upright. He maintained the grip and steered for the exit.
“Where are we going?” Hawthorn asked.
“Outside, I need your help,” Allenson replied.
* * *
“Tell me that you’re having a laugh, please?” Hawthorn pleaded. “I look like the doorman from a Terran brothel.”
“You look fine,” Allenson re
plied. “I need an aide when I go to Manzanita and my aide must look the part with an appropriate uniform.”
Hawthorn re-examined himself in the tailor’s full length mirror. The basic color of the suit was navy blue but that was where sobriety ended. It sported silver buttons decorated in starbursts, silver epaulettes with silver tassels and additional silver starburst decorations of the breast. Matching silver buckles and laces on the shoes served to reinforce the theme, just in case a casual observer had missed it. The jacket sleeves were fashionably slashed to show a plush scarlet lining. Stripes in the same color ran down the trouser seams. There was even a blue hat with a scarlet band and a spray of silver feathers.
“If I may say so, sar carries off the suit awfully well,” said the Taylor. “Sar cuts a dashing figure in navy blue.”
“Do you think so?” Hawthorn asked, doubtfully.
“Indeed, I am sure the ladies will be similarly impressed,” the tailor replied, confidently.
“Hmm,” Hawthorn turned sideways to examine his profile. “I suppose it does have certain flamboyant elegance.”
Allenson hid a smile. The tailor was a shrewd judge of character and knew just how to pitch his wares to a client.
“Well, I suppose if you are going dressed as an ice cream cone,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson winced. His own outfit was primarily yellow ochre topped off with a white jacket and feathered hat. He did look like an advert for frozen confectionary but he could hardly help that. Nothing ever seemed to suit him no matter how expensive the tailoring. That was why Hawthorn’s support was so important to his enterprise. Hawthorn would have looked good in a field servant smock.
“Excellent, that is agreed then,” Allenson said, turning to the tailor. “Please charge the invoice to the Allenson account.”
The tailor made no move to comply. He wrung his hands and would not meet Allenson’s eye.
“Would that be the Allensons of Mowzelle account, sar?” the tailor asked.
Allenson grasped the problem. He wondered how much debt his stepmother had accrued among Farnen’s tradesmen.
“Ah, no, charge it to the Allensons of Pentire account,” Allenson replied.
Pentire was Todd and Linsye’s demesne.
“Of course, sar,” the tailor said, brightening up.
“And we hope to enjoy your patronage again, Sar Allenson,” the tailor said, unctuously, bowing and showing them to the door.
“Linsye will approve,” Allenson said, defensively. He was conscious of blushing.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Hawthorn said.
“No, well, I would not wish you to think I was taking advantage of my position as Todd’s executor,” Allenson said.
Hawthorn laughed. “Of course you are taking advantage. What is the use of a position if you don’t take advantage of it? I do not think you are taking improper advantage, Allenson. You are the least improper person I know.”
* * *
They took the bus back to Farnen town to avoid walking along the muddy track in their finery. Bus was perhaps too impressive a term. It was a covered carriage, more exactly a trailer with bench seats, towed behind one of the ubiquitous tractors. The other passengers eyed the friends with astonishment. People in expensive clothes normally used private carriages.
An oaf sniggered at them. Hawthorn quelled him with a glance. His girlfriend examined Hawthorn with a bold eye and tossed her hair. Hawthorn rewarded her with a broad smile. The oaf simmered but was wise enough to let it go. Allenson hoped that he would not take it out on the girl later but she did look as if she could take care of herself.
They debussed in The Street. The tractor driver parked where his passengers could step straight onto the pavement.
“What now?” Hawthorn asked.
“Now we arrange our transport to Manzanita,” Allenson replied.
He pointed to a shop that advertised chauffeur-driven ‘Continuum carriages’ for hire. An illustration depicted one of their conveyances. It was a large frame with two seats at the rear on which lounged a gentleman and his lady, drinking from ornate glasses. The center was packed with flywheel motors. These were spun to maximum revs before entering the Continuum to supply power on the journey. The chauffeur sat at the front. He had pedals but they would do little more than maintain the reality field if the motors failed.
“What?” Hawthorn asked, aghast. “Those things are slow and so limited in range. Why don’t we use our personal frames? They took us through the Hinterland.”
“The carriage has enough stored power to world-hop around the Cutter Stream,” Allenson replied. “We don’t need to travel efficiently; we need to travel like gentlemen. We must be seen to be men of substance. The display is all.”
CHAPTER 10
Manzanita
It was not a pleasant trip through the Continuum. The carriage was too large to ride easily over the energy waves and too small to shove through them so it tended to pitch and toss. The centrally located chauffeur was least disturbed as the hull tended to rotate around him, but the passenger seats at the back got the full pendulum effect.
“Are you feeling alright, Allenson. You have gone a rather peculiar color,” Hawthorn said.
“Of course,” Allenson replied.
His stomach lurched in counter corkscrew to their conveyance.
“Hmmm,” Hawthorn, said, fiddling around in the complimentary drinks and snacks cabinet, which was positioned on his side of the carriage, so a gentleman could serve his lady, or an aide his superior.
“Perhaps food would settle your stomach,” Hawthorn said, sympathetically.
He thrust something in Allenson’s face. The rich aroma of greasy sausage and spiced tomato oil invaded Allenson’s nasal passages. It was the final straw. He gagged.
Allenson managed to keep his stomach contents down, but it was touch and go. An iron will alone would not have sufficed, but in this case will was buttressed by sheer horror at the humiliation of arriving at Manzanita in a vomit-stained dress uniform. Nevertheless, acid seared the back of his throat.
Allenson glared at Hawthorn who shrugged and dropped the offending hot dog into the waste tube.
“Sorry, only trying to help,” Hawthorn said, holding a hand up in a conciliatory gesture.
“I suppose you don’t have any problems with motion sickness?” Allenson asked, through gritted teeth.
“Ah no, I have a robust constitution,” Hawthorn replied.
The chauffeur coughed before Allenson could formulate a reply, which was probably fortunate as several possibilities had sprung to mind and none were gentlemanly.
“The sar might the Traveller’s Companion refreshing,” the chauffeur said, diplomatically. “You will find it with the drinks.”
Hawthorn located the dispenser and poured a generous measure into a fluted wine glass. Allenson eyed the blue fluid suspiciously. He had no wish to arrive sedated. At that moment his stomach attempted a backward roll as his seat lurched sideways and up, before dropping like a sick fleek. He gulped the drink down. The effect was instantaneous, almost magical. It smoothed away the pain of the acid burn and his nausea disappeared.
“You know,” Allenson said. “I believe I am a little peckish after all. Perhaps I might trouble you for another sausage and some berry soda.”
Hawthorn grinned and did the honors. “I will also keep a glass of the Traveller’s Companion handy. In case you need further, um, refreshing.”
As Hawthorn predicted, it was a slow trip. An experienced single-seat frame pilot acquired a feel for the transient local eddies in the Continuum and positioned his agile craft accordingly to take maximum advantage, something that was just not possible in the underpowered carriage.
Hawthorn had a marvellous ability to shut down when he was bored, to withdraw inside himself. He almost seemed to need this time. Allenson often wondered what was going on in his friend’s mind at such moments.
Allenson bored easily and needed diversion. The
carriage trip would normally have been a severe trial but not this time. He spent the journey picking over the political arguments he would deploy to the Governor. The prospect of the meeting filled him with dread. Given the choice, he would rather face an entire clan of Riders while armed only with his fluted wine glass than negotiate with a Brasilian functionary.
Todd had been the head of the Allenson family, the outgoing brother who could talk with servants and senators and treat them—well, not the same—but appropriately. Nothing worried Todd, unlike his younger brother who was racked by insecurity, but Todd was probably already dead. The mantle now fell on Allenson’s shoulders. Linsye was right. He had to grow up.
Slowly, grindingly slowly, the carriage reached Manzanita. The shadow of the world darkened the Continuum ahead when the carriage was hit by an energy pulse. It heeled over and the frame field flickered. Allenson had the impression of a leviathan moving silently past.
“Sorry, sars, that must have been an interworld ship,” the chauffeur said.
He engaged the autopilot and the carriage steadied back on course to the world. It slowed and partially phased on reaching Manzanita so that its passengers could enjoy a scenic view, and the chauffeur could watch out for other frames. There was too much traffic in and out of Manzanita City to allow frames to phase directly onto the urban area.
The land below was broken into compounds and demesnes similar to those on Wagner. Perhaps they were more intensively farmed, but that was a difference of degree rather than kind.
The five hundred square kloms of Lake Manzanita was the dominating regional feature. The carriage circled around the port of Clearwater on the shore of the lake. A large interworld cargo ship sat on a concrete landing apron, looking like a gray rectangular brick covered in pins. Hatches opened on the upper surface and the air shimmered above the ship. Super-heated steam blasted upwards before coalescing into a mushroom cloud of white vapor that shadowed the ground underneath as it spread out.
“That ship must have caused the bow wave that hit us,” said the chauffeur. “They have only started to vent heat so they must have just landed.”
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 13