by K. J. Parker
Marzo couldn’t help remembering the old story about the king who tried to negotiate with the sea. He won: the tide went out. Then it came back in again. “Of course,” he said.
“And you’ll make them see it that way?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Of course you will.” Luso stood up suddenly; the interview was over. “Now,” he said, “I expect you’ll want to be getting back. The store doesn’t run itself. I appreciate you taking the time to come here, and if there are any more problems in the future, you come and see me. And I’d like you to accept this”—he put his hand in his pocket, drew it out and opened it—“as a small token of appreciation.”
Lying on his palm was a large brooch for a man’s cloak: gold filigree, with a lump of amber the size of a thumbnail. Marzo tried very hard not to think what it must be worth. Slowly he reached out and let Luso drop it into his hand. “Thank you,” he said, in a very small voice.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Luso said. “If you see my brother, give him my love.”
When Marzo eventually got back to the cart (bag over his head all the way, but at least it was downhill this time) he found the donkey munching contentedly out of a fat nosebag. Say what you like about the met’Oc, he thought, they know how to treat a guest. And it’s not every day an ordinary man finds himself being terrified, threatened, outmanoeuvred, reasoned with, beguiled, convinced, flattered and bought, all in the space of an hour or so.
He pinned the brooch to his coat before he drove home—on the inside, where nobody could see it.
When he got home, they told him what had happened.
Ciro Gabelo, the dead woman’s husband, had taken his wife’s death badly. For several days he stayed in the house drinking his way through the winter supply of beer and cider. When it ran out, he asked the neighbours who were looking after him for some more. They told him they thought he’d probably had enough, which sent him into a rage. He chased them out of the house with a knife, which they interpreted as absolving them from their duty to the bereaved. They went home and barred the door.
Ciro stayed indoors for a day, and left the house very early the next morning. He went to the Heddo farm. From the toolshed he took a muckfork and a beanhook, then kicked his way into the barn, where the six oarsmen were staying. They weren’t there. So he went to the house (which the Heddo family had abandoned when the oarsmen came looking for food, after the Heddos cut off supplies) and found them in the kitchen, playing draughts. It seems likely that none of the oarsmen had any idea who he was. He killed the man who opened the door to him with a single thrust of the fork. Its tines got stuck in the man’s ribcage and he couldn’t pull it out, so he let go of it and went for two men sitting at the kitchen table. He killed one of them with a blow to the head; the other one warded off his attack with his left hand, losing two fingers. Two of the survivors ran out by the back door. The third, who’d been slicing bacon with a folding knife, took a lunge at Ciro, who dodged, kicked him in the back of the knee and hooked him through the shoulder as he fell. He then tried to finish off the man whose fingers he’d just severed, but he slid under the table where Ciro couldn’t reach him. This made him furiously angry. He finished off the man who’d tried to knife him, then crossed to the fireplace, flicked a couple of burning logs out of the grate and kicked them under the table where the last survivor was hiding. It was probably at this point that he realised two of the oarsmen were missing. He abandoned the man under the table and ran out of the back door, yelling at the top of his voice. Presumably he searched the farmyard and the outbuildings, but the men were long gone. They had in fact run out into the orchard and hidden in an overgrown lime kiln at the far end. Eventually, Ciro went back to his house, where he was later found hanging from a rafter.
Marzo was silent for a long time after he’d heard all this. Then he said, “Where are they now?”
“The oarsmen?” Rasso the liveryman looked mildly guilty. “They’re here, in the cellar, tied up. That niece of yours insisted on patching up the man’s hand. We told her not to bother—”
“They didn’t do it,” Marzo said, in a dull, flat voice. “It was Scarpedino Heddo. The strangers had nothing to do with it.”
Everyone suddenly went quiet and thoughtful. Then Stenora the horse doctor said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Marzo replied irritably. “I had it from Lusomai met’Oc himself. Scarpedino’s run off and joined the met’Oc. I saw him there. The strangers weren’t involved in any way.”
Gimao the chandler, who’d been sitting perfectly still wearing a stunned look, frowned heavily. “I heard Scarpedino’d been spending time with them,” he said. “I dare say they put him up to it.”
“Don’t be bloody stupid,” Marzo snapped. “Lusomai said Scarpedino and the Gabelo woman had been playing some sort of nasty games for some time. Seems like it got out of hand, and that’s all there is to it. And now we’ve got this mess to deal with.”
That didn’t go down so well. “You can’t blame Ciro Gabelo,” Rasso said. “He assumed—”
“He was a bloody fool,” Marzo cut in. “Does anybody know where those two offcomers have got to? They’ll have to be told.”
“Aren’t they up on the Tabletop?”
Marzo shrugged. “I didn’t see them, but it wasn’t as though I was given a guided tour. Still,” he went on, “I guess the met’Oc probably know where they are. They aren’t going to be happy about this.”
“So what?” Stenora said. “Even if the oarsmen were innocent, it’s not our fault, what Ciro did.”
“I’m not sure people like that are going to see it in those terms,” Marzo replied. “Of course, it helps that Ciro’s dead.”
There was dead silence for a moment. Then Gimao murmured, “Do you know what you just said?”
Marzo closed his eyes and sighed. “You know,” he said, “if this is what high public office is all about, you can shove it. What I meant is, since the man who did the killings is dead, we aren’t going to have the aggravation of those two demanding justice, which would’ve meant either handing over Ciro Gabelo or refusing and risking a goddamned war. You do realise, don’t you, that this is a really bad situation. I’d be glad of some help, if it’s all the same to you. I don’t remember volunteering for any of this.”
Another silence, longer and gloomier. Then Gimao said, “Don’t look at me. I’m not getting involved.”
Marzo didn’t bother to reply. “Rasso? You were there when the ship came in.”
“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”
“Those two flowers of the nobility know you,” Marzo replied. “And it’s your turn. I’ve done enough.”
Rasso looked terrified. “You want me to go and tell them.”
“I take it you’re not volunteering.” Marzo laughed. “No, you’re right. I’ve already been up there, I guess I’m it.” He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. It had been a long day. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go back, and I’ll talk to them. I’ll see if I can make a deal. But if I can,” he went on, “it’s binding on all of us, agreed? I don’t want a murmur out of any of you or anybody else. Otherwise you can find some other idiot.”
Nobody spoke. He could feel them waiting for it to be over, and the oddest thought crossed his mind: I despise them. My friends and neighbours, known them all my life, and I wouldn’t give spit for any of them. They’re just not…
Practical. Not practical men. Not like some.
“That’s fine,” Gimao said timidly. “You go ahead and do whatever you think’s best. We’ll all be right behind you, no problem about that.”
Marzo nodded (and it was as though he was looking into a mirror, and seeing there a man who kept the peace). “That’s settled, then,” he said. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I want to get out of these wet boots and have some dinner.”
They didn’t hang about. When they’d gone, Teucer brought him a plate of bread and cheese; they hadn’t known when
to expect him back, so they’d already had dinner. Displaying unusual tact and sensibility, she put the plate down and withdrew quickly.
Marzo ate slowly—he was too tired to be hungry—and between mouthfuls figured out a plan of action. It was fairly horrible, but he hoped it’d do. Then he took his boots off and propped them up in front of the fire to dry, at which point, Furio arrived home, took one look at him and said, “Uncle? Has something happened?”
“You again,” said the guard.
Marzo nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Have we got to do all the business with the bag?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” Marzo closed his eyes, and the bag went over his head. “Take it a bit slower today, would you? Last thing I need’s a twisted ankle.”
This time, Luso was dressed in what Marzo took to be his hunting outfit. It must have been the very best quality, eighty or so years ago, but now it was mostly darns and patches. It looked like what the strangers had been wearing, and Marzo guessed it must have come from Home.
“Always delighted to see you,” Luso said, “but I wasn’t expecting you. How can I help you?”
It was easier, Marzo found, if he looked at the floor or the wall a few inches above Luso’s head. He recited the facts as quickly and plainly as he could.
“Thank you,” Luso said quietly. “I’m grateful to you for coming straight to me.”
Marzo made himself look at him. “It’s a mess,” he said, “and I don’t know what to do. I was hoping…”
Luso smiled, and Marzo felt a weight lift off him. “These things happen,” he said. “Don’t look so sad,” he added. “It’s not the first time, won’t be the last. The main thing is, we’re here talking to each other instead of organising raiding parties.” He perched on the edge of the table, the way he’d done yesterday. “You’re right in assuming my cousins will be angry,” he said. “The crew of their ship are, naturally, under their protection, and they have an obligation to see justice is done. Fortuitously,”—later, Marzo made a mental note to remember that word in that context; so much better than they way he’d said it—“the man who killed them is himself dead, which relieves us of the need to do anything about him. On the other hand, it complicates matters. Justice, you see, has got its own sort of twisted arithmetic. Justice demands that for every crime there should be a punishment. If the obvious party to be punished is unavailable for some reason, you’ve got a problem. Complicated, of course, by what people feel is expected of them.”
Marzo didn’t like the sound of that. “These people…”
“My cousins,” Luso said. “Distant cousins, but we are related, yes. Also, for the purposes of the rules of conduct, they’re our guests, therefore de facto members of the household, which unfortunately makes it my problem. Well,” he added, with a faint grin, “it doesn’t have to be a problem. That’s where your help would be greatly appreciated.”
“What can I do?” Marzo asked.
Luso edged forward a little. “I think this is an interesting moment in the history of this colony,” he said. “All sorts of bad things are happening, which makes it dangerous, but on the other hand, we’ve got two key assets: you, and me. Don’t know about you but I think we’re getting along pretty well. I think we can sort this out. Do you?”
Marzo hesitated, then nodded.
“Splendid,” Luso replied. “All right, here’s the deal. We forget about what we agreed yesterday—scrap it completely. Instead, we set off my man Scarpedino’s offence against the three dead men. Wipe the slate clean, start again. I believe I can square it with my cousins, if you can handle your people. I’m sure you can.”
Marzo felt a wave of panic sweep over him. He did his best to put it aside. “I think so,” he said.
“That’s grand,” Luso said. “That’s what I call a sensible approach. Actually, it works out quite well. It gives my cousins an opportunity to be magnanimous, which stands them in good stead with us. We’ll have to find a way to make it all right with the rest of their crew, but you can leave that to us. Really, there’s no desperately pressing need for them to know the exact truth of the matter, if you see what I’m driving at. Main thing is to put it all behind us as quickly as we can. Agreed?”
Marzo waited for a moment or so before saying yes. It occurred to him that Luso somehow knew that the deal they’d just reached was the deal he’d come here to suggest. Certainly, it did feel rather like their minds worked in a remarkably similar way. Or maybe that was what Luso wanted him to think. Not that it mattered particularly, yet.
“I think,” Luso said, standing up, “this calls for a drink. No, not the family stuff,” he added, to someone in the background that Marzo couldn’t see. “The bought stuff.”
Marzo recognised it as soon as he tasted it. He had half a case of it left, stored carefully behind a stack of empty crates in the back cellar. Which reminded him…
“Ah yes,” Luso said, when he’d mentioned it. “Good point. Is the wounded man fit to travel?”
“I think so.”
“Splendid. Best thing would be if you sent them up here, and we’ll take care of them. Get them out of your way, before there’s any more trouble.”
Marzo hadn’t thought of that, and shivered. He ought to have thought of it. Entirely possible that the three survivors might want some degree of revenge or justice. Then it occurred to him to wonder how he was supposed to send them. What if they didn’t want to go?
“I’ll have my cousins write a letter,” Luso said, before he could raise the question. “Do you think you could arrange transport?”
It was a small colony and Furio had lived all his life at the store, where sooner or later everybody came. A face he’d never seen before was, therefore, a remarkable thing.
The man was there when he arrived one morning. He was unpacking tools—a hammer, half a dozen files, a steel square—from a canvas bag. He looked up as Furio approached, but didn’t appear to have seen anything to interest him. He was tall, thin and dressed in cloth that hadn’t been bought in the store; Furio knew every single bolt they’d ever stocked.
“From the ship,” Gig told him, when Furio managed to snatch a moment of his time. “My cousins have decided to invest in the project. Very big of them.”
Suddenly there were new faces everywhere. It was disturbing, like living in a dream or a different world. But the newcomers worked hard and brought new skills, or were better than the colonials at old ones. There were two smiths, employed full time in straightening horseshoes and forge-welding them lengthwise to form the long bars that would make up the drop-hammer frame. Three carpenters were building a machine out of oak beams; Gig called it a lathe, for making the pulley wheels and bearings. Half a dozen more worked on the hammer-head and the anvil; they’d been stonemasons, Gig explained, and knew how to square up stone blocks with chisels, and there wasn’t a world of difference between that and chipping flat surfaces on blocks of iron. Furio tried to work out exactly how many of them there were, but as soon as he thought he’d arrived at a definitive total, a new man appeared out of nowhere and he had to recalculate. He couldn’t help wondering how on earth Uncle Marzo was finding food for all these men, let alone supplies and materials, but it had become a subject he didn’t dare discuss either here or at home.
The hammer seemed to grow during the night, like a strange kind of giant mushroom. Gig had two shifts running—the glow from three furnaces and a dozen forges was enough light to work by. Parts were fabricated in daylight and assembled by firelight. So far, a thousand scrap horseshoes had gone into making the two upright beams of the hammer frame, also discarded wheel tyres, hinges, bolts, hooks, scythe blades, axles, practically every piece of rusty junk dragged out of barns and briar patches right across the colony. They’d been heated up, hammered straight, welded into bars, folded, welded again, folded again, welded lengthwise to other bars. There was a machine for twisting strands of wire together into rope. Furio had no idea who’d built it. It was there a
nd running one morning, with one stranger turning a handwheel and another feeding it three lines of wire. Meanwhile, the shed that would house the hammer was being built up round it, like an eggshell forming around an already hatched chick. They couldn’t put the roof on, Gig said, until they’d dropped the hammer-head down into the frame, but he wasn’t going to wait till the hammer was finished before building the shed. Another team were rigging up the gear-train that would take off power from the waterwheel and run the hammer and the saw-benches. It was like watching a child with no skin growing at a monstrously accelerated rate.
The faster the thing grew, Furio found, the less he had to offer. By now he’d proved quite conclusively that he was no carpenter, metal worker, joiner or mason. He could lift one end of something, so long as someone explained slowly and clearly exactly what was expected of him. He could drive in relatively unimportant nails. He could pick things up and carry them; he could be trusted with a certain degree of unsophisticated sorting into piles. But he was slow, tired too easily, lacked initiative, didn’t seem to have the knack of working efficiently with others—not for want of trying, maybe as a result of trying too hard. There was one job he knew he could do well—quartermaster and supply clerk—but whenever he suggested it Gig didn’t seem to hear him or quickly changed the subject, and he guessed this was because Gig suspected him of spying for his uncle. An illiterate off the ship got the job instead, and did it very well using a system of tallies notched into bits of stick with a penknife.
Among all the new faces, there was one old face he kept looking for but never seemed to see. Aurelio, the met’Oc smith, hadn’t shown up yet, although a light no longer showed in the livery window. It was possible, of course, that the old man had repented and gone back to the Tabletop—certainly, no reason why Furio should’ve been told if this was what had happened—but he doubted it somehow. So far, in spite of the furious pace and demanding nature of the work, nobody had left and gone home as far as Furio could see.