CHAPTER TEN
By good fortune, Rudd didn't kill Meredith after the match. By poor fortune, this was only because Rudd had gone home abruptly to spend time with his ailing father. By the time that Rudd returned, a week later, Meredith had already been wrapped tightly in barbed wire and had several grenade-balls exploded on his body.
The first and least unexpected punishment was his removal from the team. This took place in the changing room, with all of his teammates watching as Pembroke stripped Meredith's uniform from him. Then Pembroke took Meredith's House cap from his head and burned it.
After that came the games committee. Meredith had always considered that committee a less formidable body than the prefects' council of his House, simply because Rudd was not on it. But he had underestimated the effects of being gazed upon by eleven angry students from eleven Houses while the Games Master scribbled notes that would be delivered to the Head Master afterwards, in order to determine whether Meredith should be sent down.
There had arisen, at one alarming point in the proceedings, a possibility that Pembroke would be punished too, since the Captain had left a third back in charge of an important strategic manoeuver. Meredith had been forced to point out that he had disobeyed Pembroke's order to shoot from the Dredgers' trench rather than from the field. He half expected Pembroke to tell the committee about their earlier conversation in the changing room; when Pembroke did not, Meredith felt as though that broken object inside him had developed jagged edges that tore at his innards.
The committee had contented itself with beating Meredith. Eleven members, three strokes each; he had never had such a long beating, even under Rudd. By the end, he was screaming like a servant-child. Afterwards, he received looks of contempt from the committee members.
Carruthers had not been there. That was a mercy, until Meredith remembered that Carruthers was not there because he was still lying unconscious in the sanatorium.
After the games committee came the Head Master. Meredith had already resigned himself to being sent down; what actually happened was far worse. The Head Master was disappointed in him – very, very disappointed. He had expected better from Meredith; he had not thought that a talented footer such as Meredith would engage in such reckless carelessness. . . . Meredith stumbled out of the Head Master's office in tears, which earned him further contemptuous looks, this time from the Head Master's servants.
He had gone to dinner then; the moment he sat down at the table for his House, every student near him stood up and walked away. He knew that the games committee had not ordered that he be cut by the other students, but it appeared that the members of his House had made their own assessment of the proper punishment for the third back who, by committing a foul that forced the Tongers to forfeit the match, had lost them their chance at winning the Spring Term Cup.
Davenham was one of the students who now refused to speak to Meredith.
It had taken Meredith a week to get up the courage to visit his liege-master's bedroom to make his apology. Pembroke would not even allow him into the room. He had said coldly, "I have nothing to say to you," and had shut the door in Meredith's face.
And now came Rudd. Standing by Rudd's door, Meredith felt himself shuddering. He was so sick he was sure he would faint the moment he stepped over the threshold. He leaned against the wall next to the door, trying to stop shaking. Gradually, he became aware that Rudd was speaking to someone.
". . . would have thought you'd welcome this chance. If the pellet hadn't skimmed the side of your head, you'd be dead now. As it is, you were knocked unconscious with a concussion for over twenty-four hours—"
"I'm well aware of that fact." Carruthers's voice was dry. "I'm also aware that Meredith already received his punishment for that. What you're talking about is not his shooting of me, but his disobedience to his liege-master's orders. Why should I be burdened with disciplining another master's liegeman? For that matter, why are you involving yourself in this? It's a matter between Pembroke and Meredith."
"Pembroke referred the matter over to me." Rudd's voice was light. "As for why I'm letting you do it . . . Sweet blood, man, you act as though I'm making you sweat like a servant. I'm giving you a gift."
"I don't trust gifts from you." Carruthers's voice turned flat.
"No?" Rudd sounded positively cheerful now. "Shall I tell my father that? Shall I tell my poor, ill father that I presented a peace offering to the heir to the Second Landstead, and that the son of Comrade Carruthers spurned it? Perhaps I should tell my father's tongers too; they might like to know how dredgers act in response to overtures of peace."
There was a long silence. Then Carruthers said, in a voice so soft that Meredith could barely hear it, "You bastard-of-a-slave."
Rudd's only response was to laugh. Carr said something else, deep in the throat like the growl of a baited dog, which Meredith strained to hear. But at that moment a hand descended upon his shoulder.
He jumped in place and twisted round. Pembroke stood behind him. "Why are you eavesdropping on the Head?" his liege-master demanded.
"Sir, Master Rudd sent word that he wishes to speak with me, but he's with Master Carruthers. I wasn't sure . . ."
Pembroke, his eyes cold, reached past Meredith and knocked. Rudd shouted an invitation to enter. Pembroke opened the door and looked at Meredith. Meredith stepped through.
He turned his head to look at Pembroke, whom he expected to follow him into the room – it was one of a liege-master's duties, to be present at any major disciplining of his liegeman – but Pembroke had already closed the door. So, reluctantly, Meredith turned back toward the two Heads.
Their expressions were as Meredith might have expected: Carruthers's face was unrevealing, while Rudd's was gleeful. In his hand, he was twirling his cane – one of his great treasures, as he had said more than once. It had been a present from his father, at the time he first became a prefect. "Ah, Meredith," he said, "I thought you might want to have a chance to meet with the master you've been trying so hard to cozy up with." He tossed the cane to Carruthers, who caught it neatly. "Here you go, man."
Carruthers replied, just as soft as before, "I don't do this sort of thing in front of an audience."
Rudd's smile turned to a smirk. "I imagine not. If you need lubricant, it's in the cigar box on the table. Or you can make do without. Take as long as you like." As he spoke, he swaggered toward the door.
Meredith had already begun to move toward Rudd's table, at the foot of his bed. This was presumptuous of him, for Carruthers might prefer him over a chair, but he felt so sick now that he was sure he would faint like a girl at any moment. Pulling down his trousers, he laid his torso across the cold wood, panting to keep dizziness at bay. His skin had turned cold and clammy.
Carruthers said nothing. There was a space of stillness that allowed Meredith to contemplate what came next; he squeezed his eyes shut, striving to hold back the tears that were forming there. He must do credit to Master Pembroke, he reminded himself. Not that Pembroke cared. . . .
The crack of the cane as it landed shot through the room like the sound of a boat's bow crashing into a rock. Meredith gasped, but the cane had not yet struck him. Carruthers was using Rudd's old trick, of beating the chair first in order to raise Meredith's fear. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four strokes, five strokes . . . Meredith lost count after a while and simply lay in the cold pool of his sweat, shivering uncontrollably, feeling each wave of nausea as though it were a swell of winter-cold sea.
Carruthers was well past three times three times three in his promised punishment when he delivered a stroke which cracked so loud that Meredith felt as though he'd witnessed the cracking of the ice on every inlet in the Bay.
Then there was silence. Meredith covered his face with his arm. The tears were leaking out of his eyes now, heedless of his attempts at control; he was afraid that Carruthers would see, and that his contempt for Meredith would deepen. Meredith's throat ached in his effort to hold back the sobs there. H
e felt like the weakest girl in all of the Dozen Landsteads, crying before his well-deserved punishment had even been delivered.
After a while, he became aware that the silence had lasted overly long.
He wiped his face on his arm and cautiously looked back. The room was empty. Rudd's cane lay on the floor, broken in two.
o—o—o
After he had pulled up his trousers, Meredith stood for a long time, sure that Carruthers had departed only in order to fetch his own cane. The matter was finally settled by Rudd's entrance. He seemed purely delighted at the sight of his fractured cane.
"Carruthers told me he broke my cane on you," Rudd announced, kicking the pieces out of the way. "I told him it was worth the cost of the cane to hear the strokes he was making. Let me see the stripes."
With what little wits he had left, Meredith replied, "Sir, he doesn't want me to show them to anyone."
Rudd roared with laughter. "He took you in the backside first, didn't he? I could hear that it took him a while to get started with the cane. So much for the much-vaunted purity of the heir of the Second Landstead." The mixture of glee and contempt in Rudd – his delight in an enemy's misdeeds – sent another shiver of coldness through Meredith's body. He had a sudden vision of Rudd as High Master, exultantly reporting on how many deaths Comrade Carruthers's dredgers had caused.
"All right, get out," Rudd said cheerfully. "I don't have time to inspect you anyway; Pembroke is due here any minute now. You're excused from study hall tonight," he added in one of his periodic exercises in false magnanimity. "I don't suppose that you want to sit down any time soon, do you?" And with another roar of laughter, Rudd pushed him out the door.
o—o—o
An hour later – the pause was to allow him time to vomit into his chamber-pot and then make an attempt at cleaning himself up – Meredith stood in a recess in the corridor opposite Carruthers's rooms.
The corridor was still. The students in school were having their supper now, but Meredith, poking his head briefly into the dining hall, had seen that Carruthers was missing from the Second House's table. As a first-ranked master, he held the privilege of eating in his own rooms.
As Meredith watched in the shadows of the recess, a man emerged through the doorway across the corridor: Carruthers's valet. He did not notice Meredith; he was busy stripping off his white service gloves. As he departed, the corridor grew still again.
Meredith stared at the door, wondering again why he was here. To risk the possibility of stirring up Carruthers's anger? Surely Carruthers must know, without being told, how grateful Meredith was to him. If the Head of the Second House had not stayed to hear Meredith thank him – had not spoken a single word to Meredith – it must be because the very sight of the third-ranked lad who had nearly killed him was distasteful to him. No doubt he had acted as he had, not for Meredith's sake, but because he disliked being trapped by Rudd.
So why was Meredith standing in the Second House, trying to get up the courage to walk through the door in front of him?
No right duty that you perform as a master will break the bond of service that you offer to me. The words seemed to swirl in his head. For him to come to this House without his liege-master's permission – for the second time – was surely no right duty. But when had he ever possessed any bond with Pembroke? What little hope he had ever held of impressing Pembroke, he had tossed away on the playing field, along with his reputation and his honor. And now here he was, spreading the filth of his presence to Carruthers, to whom he owed so much.
The door was ajar. With his breath stayed and his chest clenched, Meredith walked across the corridor and cautiously opened the door.
He saw what he had expected he would see: an empty sitting room. As a first-ranker, Carruthers was privileged with a suite rather than the single study-bedroom that second-rankers received. He was free to share the second study-bedroom of his suite with anyone he chose: his fag, his liegeman – even, Meredith supposed, his valet. Rudd had given his own second study-bedroom to Pembroke, while Carruthers – Meredith had heard – shared his suite with his closest friend, Arthurs. But Master Arthurs was at supper now; Meredith had seen him at the dining hall, sketching a drawing of a computer on the tablecloth to show to the student next to him. His door was open, showing a room filled to the brim with not-quite-illegal machinery. Whatever illegal machinery he possessed was presumably well hidden.
Carruthers's bedroom door was closed.
Meredith wiped the sweat of his palms onto his trousers. The sitting room, unlike Arthurs's room, was very neat and orderly; Meredith supposed it was kept tidy by Carruthers's valet. It was tastefully furnished. Whereas Rudd had covered the walls of his sitting room with games medals – only a careful inspection would show that Pembroke had earned the medals, not Rudd – Carruthers's sitting room was stark in its simplicity. It held a table and two chairs where he and Arthurs might study together, a sofa for visitors, and a lamp burning coal oil – the local name for kerosene. The room's shades were drawn for the night.
Nothing more lay in the sitting room, not even a rug. The room looked like one of the chapels built by the Egalitarians, who scorned the traditional decorative designs for houses of worship.
Meredith looked again at the door. He could hear no sound emerging from it. For all he knew, Carruthers might already be in bed; after all, the Head was only recently released from the sanatorium. Surely it would be better for Meredith to leave now, rather than risk disturbing Carruthers's peace.
Meredith's knock on the door was barely louder than a mouse's sneeze. He heard some sound from inside: Carruthers's voice, though the words were unintelligible. His heart surging now in his uncertainty, he opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was dark. The only light came from the coal fire at the grate and a lamp sitting on Carruthers's desk, at the far end of the room. The Head was sitting at the desk, his back to Meredith. Without looking round, he raised his hand, clearly to silence whoever had entered. He scribbled a few more words onto the paper he was writing upon. Then, his chair scraping on the bare wood floor, he turned around to see who the intruder was.
For a moment, he simply looked, saying nothing. Then a smile – his soft, secret smile – played on his lips. "Ah," he breathed.
Meredith made no reply. With that single word – with that single smile – all of Meredith's inner pretenses had been stripped from him. He knew now why he was here. He knew that Carruthers knew why he was here. There seemed nothing more that Meredith could say.
"Have some cocoa," said the Head.
"Sir?" Meredith could hear the bafflement in his voice.
Carruthers waved his hand toward the grate. "Variel just brought me some cocoa. Pour yourself a cup and sit down. I have to finish this construe. It's due at my first lesson tomorrow morning."
Meredith mumbled some sort of acknowledgment of the order and took a step forward. Carruthers, swinging back to face his paper, added, "And lock the door."
Meredith froze in place. He stared at Carruthers's back, but the Head said nothing further.
Slowly, like a man wading through chest-high water, Meredith turned and closed the door; then he pulled shut the bolt-lock. Feeling unsteady now, he made his way over to the grate.
Like all of the grates in the first-rankers' rooms, it was built within the boarded-up section of wall that had once been a mighty fireplace, back when the school was founded. In those days, Meredith had gathered, entire hogs had been roasted on spits over the fireplace. Now, the only remaining concession to the reality that first-rankers liked to eat in their own rooms was a small grill hanging over the coals. On it was the pan of simmering cocoa. Using a towel that was hanging on a hook nearby, Meredith picked up the metal handle of the pan; then he paused to look around. He found the empty cups finally, standing all in a row on the lid of the coal box.
Carruthers was writing rapidly, each word jotted in a bold but neat hand. He had just reached the end of a line when he pau
sed. His eyes rose to look at Meredith, standing beside him with a steaming cup of cocoa, offered with both hands.
"Thank you," Carruthers murmured after a moment. Meredith carefully placed the cocoa on the desk, managing not to spill it. Then, feeling very weak, he made his way back to the pan of cocoa.
His stomach was roiling by now, but Carruthers had given his orders, so Meredith poured another cup of cocoa and looked around for a place to sit. To sit next to the door, on Carruthers's bed, was unthinkable. To sit on the floor seemed more fitting under these circumstances, but surely Carruthers would have been more explicit in his instructions if he had wanted that.
That left only one option: a battered old sofa in front of the fire. Presumably it was a piece of furniture that belonged to the school, handed down from one student to the next, and beloved in its raggedness for that reason. Meredith began to lower himself, then realized that he had very nearly seated himself on one of Carruthers's books. Hastily, Meredith moved to the far right end of the sofa before venturing a glance at the book cover. A Concise History of the Dozen Landsteads said the title, and the cover artist endeavored to live up to the promise of the title, depicting small scenes from each of the Dozen Landsteads. There was even a tiny picture of a domed city in the First Landstead. Meredith, leaning over and placing his finger under the picture, read the fine print there: "Prison City."
"Are you interested in Prison City?"
Meredith very nearly dropped his cup of cocoa. He stared up wordlessly at the Head.
Carruthers filled his silence by saying, "A friend gave me that book. He believed that any man who considers breaking the law should be aware of the possible consequences of his act."
Meredith stared down at his cocoa. He had witnessed Carruthers's boldness in the lesson-room – his willingness to state baldly certain unpleasant facts that most students would have stated in a sideways manner. It was said to be a trait he shared with his uncle, the High Master of the Second Landstead.
"Yes, sir," he whispered finally. "I'm aware."
He said nothing more. He could envision it all in his mind: Rudd's fury, Pembroke's coldness, the Head Master's disappointment, his father's broken heart. . . . Other than his father's heartbreak, what could happen to Meredith that had not already happened? He had lost his honor, he was scorned by all – and Carruthers was standing above him, awaiting further words.
"I'm willing to take the risk, sir." His voice was firmer this time, but still he could not lift his eyelids to look up; they were as heavy as oyster-filled tongs.
Carruthers touched his shoulder, very lightly. His voice was soft. "Then tell me in what manner you wish to serve me."
Meredith stared at the cocoa, sweet and delectable. The cup remained in his hands, untasted.
"All right." Carruthers's voice was barely louder than a whisper now. "Let me try a different question. In what manner do you not wish to serve me? What is it that you would rather not do?"
Meredith shifted his sweat-slick palms on the cup. He wondered whether he should say something about the rapes; then he dismissed the notion. It would be an open insult to hint that Carruthers might desire to act like Rudd, taking his pleasure on an unwilling man. Finally, Meredith managed to choke out, "Sometimes Master Rudd hits me for no special reason, simply because he's in a bad mood. And – and sometimes he laughs at me, when I'm in pain. I realize . . . I do realize that you may need to punish me, that accepting your punishment is part of my service, but if – if you could keep from laughing— I mean, unless you wanted—"
Carruthers's hand, tightening on his shoulder, silenced his further babble. The Head said, carefully and distinctly, "I will never raise my hand to you in anger, and I will never make mock at you. I swear that, by all that is sacred."
There was silence, as Meredith tried to think of what to say in response. Behind him, a shaded window overlooked the central courtyard; to the right of him, past Carruthers, lay the door leading to the sitting room, the corridor, and, eventually, the Third House. All was still.
And then he realized that, really, there was only one response he could make to Carruthers's vow. Placing the cup of cocoa on the floor, he slid out of his seat and turned his body in order to kneel in front of Carruthers.
He knelt on only one knee, the stance of a liegeman, but that was bold enough in itself. Placing his left arm behind his back, he grasped the inside of his right elbow and bowed his head. "Master," he said, in words he had spoken only once before in his life, at his confirmation to journeyman status, "what service do you require of me?"
He had received no reply to that question when he posed it to Pembroke. But now Carruthers answered him:
"Remove your clothes."
Master and Servant (Waterman) Page 29