CHAPTER FIVE
Nine days later, Carr and Jesse stood at the window of Carr's room. Carr was teaching Jesse how to shuck an oyster when Variel appeared unexpectedly, like a newborn soul popping into a baby, and murmured something into Carr's ear.
"Oh, bloody blades!" cried Carr. Then, as Jesse raised his eyebrows at Carr's uncharacteristic use of profanity, Carr added, "Are my parents at home?"
Variel gave a lift of the eyebrows that might have meant anything. Carr turned away, throwing the oyster through the open window and wiping his hands on his trousers – which, alas, promptly stained themselves. He looked down, wondering whether he had time to change, then wondered whether it would be at all wise to ask Variel to valet in place of Bat. But the temptation was only fleeting; Variel had already withdrawn.
"Trouble?" asked Jesse, leaning back against the wall, and taking on the look of faint amusement that seemed his automatic response to trouble.
"Not if my parents aren't here. Come on."
Jesse raised his eyebrows again at the peremptory tone, but he followed Carr through the bedroom, down the hallway stairs, and into the foyer. There the visitor awaited Carr.
He was in his eighteenth tri-year and growing stout with age, his skin pale in the manner of a man who has scarcely set his foot outside a building all his life. His hands were smooth, showing no sign that he had ever done menial labor inside a building either. His overcoat lay over his left arm, while his right hand held a cigar. The cigar was carefully poised over the foyer's ashtray, which Carr's mother had set out for visitors. The visitor's gaze was resting, in a deceptively vague fashion, upon a woven banner that Carr's mother had recently ordered the servants to hang from the high ceiling, much to the consternation of the servants, since it had taken them a third of a day to figure out how to attach the banner to the ceiling without bringing plaster down onto everyone's heads. Since the banner was not woven by Carr's mother, the words on it were easily legible: "Freedom for all!"
The visitor's gaze slipped away from the banner as Carr and Jesse entered the foyer, and suddenly the vagueness snapped away, with a visible crack like a sail in a high wind. Carr, after one last glance toward the open door of his father's library, did not hesitate. He walked over to the visitor and knelt upon his right knee.
It took him a moment to fumble his left arm into the correct position, even though he had been practicing this pose in front of his bedroom mirror since he reached his seventeenth sun-circuit. With his left hand clasping the inside of his right elbow, in the manner that had denoted subservience in all of the Midcoast nations since the sixteenth tri-century, he bowed his head and asked, "What service do you require of me, master?"
He thought he heard Jesse's breath rush in, but he could not be certain. What he was sure of was that he heard the man above him chuckle. He felt himself tense, and then he relaxed again as the visitor said, "Oh, my – it has been half my lifetime since I heard those words from a master in this House. And with so traditional a posture as well."
Approval coated his voice. Carr ventured to tilt his head up; he found that the visitor was smiling down at him. "And how is my favorite nephew?" the visitor asked, placing his free palm lightly upon Carr's head. "I had lunch with your Head Master this week, and he let drop that he plans to make you Captain of your House at school next autumn. That will be the first time in over a tri-century that a lad of the Second House has been both Games Captain and Head Prefect."
Overwhelmed by the moment, Carr was still trying to think of a suitably modest reply when a cry came: "Carr!" His mother sounded as shocked as though she had found him raping one of the servants.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sound and return to the gloriousness of the moment, but his uncle's hand had already dropped from his head. "Carr!" repeated his mother, and now she was beside him. "What are you doing?"
"He is greeting me in an appropriate manner," said his uncle, placing his cigar in the ashtray and reaching down to help Carr to his feet. "As is his right. He is not a child any more, Daisy. How are you, sweet one?" As he spoke, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
She was not to be mollified, though. "Geoffrey, you know what I mean. We do not practice the obeisance in this household. We are all equals here. —Variel, take my brother's coat at once."
Variel, who had appeared beside Jesse, murmured an acknowledgment and stepped forward. Without looking in Variel's direction, Uncle Geoffrey handed him the overcoat and hat and began drawing off his gloves. "Daisy, do I need to remind you that Carr has reached his journeyman years? Or that he will be entering university in the next sun-circuit? A tri-year after that, he will enter my House, and I assure you, the obeisance is practiced by the lesser masters of my House – both to me, and between lesser masters of different rank. I would have thought" – his voice grew dry – "that you would be pleased to witness your son offering service."
"That is not the point. —Drinks, Variel, right away. —The point is that the obeisance began in the days when all lesser masters were little more than slaves to the High Master. That is the sort of world we are fighting to abolish!" His mother stood upright, her body framed by the banner behind her.
"Mm" was Uncle Geoffrey's only reply. As he turned to take a glass of sweet cider that Variel had miraculously managed to pour and serve in the space of seconds, he gave Carr one of the quick, ironic smiles that had thrilled Carr from his childhood. As usual, Carr felt a familiar churning in his stomach, as though his pleasure at seeing the smile was a betrayal by himself of his parents' ideals, even though he had never acknowledged his uncle's ironic smiles in any visible manner.
"Really, Daisy," his uncle said mildly, "for a woman who is admirably concerned with providing freedom to the downtrodden, you sometimes treat your own son as though he were a mere puppet of your will. You may, of course, enforce whatever rules you wish within your own House, but why not reconcile yourself to the matter now, if Carr will be making the obeisance in four sun-circuits' time?"
"You cannot require that of him," his mother said quickly as she took a glass of cider from Variel's tray.
"No," said Uncle Geoffrey, "I will not require that of him." The change of verb made his mother shift uneasily. "The high law does not require the obeisance by offspring of a High Master, or their spouses, which is why I do not require it of you or your husband. And because I have chosen Carr as my heir, I will not require it of him. But it seems not to have occurred to you, Daisy, that what you want is not necessarily what your son wants."
At this most terrible of moments – when his mother opened her mouth to start the conversation that Carr had been staving off for two tri-years – Carr's father appeared at the mansion's front door, like one of the rescuing messengers that the goddess Mercy sent. "Geoffrey!" he said with surprise, but also, Carr noted with relief, with pleasure. "I had not expected to host you so soon again after the High Masters' council this season. What brings you home like this? Variel— Ah, I see that you already have a drink."
"Thanks to your remarkably efficient valet, I do." Still not looking Variel's way, Uncle Geoffrey set his half-drunk cider on the servant's tray. "How are you, Benjamin? Is work treating you well? You look tired."
Carr's father rubbed his face as Variel, setting the tray aside, hurried over to take his coat. "I am, rather. —No, Variel, by all that is sacred, I know how to take off my own coat. —I've been up to all hours with this latest problem at the office – you've heard of it, I suppose? And we've been having arguments with Rudd over Third Landstead matters again. And the ice-house refrigeration has chosen this moment to threaten to break down. It's like trying to juggle three balls at once."
"Well," said Uncle Geoffrey, taking up his cigar again, "in such cases, usually the best solution is to give away one of the balls."
There was a small silence as Carr's mother frowned with lack of comprehension. Variel – having backed away rapidly when Carr's father batted away his helpful hands – turned to whisper something t
o Cook, who had emerged from the kitchen. Then Carr's father said, "I'm very glad, Geoffrey, that my business is not under your direct supervision. You must drive your lesser masters mad by tacking straight in front of their bow like that."
Uncle Geoffrey turned to tap his cigar over the ashtray. "I only do it to my opponents, actually."
Carr's mother laughed. "Well, thank goodness that we don't fall into that category."
There was a small, awful silence. Uncle Geoffrey had turned back and was looking Carr's father straight in the eye. Even Carr's mother seemed to sense that all was not well; she looked uneasily between her older brother and her husband, whose expression had turned hard as a fossil.
It was Uncle Geoffrey who broke the silence by saying, "But I am being rude by ignoring your guest. I assume that this is your guest, Daisy?" He smiled at his sister.
"He is mine," Carr inserted, grateful for the change in conversation, though it merely meant that the inevitable had been delayed until a moment when his mother was not in the room. "May I present Comrade Jesse of Tenarus, my guest-friend? Jesse, this is my uncle, Geoffrey Gray, High Master of the Second Landstead."
"How do you do, sir?" Following some sort of balance between politeness and lack of subservience that had been measured only by himself, Jesse offered his arm. "I've heard a good deal about you since my arrival in the Dozen Landsteads."
"Indeed?" Unlike Rowlett, Uncle Geoffrey did not hesitate to respond to the well-meant though immensely incorrect greeting of the foreigner; he reached out and shook Jesse's arm. "Not all of it ill, I hope."
Jesse smiled. "No more ill words than good ones, I'd say."
Uncle Geoffrey chuckled. "Honest lad. Well, I'm sorry to report that, by the standards of the Dozen Landstead, that makes me one of the more popular High Masters. —Ah, is dinner ready?" he asked, responding to Cook's futile attempts to signal Carr's mother. "Daisy, I forgot that you dine so early. I'd be glad to amuse myself in your husband's library until he is ready to—"
"No, no," Carr's father interrupted. "Not at all, Geoffrey. You are welcome to join us. I'm sure that we have enough made to host another guest."
"And if not, I can stir something together," his mother added brightly.
Cook gave a barely suppressed sigh. Jesse, standing behind the backs of Carr's parents, rolled his eyes. Uncle Geoffrey, catching sight of that, gave another of his little, ironic smiles. "I would not think of imposing on you in that manner, Daisy. Believe me, at my age, I should be eating less." He patted his stomach. "One serving will do for me, if the meal can be stretched that far." He directed his gaze at Cook rather than his sister as he spoke. Cook gave a nod as Carr's parents, without looking her way, insisted that it could. "Excellent!" said Uncle Geoffrey, stubbing out his cigar. "More than the food, I look forward to the conversation. In this household, the discussions are always entertaining." And with the ironic smile still on his face, the High Master walked toward the door leading to the Death Wing.
o—o—o
Dinner was held in the formal dining room, of course. Variel served both of the older men. Uncle Geoffrey had left down at the dock, not only his boat and water-chauffeur, but also his valet and secretary and the other personal servants who invariably accompanied him, as well as his favorite liegeman. This was partly as a treat to the liegeman: he and most of the servants had once been watermen, working at this very dock, back in the days when Geoffrey Gray, as heir to the landstead, had run the House of His Master's Kindness, the Second Landstead's heirship House.
Partly, though, it was tact. Uncle Geoffrey's servants – as well as his liegeman – had a tendency to kneel to their master at every slight opportunity. This inevitably resulted in awkward moments in the House of His Master's Kindness, which was now run by an Egalitarian master and mastress.
Thankfully, the early conversation that evening did not enter into politics. Instead, everyone discussed their favorite dishes from around the Dozen Landsteads: planked shad, cold smoked menhaden, Ammippian fry-bread, fox-grape jelly, black mulberry pie, servants' muskrat pie and baked opossum with sweet potatoes, oyster "torch-bearers," which Carr's mother confessed with a laugh she had once sampled as a girl, not realizing they were made with dark rum. . . .
"And then, of course," said Uncle Geoffrey, pushing back his empty dessert dish, "there are foreign meals. I understand that, amidst 'space beverages' and 'freeze-dried cubes' and other monstrosities, some very fine gelatin 'refrigerator cakes' are made in the First Landstead – no cooking required."
"You call the First Landstead a foreign country?" From the far end of the table, Jesse looked up from where he was playing soldier with his silverware. He had contributed little to the conversation about food, saying only that he knew nothing of fine dining. From the smells that emanated from the dependency on the days that Jesse helped in cooking the servants' meals, Carr guessed that Jesse had a narrow definition of "fine dining."
Uncle Geoffrey peered at Jesse over the rim of his wine glass. "The First Landstead – as it chooses to term itself – is a foreign country. It was Yclau's First District for many tri-centuries. It has only recently broken away from the Queendom of Yclau, and it retains all the foreign elements of that nation: pollution that spills into our portion of the Bay and kills the seafood, nuclear scientists who plot new ways in which to destroy mankind, technologies that make men's minds turn to thoughts of machinery, rather than to thoughts of transformation . . ."
"Which is just as likely to occur with the limited technology of the upper landsteads," Carr's father countered. He was sitting relaxed in his chair, framed by the mantelpiece that was flanked by two alcoves topped with ornamental scallop-shells. "Be fair, Geoffrey. Spiritual demise comes from human hearts, not computers. Indeed, we use mechanical calculators in the Bureau of Employment . . . though I'd far rather we used computers. They can handle more complex calculation of statistics."
Uncle Geoffrey gave him a steady gaze. "The use of computers in the Dozen Landsteads violates the Embargo Act of 1912."
"But it need not. If it deals only with numbers, a computer is nothing more than a sophisticated calculator. Calculators were invented before 1912; their use in the Dozen Landsteads has not been banned by the High Masters. Indeed, I believe that the first calculator is quite old, isn't it?" He appealed to Carr.
"I think so," replied Carr. He disliked it when his father turned to him like this, to support a point he was making against his brother-in-law, but this seemed a relatively safe subject. "I recall one of my school masters saying that Master Blaise invented a mechanical calculator in the seventeenth tri-century. Master Fowler, who immigrated here from one of the Yclau colonies, built the first balanced ternary calculator in 1840; his invention is the reason that all the world's calculators and computers use a base three system. And a couple of weeks ago, while I was working at the border, I met a university professor from High Mistress Mary's College in the First Landstead. He told me that a computer he was working on was designed to assist with the calculation and storage of government statistics. I could probably track him down if you wish, sir." He addressed this remark to his uncle.
"Hmm." His uncle stroked his chin. "Possibly, possibly. It would depend on whether safeguards could be built into the machine to prevent it from being used for illicit purposes. I do recognize that your clerks are weighted down with statistical calculations, Benjamin."
This was a generous concession, and Carr's father acknowledged it with the slight bob of the head that was the closest he ever came to bowing to the High Master.
"Well!" Setting aside her napkin, Carr's mother rose. The moist air of the evening Bay breeze had mussed the bun on her head, so that stray bits of hair trailed down her neck, making her look like a schoolgirl. "When the conversation turns to mathematics and machines, I know it's time to let the men talk. I'll be in the sitting room if anyone needs me."
This was a generous concession too; Carr knew that his mother wanted nothing better than to follow t
he entire conversation, but her brother disliked womanly incursions into political discussions, and so she contented herself with listening to the detailed account that her husband would invariably supply her with afterwards.
All of the men at the table had risen when she did, except for Jesse, who seemed to be puzzling out the meaning of this ritual. Carr's father – who had retained only such aspects of traditional male behavior toward women as would honor his wife – went to the door and held it open for her. They smiled at each other as she left.
"She grows sweeter every year," Uncle Geoffrey commented as the men reseated themselves. "Benjamin, I know that you prefer a quiet mansion, but you really ought to have guests over more often, for Daisy's sake. In my day, Daisy was the belle of every ball held here."
Carr's father raised his hands in a helpless manner. "Geoffrey, I've encouraged her to bring people here and to visit others, but the number of snubs she receives . . . It will be easier, once there are more of our kind in this landstead."
Uncle Geoffrey, who had selective hearing when he chose not to pursue a particular battle, waved his hand toward the serving table, where the emptied dishes had been placed. "That was a very fine fricassee, Benjamin. Honga River oysters, I take it?"
Carr checked his pocket-watch. Less than a tri-minute since his mother left the room. His uncle was wasting no time.
"I don't follow you." His father's voice was stiff.
"Carr? I understand you were there." As Carr had dreaded might happen, his uncle turned to him. A furrow appeared in his father's brow. At the end of the table, Jesse's eyes glinted with amusement.
Carr took a deep breath. "Father, when Jesse and I were landing at Hickory Cove, the Oyster Navy gave chase to a Western Shore fleet. . . . It looked as though it might be our fleet." That was as far as he felt he could go.
"It was most certainly your fleet." Apparently satisfied, the High Master turned his attention back to Carr's father. "I overheard your watermen bragging about the raid to my servants tonight. Benjamin, this is the fourth time this season . . . and goodness only knows how many times you have stolen Third Landstead oysters for over three tri-years. This must stop. You are making me the laughing stock of the High Masters' Council."
Carr's father, who had not budged his gaze from the High Master, drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. "Let us say – for the sake of argument – that it was this House's fleet. Geoffrey, you know as well as I do how unfair the fishing laws are. The laws say that fleets must stay within the boundaries of the rivers and the Bay sections of their landsteads. But it's the Third Landstead's tongers who suffer most from these laws. Tonging can only be done in the rivers and in the shallows near the Bay coast; the tongs aren't long enough to reach into the deeper parts of the Bay. If you would withdraw the Oyster Navy from the Bay and allow our dredging ships to harvest oysters from any part of the Bay, we'd have no need to enter into tongers' territory—"
"Benjamin." His uncle's voice was quietly firm. "The place for such arguments is at the council. As regent to Carr, you have a voice there; you can argue in favor of a change to the laws. What you cannot do is continue to flagrantly defy the laws with your fleet. I have been exceedingly patient with you, Benjamin, but you are stealing oysters from the mouths of the Third Landstead's servants—"
"Servants!" Now Carr's father was on his feet. "You dare to speak to me of the welfare of servants? After you and all the other High Masters have refused these many tri-decades to permit the use of labor-saving technology that could free up the servants to more creative tasks? After you repealed the Act of Celadon and Brun, which allowed servants to rise to the ranks they deserved?"
"You had a voice in that discussion as well." Uncle Geoffrey remained in his seat, unmoved. "It is thanks to you that the Abuse of Power Act was passed at the same time that the Act of Celadon and Brun was repealed. Traditionalists, Reformed Traditionalists . . . we all agree with you that the welfare of the servants must be taken into account—"
"And how many servants were raped over the tri-centuries before I finally persuaded you to outlaw such behavior?" The voice of Carr's father had turned harsh. "How many liegemen were treated as though they were mere menial workers? How many servants are forced to remain menial workers, because you refuse to concede that all men and women are born equal, and that their transformation occurs after birth, as they seek for themselves their destinies? If you would allow simple changes, such as the use of robots to assist the hard-working servants—"
"Technology has destroyed the cultures of the other Midcoast nations!" Now Uncle Geoffrey's voice was rising too; his hand was clutching his napkin. "Thanks to advanced technology, the environment of the First Landstead has become little better than a pigsty. This is not the sort of world I will permit to be passed on to my heir—"
"Your heir!" screamed Carr's father. The servants, who had been staying very still since this battle began, edged slightly away. "Your heir used to read scientifiction under the bed covers when he was a boy! You know nothing about the needs of the people you rule; you know nothing about your own heir—!"
"Please."
His word, barely more than a whisper, transformed the scene. The servants let out their breaths softly. His father and uncle turned to look at him immediately. Jesse, who had been using pencil and napkin to keep score of the points made, started a third column with Carr's name on it.
Carr turned his head to look at all of them. "Please," he said softly. "Master . . . Father . . . I would very much appreciate it if you would not involve me in your quarrels."
After a moment, his uncle nodded. "Well spoken, nephew. You are not a weapon for us to use in battle. —Benjamin." Uncle Geoffrey turned his attention to Carr's father, who had passed to the stage where he was white-faced and shaking. "You told me long ago that you could not tolerate being issued flat orders, liege-master to liegeman, but that you would always listen with deep consideration if I spoke to you man-to-man. Very well; I have always done so, which is the reason why this dispute over your fleet's actions has lasted as long as it has. But there is no reason why such manly discussions should take the form of shouting. We are civilized men; we can discuss this in a civilized manner."
Carr's estimate of his uncle's generosity rose to a peak. His father, though, was in no condition to accept the gift. As was always the case after his rages, his eyes had turned glazed. He said in a trembling voice, "I cannot speak to you further. I cannot." And without waiting for permission, or even making his intentions clear, he left the room.
Carr's mother, who must have heard the shouting, made a plaintive enquiry in the hallway. There was no response except the sound of feet running, first down the hallway, and then up the stairs. Soon a door slammed upstairs. Softer footsteps followed: Carr's mother, going to comfort her husband, as she always did in the hours after his red rages drained him.
Carr's uncle, who had never fully grasped the sad pattern of these changes of mood, was frowning now. Carr thought, with deepening disquiet, that the consequences of this evening's conversation were likely to be even graver than he had feared.
o—o—o
There was a long silence after Carr's father left, punctuated only by the soft rattle of dinnerware in the corner of the room, where Variel and Bat were preparing the after-dinner coffee; Carr's parents were teetotallers in deference to Carr's mother's family, who were Traditionalists. Then Jesse said, "As long as we're going to be killing each other over politics . . ."
Carr, who had just been given a cup by Bat, choked on his coffee. Uncle Geoffrey merely looked amused. "You have something to add on this subject?"
"Nah, just questions. I mean, you've been tossing around a lot of terms tonight that I'm unfamiliar with: Traditionalist, Reformed Traditionalist, Egalitarian. . . ."
Uncle Geoffrey raised his eyebrows as he picked up the cup of coffee that Variel had just set down. "I had assumed that you were an Egalitarian. Haven't you adopted the title of Comrade Jesse?"
"Yeah, it sounds friendly," Jesse replied cheerfully. "Comrade, friend, mate . . ."
Uncle Geoffrey snorted with amusement. "I see. Well, then, I suppose I should ask: Are you a believer in rebirth?"
"Reincarnation, you mean?" Leaning back in his chair, Jesse shrugged. "I was raised to believe in gods, the final battle for victory – that sort of thing. I don't really give religious stuff much thought. Theology bores me."
"Well, then," said Uncle Geoffrey settling his cup carefully onto his saucer, "it may be somewhat difficult for me to answer your question. You see, the political parties in the Dozen Landsteads are based on doctrinal divisions between the believers in rebirth."
"Yeah?" Jesse leaned forward and placed his chin on his fists, a gesture that Carr had come to associate with: "Jesse in readiness to tear your theories apart."
"Yes," replied Uncle Geoffrey. If he had recognized that Jesse had taken a battle stance – which, being Uncle Geoffrey, he undoubtedly had – he was preferring to leave the matter unacknowledged for the moment. "Here is the common ground that all believers in rebirth share: We believe that there is meaning to our lives. We believe that our lives reflect what we have done in our previous lives – that our states of being are not simply arbitrary. We believe that if we do good in this life, we will be reborn as a person whose character reflects the improvements we made to our character in our previous life. If we fail to act in a morally upright manner, our rebirth will be delayed or, in extreme cases, not permitted. We will be trapped in the changeless world of afterdeath."
"Huh" was Jesse's uninformative commentary on this. "So what do you disagree about?"
Uncle Geoffrey began to speak, stopped, and began again. "Let me start with the most traditional form of belief in rebirth, which, quite logically, calls itself Traditionalism. We Traditionalists believe that all men are reborn into ranks that reflect our past deeds. If we were servants in the past and were obedient to our masters, then we may have risen in rank to become a lesser master. A lesser master may be reborn to a higher master-rank until he is finally reborn to the highest birth-rank: heir to the High Master. In all cases, this rise in rank requires that the master carry out his duties with the utmost faithfulness. If he does not, he will risk being lowered in rank in his next life."
"Uh-huh," replied Jesse. "So if you do really good, what are you going to become after you die? A Higher Master?"
Uncle Geoffrey smiled into his coffee cup. "I do not know. And I do not speculate upon such matters. That is the mark of a Traditionalist, you see: we dislike speculating on the details of the doctrine of rebirth. In particular, we consider it to be spiritually dangerous to speculate on whether a particular person is a reincarnation of a historical figure. If I were to say that I was the rebirth of the first-tri-century master who collected the sayings of Remigeus and turned them into law, I would be showing pride that could lead to the lowering of my moral worth, and therefore to the lowering of rank in my next life. If I were to say that someone else was the rebirth of that master . . . Well, then I would be merely foolish. It is impossible to know such things, and is therefore a distraction to the real business in our lives, which is to improve our moral worth so that we can rise in rank and honor in our next life. —Do you have any questions so far?"
Jesse's eyes were narrowed by now, but all that he said was, "Yeah. Who's Remigeus?"
Carr choked on his coffee for a second time. Jesse patted him helpfully on the back. Sounding less amused than before, Uncle Geoffrey said, "He is the founder of our spiritual and constitutional system. He is said to have been the first man who was reborn. He is undoubtedly the man whose sayings form the constitutional foundation for the Dozen Landsteads – and originally Yclau as well, although that queendom has sadly strayed from its roots. In the Dozen Landsteads, no act can be passed that is fundamentally opposed to the principles laid down by Remigeus. Over and over, his sayings have proved their worth to new generations of Landsteaders."
Jesse nodded. "And the Landsteaders who aren't Traditionalists? They believe this too?"
"Oh, most certainly. That is a common ground for all Landsteaders, though we frequently disagree on the application of this belief. But let me continue. The second of the three doctrinal parties consists of the Reformed Traditionalists. Like the Traditionalists, they believe that men are born into ranks that reflect our past lives. And like the Traditionalists, they believe that it is wrong to speculate on one's personal previous lives. Unlike the Traditionalists, however, they believe that it is legitimate to state that someone other than oneself is the reborn soul of a person who lived in the past. In particular, they believe that the great founder of our laws, Remigeus, was reborn as a High Master named Celadon."
"Yeah?" Jesse tapped his fingers on the table with his "Finally we've gotten to the point" gesture. "Now, this Celadon guy I've heard of. He was the one that the Act of Celadon and Brun was named after, right? He believed that masters could become slaves, and slaves could become masters."
"Yes," said Uncle Geoffrey, keeping his eyes fixed on Jesse as Variel poured him more coffee. "Though it would be more precise to say that he believed that a slave could become a master in a single lifetime. We all agree, you see, that men can change ranks once they have been reborn. The Reformed Traditionalists, though, state that Celadon was correct in believing that it is proper for us fallible humans to determine when a man has risen in worth and therefore deserves the title of master. They believe this because, speculating on matters where Traditionalists are silent, they have decided that Celadon was Remigeus reborn, and therefore Celadon's sayings are part of the constitutional basis of the Dozen Landstead's laws."
"Ooooh-kay," said Jesse. "I'm beginning to see where the politics come in. And the Traditionalists don't think that Celadon was Remigeus, so they say, 'Stuff his ideas.'"
Frowning, Uncle Geoffrey said, "If I follow your idiom correctly, then yes: We Traditionalists do not believe that it is possible to know whether Celadon was Remigeus. In theory, it is possible to be a Traditionalist and still support the Act of Celadon and Brun, not because the act is constitutionally required, but because it is a sound act. But in fact I know of no Traditionalist who supports the Act of Celadon and Brun. From the Traditionalist point of view, fallible humans do not have the right to determine whether a man should be a master or a slave – or rather, since the slaves were long ago emancipated, a master or a servant. That decision of whether a man should be a master or servant ought to be made by whatever power it is that determines what rank we are born into. Therefore, Traditionalists – I am speaking now of the political party – oppose the rising in rank from a servant to a master within a single lifetime. We do allow masters to rise in rank during a single lifetime, and a servant may, by judicious effort, rise in status within his House. But that is as far as we consider it correct for humans to meddle in. We consider it to be overweening pride for the courts to declare, 'This man, who was reborn as a servant, is actually a master.'"
Jesse was smiling now, looking more delighted than he ever had when talking with Carr's parents. "Right. So you're against pride and idle speculation, while the Reformed Traditionalists like to meddle in matters where they shouldn't. What about the Egalitarians?"
"They are – if you will forgive me for using such a deprecatory phrase in this House – the radicals." Uncle Geoffrey set his cup aside, and Variel unobtrusively retrieved it. "They hold to extremes that neither of the other parties will tolerate."
Jesse snorted. "You guys are sure dabbling in conservatism if you think the Egalitarians are radicals. But okay, they're the ones that everyone hates, I guess. Why?"
"We disagree with the Egalitarians," Uncle Geoffrey said carefully, "because they do not believe in rebirth in any sense in which that doctrine has been understood for twenty tri-centuries. The Egalitarians say that rebirth is merely a metaphor for the spiritual changes that a person undergoes in a single lifetime. This being the case, they refuse to link rank with rebirth;
they say that we are all born equals, and that our rebirth is reflected purely by how we live our lives."
Uncle Geoffrey took up his cigar again. Variel, his hands filled with the coffee pitcher, was caught off-guard, but Bat, always quick in these matters, stepped forward from where he was standing against the wall, struck a match, and lit the cigar. Uncle Geoffrey sucked in the smoke without turning his head. Bat retreated to the wall. Uncle Geoffrey continued, "If I may put this in purely regional and chronological terms, all Landsteaders and Yclau were Traditionalists until the fourteenth tri-century. By the end of the fourteenth tri-century, the belief that Celadon was Remigeus reborn had spread so far that half the Landsteaders and nearly all the Yclau were Reformed Traditionalists. As for the Egalitarian movement, that began in Yclau in the early twentieth tri-century, largely due to certain metaphorical passages in the writings of the first High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon – though he himself was a Reformed Traditionalist, it should be noted. Egalitarianism spread rapidly in Yclau, because it fit with certain social changes that were already taking place in that queendom – namely, the breakdown of our traditional system of masters being duty-bound to care for their servants. This breakdown has led, over time, to horrendous exploitations by Yclau employers of their employees. Alas, the Egalitarian system worked its pernicious way back to the Dozen Landsteads by way of the First Landstead. That was one of the reasons that the Embargo Act of 1912 was passed: to prevent foreign heresies from having a destructive influence on our land again. However, because the act was not retroactive, Egalitarianism remains legal. Most Yclau today are Egalitarian, and many First Landsteaders are, but Egalitarians remain very much a minority in the upper landsteads. The Egalitarians' beliefs, both spiritual and political, are an attack on the fundamental belief systems of most Landsteaders. —Have I put you to sleep yet?" Uncle Geoffrey smiled at Jesse.
Jesse laughed, handing his cup to Bat with a word of thanks. "Nope, your tale got more interesting toward the end."
"I assume, then, that you would classify yourself as an Egalitarian?" said Uncle Geoffrey, speaking around the cigar in his mouth.
"Me? No way. I'm an Abolitionist."
China crashed to the ground and shattered; Bat had dropped Jesse's cup. Murmuring apologies, he dropped to his knees, red-faced. Variel hurried forward to help him collect the pieces. Carr felt his own face turn flushed.
By contrast, Uncle Geoffrey did not so much as bat an eyelid. "Indeed? I had heard that slavery is still legal in some nations overseas – a sorry state of affairs. The House of His Master's Kindness, as it happens, is descended directly from Master Fernao, the sixteenth-tri-century High Master who first proposed the abolition of slavery in the Dozen Landsteads. That is one of my family's legacies that I am most proud of: that servants are no longer required to work for employers who treat them with undue harshness. They can move on to work for morally upright employers."
"Uh-huh." Jesse's skepticism came through clearly. "Variel, how many Houses have you worked for?"
Variel flicked a glance over at Uncle Geoffrey, who nodded his permission for Variel to speak. The valet replied, "Only this one, sir."
"Other than Bat and Sally, are there any servants here who have worked for another House?" Jesse persisted.
"No, sir." Variel's voice remained utterly colorless.
"Odd, don't you think?" Jesse smiled at Uncle Geoffrey. "But hey, the servants here must just love their master and mastress."
"Perhaps," said Uncle Geoffrey quietly. "Or perhaps a man who comes from a society with no masters or servants may underestimate the bonds of loyalty that a good servant will show toward an imperfect master and mastress."
Jesse grimaced. "Ouch. Fair enough. You're saying, 'Shut up till you know more about what you're blabbing about.'"
"Something along those lines. Mind you," Uncle Geoffrey added as he moved to rise, "when you reach the point of proper knowledgeableness and maturity, I expect that your opinions will be well worth listening to. —Ah, thank you, Carr." This was as Carr hurried behind him to pull back his chair. "Comrade Jesse, if you should ever need to learn more about the topic of the bonds of allegiance, I suggest that you consult with my nephew. I can think of no one else who has such fine instincts on that matter – though he is, I regret to say, a Reformed Traditionalist."
Carr stepped back and waited until Variel had helped Uncle Geoffrey don his coat before he met his uncle's eyes. "With respect, master, I'm an Egalitarian, as my parents are."
Uncle Geoffrey smiled at him as Variel handed him his hat and gloves. "Yes, of course. My mistake. Well, Carr, it has been a delight to see you again, and to meet your guest-friend. As for your father . . . Tell him, please, that we will continue our discussion. At my House. Tomorrow evening at eight."
Carr lowered his eyes, as though he were the one taking the rebuke, not his father. "Yes, High Master." He thought of going down onto his knee again, but the servants were watching, and Uncle Geoffrey had already turned away. The High Master left the dining room without another word, accompanied by Variel.
"Summoned to the principal's office," remarked Jesse. "Nasty." Carr looked at him quizzically, and Jesse laughed. "Forget it. Look, can we talk?"
Carr refrained from pointing out that they were already doing so; he too was achingly conscious of Bat's presence. "Let's go outside," he suggested. "I'm tired, but I can survive a walk. 'My strength has waned, yet I will fight on for the sake of others.'"
"That sounds like a quotation," said Jesse as he steered Carr toward the door with an arm around Carr's shoulders. "Who said that?"
"Do you really have to ask?"
Jesse laughed. "I guess not. Master Remigeus again."
"No," replied Carr. "Slave Remigeus." And he smiled at Jesse's consternation.
Master and Servant (Waterman) Page 5