by K. J. Parker
“Your brother Luso and I are getting married,” she said.
Gignomai nodded. “That’s why you’re here, I assume.”
She smiled. “Luso told me you’re sharp,” she said. “That’s right. When did you guess?”
Gignomai raised his glass in a formal toast. “Why?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Really it’s the only logical course of action,” she said. “I did consider Stheno, but…”
“Quite.”
“And your father agrees with me,” she went on. “He feels Luso would be the more appropriate choice. Strength of mind were the words he used. I think I know what he meant by it.”
Gignomai put the glass down. “So,” he said, “what exactly did you do, back Home?”
“Oh, that.” She flicked a strand of hair away from her face. “I sort of killed someone.”
Sort of, Gignomai noted. He couldn’t help admiring the choice of phrase. “Who?”
“My husband. He was impossible,” she went on, frowning a little. “Oh, he drank and he gambled and he was a lout and he chased the maids and generally carried on, but I could put up with that. He wasn’t any worse than my father, and I’ve always got on well with him. No, what finally put the lid on it was when he decided he wanted to play at politics. I warned him, he’d get into all sorts of trouble, but he never listened to me, of course. And then he got indicted for some ridiculous conspiracy, and I knew that as soon as they pulled him in and started putting pressure on him, he’d lose his nerve and say anything they wanted him to, and then there’d be an almighty mess. I really didn’t want to get sent into exile with him, so I put a little something in his drink. Really, it was the best thing for everybody under the circumstances. Unfortunately, my father-in-law made a quite appalling fuss about it—he simply refused to believe his precious son was mixed up in any nonsense. He made out I wanted Phero out of the way because of some stupid affair, but that had been over for months anyway. Boulo tried to sort him out, but poor Boulo’s not the sharpest needle in the cushion and he made rather a botch of it. Father-in-law went to the Court and laid a formal charge of murder, so Boulo and I thought it’d probably be just as well if we cleared out. Ironic, really: I killed Phero so I wouldn’t end up in a place like this, and here I am.”
“How awful for you,” Gignomai said pleasantly.
“Quite. Well,” she went on, “we really didn’t have the first idea about where we were going to go. Boulo said we should head for the Republic, because at least it’s civilised there. He’s always wanted to see Vesanis, of course, he does so love the theatre and music, not to mention Vesani actresses. But I told him, bearing in mind the nonsense poor Phero was mixed up in, Vesanis was the last place on earth we could go: it’d look like he and I were in it too, and then we’d be officially outlawed and all the money would be seized, and then where would we be? So he suggested coming here.”
Gignomai nodded. “So you could marry Luso.”
“Or Stheno, or you. We weren’t too bothered about details. People still think quite highly of the met’Oc back home, you know. You’re considered to have taken a principled stand, and several good families think you were rather hard done by, though naturally that’s not the sort of thing anyone says unless it’s strictly among friends. But”—she shrugged, and sipped her wine, absorbing a tiny amount of it—“after all, I’ve got to marry somebody, and really, there’s not an infinity of choice, unless I marry outside the Families, which I’d really rather not do if I can help it.” She smiled. “Boulo tried to persuade me that some of the older Vesani houses are practically respectable, but he’s such a romantic. In time, all this nonsense will blow over, and then I’d be stuck abroad for ever and ever, married to some clown with longer hair than me, spending all my time going to the opera. No, Boulo had to admit it eventually, the met’Oc were the logical choice. So here we are.”
Gignomai nodded slowly, as though it all made the most perfect sense. “Luso’s quite happy with the idea.”
She mock-scowled at him. “Yes, of course he is. I mean, who’s he going to marry otherwise? No, he’s perfectly delighted with it.”
“Do you like him?”
She grinned. “Actually, I do. He’s so fierce, it’s such a refreshing change from poor dear Phero. Of course Phero couldn’t help the way he was made, and with that awful father of his he turned out much better than anyone could have expected. But he wasn’t up to much. People used to say he was so soft you could’ve spread him on fresh bread. Luso’s quite different. I think we’ll get on famously.”
“Quite possibly,” Gignomai said politely. “Does he know? About your first husband, I mean?”
She nodded. “He laughed,” she said. “Made some joke about having to be very careful about eating what was put in front of him. I think your father was a bit alarmed at first, but he’s a practical man, he knows a good deal when he sees one.”
Gignomai smiled. “Oh, I’m sure he does. The deal being, Luso inherits when Father dies, because he’s the one capable of producing a legitimate heir, meanwhile, the met’Ousa will do everything they can to see to it that we can go back Home and get our property back. You’ll end up as the wife of the met’Oc, and we’ll get away from this place. Ideal.”
“Thank you,” she said. “We think so. Of course, there’s a lot of detail to sort out first, and it’s so difficult in the circumstances, without proper valuations, or even knowing what you’d be likely to get back and what’s gone for good. But in any event, it’s got to be better than pining away in Vesanis. It’s so hot there, all year round, I think I’d go out of my mind. Boulo doesn’t feel the heat, of course. He’s lucky.”
Gignomai sat up a little. “Well,” he said, “I hope it all works out for you, and I wish you the very best of luck. Not sure what any of this has got to do with me.”
She gave him a rather sweet smile. “Oh come on,” she said. “You’re Luso’s brother. You’re family.”
“Not any more,” Gignomai replied quickly. “And I’ve got a piece of paper to prove it.”
“Oh, I think we can sort that out,” she said mildly. “Luso’s very keen to get you back. In fact,” she went on, shifting just a little, “he’s sort of made it a condition of the agreement.”
Gignomai frowned. “Go on.”
“Well.” She looked away a degree or so. “Bluntly, he won’t marry me unless your father revokes the disownment. I’m with Luso,” she went on. “I think it was an awful thing to do, and if Luso wants to use the wedding to put pressure on your father, I’m all for it. Luso’s very fond of you, you know. He says it’s been very fraught up there since you left, and he’s been trying to think of a way—”
“Luso always agrees with Father,” Gignomai interrupted. “He always does as he’s told.”
“He keeps the peace,” she said. “And really, you can’t blame him for that. Someone’s got to, in every family. My mother’s made a career out of keeping my father and Boulo from tearing each other to bits. And Luso’s very good at it. You’ve got to admit, you’re not the most docile family in the world.”
Gignomai didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said, “You still haven’t told me what you want from me.”
She pursed her lips. He got the impression she disapproved of the request she was about to make. Presumably he was meant to. “Like I said, the dowry terms are still being sorted out, but Boulo thinks it’s almost certain that he’ll need to ask you for his men back. As I understand it, your father wants them to add to his garrison or standing army, or whatever you like to call it.”
“Luso’s gang.”
“Yes, if you like. Your father feels that your family needs more footsoldiers. And the fact that they’re from Home really appeals to him. He reckons that means they’d be better than the local material.”
“And Luso agrees with him.”
She made a nothing to do with me gesture. “Back Home it’s considered unforgivably gauche for the bride to take an interest in
the settlement negotiations. I’m just passing on the message.”
“And Cousin Boulomai sent you instead of coming and talking to me himself.”
“I wanted to talk to you anyway.” She gave him a hard, cold look. “I had this silly idea you might like to get to know your future sister-in-law. Please forgive me if I’ve inadvertently breached some local protocol.”
Gignomai lifted his hand in the minimum possible apology. “The thing is,” he said, “I’m not sure they’d want to. They’ve fitted in here really well, made themselves useful, they’re excellent workers and they seem to like the idea of what we’re trying to do here. If they want to stay, I honestly don’t see how I can make them go.”
“I’m sure you can think of something,” she said. “Anyway, that’s the request; what you do about it is entirely up to you. The other thing—”
“Other thing,” Gignomai repeated. “I see.”
“Luso wants you to be his best man,” Pasi said. “Or at least to be there when we get married. He keeps going on and on about it. I’m sick of hearing him, in fact.”
Gignomai shook his head. “Not possible,” he said.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” she replied. “Luso’s said, he’ll put his foot down. If your father makes any fuss at all, there won’t be a wedding. He told me, he’s absolutely set his heart on it. It just wouldn’t be right without you, he said.”
“Then he’s going to be disappointed,” Gignomai replied. He stood up, a beautifully composed gesture of finality. “Thank you so much for coming to see me,” he said. “And I wish you every happiness, needless to say. If you’d care to wait there, I’ll fetch your horse.”
“Don’t be so stupid,” she snapped, and he felt the tug of her voice; it was hard to ignore. “Stupid and selfish. One day being civil to your brother isn’t going to kill you.”
He turned round slowly and smiled at her. “First, don’t be too sure about that, not till you’ve known my family for as long as I have. Second, I have no desire to force Luso to stand up to my father for the first time in his worthless life. Not over this. Besides, it’s a bit late now for him to grow a backbone. He wouldn’t have a clue what to do with it.”
Before his brother died and left him the store, Marzo had done many things, all of them miserable, none of them for very long. He’d cut and stacked wood for the charcoal-burners, when there was still wood to cut; he’d loaded and unloaded lumber at the sawmill (he was too cack-handed to be allowed to work the saw); he’d been a striker at the forge, until he nearly smashed the smith’s hand to pulp; he’d carted stone for the wall builders, and been a fieldhand in the busy season, when any clumsy idiot could find work. Many times, more often than he cared to remember, he’d been exhausted, to the point where breathing was an effort he could hardly justify. But he’d never been as tired as he felt after two hours with the Heddos, the Adrescos and the Sagrennas.
It was, he decided, a bit like trying to bale out water with a sieve. He’d tried to be positive. He’d suggested compromises. He’d asked them all to be practical. As a result, at one point, Silo Adresco pulled a knife on Desio Heddo (it was a very small knife, and Desio just laughed) and Nelo Sagrenna had threatened to burn the Heddos in their house. He’d only managed to get rid of them by promising to demand compensation for all their grievances from the met’Oc.
He pushed back his chair and stared resentfully at the bottle on the table in front of him. It wouldn’t solve anything, he knew perfectly well, but that didn’t stop it making alluring promises. After a short, depressing battle he gave in and poured himself a massive drink.
He was just savouring the burn when Furio came in, saw the bottle and didn’t say anything in the most reproachful manner possible. “Did it go well?” Furio asked.
“Guess.”
Furio sat down. “So what are you going to do?”
Marzo closed his eyes. “What I said I’d do,” he replied. “I’m going to see Luso met’Oc and demand full compensation.”
“Compensation? What for?”
Marzo shrugged. “Like it matters. Luso’ll just laugh at me. Not to my face, though, because he’s a gentleman. But that’s all right. I’ll have done what I said I’ll do, and then they’ll all know I’m useless and maybe they’ll leave me alone.”
“Which is all you want.”
“Which is all I want.” Marzo looked at the bottle, then turned his head away. “You know anything about snapping-hen pistols?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Thought your pal Gignomai might’ve told you something. Doesn’t matter.”
Furio leaned forward a little. “I saw Gig firing one,” he said. “He took a shot at a tree stump, at five yards. He missed.”
Marzo laughed. “That might explain why he gave me the bloody thing,” he said.
“What do you want to know?”
Wearily, Marzo explained about the bullet from Heddo’s wall weighing the same as the bullets Gignomai had given him. “Which means it’s pretty certain Luso shot that hole in the Heddos’ door,” he said. “Which means, if you want to look at it that way, he caused all this aggravation, so really he should be the one to sort it all out.”
“Did you tell them about it?”
“God, no,” Marzo replied. “You don’t want to go telling things to people like that, it only gives them ideas. Bloody Silo Adresco was on at me about a night attack on the Tabletop. Thought we could all scramble up there in the dark with muckforks and murder them all in their beds.”
Furio raised an eyebrow. “Silo? He’s the little short one, isn’t he? Stuck a fork through his own foot once, walks with a limp.”
“Quite,” Marzo said. “I got the impression he wasn’t actually planning on doing much fighting and killing himself. Not sure who he thought was going to do it. Just goes to show, though. You can know someone for years, and they’ll still surprise you.”
“I expect he was just making a noise,” Furio said. “It’s easy to suggest something like that when you know it’s not going to happen.”
Marzo drove the donkey cart to the Tabletop, but the guards wouldn’t let him through. Lusomai was busy, they said, wouldn’t be free all day. Marzo could try coming back the next day, but they couldn’t say whether he’d be available or not. They undertook to deliver a message, but they didn’t seem to be paying much attention when he told them what he wanted them to say.
“Leave it a day or so,” Furio urged him. “Don’t come across as too eager, or he’ll think you’re scared or worried about something. He’s probably just playing games with you.”
“I’d go back tomorrow if I were you,” Teucer interrupted, though her opinion hadn’t been asked for. “When he gets your message he’ll be expecting you.”
Marzo sighed. “Does it ever occur to anybody that I’ve got other things to do with my time besides running backwards and forwards playing diplomacy? I’m a shopkeeper, damn it. If they want me to be lord high emissary, then someone had better start paying me for loss of earnings.”
“I can look after the store,” Teucer said. “Especially if you go in the afternoon, when it’s quiet.”
Marzo didn’t go the next day, or the day after that. In the early hours of the morning of the third day, Silo Adresco’s pedigree boar was shot dead in its sty.
“The really spiteful thing,” someone was saying in the store later that morning, “was killing it in the middle of the night, so by the time Silo came down and found it, the meat was all spoiled because the blood wasn’t drained in time. Useless. Had to bury it under the shit heap. That’s what I call a really nasty thing to do.”
It occurred to Furio, who was serving at the time, that there might have been other reasons for staging the attack in the small hours, more to do with getting away unchallenged than delicate refinements of malice, but he kept his reflections to himself. After all, if Lusomai met’Oc was responsible (as everybody seemed to be assuming), it didn’t necessarily follow that g
etting in and out unseen would be a priority. In the past, Luso had attacked openly, and hadn’t seemed to give a damn who saw him.
“Maybe someone’s stolen Luso’s gun,” he suggested. “One of his gang who’s got a grudge against the Heddos, perhaps.”
Marzo shook his head. “Don’t complicate matters, for crying out loud,” he said. “Look, it really doesn’t matter whose finger was on the trigger. It was someone who lives on the Tabletop, therefore it’s Luso’s responsibility. That’s all that matters.”
“I told you,” Teucer said blithely, as she folded clean linen. “You should’ve gone back the next day. For all you know, he could be punishing you for not going back when you said you would.”
Marzo and Furio shared a look. “Sneaking about at night isn’t Luso’s style,” Marzo said. “And I can’t believe that one of his men would go and do something like this, using Luso’s precious gun, without express orders. More than his life’d be worth.”
Furio’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re thinking it could have been the met’Ousas.”
“What I’m trying really hard to do is not think about it at all,” Marzo replied. “But you don’t know, do you? How far are they under Luso’s control? I mean, they’re guests. There’s all sorts of complicated rules of honour and stuff like that. But if they’re really mad about what happened, who knows what they’d do?”
“Hold on, though,” Furio said. “You reckon the thing about the bullet weights proves it was Luso’s gun.”
“Unless Boulomai’s gun shoots the same size ball, which is entirely possible. Or maybe Boulomai’s gun doesn’t actually work, so he used Luso’s, with or without his knowledge and consent.” Marzo spread both hands wide, a gesture he’d picked up from Furio’s father. “It’s one of those things where the more you think about it, the harder it gets. Which would be fine,” he went on, letting his hands drop into his lap, “if I wasn’t mixed up in it. I mean, it’d be fine entertainment and good honest fun, sitting here talking over all the possibilities, which I bet everybody else in the colony’s doing right now. Difference is, I’m supposed to do something about it.”