by K. J. Parker
Gignomai didn’t seem interested, and Furio was rather relieved. Not so long ago, when he’d come back from the Tabletop with the sword, all that had been keeping him here was the lack of a ship. Now there was a ship, totally unexpected, owned by relatives of his who surely wouldn’t begrudge him a lift back to civilisation. Or would they, now he’d been formally disowned? But the strangers had never seen Gignomai, so if he gave them a false name, or went direct to the captain and offered to work his passage—if he really wanted to be on that ship when it sailed, he’d have found a way. Instead, he was pointedly taking no notice. That, Furio felt, had to be a good sign.
Early afternoon, and they were nailing blades to the frames of the waterwheel, while Gignomai and one of the smiths negotiated over some technical problem to do with bearings for the main shaft. No cart was expected that day, so Furio was surprised to see one bouncing down the road through the trees. It was worn and rutted now, after all the use it had been getting, and the cart was being tossed around like a rat caught by a dog. When it reached the foot of the hill, Furio saw it carried two passengers: a man and a woman.
He nearly dropped his hammer into the river. The man was tall even sitting down. His hair was long under a tall, stiff hat with a very narrow brim. The woman wore what looked like a sailor’s bad-weather cap, except that it seemed to be made of blue silk. When the cart stopped and she jumped down, he saw that she was wearing trousers.
He wasn’t the only one to have noticed. Work stopped. Nobody spoke; everybody looked. Both the man and the woman were dressed in identical close-fitting suits of green buckskin, with high tasselled brown boots. Both of them had swords—like Gignomai’s—hanging from their belts. The only difference between their outfits, in fact, was the man’s broad dark green sash, into which something had been wedged: a short club, or a hammer.
Gignomai marked his place and closed the book. He hadn’t been sure this would happen, and though he’d spent a certain amount of time trying to prepare his mind, he hadn’t managed to come up with a coherent strategy. There was too much he didn’t know, and it would be counterproductive to lay plans in the absence of data.
When he saw them, he had to make an effort not to smile. He recognised the outfits at once. There were clothes just like them in an old trunk back home. They’d belonged to his grandfather and grandmother, so clearly fashions hadn’t changed much. They represented a City bespoke tailor’s idea of practical, hard-wearing apparel for well-bred adventurers, inspired by a famous description of a hero and heroine in a popular romance about three centuries old. The velvet-covered buttons were, he decided, a particularly nice touch. You never knew when the glint of sunlight on gold or silver might give your position away to an enemy. The only thing that was different was the man’s sash, and that was explained when Gignomai caught sight of a wooden ball with a steel finial sticking out of it. He knew the pommel of a snapping-hen when he saw one.
Oh well, he thought, and straightened his back as he stood up and turned to face them. “Hello,” he said. “Are you looking for me?”
“Cousin Gignomai,” the man said. No doubt in his voice. The family resemblance, presumably. “I’m delighted to meet you at last. I’m Boulomai met’Ousa, and this is my sister Pasi.”
Father would have been proud of him, under other circumstances, because he had no trouble at all visualising the offshoot of the family tree that linked the met’Oc to the met’Ousa. Third cousins, and a long way back. The visit, therefore, wasn’t just social.
For the first time in his life, Gignomai was glad he’d been made to learn the formal first salutation: front leg straight, back leg slightly bent; head dipped but not too much, unless you want to be taken for a tradesman; slight movement of the right arm, left hand tight to the chest; look pleasant, but whatever you do, don’t smile. He performed it better than he’d ever done when he was being drilled in the nursery, because this time it mattered. A faultless greeting from a man in labourer’s boots and a torn shirt would say more than words ever could.
They replied in kind; slightly more fluent, as you’d expect, but with no trace of hesitation, so that was all right. Clearly Gignomai wasn’t regarded as a clownish country cousin. “Come and have some tea,” he said, his voice successfully bright and cheerful. “You’ll have to rough it, I’m afraid.”
“We don’t mind,” Cousin Pasi answered (she had a nice voice, but it reminded him of someone else, and he shivered). “All part of the adventure, isn’t it, Boulo?”
Gignomai noticed that there wasn’t so much as a trace of mud on the practical, hard-wearing adventurers’ boots, with their inch and a half heels. He was pleased to see that Arano from the wheelwright’s had taken the hint and stuck the kettle on the fire. The handful of tea he’d stolen from Marzo Opello’s storeroom, wrapped in a twist of paper torn out of an old account book, was going to come in handy after all.
Cousin Boulomai was agreeably quick to get to the point, almost before the tea was cool enough to drink. “The fact is,” he said, “we’ve made ourselves a little bit too unpopular back home.”
“I have, he means,” Cousin Pasi interrupted.
“It was both of us,” Boulomai said, and his tone of voice was a marker for a long story later, if Gignomai had earned it. “Anyway, we decided it might be a good idea if we cleared out for a while, till things have sorted themselves out. And we were at a bit of a loss where to go, and my uncle Ercho—Erchomai met’Andra, he’d be your second cousin once removed—said, why not go and visit the met’Oc? So we threw a few things in a bag and, basically, here we are.”
Gignomai nodded pleasantly. “That’s your ship out in the harbour?”
“Mostly,” Cousin Boulomai replied. “We had it from our uncle Sphallomai when he died. I think some met’Alla cousins have something like a one-eighth share, but I don’t think they’re all that interested. Really it’s just a pleasure yacht, not a business proposition.”
Gignomai had heard about the bronze tube, which sounded a bit big for a telescope. Sphallomai would be Sphallomai met’Autou; Father had written him letters. He decided to let it pass, but keep his ears open. “Well,” he said. “I gather you’ve met our lot. Presumably they told you, I’m not exactly in favour up there these days.”
Cousin Pasi, interestingly, pressed her lips together, and her eyes were quite wide open. Cousin Boulomai did a kind of elegant half shrug that Gignomai had seen Father use on informal occasions. “We had sort of gathered,” he said, “but these things happen. My dad threw me out when I was eighteen, but now we’re the best of friends.”
“I got a formal notice of disinheritance,” Gignomai said. “I’m no expert, but I think that can only be overturned by a motion of the House.”
Cousin Boulomai raised an eyebrow. “Can you still do those?” he said. “I thought they went out with trial by combat.”
“Still legal,” Gignomai replied, “as far as I know. Not that it matters, since all our property back Home’s been confiscated anyway, and what we’ve got here really isn’t worth having. But if you want to be on good terms with my father, you’d be better off not knowing me.”
Boulomai shrugged. “We choose who we’re on terms with,” he said. “And obviously, a private family quarrel is none of our business.”
Gignomai took a moment to consider them. He only had a moment; any longer, and it’d be obvious what he was doing. He covered the hiatus by dropping the tea into a tin jug and pouring in water from the kettle.
Young sprigs of the nobility in self-imposed exile. From what she’d said, she’d done something, but he’d be prepared to bet her brother was mixed up in it too. They’d had time to go to the very best outfitters and be measured for their adventurer outfits, so presumably they hadn’t escaped from the Guard by jumping out of a window. It was reasonable to assume they still had money at Home, contacts, the ability to get things done there even if they couldn’t go there themselves. And the ship, of course. In all the many alternatives he’d con
templated, he hadn’t included the possibility of a privately owned ship. It could, of course, change everything. But he knew better than to let one component, however fascinating, assume undue importance. Precipitate action was still to be avoided. Killing them and taking the ship, for example, would cause far more problems than it would solve, and besides, they hadn’t done him any harm. A lot would depend, of course, on what they intended to do.
“So,” he said, “will you be staying long?”
They looked quickly at each other. “We rather thought we might,” Cousin Boulomai said. “To be honest with you, it’s not like we’ve got an infinity of choice. Not for a while, at least.”
Gignomai poured tea into three enamel cups. “It’s not as though I’ve got anything to compare it to,” he said, “but my impression is, compared to Home, this is a pretty desperate place, unless you were thinking of setting up a cattle ranch. Or are your plans a bit shorter term?”
Cousin Boulomai reached out for his cup. “We’d be interested in a good investment opportunity, certainly,” he said. “Preferably,” he added, sniffing the steam in the approved manner, “something that isn’t too closely connected with Home, if you see what I mean. Seizure of assets is a distinct possibility.”
His sister nudged him in the ribs, a small movement that Gignomai wouldn’t have seen if he hadn’t been looking for it. “Boulo worries,” she said. “But, yes, we do need to think about earning a living.”
Gignomai had been wondering how much they knew about him. Now he had a pretty good idea. “Well,” he said, “far be it from me to promote myself, but I believe that what we’re doing here has quite a good future. Of course, I would say that.”
“Tell us about it,” Boulomai said.
“Oh, it’s quite simple and mundane,” Gignomai replied. “As you probably know, the Company has an import monopoly here. We’re forbidden to manufacture finished goods, and everything we use has to come in on a Company ship. Basically, they pay us in pots and knives for the ridiculous quantities of beef we ship out. That and the rent, or tax or tribute or whatever you like to call it, more or less covers everything the farmers here can produce, over and above their own subsistence. It’s a rotten system, and we plan on doing something about it.”
Boulomai pursed his lips. “Very public-spirited of you.”
“Quite. And it’s a living for me, since I’ve been thrown out, and not without a certain slight amusement value.”
“If there’s a monopoly,” Cousin Pasi said, “aren’t you breaking the law?”
Gignomai grinned at her. “Not yet,” he said. “As I’m sure you know, this isn’t colony land. This is the territory of the Rosinholet, who were here before our lot arrived, and we’re under their protection, so colony law doesn’t affect us. We’ll only be illegal once we start selling things to the colonists. In any case, there’s no garrison here and no customs office; I gather you met our entire civil service when you landed—the rather dazed-looking man sitting on a barrel,” he explained. “As far as colonial government’s concerned, he’s it. I’m not saying they wouldn’t send in a platoon of soldiers if they find out what we’re doing but, really, who’s going to tell them? It’s in everybody’s interest to keep quiet.”
Boulomai digested this for a moment or so. Then he said, “Won’t they notice, though? I mean, presumably your people will stop sending cattle.”
“Not altogether,” Gignomai said, “just gradually less and less. We’ve still got the taxes and the rent to pay, remember. But it’s a question of cost effectiveness. If all we send is the value of the tax and the rent, pretty soon it won’t be worth their while maintaining their fleet of expensive cattle transports. They’ll reach a point where they start losing money, and then they’ll pull out.”
“Won’t they wonder why there’s so much less beef being produced?”
Gignomai nodded. “They may do,” he said. “In which case, we sing them a lot of sad songs about disease and spoilt hay harvests and rivers running dry. Farming’s a precarious enough business at the best of times; it won’t be hard sounding plausible.” He paused to sip his tea. It tasted revolting, but his cousins had drunk theirs without any sign of discomfort. Father had said once, in an unguarded moment, that what he missed most was tea, and the next day Luso had sent a man to burgle the store. “This colony is only a very small part of the Company’s business,” he said. “I found some figures in one of my father’s books. The vast majority of their land and stock holdings are in the south-eastern provinces; we’re just a sideline.” He sipped a drop more tea. It got better as you got used to it. “At one time, of course, they had great plans. There’s plenty of room out here, after all, so there’s unlimited scope for expansion. But they could never raise the necessary manpower. People just didn’t want to come here unless they absolutely had to, and the sort of people they could force into coming weren’t the kind who make useful, productive farmers. We’re an experiment that failed, luckily for us.”
He stopped. The cousins waited to see if there was going to be any more, then shared another quick glance. “It sounds like it could well be the sort of thing we had in mind,” Boulomai said. “How long before you’re up and running?”
“Ah.” Gignomai put down his cup. “That depends. At the rate we’re going now, not till the spring. It’s the same basic problem, you see: manpower. Even if I had the resources, I couldn’t just go round the farms recruiting. It’d cause a problem—not enough people left at home to do the work—and I’d make myself unpopular, and then who’d want to buy my stuff? People want cheaper tools and tableware, but not if it means they’re left short-handed on the farm. You see, it’s not like Home. There are no superfluous people here. That’d be a luxury we couldn’t afford. So I’m condemned to being a small-scale operation, at least until we’re shot of the Company and people actually start getting to keep some of what they produce. And that’s a long time away.”
Boulomai nodded slowly. “I take your point,” he said. “But you also said, it depends. That implies there’s an alternative.”
“Well.” Gignomai looked down at his hands for a moment. “Let’s see,” he went on, “your ship’s got a crew of, what, twenty?”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen,” Gignomai repeated. “Now, either you send your ship home, which I don’t think you really want to do, or else you’ve got to feed and house those men while you’re here.”
“That’s not really a problem,” Boulomai said. “We’re not entirely destitute.”
“Quite,” Gignomai said. “But—well, I’m no expert, heaven knows, but I’m guessing that a ship’s crew’s got to include a fair number of skilled men: carpenters, sail-makers, probably men who can do a certain level of metalwork.”
“I imagine so,” Boulomai said.
“There you are, then,” Gignomai replied cheerfully. “There’s your investment in return for a reasonable share of profits. Besides, at this point in the proceedings we don’t particularly need skilled men, just pairs of hands. Once the factory’s built, they can learn from my people. Actually, we’ll all be learning together, so really it won’t make much odds.” He paused, shrugged slightly, looked away. “Anyway, it’s an idea,” he said. “If it’s not the sort of thing you had in mind, that’s fine.”
“We’ll give it some thought,” Boulo said. “It sounds quite splendid, but I suppose we should be grown-up and sensible and not rush into anything. Besides,” he added as an afterthought, “we really ought to ask the men what they think about it.”
Lumen Tereo, as she then was, married Ciro Gabela on the day they both turned nineteen. At which point, the colony breathed a sincere yet wistful sigh of relief. No question but that Lumen was the most beautiful girl the colony had ever produced, and one of the kindest, sweetest-natured and hardest-working. She was a living contradiction of every grandmother’s assertion that a pretty face, as opposed to sterling virtues, meant nothing but trouble. With Lumen safely married, life could
get back to normal, lesser courtships could be resumed, and young men who’d dared to dream were at liberty to settle for second best, which they did, in droves.
Four years and a baby daughter later, Lumen Gabela was still the prettiest. Now, though, she was making an entirely different kind of trouble. Her house was the cleanest and tidiest in the colony; disapproving old women who went to call on her came home and started scrubbing floorboards. Nothing was wasted in her kitchen or storeroom, and guests declared that her pigs’ knuckles on pickled cabbage was a dish fit for a great house back Home. As for Ciro Gabela, he seemed to go though life in a sort of daze, and when men asked him what it was like, he just shook his head and refused to say anything.
Midway between the Gabela and the Heddo farms was an old linhay. It wasn’t much—four walls and a roof, with a partition down the middle—and nobody was quite sure who owned it. But Ciro Gabela and Lio Heddo had always been good friends, so there wasn’t a problem. Each stored his hay for the upper pastures on his side of the partition, and when the thatch needed seeing to, they did it together.
When the strangers arrived, Lio Heddo was the first man to offer a billet for their six oarsmen. He later said that they’d promised him a thaler a week, which he never received. The men stayed in the barn where they’d been put and, to begin with, talked to nobody. Later, when Lio’s son Scarpedino began taking them their food, they loosened up a little, mostly because Scarpedino took to hanging about for hours by the door. They spoke to him—go away—and when that had no effect, they allowed him to come in and sit with them for a few minutes while they ate. They’d been cooped up in the barn for several days by that point. Scarpedino said they seemed to spend most of their time playing chequers, on a board made from an old sheet of tin torn off a derelict feed bin, using pieces they’d whittled from a broom handle. He went to the store and spent his entire fortune, half a thaler, on a scrimshaw chess set that had come as part payment for a ship’s captain’s booze debt. He took it to the men and taught them the game, which his parents played occasionally. Thereafter, it was next best thing to impossible to get any work out of Scarpedino. He spent all his time with the strangers’ men, and refused to say what he did there, or what the men were like, or what their employers’ plans were.