by K. J. Parker
They had all sorts of fun and games getting it out of the pit. When they eventually won the battle, the end result proved to be a monstrous grey rectangle, impossibly heavy. At this point Ranio (who appeared to be the hero of the hour) took pity on Furio and explained.
“That’s the head,” he said, “for the drop-hammer. The bit that goes up and down.”
Furio nodded dumbly. What drop-hammer?
“We had to cast it in one shot,” Ranio went on, “and of course, we hadn’t a clue, it was all guesswork, plus something he’d read in his book. I told him, you’ll never get it hot enough to pour but, fuck me, he did.”
Light was beginning to dawn. “You melted iron?”
Ranio beamed at him.
“That’s impossible,” Furio said.
“Yes,” Ranio replied. “They can’t even do that back Home. But he said it says how to do it in the book.”
Furio remembered something he’d been told—he hadn’t been listening—about how iron was worked. You heated up ore in a huge furnace, and when the rock was really, really hot, iron dribbled out of a hole in the bottom. But it was filthy, full of bits of rubbish, because no furnace ever made could get it hot enough to flow clean. Then you let the dribbles cool and forge-welded them into lumps big enough to be useful, and the more you worked it, the cleaner it eventually got. But nobody could cast iron in a mould.
Gignomai could, apparently.
He walked over and looked at it. A dark grey brick, four feet long, a foot high and wide. It’d have to be pretty clean or it’d shatter; rubbish inside the metal would make it weak. He turned away, and found Gig grinning at him.
“What do you reckon?” Gig said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
That seemed to take Gig by surprise. “It’s not my fault if you don’t take an interest,” he said. “Anyway, that’s that done. Tomorrow we’ll pour the anvil. Then it’s just a matter of making up the frames, and there’s a diagram in the book for that. It was the bellows that swung it; double-action, you get twice the blast, which means eight times the heat.” He stopped, and grinned even wider. “Come with me,” he said. “You’ll see what I’m on about.”
Gignomai’s office was the back of a covered wagon, on the bed of which lay scraps of paper, a steel ruler, sticks of charcoal sharpened to fine points and a book. Gignomai turned a few pages, then held it out to Furio. It made no sense: line drawings, a fantasy in abstract geometry, annotated in brown ink in an alphabet Furio didn’t recognise.
“Ah,” he said. “I see.”
Gig laughed. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “That’s the old language. Stesichorus’ Instruments, from Father’s library. This is one of only six surviving copies. I don’t suppose anybody’s read it for five hundred years, except me.”
“But it worked,” Furio said.
“Well, of course,” Gig replied. “They knew what they were talking about, back then.” He sat down on the tailgate, suddenly exhausted, as though all the strength had been emptied out of him. “There’s a popular fallacy,” he said, “known as progress. People honestly believe that as time passes, we get smarter and better. Bullshit,” he said, with a snapped-off laugh. “Six hundred years ago they were doing stuff we wouldn’t dream of trying now. And then people back Home, who should know better, tell you that Stesichorus is all nonsense, because he talks about doing stuff that simply can’t be done. But nobody’s tried, not for centuries.”
“Except you.”
Gignomai shrugged. “It’s one of the advantages of being exiled to the last place God made,” he replied. “Deprived of the advantages of a decent education but with access to the old books, I did the unthinkable and read them assuming them to be true. Back home I’d have had professors telling me it was all drivel. Different world, you see. Just like the old savage said.”
It took Furio a moment to realise he’d heard that last bit right. “You mean the old man we talked to?”
Gignomai nodded. “The more I think about it,” he said, “the more I’m inclined to believe his people have got it more or less right. Not literally, of course,” he added, as Furio’s face went defensively blank. “But they’re a damn sight closer to the truth than we are. There really are different worlds, and they exist side by side, and the trick is, being able to move from one to another. Like Stesichorus,” he went on (he was talking to himself). “Like the old man said—someone from the past, long since dead, everybody ignores him because they know he isn’t really there, but he knows how to pour iron, and it worked. Or my lot.” He looked up, and his face changed. He smiled. “Ignore me,” he said, “I’m drivelling. The thing is, we did it. We made the hammer.” His smile was warm and happy, but it made Furio’s skin itch. “If we can do that, we can do any bloody thing.”
After considerable internal debate and soul-searching, Marzo drove to the Tabletop in the donkey cart. He’d been torn between that and one of Rasso’s horses. The donkey cart was his, therefore his loss if it got wrecked or stolen. On the other hand, he always suffered agonies the day after riding horseback.
He crossed the river at Long Ford and drove up the far bank to the place where Luso’s men had been seen to disappear on previous occasions. Nobody had ever dared get in close enough to see exactly where they went when they melted away into the rock. He drove up and down a few times but couldn’t see anything. He was making a fool of himself. He got down, tethered the donkey to the stump of a tree, sat down on the ground and waited.
He must have fallen asleep. He was woken up by the toe of a boot digging in his back. He looked up, and saw a young man, tall and skinny, standing over him.
“Scarpedino,” he said. “So this is where you’ve got to.”
Scarpedino Heddo, the boy who’d disappeared at roughly the same time the murder took place. Now why would a bright young man, heir to a good farm, take it into his head to run away and join up with the met’Oc?
“Got lost?” Scarpedino said.
“Not at all.” Marzo tried to make himself sound polite. “I’d like a word with Lusomai met’Oc, if that’s possible.”
“You want to talk to the boss.” Scarpedino grinned at him. “No chance.”
“No offence,” Marzo said, through a frozen-solid smile, “but that’s not for you to say, surely.”
“Listen.” Scarpedino knelt down and put his face an inch or so from Marzo’s, but he didn’t lower his voice. “We’ve got no quarrel, you and me. You piss off back to town while you still can, all right? You go bothering Master Lusomai, you may not get the chance.”
Marzo fought to keep his voice from breaking, and narrowly won. “I wonder what Master Lusomai’s going to think when he finds out you believe he needs protecting from the likes of me. Maybe he’ll be touched by your concern. Or maybe not.”
Scarpedino stood up and performed the most expressive shrug Marzo had ever seen. “Your choice,” he said. “Don’t blame me.” He nodded to whoever was standing behind Marzo’s back, and darkness fell, rough and quick. It smelt of stale cheese and bread mould, and Marzo guessed the other guard had shoved his lunch bag over his head. Strong fingers dug into his shoulder. He allowed himself to be guided by them, onto his feet, then stumbling forward. He hoped someone would remember to feed the donkey, but he wasn’t confident about it.
He had a great opportunity, but he didn’t manage to learn the art of walking blindfold. He kept banging into things, stumbling, getting hauled upright and shoved along. It didn’t help that they were walking uphill rather faster than he’d have chosen. Marzo disapproved of uphill at the best of times, and this wasn’t one of them. He tried to calculate the distance, but since he had no idea how far he was going, it was a futile exercise. After a while he gave up asking for a chance to stop and rest, because he couldn’t spare the breath. The pain was mostly in his chest and the calves of his legs, but not exclusively so.
After a very long time, a pressure on his shoulder brought him to a halt, which made him happier
than he could ever remember being. He wanted to sink down and go to sleep, but the grip of the fingers kept him perfectly still and upright. He heard knuckles banging on a door, then muttering, a lot of it, then silence. He stood and waited for a long time. It was so much better than walking.
The fingers moved him on at last, not far this time. Then another stop, and a downward pressure that folded him neatly at the waist. He hoped there’d be a chair. There was. Then he felt the bag being pulled off over his face, and the world flooded with light.
“Marzo Opello,” said a voice in the middle of the glare. “I’m Lusomai met’Oc.”
Oh God, Marzo thought. He blinked. There was a dark shape that could just be someone’s head. “Thank you for seeing me,” he mumbled.
“What can I do for you?”
The dark shape was sharpening up. He closed his eyes and opened them again. “Would you mind bearing with me just a moment?” he said. “I’m a bit…”
“Yes, sorry about that,” said the voice. It was light and clear, like honey, but sharp as well. “New guard, a bit over-zealous. I’ll have a word with him later. Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, please,” Marzo said quickly. The voice made a sound like very distant laughter. A moment later, he felt a cup—no, a glass—pressed into his hand. He gobbled it down. It burnt his throat. Foul stuff, the worst kind of moonshine, made by someone who hadn’t got a clue.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Better?”
He could see the face quite clearly. A strong face, young, handsome, topped with wavy golden hair. Bright blue eyes. And, of course, a marked family resemblance.
“How’s my brother, by the way?” Luso asked. “Seen anything of him lately?”
Marzo shook his head. “He’s not staying with us any more,” he said.
Luso nodded. “Up to something in the savages’ country, I gather,” he said, and sighed. “You know, I’ve spent years keeping the peace between my brother and my father. This time, I’m not sure I know what to do. Still, I keep trying.” He looked away, snapped his fingers. The glass was taken from Marzo’s hand, and came back a moment later, refilled. “That’s not why you’re here.”
“No,” Marzo said.
“It’s about young Heddo, I suppose.”
Marzo wished he had more time to think. “I imagine so,” he replied. “Maybe you can tell me. You see, we don’t really know what happened. I’m guessing you might.”
Luso’s eyes opened wide, then he grinned. “I see,” he said. “But I guess the Heddo boy’s being here’s told you what you need to know. He did it—killed the farmer’s wife, I mean.”
Marzo decided not to say anything.
“Naturally,” Luso went on, picking up a glass of his own, “you won’t have heard his side of it.”
“He’s got a side?”
Luso laughed. “Oh yes. He reckons the woman had been messing him around for ages: leading him on, teasing him, playing games. Boring for her, stuck in the house all day with her husband away in the fields, and she’d got used to having men sniffing round after her. Young Heddo reckons he’d had about as much as he could take, and he got mad and killed her. All very sad, but not entirely his fault.”
Marzo put his feelings into the fist he was clenching on his knee rather than his face or his voice. “He cut off her head,” he said. “Did he tell you that?”
Luso nodded. “He said he made a rather feeble attempt at getting rid of the body,” he said. “He has nightmares about it, apparently; keeps half the men in the bunkhouse awake.” He sipped his drink, appearing to savour it; he must have a tongue like saddle leather. “I’m not going to pretend he’s a lily-white innocent,” he said. “Not many of them about in the best of circumstances. My people are a fairly rough lot or they wouldn’t be here. But I think we ought to be practical. If I let you take him back, what are you planning to do with him?”
Marzo blinked. “We haven’t really given it any thought,” he said.
“Well, of course not, you’ve only just found out he did it. But you knew someone did it. What did you have in mind? A rope over the nearest tree?”
Marzo shivered. “Hardly,” he said. “I suppose we’d have to hold him in custody till the spring, then send him Home on the ship for trial.”
Luso shook his head. “That’s a lot of fuss and bother,” he said, “and that’s assuming the ship’s captain would agree. Big assumption. Fact is, you people aren’t geared up for serious justice. No reason why you should be—you live quiet lives, which is a good thing.”
“Thank you,” Marzo said, because he felt he should.
“Justice,” Luso went on, “is a fancy name for public revenge, as opposed to murder, which is what they call it when an individual does exactly the same thing. End result’s the same: a dead man who was alive and healthy an hour or so ago, a dead body which is no earthly use to anybody, when he could be doing some useful work. Never could see the sense in it myself. But around here, justice simply isn’t practical. Well, is it? You don’t have a prison, you quite naturally baulk at playing executioner. Don’t get me wrong, it does you credit. No, what matters isn’t justice, or revenge, they’re luxuries for city folk back Home. What matters here, where we are, is making sure it doesn’t happen again. Practical, you see. Agreed?”
“I suppose so,” Marzo said quietly.
“Well, of course,” Luso said. “Now, I can’t really let you take young Heddo back with you, because I’ve accepted him into my service so I’m obligated. The rest of the men would be furious, for one thing. What I can do, and I think this is the best solution all round, is to give you my personal guarantee that he won’t be allowed to leave the Tabletop. If he does, I’ll string him up myself. You have my word on that. Net result, more or less the same as if he’s locked up in a cell somewhere, except that with me he’ll have to make himself useful. Mucking out horses, carting water, scrubbing the tack-room floor: hard labour, for life.” He grinned. “Justice, you might say. Well? What do you think?”
It felt as though the bright blue eyes were picking him apart, like a woman’s fingernails unpicking stitches. “It’s not really up to me,” Marzo heard himself say. “But I can put it to the meeting.”
But Luso was shaking his head. “Not what I heard,” he said. “Extraordinary plenipotentiary powers for the duration of the crisis, isn’t that right? Means it’s most certainly up to you and nobody else.” He drank the rest of his drink and poured another from a tall stone bottle. “Now, I’m suggesting to you that the course of action I’ve outlined is sensible, practical and reasonable in the prevailing circumstances. Always got to consider the circumstances. Very few people have the luxury of living their lives in a vacuum. Also, it’s not as though you’ve got a choice, unless you were thinking of coming back here with a posse and trying to take him by force, which I really hope hadn’t crossed your mind. Also, I’ll throw in compensation, say a hundred ells of good cloth for the widower. Also, I’m asking you as a personal favour to me. Well?”
Marzo looked at him. It was like staring at the sun. He heard a voice that must have been his saying, “Could you make that a hundred and fifty ells?” and cringed.
Luso laughed, a big noise, like horsemen crossing a bridge. “I offered a hundred ells,” he said, “because a hundred ells is all we’ve got to spare. I can’t offer any more, so take it or leave it. Anything they may have told you about the unlimited wealth of the met’Oc is almost certainly wrong. Or I could write you a bill of credit on our bank back Home. Completely worthless, of course. Father says we’ve got millions there, but it’s frozen. We can’t touch it, neither can the government. Crazy.” He sat down on the edge of a table, indescribably elegant. How could a human being make a simple movement so beautiful? “The thing is,” he went on, “I’m a practical man. I keep the peace. No, don’t laugh. It’s what I do. I spend my life keeping the peace, that’s my job. I keep the peace here between my father and the rest of us. I keep the
peace in the colony as a whole.” Marzo must have lost control of his face for a moment because he frowned at Luso. “You hadn’t realised that,” Luso said, “I’m disappointed. Still, I don’t do it to be appreciated. Think about it, will you? By and large, there’s no crime in the colony, no violence apart from the occasional domestic, hardly any petty theft, even. You know why? Because every no-good piece of rubbish in the colony comes up here, is why. I collect them, and I keep them in order. Once in a while I take them out raiding, and we steal a few head of cattle—no great loss, they belong to the Company, not real people. I have to do that, or they’d get fractious and out of hand. Also, my father reckons we need men-at-arms, guards, whatever you like to call them, to keep us safe from our enemies.” He shrugged, a big movement, a flow. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “Maybe we’ve got enemies at Home who might turn up one day and want to cut our throats. Maybe it’s to protect us from your people in the town. Don’t ask me. That’s politics—my father handles that side of things. He just tells me we need men-at-arms, and I do as I’m told. And I keep the peace. You’re looking at me as if I’m mad, but it happens to be true. There’s peace, isn’t there, by and large? Well?”
Marzo nodded.
“You don’t think it just happens,” Luso said. “It doesn’t grow up out of the ground, and the stork doesn’t bring it.” He leaned forward a little. Marzo wanted to move, but couldn’t. “All I’m asking is that you do a little bit to help me do my job. You go back to town, tell them the matter’s been dealt with and there won’t be any more trouble. You’re the smartest man in the colony, everybody knows that, and if you say it, they’ll listen. I’ll do my part and keep young Scarpedino on a tight leash, where he belongs. And if it works out, I can guarantee there won’t be any more cattle raids for a good long while. You can give them your word on that, and when it comes true they’ll remember who fixed it. They respect you, and with reason. You’re better than them, because you’re smart.” He smiled, spread his hands in an attractive gesture. “I think it’s a blessing in disguise, what’s happened. It’s about time we opened a dialogue, and I’m glad to have had a chance to get to know you and establish a working relationship. The main thing is that basically we’re on the same side. We want to keep the peace. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”