by K. J. Parker
The boat came in and threw out a line. Someone handed his gun to his neighbour while he tied the boat up. The hat-waver came ashore; the rest of the crew stayed where they were.
“What’s the message?” Furio said.
The messenger looked doubtful. “I take it you’re not Phainomai met’Oc.”
“That’s right,” Furio said. “I’m a captain in the militia. You can answer my questions, or you can turn right round and go home. Up to you.”
The messenger thought for a moment, and looked at the muzzles of the guns, and said, “The met’Ousa just want to know how Master Boulomai met’Ousa and Mistress Pasi met’Oc are getting on,” he said. “It’s been five years since they heard from them, and—”
“They’re dead,” Furio said. “I’m sorry.”
The messenger’s eyes opened wide. “Dead?” he repeated, as though the word was unfamiliar to him.
“There was a fire,” Furio said, “at the met’Oc house. The entire family died, no survivors. It was a great tragedy. I’m sorry. Please pass on the Council’s sympathy to the met’Ousa.”
“That’s—” The messenger stopped, as though uncertain of what he was allowed to say. “That’s unfortunate,” he said. “Perhaps I might be allowed to address the Council? I’m sorry, I’m not entirely clear how things work here now.”
Furio smiled. “That’s all right,” he said. “At the moment, we’re pretty much making it up as we go along. You’d best come and talk to the Chief Justice.”
“The Chief…?”
“My uncle,” Furio said. “He’s also the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Or he will be,” Furio added, “once I’ve told him. This way.” He paused and looked over the messenger’s shoulder. “Are your men all right staying there, or would they rather come up to the store for a beer?”
As it happened, the Council was still in session when they reached the store, although Marzo had done his best to shoo them out. Accordingly, he and Furio took the messenger into the back office, leaving the Council to mind the store.
“I told him,” Furio said, “about the fire.”
Marzo’s face didn’t move. He could have been a statue of himself, raised by a grateful nation. “Dreadful business,” he said. “Five years ago, practically to the day.”
The messenger sat down and laid his hat in his lap. “That complicates things,” he said.
“Oh?”
The messenger nodded. “You did say all the family died in the fire?”
“That’s right,” Furio said firmly. “Boulomai and Pasi, Phainomai and Passer met’Oc, and their three sons.”
“Ah.” The messenger picked up his hat and let it drop. “I don’t suppose you have any way of knowing the order in which they died. You see, it could make a huge difference.”
Marzo’s eyes flashed, but Furio just looked bewildered. “What possible difference could it—?”
“To who inherits,” the messenger said. “I might as well tell you, there was another reason why my employers sent me at this precise point in time. You see, there’s been a change of government back home. Quite a drastic one, in fact. I won’t bore you with the details, but the practical effect is, the faction to which the met’Ousa belong is pretty much running things. One of the first things they did was issue a general pardon to the met’Oc.”
Furio opened his mouth, but said nothing. Marzo’s lips were pressed tightly together, as if he was strangling a smile. “I see what you mean about complicating things,” Marzo said eventually. “This pardon…”
“Includes a full restoration of all the family properties and honours,” the messenger said. “To include accumulated income and compensation. So you can see,” he went on, looking down at his hands, “why it’d be really helpful if it’s possible to establish who died when. Assuming,” he added quickly, looking up at Marzo, “that the wedding actually did take place.”
“Oh yes,” Marzo said. “I can vouch for that. I was there.”
The messenger nodded, plainly relieved. “In which case,” he said, “you can see for yourself how matters stand. If Lusomai died before Pasi, she would have inherited any interest he might have had in the met’Oc estates. Since she died childless—at least, we’re assuming…”
Marzo nodded briskly.
“In that case,” the messenger said, licking his lips, “her next of kin and legal heir would be her father, Nicomai met’Ousa, assuming she had anything to leave, I mean, which depends…”
“On who died when,” Marzo said, “exactly.” He folded his hands and looked down at his fingernails, as if he’d got the answers written on them in tiny letters. “So, from your people’s point of view, the ideal situation would be, Phainomai dies first.”
Furio coughed gently. “Actually, if Passer died first.”
“Sorry, yes. Passer dies first, so her marriage settlement passes to Phainomai, her husband. Phainomai dies next, and Sthenomai immediately inherits as eldest son. But he dies next, unmarried, and Lusomai inherits.”
“Pasi’s still very much alive at this point,” Furio said helpfully.
“Of course, yes,” Marzo said. “And Boulomai?”
The messenger shrugged. “Not really particularly relevant,” he said.
Marzo nodded. “That’s all right, then, we can forget about him. Now, so long as Luso dies before Pasi, does it matter particularly if Gignomai…?”
The messenger nodded. “If the younger brother survives the widow,” he said, “there would, under intestacy law, be an equal division of the estate. However, if Gignomai predeceased…”
Marzo smiled warmly. “Which he did,” he said. “Luso, then Gignomai, then Pasi last of all.”
The messenger’s eyebrows went up. “You’d be prepared to certify that?”
“As Lord Chief Justice,” Marzo said, “sure. In writing. We made a thorough investigation of the scene, and found incontrovertible proof that the deaths took place in that order. There’s a report somewhere,” he added, with a vague wave of his hand toward the stack of paper on the windowsill—receipted bills from the factory, as it happened. “You don’t mind if I don’t dig it out right now, do you? We’re a bit behind on our filing, to tell you the truth.”
“No, that’s perfectly all right,” the messenger said quickly. “All I need is a signed certificate from the Chief Justice.”
“Lord Chief Justice,” Furio murmured, as Marzo uncapped his inkwell and reached for the nearest piece of paper, turned it over and found it had been written on already and scrabbled about until he found a blank sheet.
“Of course,” Marzo said, as he wrote, “there are certain implications. I’m sure I don’t need to explain.”
The messenger shrugged. “Just to clarify,” he said.
“Of course.” Marzo laid his pen down carefully. “You see, it occurs to me that this certificate I’m writing for you now won’t actually mean anything in a court of law, for example, unless your government recognises its validity.”
The messenger blinked. “I’m sorry? I don’t quite…”
“Oh, I think you do,” Marzo said. “Let me make it easy for you. If your government recognises that this colony is now an independent state, with the right to appoint its own officers, such as the Lord Chief Justice, for example, then this certificate is a valid instrument and can be relied on in a court of law. But if your government doesn’t recognise us, and reckons we’re still just a bunch of rebels, then this piece of paper is worthless and no use to you whatsoever.”
The messenger nodded, very slowly. “I think I see what you’re saying,” he said.
“Now obviously,” Marzo went on, “you’re just a messenger, you haven’t got the authority to recognise us as an independent nation. But it seems to me, if the met’Ousa take their inheritance claim to court, and the court accepts this as a valid certificate, then by implication, the court, and the government it represents, must also be recognising our independence. In other words, if your met’Ousa want the met’
Oc money, we want this country for ourselves. Now that’s fair, isn’t it?”
The messenger hesitated for quite some time. “There’s also the matter,” he said, “of the met’Oc assets in this country. We were led to believe that these assets were quite substantial. Land, a house.”
Furio and Marzo looked at each other. “I’m afraid you may have been misled,” Marzo said. “The house burned to the ground, along with all the contents.”
“I see,” the messenger said quietly. “The land.”
“Death duties,” Furio said. “Just about covered what was due. It’s now in public ownership.”
“Of course,” the messenger said, in a rather brittle voice. “You might just certify that as well, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Marzo said, and picked up his pen.
Later, when the messenger had gone back to his boat and was halfway across the bay, Furio said, “Do you think we ought to tell him?”
Marzo shook his head. “Better not,” he said.
“I think we should,” Furio said.
“Better not,” Marzo repeated firmly. “Justice is all very well, but my job’s keeping the peace. Besides, Gignomai belongs to us now. The less any of us dwells on the past, the better for everyone.”
Furio looked at him, then nodded. “Yes, Lord Chief Justice,” he said.
There was a particular kind of weed that grew well in ashes. It grew fast and tall, and was so bitter that even the rabbits and goats left it alone. It had a thick brown stem and a wispy pale red flower, and the site of the met’Oc house was covered in it, so that nothing was visible apart from the patch that Gignomai kept clear, where the bay window used to overlook the gates of the hall. There, to the remaining stub of wall, he had fixed five iron plates, with the names of his parents, brothers and sister, including all their titles and honours. It was his custom throughout his life to lay lavender blossom under these plates on the anniversary of the Great Fire, as it had come to be known.
On the fifth anniversary, he met Marzo coming up the track as he was coming down. Marzo was carrying a sheaf of flags and wild lilies, the kind that grew on the riverbank a couple of hundred yards upstream from the ford.
“Paying my respects to your brother,” Marzo said. Gignomai didn’t ask which one. He grinned.
“It’s a free country,” he said.
Marzo pulled a slight face. “You?” he said.
“Same sort of thing.” In his left hand, he held the brush hook he’d been using to cut back the fire-weed. “I’m sure Luso would appreciate it,” he said.
“I doubt that very much,” Marzo replied cheerfully. “Still, he’s got no say in the matter, so I can do what I like.”
Gignomai smiled, then the smile faded, quickly and completely. “I hear there was a ship yesterday.”
“That’s right.” Marzo leaned against a tree. He was short of breath from the climb. “The lads put a ball over her bows. Turned out they didn’t want to land here after all.”
Gignomai nodded. “Scarpedino tells me you had the captain over at your place for a while. Council was in session, too, so I heard.”
“Coincidence,” Marzo said. “Nice man, their captain. I sold him a few bits and pieces, just to keep my hand in.” Which was true. All the met’Oc’s gold and silver plate had melted in the fire, but gold and silver nuggets, even with chunks of slag and cinder in them, were still worth good money, and one day there’d be other ships. “We’d have sent down to you, only we knew you were busy, and we didn’t really want the ship hanging about any longer than necessary.”
Gignomai dipped his head to acknowledge the validity of the reasoning. “They didn’t need to take on water, then, or anything like that.”
“They didn’t ask,” Marzo replied, “we didn’t offer. I’ve got lads out watching, in case they try and put in down the coast some place. And I’ve put a guard on Boulomai’s ship down at East Bay. Doesn’t do to leave valuable stuff just lying around when there’s strangers about.”
“That’s all right, then,” Gignomai said. “No big deal.”
“No big deal,” Marzo confirmed. “How’s Teucer, by the way? And the kid?”
Gignomai didn’t like it when Marzo called young Luso “the kid,” but Marzo never seemed to take the hint. “Oh, they’re fine,” he said. “Last time I looked.”
Marzo pulled a sad face. “Things are still…?”
“We keep out of each other’s way,” Gignomai said.
“It’s a shame, though, really,” Marzo persisted. He could tell Gignomai wanted to be on his way, so he was determined to spin the conversation out a little longer. “She was really quite keen on you at one time, I always thought.”
“Maybe,” Gignomai said. “But we both knew what we were getting into. I needed an heir, for the family name and all that garbage. She wanted a husband so she could own property and generally have a life. So long as there’s plenty of broken arms and bashed heads for her to fuss over, she’s happy enough. And making money, too,” he added with a grin. “Not sure I could afford to have her patch me up, the rates she charges. Chip off the old block there, I reckon.”
“Thank you,” Marzo said sincerely. “Coming from you, that means a great deal.”
“Well,” Gignomai said, injecting a little briskness into his voice, “I mustn’t keep you. I expect you’ve got a lot to do. Give my best to Furio. Haven’t seen him at the factory for a day or so.”
“His youngest is teething,” Marzo said, “poor bugger hasn’t been getting quite as much sleep as he’s used to. Of course, you’ll know all about that.”
Gignomai gave him a cold look. “Not really,” he said. “We put Luso out to a wetnurse when he was at that stage. If there’s one thing I can’t be doing with, it’s being woken up in the middle of the night.”
“Me too,” Marzo said. “Nothing more annoying, specially if you have trouble sleeping. Wouldn’t suit me, though, sending the kid away like that. Still, it wouldn’t do if all families were alike. I’ll tell Furio you asked after him.”
“Remind him I want a dozen men up here, day after tomorrow,” Gignomai said. “We’re re-opening the old clay pit, remember?” He sighed, and looked round. “Only thing worth having up here any more,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marzo said. “I heard somewhere you’ve got a nice flock of goats up here these days, and some pretty good pigs coming on, too.”
Gignomai shrugged. “It’s rubbish land,” he said. “Goats and pigs is all it’s good for, Stheno always said. He nearly killed himself trying to grow wheat up on Redside. That’s all briars and nettles now,” he added.
“No luck finding a tenant?”
“Who’d want to pay rent for that when there’s all the good land you could ever want on the other side of the river, rent free?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’ll be bothering with this lot any more after this year. I’m too busy, and what I’d get off it wouldn’t pay the men’s wages for working it. Might put it down to coppice some time, if I can make the effort. You can never have enough charcoal, after all.”
Marzo smiled at him. He considered saying that it had always been a good spot for burning things, but he didn’t want to push his luck. “That’d probably be best,” he said, “if you can keep the deer out. But who knows, your kid might turn out like his uncle, and then you’d be all right.”
Gignomai rewarded him with a faint grin. “Actually,” he said, “there’s not nearly as many deer up here as there used to be. Luso put a lot of effort into managing them, culling the weak bucks, that sort of thing. Also, the farmers shoot them, which doesn’t bother me at all,” he added brightly. “Means we’d be in with a chance if we do decide to plant it out with coppice. We’ll have to see how we go, though. Can’t see how I could spare the manpower any time this year, the way things are at the factory.”
Marzo put on a sympathetic face. “I heard the hammer was down again yesterday.”
“Bloody thi
ng,” Gignomai said, with feeling. “Looks like the foundations have completely broken up, what with all the pounding they get. So that means dismantling the whole thing and starting again from scratch, which’ll mean at least a week’s lost production. If I had the energy I’d build another one, so at least there’s be one running when the other breaks down.”
“Good idea,” Marzo said. “You ought to do that.”
“It’s time,” Gignomai said sadly. “That’s the problem. Never enough time to get things done, so you’re always slipping behind. Then, when something breaks, you’re screwed.” He laughed quite suddenly. “I’m starting to sound just like Stheno,” he said. “Still, I’m beginning to understand how he felt, poor bugger. He never did have it easy, my brother.”
“I’ll let you get on,” Marzo said, and headed on up the hill, whistling.
After he’d finished at the Tabletop, Gignomai didn’t go back to his house in town. He rarely went there these days—usually only when he had to preside at a council meeting, or deal with some other form of official business. He told anyone who asked that it was because he didn’t like being around all the sick people who came to see his wife. It was a shame nobody believed him, because it was partly true. Instead, he walked back to the factory, where he slept on a mattress in the tiny back room of the drawing office. When he remembered about food, he ate in the canteen, usually after everybody else had gone back on shift. A woman came down from town once a month with clean, ironed, folded clothes for him to wear. Most of them were still folded when she called again. It was, people said to him, a strange way for the richest man in the colony to live, at which point, he would smile politely and change the subject.