The Hammer Part 16

They replied in kind; slightly more fluent, as you'd expect, but with no trace of hesitation, so that was all right. Clearly Gignomai wasn't regarded as a clownish country cousin. "Come and have some tea," he said, his voice successfully bright and cheerful. "You'll have to rough it, I'm afraid."

"We don't mind," Cousin Pasi answered (she had a nice voice, but it reminded him of someone else, and he s.h.i.+vered). "All part of the adventure, isn't it, Boulo?"

Gignomai noticed that there wasn't so much as a trace of mud on the practical, hard-wearing adventurers' boots, with their inch and a half heels. He was pleased to see that Arano from the wheelwright's had taken the hint and stuck the kettle on the fire. The handful of tea he'd stolen from Marzo Opello's storeroom, wrapped in a twist of paper torn out of an old account book, was going to come in handy after all.

Cousin Boulomai was agreeably quick to get to the point, almost before the tea was cool enough to drink. "The fact is," he said, "we've made ourselves a little bit too unpopular back home."

"I have, he means," Cousin Pasi interrupted.

"It was both of us," Boulomai said, and his tone of voice was a marker for a long story later, if Gignomai had earned it. "Anyway, we decided it might be a good idea if we cleared out for a while, till things have sorted themselves out. And we were at a bit of a loss where to go, and my uncle Ercho-Erchomai met'Andra, he'd be your second cousin once removed-said, why not go and visit the met'Oc? So we threw a few things in a bag and, basically, here we are."

Gignomai nodded pleasantly. "That's your s.h.i.+p out in the harbour?"

"Mostly," Cousin Boulomai replied. "We had it from our uncle Sphallomai when he died. I think some met'Alla cousins have something like a one-eighth share, but I don't think they're all that interested. Really it's just a pleasure yacht, not a business proposition."

Gignomai had heard about the bronze tube, which sounded a bit big for a telescope. Sphallomai would be Sphallomai met'Autou; Father had written him letters. He decided to let it pa.s.s, but keep his ears open. "Well," he said. "I gather you've met our lot. Presumably they told you, I'm not exactly in favour up there these days."

Cousin Pasi, interestingly, pressed her lips together, and her eyes were quite wide open. Cousin Boulomai did a kind of elegant half shrug that Gignomai had seen Father use on informal occasions. "We had sort of gathered," he said, "but these things happen. My dad threw me out when I was eighteen, but now we're the best of friends."

"I got a formal notice of disinheritance," Gignomai said. "I'm no expert, but I think that can only be overturned by a motion of the House."

Cousin Boulomai raised an eyebrow. "Can you still do those?" he said. "I thought they went out with trial by combat."

"Still legal," Gignomai replied, "as far as I know. Not that it matters, since all our property back Home's been confiscated anyway, and what we've got here really isn't worth having. But if you want to be on good terms with my father, you'd be better off not knowing me."

Boulomai shrugged. "We choose who we're on terms with," he said. "And obviously, a private family quarrel is none of our business."

Gignomai took a moment to consider them. He only had a moment; any longer, and it'd be obvious what he was doing. He covered the hiatus by dropping the tea into a tin jug and pouring in water from the kettle.

Young sprigs of the n.o.bility in self-imposed exile. From what she'd said, she'd done something, but he'd be prepared to bet her brother was mixed up in it too. They'd had time to go to the very best outfitters and be measured for their adventurer outfits, so presumably they hadn't escaped from the Guard by jumping out of a window. It was reasonable to a.s.sume they still had money at Home, contacts, the ability to get things done there even if they couldn't go there themselves. And the s.h.i.+p, of course. In all the many alternatives he'd contemplated, he hadn't included the possibility of a privately owned s.h.i.+p. It could, of course, change everything. But he knew better than to let one component, however fascinating, a.s.sume undue importance. Precipitate action was still to be avoided. Killing them and taking the s.h.i.+p, for example, would cause far more problems than it would solve, and besides, they hadn't done him any harm. A lot would depend, of course, on what they intended to do.

"So," he said, "will you be staying long?"

They looked quickly at each other. "We rather thought we might," Cousin Boulomai said. "To be honest with you, it's not like we've got an infinity of choice. Not for a while, at least."

Gignomai poured tea into three enamel cups. "It's not as though I've got anything to compare it to," he said, "but my impression is, compared to Home, this is a pretty desperate place, unless you were thinking of setting up a cattle ranch. Or are your plans a bit shorter term?"

Cousin Boulomai reached out for his cup. "We'd be interested in a good investment opportunity, certainly," he said. "Preferably," he added, sniffing the steam in the approved manner, "something that isn't too closely connected with Home, if you see what I mean. Seizure of a.s.sets is a distinct possibility."

His sister nudged him in the ribs, a small movement that Gignomai wouldn't have seen if he hadn't been looking for it. "Boulo worries," she said. "But, yes, we do need to think about earning a living."

Gignomai had been wondering how much they knew about him. Now he had a pretty good idea. "Well," he said, "far be it from me to promote myself, but I believe that what we're doing here has quite a good future. Of course, I would say that."

"Tell us about it," Boulomai said.

"Oh, it's quite simple and mundane," Gignomai replied. "As you probably know, the Company has an import monopoly here. We're forbidden to manufacture finished goods, and everything we use has to come in on a Company s.h.i.+p. Basically, they pay us in pots and knives for the ridiculous quant.i.ties of beef we s.h.i.+p out. That and the rent, or tax or tribute or whatever you like to call it, more or less covers everything the farmers here can produce, over and above their own subsistence. It's a rotten system, and we plan on doing something about it."

Boulomai pursed his lips. "Very public-spirited of you."

"Quite. And it's a living for me, since I've been thrown out, and not without a certain slight amus.e.m.e.nt value."

"If there's a monopoly," Cousin Pasi said, "aren't you breaking the law?"

Gignomai grinned at her. "Not yet," he said. "As I'm sure you know, this isn't colony land. This is the territory of the Rosinholet, who were here before our lot arrived, and we're under their protection, so colony law doesn't affect us. We'll only be illegal once we start selling things to the colonists. In any case, there's no garrison here and no customs office; I gather you met our entire civil service when you landed-the rather dazed-looking man sitting on a barrel," he explained. "As far as colonial government's concerned, he's it. I'm not saying they wouldn't send in a platoon of soldiers if they find out what we're doing but, really, who's going to tell them? It's in everybody's interest to keep quiet."

Boulomai digested this for a moment or so. Then he said, "Won't they notice, though? I mean, presumably your people will stop sending cattle."

"Not altogether," Gignomai said, "just gradually less and less. We've still got the taxes and the rent to pay, remember. But it's a question of cost effectiveness. If all we send is the value of the tax and the rent, pretty soon it won't be worth their while maintaining their fleet of expensive cattle transports. They'll reach a point where they start losing money, and then they'll pull out."

"Won't they wonder why there's so much less beef being produced?"

Gignomai nodded. "They may do," he said. "In which case, we sing them a lot of sad songs about disease and spoilt hay harvests and rivers running dry. Farming's a precarious enough business at the best of times; it won't be hard sounding plausible." He paused to sip his tea. It tasted revolting, but his cousins had drunk theirs without any sign of discomfort. Father had said once, in an unguarded moment, that what he missed most was tea, and the next day Luso had sent a man to burgle the store. "This colony is only a very small part of the Company's business," he said. "I found some figures in one of my father's books. The vast majority of their land and stock holdings are in the south-eastern provinces; we're just a sideline." He sipped a drop more tea. It got better as you got used to it. "At one time, of course, they had great plans. There's plenty of room out here, after all, so there's unlimited scope for expansion. But they could never raise the necessary manpower. People just didn't want to come here unless they absolutely had to, and the sort of people they could force into coming weren't the kind who make useful, productive farmers. We're an experiment that failed, luckily for us."

He stopped. The cousins waited to see if there was going to be any more, then shared another quick glance. "It sounds like it could well be the sort of thing we had in mind," Boulomai said. "How long before you're up and running?"

"Ah." Gignomai put down his cup. "That depends. At the rate we're going now, not till the spring. It's the same basic problem, you see: manpower. Even if I had the resources, I couldn't just go round the farms recruiting. It'd cause a problem-not enough people left at home to do the work-and I'd make myself unpopular, and then who'd want to buy my stuff? People want cheaper tools and tableware, but not if it means they're left short-handed on the farm. You see, it's not like Home. There are no superfluous people here. That'd be a luxury we couldn't afford. So I'm condemned to being a small-scale operation, at least until we're shot of the Company and people actually start getting to keep some of what they produce. And that's a long time away."

Boulomai nodded slowly. "I take your point," he said. "But you also said, it depends. That implies there's an alternative."

"Well." Gignomai looked down at his hands for a moment. "Let's see," he went on, "your s.h.i.+p's got a crew of, what, twenty?"

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen," Gignomai repeated. "Now, either you send your s.h.i.+p home, which I don't think you really want to do, or else you've got to feed and house those men while you're here."

"That's not really a problem," Boulomai said. "We're not entirely dest.i.tute."

"Quite," Gignomai said. "But-well, I'm no expert, heaven knows, but I'm guessing that a s.h.i.+p's crew's got to include a fair number of skilled men: carpenters, sail-makers, probably men who can do a certain level of metalwork."

"I imagine so," Boulomai said.

"There you are, then," Gignomai replied cheerfully. "There's your investment in return for a reasonable share of profits. Besides, at this point in the proceedings we don't particularly need skilled men, just pairs of hands. Once the factory's built, they can learn from my people. Actually, we'll all be learning together, so really it won't make much odds." He paused, shrugged slightly, looked away. "Anyway, it's an idea," he said. "If it's not the sort of thing you had in mind, that's fine."

"We'll give it some thought," Boulo said. "It sounds quite splendid, but I suppose we should be grown-up and sensible and not rush into anything. Besides," he added as an afterthought, "we really ought to ask the men what they think about it."

Lumen Tereo, as she then was, married Ciro Gabela on the day they both turned nineteen. At which point, the colony breathed a sincere yet wistful sigh of relief. No question but that Lumen was the most beautiful girl the colony had ever produced, and one of the kindest, sweetest-natured and hardest-working. She was a living contradiction of every grandmother's a.s.sertion that a pretty face, as opposed to sterling virtues, meant nothing but trouble. With Lumen safely married, life could get back to normal, lesser courts.h.i.+ps could be resumed, and young men who'd dared to dream were at liberty to settle for second best, which they did, in droves.

Four years and a baby daughter later, Lumen Gabela was still the prettiest. Now, though, she was making an entirely different kind of trouble. Her house was the cleanest and tidiest in the colony; disapproving old women who went to call on her came home and started scrubbing floorboards. Nothing was wasted in her kitchen or storeroom, and guests declared that her pigs' knuckles on pickled cabbage was a dish fit for a great house back Home. As for Ciro Gabela, he seemed to go though life in a sort of daze, and when men asked him what it was like, he just shook his head and refused to say anything.

Midway between the Gabela and the Heddo farms was an old linhay. It wasn't much-four walls and a roof, with a part.i.tion down the middle-and n.o.body was quite sure who owned it. But Ciro Gabela and Lio Heddo had always been good friends, so there wasn't a problem. Each stored his hay for the upper pastures on his side of the part.i.tion, and when the thatch needed seeing to, they did it together.

When the strangers arrived, Lio Heddo was the first man to offer a billet for their six oarsmen. He later said that they'd promised him a thaler a week, which he never received. The men stayed in the barn where they'd been put and, to begin with, talked to n.o.body. Later, when Lio's son Scarpedino began taking them their food, they loosened up a little, mostly because Scarpedino took to hanging about for hours by the door. They spoke to him-go away-and when that had no effect, they allowed him to come in and sit with them for a few minutes while they ate. They'd been cooped up in the barn for several days by that point. Scarpedino said they seemed to spend most of their time playing chequers, on a board made from an old sheet of tin torn off a derelict feed bin, using pieces they'd whittled from a broom handle. He went to the store and spent his entire fortune, half a thaler, on a scrimshaw chess set that had come as part payment for a s.h.i.+p's captain's booze debt. He took it to the men and taught them the game, which his parents played occasionally. Thereafter, it was next best thing to impossible to get any work out of Scarpedino. He spent all his time with the strangers' men, and refused to say what he did there, or what the men were like, or what their employers' plans were.

Two days after the strangers went to visit Gignomai met'Oc, Lumen Gabela went missing. Ciro Gabela a.s.sumed she'd been called back to her father's house on account of sudden illness or the like. The Tereo house was a day's walk east, and Ciro had a batch of young bullocks to dehorn. He waited for three days, heard nothing, and walked to the Tereo house. They hadn't sent for Lumen, or seen anything of her.

When he got home, he found Lio Heddo and a few neighbours waiting for him. Lio had found Lumen's head buried in the hay on his side of the linhay. The head appeared to have been cut off with an axe found lying in the gra.s.s twenty yards from the linhay door. The tongue had been torn out, and there were other disfigurements. There was no sign of the rest of the body.

Ciro had to be taken home; two old women from the Paveta house stayed with him. n.o.body had any idea as to what should be done. Lio Heddo and his neighbours held a brief, rudimentary parliament outside the linhay, and resolved to send the youngest Paveta boy to town, where somebody was bound to know. Whether anybody was aware at this point that Scarpedino was also missing is unclear.

A barely quorate town meeting deputised Marzo Opello from the store, in spite of his many and pa.s.sionately expressed reservations. He left his wife and niece in charge of the store, since Furio refused to take leave from the factory project, recruited Ra.s.so's two youngest boys as his general staff, and drove out to the Gabela house in a donkey-cart, with the Ra.s.so boys following on their ponies.

Once he'd installed himself in the Gabela house he officially convened a commission of enquiry, following the forms and procedures set out in a book someone had found in the customs shed, left behind when the garrison was withdrawn. Since Ciro was still too ill to be questioned, he sent one of the Ra.s.so boys to the Tereo house, where Ciro's movements were confirmed: he'd been to see them, just as he'd said. Unfortunately, as Marzo quickly realised, that proved nothing. To judge from the state the head was in, Lumen Gabela had been dead for some time. It seemed overwhelmingly likely that she'd been killed shortly before Ciro noticed, or claimed to have noticed, that she'd gone missing. Marzo questioned the Heddo family about the axe, and Lio Heddo freely admitted it was his. It had belonged to his grandfather, but n.o.body had used it for a while because the head had come loose and they had a better axe anyhow, so it had been put in the barn, to be fixed some rainy day.

Marzo asked how long Scarpedino had been gone. Lio admitted he didn't know. They saw so little of him these days, it was hard to keep track. Before Lumen's disappearance? Lio shrugged. But that was beside the point, surely. There were six men living in the barn where the axe had come from; they were strangers, sailors, n.o.body knew the first thing about them. The facts, Lio didn't need to say, spoke for themselves.

At this point, a procedural problem arose. Marzo insisted that the regulations allowed him, as duly appointed investigating officer, to enlist such able-bodied men as he chose for a posse, with a view to interrogating the six men in the barn. Lio Heddo objected that Marzo's appointment was at best irregular and quite possibly entirely illegal, that he only had Marzo's word for it that there was any such regulation (Marzo had brought the book, but none of the Heddos could read) and that, in any case, Lio must himself be a suspect in the case, which disqualified him for posse service. Similar objections were raised by the Pavetas, the Otizzi and the Scilios, the only other families in the district. Marzo pointed out that he was unarmed, whereas the men in the barn might well not be; also, there were six of them, all undoubtedly skilled dockside fighters, whereas Marzo hadn't been in a fight since he was eleven years old.

Scao Otizzi suggested that the person most likely to be able to control the men was their master, the stranger, last heard of at the factory site. Marzo sent one of the Ra.s.so boys back to town, where Furio reported that the strangers had gone away and he didn't know where they were now. He a.s.sumed they'd gone back to the met'Oc, on the Tabletop.

Marzo drove back to town and convened a town meeting, rather better attended than the last one. Quoting verbatim from the book, he a.s.serted his right to enlist a posse. The meeting held that he had such a right, but since the town was outside the district in which the crime had been committed, he couldn't enlist any of them-it had to be neighbours-and Marzo should go back to the Pavetas, the Otizzi and the Scilios, and insist. Marzo refused. At this point, Estimo Fano the cooper suggested from the floor that Marzo should ask for help from the met'Oc.

The suggestion had the effect of silencing the meeting for some considerable time.

"I'm serious," Estimo said. "Why not? They've got men and weapons up there, they reckon they're n.o.bility, better than us. About time they did something for the community."

"You must be joking," Marzo said. "You want me to go up there and ask Luso met'Oc-"

"Why not?" Estimo repeated. "He won't eat you. After all, you're in business with that other met'Oc boy. Practically makes you family."

"Gignomai met'Oc's been disowned," Marzo pointed out. "Because he's friends with my nephew, I'm the last person they'll do a favour for."

It was at this juncture that Marzo, and the rest of the meeting, realised that Marzo had, by shared a.s.sumption, taken on himself the job of amba.s.sador to the met'Oc. Ra.s.so quickly proposed a motion formalising the appointment, which was pa.s.sed by an overwhelming majority (Marzo Opello voting against).

"We can't do this," Marzo continued to object, even though the vote had been taken and minuted. "For one thing, the met'Oc are outlaws. Asking them for help would be-I don't know-treason, or conspiracy or something."

"Who says?" Ra.s.so replied. "Where's it actually written down that the met'Oc are outlaws?"

"And anyway," Jano Velife the well-sinker pointed out, "the book says, the posse's got to be drawn from the district where the crime happened. You look at the map, you'll see the western edge of the Tabletop's just inside the district boundary." He grinned. He wasn't the sort of man who could easily disguise his emotions. "That makes them neighbours for the purposes of the statute."

Marzo, meanwhile, was thinking hard. "Better idea," he said. "Young Gignomai's got a parcel of men working for him these days, and they've got all manner of axes and adzes and sharp pointy things. And G.o.d knows, he owes me a favour."

Furio relayed the message; Gignomai replied that he'd have to think about it.

Meanwhile, events at the Heddo house had moved on. Because the Heddos had stopped sending food to the barn (because n.o.body was prepared to get that close), the six oarsmen had forced their way into the house and helped themselves to bacon, flour, pickled cabbage and beer from the store room. Lio Heddo had sent to town demanding justice, not to mention protection from further a.s.saults. In the meantime, he'd moved his family out to the Paveta house.

Furio brought back Gignomai's considered reply. He would like to be able to help, but he and his partners were artisans and businessmen, not soldiers. If they wanted someone military, he recommended his brother Lusomai, who positively enjoyed that sort of thing.

Marzo had a great deal to say about Gignomai when the town meeting reconvened. When he'd finished, he was reminded of the existing motion, requiring requiring him to go to the met'Oc. A further motion was pa.s.sed entrusting him with extraordinary plenipotentiary powers for the duration of the crisis. n.o.body was quite sure what that meant, but everybody agreed that it ought to be enough to get the job done. him to go to the met'Oc. A further motion was pa.s.sed entrusting him with extraordinary plenipotentiary powers for the duration of the crisis. n.o.body was quite sure what that meant, but everybody agreed that it ought to be enough to get the job done.

Ever since the strangers' visit, Gig had seemed preoccupied, distant, more so than ever. Having given it some thought, Furio was moderately certain he'd figured out why.

Almost inevitable, he thought, as he pa.s.sed nails to Turzo, who was nailing plates to the blades of the waterwheel. She's the first girl of his own age and cla.s.s he's ever seen, apart from his sister, and she's pretty enough, if you like them small and pointy. Fair enough. It had always been obvious that town girls, let alone country girls, didn't interest him. Furio couldn't help grinning when he thought how n.o.ble he'd been prepared to be, at first, when it became obvious Teucer preferred Gig to him. But Gig wasn't going to waste himself on a colonial. Cousin Pasi, on the other hand, was his own sort-he'd noticed the change in Gig's vocabulary and syntax when he'd been talking to her-and although she might be in some sort of trouble right now, she had a rich and powerful family back home, so whatever the trouble might be, it would probably blow over.

Was that what the met'Oc had thought, seventy years ago? he wondered. Had they arrived here in bespoke buckskin adventurers' outfits, with best-quality tools and equipment in hand-polished rosewood cases, bearing the trade labels of the finest City makers?

In any case, Gig's intentions and ambitions as far as his pretty cousin was concerned were none of his business. But he needed to talk to him about Marzo.

"Furio," think of the devil, "leave that, I want you here."

Furio grinned at Turzo, handed him a fistful of nails and scrambled down. Gignomai was leaning against the rim of the wheel, wiping sawdust out of his eyes. Furio noticed he'd skinned his knuckles which were bleeding, but Gig didn't seem to have noticed.

"Your f.u.c.king uncle," Gig said.

Oh, Furio thought. "What's...?"

Gignomai shoved a piece of paper at him. Furio glanced through it, cursed his uncle under his breath, and handed it back. "I'll talk to him," he said.

"You bet you will." Gig looked tired more than anything else. "You tell him we made a deal; all the supplies I need till the job's done. I don't construe that as meaning what he thinks he can spare when he's in a good mood. All right?"

Furio counted to five under his breath. "That's not what he's said," he replied calmly. "If he's run out of planed s.h.i.+ngles and nails-"

"One, I don't believe him," Gig snapped. "Two, if he hasn't got them in stock, he'd d.a.m.ned well better go out and get them from the lumber mill."

"Nails-"

"Someone's bound to have a few spare barrels of nails; it's just a case of getting off his backside and finding them. I can't have used every last four-inch nail in the colony."

Actually, Furio thought, that was a distinct possibility. "I'll talk to him," he said. "But please-"

"It's in his own interest anyway," Gig went on, as though to himself. "The sooner we're done, the sooner he can stop feeding us. If we're stuck here sitting on our hands for want of a few lousy nails, he'll be the main loser. But I suppose he's too thick to figure that out."

Furio breathed out through his nose. "My uncle isn't stupid," he said.

"He is, though." Gig frowned, as though aiming for perfect precision. "Cunning but stupid. Cunning is pulling one over on someone in a deal. Stupid is thinking you can cheat someone you regularly do business with and not pay for it in the long run. That's your uncle."

It was a valid summary of Uncle Marzo's life in commerce, but that was beside the point. "Do you mind not abusing my relatives?" Furio said angrily.

"Why not? I say worse about mine. Sorry," Gig added quickly. "Not your fault. But please, talk to him, will you? I really don't want to have to fall out with him, not when we're so far along."

Furio calmed himself down, like reining in a fractious horse. "That might not be so easy," he said. "You see, Uncle's not going to be at home for a while."

He explained. Gig stared at him, then shook his head. "Talk him out of it, for crying out loud. Really. I said some nasty things about your uncle, but he's not a bad man. People like him ought to stay away from my brother."

Furio winced. "I don't think he's got any choice. The meeting-"

"Screw that," Gig said sharply. "What's the worst they can do to him? Luso's perfectly capable of sending him home in a box, or with his tongue cut out, to teach him manners. My brother's a bit old-fas.h.i.+oned in his views, I'm afraid. You should know that by now."

That was the end of the conversation. Gig was called away, and Furio didn't have another chance to talk to him. On his way home, he thought about what Gig had said. He was puzzled. Gig had said a lot to him about his brother over the years. The mental picture he'd formed was of an unpleasant man, arrogant, violent, potentially dangerous in certain circ.u.mstances, but not a lunatic. Furthermore, those old-fas.h.i.+oned views were surely Uncle's best protection. A met'Oc wouldn't kill or torture a guest under his roof. But Gig had been quite emphatic.

Maybe he had his own reasons, Furio decided. After all, if anything happened to Marzo...

No, that didn't work. If anything happened to Uncle Marzo, Furio would inherit, and the future of the project would be a.s.sured; in fact, it'd be better off. If Gig was as cold and calculating as he was making him out to be, it'd be to his advantage if Luso murdered Uncle Marzo. Not that he could make himself believe that. But why would Gig exaggerate the risk posed by his brother?

He decided not to say anything to his uncle that evening. As it turned out, he didn't get the chance. Marzo had gone by the time he got back. The house was painfully quiet. Teucer was the only one who spoke during dinner. She let it be known that she thought the idea of walking into the Tabletop alone and unarmed was insane, practically suicidal. She blamed Gignomai. The least he could have done, after all the hospitality he'd enjoyed and the goods and services he'd received, was to have gone with Marzo and intercede for him. Furio tried scowling at her across the table, but she managed not to look at him all evening.

The next day, Furio arrived at the site later than usual (the result of losing a boot in the boggy patch on the near side of the river). When he got there, he found the entire workforce cl.u.s.tered round an enormous fire with at least a dozen cartloads of charcoal, burning under what looked like an upside-down clay bell. He had no idea where it had come from or what it was for. He asked Ranio, the ex-blacksmith, who looked at him as if he was crazy.

"We're pouring the hammer," Ranio said.