by K. J. Parker
Gignomai wasn’t interested in hats. “Is that right?” he said. “We pay a tax to Home?”
Furio’s turn to laugh. “You don’t,” he said. “We do. Which is why there’s nothing furry left alive round here smaller than a deer and bigger than a mouse. Except up your mountain, of course. Which is why you mustn’t let Dad screw you over the price.”
“Like I said,” Gignomai replied, “I’m not fussed.”
“You’re strange,” Furio said (the words seemed to burst out of him, like grain from a rotten sack). “I can’t make up my mind whether you’re better than us because you’re noblemen and you’ve got that amazing library and you talk funny, or whether we’re better than you because you’re so poor and you’ve none of you got any money and you live like peasants. It confuses the hell out of me sometimes.”
“Does it matter?” Gignomai asked mildly.
Furio considered his answer carefully. He frowned and looked at his hands. “With you and me, no. Between your lot and us, of course it does. People need to know where they stand, I suppose.”
Gignomai stood up, walked to the bucket and put back the unmolested apple he’d been issued with. “In that case,” he said, “my guess is, probably both. We’ve got the breeding and the glory of the family name, you’ve got…” he paused, then grinned, “stuff. Though stuff is good too,” he added wistfully, gazing at a stack of scythe-blades with the oil-black still on them. “But my father says, one of these days Home’ll boot out the bad guys and we’ll go back and it’ll be like it was in the old days. Meanwhile…”
“Do you believe that?”
Gignomai shrugged. “No,” he said. “But then, I don’t know much about it.”
“Nor me,” Furio said. He yawned, then reached down into an opened crate and pulled out a dusty black glass bottle. “Brandy,” he said. “From Home. Want some?”
Gignomai shook his head. “I had some once. Made me throw up.”
“Sure?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t mind the bottle, though.”
Furio raised both eyebrows, then laughed until his face was bright red. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll pour away the fifty-year-old vintage brandy and you can have the bottle.” Gignomai thought he was joking, but a moment later he’d sprung to his feet and was looking for something—a tool for opening bottles, presumably.
“No, don’t,” Gignomai said. “That must be worth ever such a lot of money.”
“For my uncle,” Furio replied. “Already paid for, in advance.”
“Oh well, in that case.”
On the way home, he washed the bottle out carefully in the river. The hell with Furio; a glass bottle was a treasure. The stupid cork stopper hadn’t survived, they’d practically had to pick it out a shred at a time with the tip of Gignomai’s knife, but it’d be no job at all to whittle a proper hardwood stopper, and then he’d have something to carry clean water in, instead of the mouldy leather bottle that made its contents taste like sick.
It rained as he crept back into the woods. Tactically, this was no bad thing, since it meant the guards would be huddling in their coats, not paying as much attention as they should, but it was a nuisance and he got soaked to the skin, something he particularly hated. Furthermore, if he turned up in the Great Hall all wet, someone might think to ask where he’d been all day, and he wasn’t feeling particularly creative. The same problem would apply if he changed his clothes. It wasn’t likely that anybody would notice he was wearing a different shirt, but somebody might, just this once. The obvious course of action was to dry out, but it was too early in the year for a fire in his bedroom—Father never allowed fires outside the kitchen till late autumn, even though it was often freezing cold well before then, because late autumn was when fires were first lit back Home. It had never occurred to him to change the rule for a mere inconvenience of geography. The only place on the farm where he could be sure of finding a fire was the forge. Oh well, he thought. Could be worse.
“What happened to you?” Aurelio asked, as Gignomai sat down on the second anvil and peeled off his coat.
“Fell in the dewpond,” Gignomai answered.
Aurelio was too busy watching a complicated weld heating in the fire to look at him again. “Is that right?”
“I wanted to see if I could walk across on that fallen tree. Turned out I couldn’t.”
Aurelio nodded, and Gignomai wondered, just out of interest, how the old man knew he was lying. He thought about it, and realised he was too clean. The surface of the dewpond was filthy, but he wasn’t. “You want to be more careful,” Aurelio said, and Gignomai was happy to take the advice in the spirit in which it was given.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“Just fixing the bottom hinge off the middle house door.”
Ah. The middle house door had been loose since spring, you had to prop it shut by jamming a branch under the one remaining hinge. Maybe that was why he liked the forge so much. Gradually, slowly, far too late but eventually, things got fixed here. It was the only place on the farm where things got better over time. “Looks tricky.”
“It is,” Aurelio said. “Quiet.”
Gignomai knew why. Aurelio was waiting for the moment when the two pieces of iron he was intending to weld were almost melted. You couldn’t always tell the moment by looking, but if you listened very carefully there was a sort of hissing noise. He heard it. Aurelio grabbed the tongs and snatched the sun-white iron out of the fire and started tapping it with a hammer. It made a soft noise, not the usual hard ring. Gignomai waited until the hinge had gone back into the fire and asked, “Did it take?”
Aurelio smiled at him. “Just about. You could learn this, I reckon.”
That was a rare compliment; also impossible. A son of the met’Oc couldn’t learn a trade, though there was apparently nothing in the code of conduct about not doing menial labour, such as tending pigs, provided it was unskilled. “I’d like to,” he said, “but my dad…”
Aurelio laughed. “Let me think about it,” he said. “Now shut your face, I need to concentrate.”
The fire provided light as well as heat, and he considered sneaking indoors for a book. But he wasn’t nearly dry enough yet. But then, as he reached in his pocket for the wire, which he remembered he hadn’t gloated over properly yet, he found something else: a roll of paper.
“Where’d that bottle come from?” Aurelio asked.
“What? Sorry. Found it. In the woods.”
Fortuitously, at that moment a fat white spark drifted up out of the fire. It signified that the metal was starting to burn. Aurelio swore loudly, hauled the work out and started whacking it with his hammer. Under cover of all that, Gignomai took the paper from his pocket and examined it.
Paper, not parchment. Very occasionally, they made parchment on the farm, when Father felt the need to write one of his letters to someone back Home. For parchment you needed lamb rawhide, skived very thin, ground and polished (or else the ink soaked into it, and Father would lose his temper). Paper, made from rags, was beyond the limits of their technology. Gignomai shoved it quickly back in his pocket, hoping Aurelio hadn’t seen. For some reason the old man indulged him to a quite extraordinary degree, but there had to be limits.
It seemed to take for ever for his clothes to dry, even in the forge where it was hot enough to make your skin feel tender. Eventually he reckoned he was dry enough to pass inspection. He thanked Aurelio for his hospitality (no reply) and scuttled back to his room, where he wedged the door shut with a broom handle before taking the paper over to the window. There was just about enough light. He’d have to read quickly, or else face the frustration of waiting for dawn. He unrolled the paper. There was a lot of writing.
THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW
He raised an eyebrow. Furio, presumably. Who else could have slipped a roll of paper into his pocket without him noticing?
Furio Opello to Gignomai met’Oc; greetings.
Every time I talk to you, I’m amazed at all
the really basic stuff you don’t know. Which is crazy, really, because you know all sorts of stuff I don’t know. Different sorts of things. Well, you lend me books, so it’s only fair. Anyway, this is some of the stuff you don’t know. I hope it comes in useful.
Then a gap of a few lines. Gignomai paused to be astonished at the prodigality. When Father wrote letters, every last bit of space was filled in, and Father could write really small. The paper, he realised, was a page torn out of a ledger.
1. History of the Colony
He felt a surge of annoyance, which he quickly and ruthlessly stifled. Things you should know, indeed.
The colony was founded seventy years ago. The plan was originally to mine silver, but there turned out not to be any. However, the first settlers found beavers and other furry animals whose pelts would fetch a lot of money back home. We still pay part of our rent in furs.
When we arrived here, we didn’t know the country was inhabited. The natives turned out not to be much trouble, though. They leave us alone, mostly. They don’t plant crops like we do. They live off hunting and gathereing wild fruits and berries
(He frowned, reached for his pencil and corrected the spelling.)
and they move around all the time, so we don’t seem to be in their way particularly. However, many people in the colony are frightened of what might happen if they decide to attack, since they outnumber us considerably. There used to be a permanent garrison here, to protect us (and keep us in order) but it was too expensive and the government at Home recalled them. Now there’s just the militia, and the mayor (there isn’t one) can call up any citizen for military service for a period not exceeding three months (this never happens).
2. Economy and Society
(He grinned. That was part of the title of a book he’d lent Furio last year.)
We grow all our own food here, but we have to import nearly all our tools and clothes and stuff from Home. Actually there are laws saying what we can and can’t make here, to make sure we stay dependant
(The pencil again.)
on Home for everything we need, and to make sure we sell them all our meat and hides at cheap prices. We aren’t allowed to trade with other countries. We supply salt beef and cured, untanned hides. My father and five other men handle all the trade between them.
3. Your lot The met’Oc
Obviously you know all about your family
(Wrong.)
but you might find it useful to know what the people in the colony reckon they know about them, if that makes any sense.
Your family used to be great noblemen back home, but they were on the wrong side in some war seventy years ago and had to clear out. They came here. We reckon they planned on takeing the place over. That didn’t happen. There was still a garrison here then. Some people say there was some fighting. Your lot took over the Tabletop—that’s what we call it, did you know that?—and made it into a sort of fortress. My dad says you have no title to it. That means you don’t own it legally, with deeds and stuff.
Your lot aren’t popular, obviously, because of all the cattle stealing, but it’s actually not that bad. My dad says people tollerate you because you’ll protect us if ever the savages attack. Don’t know if this is true. He says you’re the only ones with weapons (we aren’t allowed to have them) and of course you’ve got the guns as well as swords and pikes and bows. Dad says that all you’d have to do is fire off a gun and the savages would run away. Anyhow, that’s why people put up with Lusomai. Your dad and grandad did the same thing when they were younger. Dad reckons it doesn’t actually matter that much if you just steal cattle, because people don’t really own the cattle, not like they own pigs and chickens and sheep. They raise the cattle and get paid some money for them but they’re not theirs. It’s complicated, something to do with mortgages and quit rents and taxes. You might try telling your brother. Lay off the chickens.
My uncle says your lot will never be allowed Home.
He lifted his head and looked out of the window. It was almost too dark to read now, and he made a deliberate decision to stop there and save the rest for tomorrow. He rolled the paper up tight and stuffed it right down inside his boot, then lay on the bed with his eyes closed, trying to think of something he could give Furio that might come anywhere close to being equivalent in value. It was, of course, the most extraordinary present he’d ever been given, and incomparably the best.
He didn’t deliberately set out to ration the remaining sections, but that was what he ended up doing. The next morning, he only had time to read about Money (twelve quarters to the silver thaler, but money of account was different) and Geography (the colony is just the tip of a huge island six days’ sail from Home) before he was called out to help round up escaped bullocks in the cabbage field. He was sent out with the pigs before he had a chance to go back to his room, and didn’t get home till dusk. The next morning, however, he made the choice to read only one section. (Most of the colony are indentured. That means they paid for their passage out by undertaking to work for the Company three days a week for fifty years.) The next morning, he was called out to feed the chickens while it was still too dark to read. When he’d finished and returned to the kitchen, Luso was waiting for him.
“Father wants to see you,” Luso said, “in the library.”
He tried to read Luso’s face, but all he could get from it was a vague smugness; not a good sign.
“Now?” he asked.
“Now.”
His conscience was relatively clear. The only major concern was breaking out, but if he’d been caught doing that, he’d have known about it straight away. He shrugged, went through to the front hall and started to climb the stairs.
Under other circumstances, the library was his favourite room. It was the biggest room in the house, with a dramatically high ceiling. All four walls were completely covered with books. The polished wooden floor was a desert. There were four old, carved chairs and a single massive table, where the rosewood box stood, and that was all, apart from a small black pot-bellied stove in the west corner. Father was sitting in the biggest and ugliest chair. It was decorated with falconry scenes in deep relief. They’d been painted once, but only a few flakes of colour remained, in the cracks and combes between the figures. He wasn’t reading. On the floor beside him lay a long, narrow box, figured walnut, with silver hinges.
“Happy birthday, Gignomai,” Father said.
“Is it?” Gignomai blinked.
“Yes.” Father didn’t smile. “You weren’t to know,” he went on, “we don’t bother with that nonsense much in this family. But it’s your fourteenth, which makes it important.”
Gignomai kept his face blank and his mouth shut.
“There are certain traditions,” Father went on, shifting his head a little so he was looking just over the top of Gignomai’s head, as though he was talking to where Gignomai should have been at age fourteen, if he hadn’t turned out disappointingly short. “At fourteen, a son of the met’Oc receives a gift of great significance.”
Gignomai waited, though he could guess what was coming. Big deal, he thought.
“First, though.” Father adjusted the position of his head, like a scientist with a precision instrument. Now he was looking over Gignomai’s right shoulder. “It’s a trifle chilly in here, don’t you think? Light the stove for me, would you? I worry about the damp getting into the books.”
Everything was laid out ready for lighting the stove. Inside, a neat pyramid of slender kindling. Lying next to the stove, a tinderbox, dry moss and a roll of paper.
“Light the stove,” Father repeated quietly.
His own fault, Gignomai told himself, for not reading the whole thing as soon as possible. No secrets in this house. He piled the moss round the base of the kindling, cranked the tinderbox, shook the burning shavings onto the moss; he considered trying to palm the paper and slide it up his sleeve, but Father was far too smart for that, even though he pointedly wasn’t watching. He held the end o
f the roll in the smouldering moss till it caught fire, then pushed it under the base of the pyramid. He shut the stove door and stood up.
“Your birthday present,” Father said.
He went back to the middle of the room, and Father pointed at the box on the floor. Gignomai knelt down and lifted the two catches. They were beautifully made—pierced and chiselled work—and so stiff that he tore a fingernail. Inside the box, as he’d anticipated, was a sword.
“Wear it with pride,” Father said. “Use it with discretion.”
It was, of course, Luso’s old sword. The family had eight swords, plus the hunting hanger Luso had bought from Furio’s dad. Luso greatly preferred it to the sword he’d been given (this one) because it had a cutting edge. The family swords were all smallswords, thin and triangular in section. You could kill people with them, but that was all they were good for. Gignomai wondered if his father had asked Luso before taking this one back. He doubted it.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You will, of course, only wear it on formal occasions,” Father went on. “Lusomai will teach you how to fence. An hour a day to begin with, then two hours a day once you’ve mastered the basics. I expect you to practise properly.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Make sure you do. I’ll be testing you myself from time to time.” Father hesitated, which wasn’t like him. Usually he spoke like someone who knew his lines by heart. “That sword belonged to my father, who had it from his uncle, Erchomai met’Oc. He was chancellor of the empire for thirty years.”
Gignomai guessed that he was supposed to pick the rotten thing up at this point. He looked to see if anybody had got around to straightening the knuckle-bow—Luso had bent it, throwing it across the room in a temper when Gignomai was nine. The bend made it painfully difficult to get your hand inside the guard. It’d take Aurelio about five minutes to straighten it. Needless to say, it was still bent. Fencing lessons with Luso, Gignomai thought. What fun.