The Hammer Part 29

For some reason, that made Gignomai laugh. "Forget about it," he said. "Now, can we get the rest of this stuff unloaded so I can be on my way?"

Marzo was about to call for Furio to come and help, then remembered he wasn't there. "How's that nephew of mine getting on?" he asked.

"Miserable," Gignomai replied, as he crossed the porch. "He always gets a bit sad when called on to do demeaning manual labour. I left him sweeping out the wheel-house."

"He's good at sweeping," Marzo said. "He's had practice."

"I bet." Gignomai let down the tailgate of the cart. "No, he's fine. I should have mentioned it before, but I had to talk to him first about it, naturally. I want him to take over the whole of the business side, and I'll get on with making stuff. It makes sense, after all. He knows about that sort of thing, it's in the blood, and I haven't really got a clue. Where I come from, buying and selling's one of those things where you wash your hands afterwards for fear of catching something."

Marzo didn't speak immediately. Something was snagged in the back of his mind. "He's his father's son when it comes to business," he heard himself say. "And it makes good sense from my end, keeping it in the family. And after I'm gone, of course, it'll all be his anyway."

"Quite," Gignomai said, "unless you see us both out, which isn't impossible. Anyway, that's why I asked him to come back to the factory full time. He needs to get a really good grasp of everything we're doing. I don't know anything about it, but it stands to reason, you can't run a business unless you know everything about it. Right," he added, scrambling up onto the bed of the cart, using the hub of the back wheel as a stepping-stone. "This crate's the scythe blades. Careful, it's quite heavy."

No doubt about it, Gignomai had changed. For one thing, he'd grown deceptively strong, or else he'd taught himself the subtle art of lifting. Probably a bit of both, Marzo decided, as he took the strain at his end and felt something fail in the small of his back, a combination of increased capacity and the ability to make full use of what you've got. Basically, the polar opposite of the way the met'Oc did things.

"To me," Gignomai commanded, as they swung the case round to get it through the door. "Right, where do you want it?"

More than anything (money, power, respect, repose and tranquillity), Marzo wanted a rest and a chance to straighten out his back before they went outside again for the next crate. But Gignomai didn't hang around long enough to give him a chance to drop hints. He followed him into the street, and saw four men walking quickly towards him, from the East Ford side of town. He could have wept for relief and joy, even when he recognised them: the Stalio brothers from Long Cross, their son, and Nuca Emmo, their hired man. Four more tedious people you couldn't hope to meet on a summer's day, but still...

Gignomai had seen them too. He pulled a long face, muttered something about business at the livery, and vanished like snow on hot coals. Marzo put on his smile of office, and stood up straight to greet them.

"It's the savages," said Ila Stalio (fifty-seven, fat, full head of grey hair). "They attacked us."

Marzo tried to speak, but nothing came out.

"With guns," Emmo said. "They shot at us."

"But the savages haven't got guns. n.o.body's got-"

"They have now." Ila's brother, Namone, was the sort of person n.o.body ever listened to on principle. "Ila's telling the truth, Mayor. I was there. They shot at me too."

"But the savages haven't got guns," Marzo repeated. It was the truth, and they were refusing to acknowledge it. He had no idea what to do under such circ.u.mstances.

"Me and Dad and Uncle Namone were bringing in the heifers from our long meadow," said the boy, Telo. He wasn't so bad, except he treated his father as some sort of G.o.d. "And Nuca was with us as well. We saw them, other side of the river, about two hundred yards off. We stopped and looked at them-"

"You don't see savages every day," Namone put in. "Not in our neck of the woods."

Marzo turned to the boy. "You're sure they were..."

"They had those long coats, and those dumb hats," Ila said. "They were just stood there, watching us. So we yelled at them to go away."

"We just yelled," Nuca put in. "We didn't do nothing."

"And then we heard this noise," Telo went on, "like thunder. And a split second later, there were these little clouds of smoke, where they were stood to. We didn't figure it at first."

"Two hundred yards away," Marzo said. One of them he could have handled, just about. Four was too many.

"On the other side of the river," Namone said. "Their side, properly speaking. But they were shooting at us."

"How do you know?"

Ila shrugged. "Wasn't anything else to shoot at," he said. "They were dead set on killing us, Mister Mayor, and what we want to know is, what're you going to do about it?"

Marzo couldn't feel his feet. It was a strange feeling, as if he'd been sitting still too long. "But the savages haven't got guns," he said for the third time. "n.o.body's got guns except the met'Oc. Everybody knows that."

"Why would the met'Oc be shooting at us?" Ila said. "Besides, they were savages. No question about it. You can always tell. It's the way they stand, dead still."

Marzo drew in a long breath, as if he knew it'd have to last him for a while. "You'd better come inside," he said, and led the way into the store. There he found Gignomai, unloading gate hinges from the barrel.

"What's the matter?" Gignomai said. "You look like the world's about to end."

"Maybe it is," said Ila mournfully, "if the savages have declared war on us."

"What?" Gignomai looked as though he was about to laugh.

"Tell him," Marzo said, and when the four of them had repeated their story, practically word for word but arranged for different voices, Gignomai sat down on a crate and covered his mouth with his hand.

"It's not possible," Marzo said. "It can't be. Where the h.e.l.l would they get guns from?"

"From my family," Gignomai said.

Marzo was standing beside him, looking sideways down at him. At that moment a connection formed in his mind, and he asked himself: if Gignomai is planning on Furio taking over the business, why would he give me the sword, knowing perfectly well that it means I'd be able to take us all, Furio included, back Home? It was, he admitted to himself, a strange time to be thinking about that sort of thing, and it was wrong of him to give it mind room when the worst crisis in the colony's history might be about to break, but somehow, he couldn't s.h.i.+ft it from his thoughts, so he missed what Ila said to Gignomai. But he heard the reply.

"On the contrary," Gignomai said, "it's just the sort of thing Luso would do. In fact, he's talked about it to my father, at least twice, to my certain knowledge. I was there at the time."

"Why?" Nuca said. "It doesn't-"

"Think about it," Gignomai said. "An alliance between the met'Oc and the savages, to drive the colonists out, or wipe them out-whichever's easiest, I suppose, though extermination would be the more logical course. Vacant possession of the entire colony, and a labour force to work the land once the primary objective's been achieved. Really, just like back Home, where families like ours used to have whole armies of tenants, or serfs, or whatever you choose to call them. I know it's been at the back of my father's mind for a long time, but he doesn't have the energy. When Luso suggested it, he said no because he reckoned Luso was too young and inexperienced to pull it off. Now that he's getting married, though, he needs property of his own, a dowry." He shrugged. "It's a stupid idea, of course. There aren't enough of the met'Oc to wipe out the savages once they've done their side of it; it's much more likely to be the other way about. I can only guess that Boulo figures he can bring in reinforcements from Home. It's just the sort of thing they'd come up with: a little pocket empire of their own with slaves to work the fields. And what else could we have to offer that'd tempt the met'Ousa into a marriage alliance?"

Marzo had been trying to grasp some relevant fact that had been floating out of reach in the confusion of his mind. He caught it at last, and said, "But Gignomai, your people only have about five guns between them. They haven't got enough to go giving them away to-"

Gignomai laughed. "That was true when I left," he said. "But it's obvious, isn't it? They've been making the things. It's not all that difficult, I believe. Luso told me once, if you can make a door lock and you can make a piece of pipe, you can make a snapping-hen. Luso's got two or three men up there who'd be able to do it. And how many would you need? Two dozen? Three? Suppose it takes a day to make one. In a couple of months, you'd have enough for a small army."

Marzo felt as though his head had just been plunged under water. "They could do that?"

"I'm sure of it," Gignomai said. "All it'd take would be the need to do it. And if you think about it, that'd explain a lot of what's been going on around here lately."

"The attacks," Ila said. "Fasenna, and the Heddos."

Gignomai nodded. "Softening you up," he said, "getting you all nice and scared, reminding you of who's got the real power around here. While my dear brother's been pretending to play nice with the mayor here, they've been getting ready to make their move. I imagine that what happened today was a bunch of savages who couldn't wait till the agreed date before trying out their new toys." He looked at each of them in turn, then shook his head. "And you wonder why I left home," he said. "Trust me, my family are capable of anything."

Even then, a part of Marzo's mind was fussing over the inconsistency of Furio and the sword. "There's no proof, though, is there?" he said. "I mean, it's all just your guesses."

"Fine." Gignomai glared at him. "You give me another explanation that fits all the facts." He sighed, and went on, "I've been worried for some time that they might be up to something like this. Before I left, Luso was away for three days. Said he was going hunting on the west side, but there weren't any deer out there, I'd been there myself, and he didn't take the dogs, so what he was hunting I don't know. When he came back, he and Father shut themselves away in the study and had a long, long conversation about something, but I never did find out about what. And Aurelio-who used to be our smith-thrown out on his ear to make way for a new man. Want to hazard a guess what the new man was good at? And before they got rid of him, they had him working for a whole week just making files. Files, for heaven's sake! We use up one every ten years. But if you're going to be making a lot of small, intricate metal parts, you could well want a boxful of sharp new files." He shrugged. "Little things like that. But put them all together..."

Marzo felt like he was standing on a rotten floor, but he couldn't think straight. "All right," he said. "Ila, Namone, I want you to go round all the houses and tell everybody to come here. Get them to send the boys to all the nearest farms. We need all the people we can get. I'm d.a.m.ned if I'm going to make a decision on something like this without as many people agreeing with me as possible."

Three hours later, the store was packed with forty or fifty men pressed shoulder to shoulder, and Marzo and Gignomai sitting in the middle of the room on a rostrum improvised out of the newly delivered packing cases. The Stalio brothers had told their story once again, and Gignomai had offered his interpretation, with further circ.u.mstantial evidence of the met'Oc's long-standing preparations. He'd taken off his coat because of the closeness of the room; under it he wore a fine linen s.h.i.+rt, torn and stained with oil, rust and millstone slurry. Marzo was disconcerted to see how thin he was: skin and bone with ropes of muscle.

"That's about it," Gignomai said, and the room was extraordinarily quiet. "But I'd like to add one thing. It's not strictly relevant, but I think it's something you ought to know." He paused, as if allowing time for objections, then went on, "I expect some of you have been asking yourselves why I left home in the first place. Well, I'll tell you. When I was fourteen years old, my father murdered my sister. He'd found out she was seeing a boy, one of my brother Luso's gang. He didn't approve. Luso killed the boy-I'm sorry, I never knew his name, it wasn't the sort of detail my family regards as important-and my father had my sister tied to a chair and sewed her lips together. She stayed in the chair, in the dining room, till she starved to death, and n.o.body lifted a finger to help her. That's my family, gentlemen, that's the sort of people they are, so if you were thinking that no one could bring themselves to do the sort of thing I've been talking about, think again. Also, you might care to consider this. Maybe I'm wrong, about my family arming the savages and sending them against you. Maybe there's some other explanation, and I'm doing them a grave injustice. Well, so what? They did my sister a grave injustice seven years ago. I didn't study law, like my father wanted me to, but I have an idea that the lawful penalty for murder is death, and they've had it coming for a long, long time. I'm a met'Oc, I was born one, I've still got most of their s.h.i.+t in my head: honour, pride, perfect disdain for the lower orders. I try and fight it but it'll probably always be there. When Luso ran off your cattle and stole from you and burnt your barns, I thought, well, they're just farmers, it doesn't matter. I admit it, I'm sorry for it, but I just let it happen and didn't lift a finger. When they killed my sister, I didn't lift a finger. But I think the time's come for a better way of doing justice round here. I think it ought to start right now. I've been absolutely straight with you, I've told you something I never thought I'd tell anyone, because I believe you have a right to know. You can say I'm all eaten up with wanting revenge on my father and my brothers and you'd be right-that's me. But if you're in two minds about doing something about the met'Oc, because you're not sure they're guilty as charged, all I'm saying is-don't be. That's it."

During the long, intimidating silence that followed, all Marzo could think of was that if Gignomai was serious about the business, and having Furio to run the trading side, why would he make it possible for Furio to go Home? It made no sense. Look at him, he's a real met'Oc. He can make them do and think whatever he likes; he's got the touch, like his brother. Like both his brothers. Only when they do it to you, you know. They want you to know. Gignomai makes you believe it's inside yourself, and that's scary.

And what about the bloodless revolution and the new republic? He wants shot of his family, he wants shot of Furio and me. So who would that leave here?

"Well?" Gignomai said.

It was as though he'd smacked every man in the room across the face. They looked at him, suddenly and painfully aware they had no choice now, they had to make the decision. Telling them about his sister had dragged them all across the line. If they kept quiet now, and started to slip away, then nothing would be done, nothing would ever be done, because he'd be disgusted with them, he'd leave them, to the savages and the met'Oc and the government, and presumably the wolves and the bears and all their natural enemies, with n.o.body but Marzo the mayor to lead them. He's got them, Marzo thought. The hook's in their lips, the halter's on, he can pull them along by their pain, and he lied to me and he lied to me. He had no call to go doing that.

And if he lied, then where's Furio?

He knew, in that moment, exactly what he had to do. He had to get to his feet, denounce Gignomai as a liar and a deceiver and quite possibly a man with his eyes on a crown. How he'd convince them he had no idea, but it had to be done. He thought, I'm a short, fat, middle-aged man who wants nothing more out of life than to sell things to people for slightly more than they're worth. I shouldn't have to do this. But he felt the beginnings of movement in his knees and back, which told him he was about to stand up (and if he stood up, he'd have to speak, and if he spoke, he'd have to tell the truth).

Under his feet, the packing case rocked ominously. If I stand up, he thought, I'll tip the case and go flying a.r.s.e over tip, possibly break an arm, definitely never live it down.

He stayed where he was.

"Well?" Gignomai repeated, and the pressure in the room was more than flesh and bone could stand. It tried to vent itself through Ra.s.so the liveryman, who said, in a voice as slim and fragile as an icicle, "What do you think we should do, then?"

Gignomai waited a heartbeat or so before answering. "Go up there," he said. "Flush them out. If needs be, kill them. It's the only way. I'm sorry, but there it is."

"We can't do that," someone said, deep in the pool of faces. "They've got weapons. They live in a f.u.c.king castle. We'd be slaughtered."

Gignomai didn't smile as he answered, but Marzo knew him well enough by now to recognise the faint light in his eyes, the firmness of the line of his mouth. Inside, he was grinning like a skull. "No," he said. "You think I'd suggest it if there wasn't a way? We can take them, I promise you. I can tell you how. That's not the question. The question is, do you want to?"

There are silences that mean yes, and silences that mean no. This one was unambiguous.

"That's easy said," Ra.s.so replied. He was having trouble with his words, like a drunk. "What makes you think we can take out your family without a whole lot of us getting killed?"

"Because I've thought about it," Gignomai replied, quiet and calm, just right; tall and skinny, like a spider on a stick. "I've given it a lot of thought over a long time. Also, we've got two wonderful advantages that'll make it easy. I can tell you about them if you're serious, otherwise I'll keep them to myself."

There was a terrible silence, then someone said, "Go on."

Gignomai nodded, acknowledging the formation of the contract. They all saw him, and n.o.body could have been in any doubt about what that slight movement meant. "First," he said, "I know a way of getting up there without being seen. It's not guarded. It's well away from anywhere Luso posts guards. They don't know about it; n.o.body does, except me." He paused for a moment, then said, "It's how I escaped. Twice. And I know Luso hasn't found out about it, because I've been back to look. If he'd found it, he'd have blocked it up. He hasn't. They don't know."

It was the performance of a miracle-sand into flour, water into wine. They looked at him, and Marzo knew what they were thinking: that's one, what's the other?

"The other thing," Gignomai went on, "is my brother Luso's wedding. If we go up there while the wedding's going on, they'll all be in the house, every single one of them. They'll be drinking and dancing, playing music. We could walk up to the front door shouting our heads off and they wouldn't know we were there. We can take them all together, too p.i.s.sed to fight, all the weapons in the racks in the armoury. Believe me," he added, with a perfect smile, "I wouldn't dream of taking you up there if I thought there was a chance in a million you'd have to fight. You're not fighters. That's a good thing. I grew up among fighters, and it's not a good thing to be. You're better than that, and I'm not going to turn you into the sort of people we're going there to get rid of."

"What about your brother?" Ra.s.so said. "I don't see him coming quietly."

Gignomai's face was suddenly dead. "Leave him to me," he said.

"That's easy to say-"

"I can guarantee it," Gignomai said. "By the time you're on the Tabletop, I'll have taken care of my brother. That's the whole point. I can tell you exactly when the wedding's going to be, because the only thing they're waiting for is me. Luso's said, he won't get married unless I'm there. So, I'll go to the wedding. And Luso won't be a problem. You have my word."

His word, the met'Oc word. Marzo thought about Luso, of the bond between them. He was nice to me when he didn't have to be, he thought. He gave me his word, but Gignomai deceived me. And Furio...

Suddenly he felt very cold. Furio was missing, but he had no doubt at all in his mind that Gignomai knew where Furio was. Not a business partner, then. A hostage. He lifted his head, and found that Gignomai was looking at him. He looked away, and at that moment someone called out, "Mayor, what do you reckon? Should we do it?"

As if the whole weight of the building was resting on his neck. Marzo knew exactly what he ought to do. Whoever it was had given him the chance. All he had to do was say no, and he could stop it right there.

"I'm not your b.l.o.o.d.y mayor," he said. "I wish you'd stop calling me that. If you want a mayor, then b.l.o.o.d.y well elect one. I quit."

Someone laughed, presumably thinking he was making a joke.

"What do you think?" Gignomai said quietly.

At that moment, Marzo hated Gignomai more than anyone else he'd ever met. He knew what had to be done, and what he'd just said was a lie. By negotiating with Luso met'Oc, trying to help, do the best he could, and never losing sight of the fact that respect and popularity would do business in the store no harm at all, he'd accepted the ridiculous, idiotic t.i.tle and everything it implied. Now, for Furio's sake, he was going to have to do the wrong thing. And wasn't Gignomai clever? he thought. He's given me Furio as an excuse, so I can do what I do best and be weak.

"I think it's got to be done," he said. "Now, or later. Now would be easier. If we leave it, people are going to get killed. And if Gignomai's telling the truth about what they did to his sister, I don't think we need to bother ourselves with the rights and wrongs." He looked at the faces. He knew all of them, he'd known them all his life, and he was betraying them to the met'Oc sitting next to him. "I'm not your f.u.c.king mayor, but I think we should do it, yes. I really don't see where we've got a choice."

There was a moment when the lock tripped and the hammer fell. Someone said, "But what are we going to do for weapons? We can't just go in there empty-handed, no matter what he says."

Gignomai smiled this time, and lifted his foot and stamped it lightly on the packing case under him. "In this box," he said, "there's five dozen quality billhooks. You won't find a better weapon anywhere." (And Marzo understood, and cursed himself for being a fool.) "Right now they're the property of Marzo here, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind giving us the loan of them. And if you want a little bit more to make you feel better, there's knives and axes, and I know some of you have bows. We'll be better kitted out than Luso's men, I promise you."

Marzo felt himself nod helplessly. It was as though the command that made his head move came from Gignomai, not himself. Sale or return, he thought. I really should have seen it coming.

After that, it was mostly practicalities, tedious military stuff which Marzo found both terrifying and boring at the same time. Once he was satisfied that he wasn't expected to play a part in the great plan of campaign, he disengaged himself from it and fixed his eyes on the corner of the room, letting his mind drift while Gignomai instructed his troops. So the end of the meeting took him by surprise, and the room began to empty in silence. It wasn't long before he was alone with Gignomai, the two of them sitting on the piled-up boxes, like emperors without an empire. He looks shattered, Marzo thought, hardly surprising, bearing in mind the performance he'd just given. But he'd been expecting to see a buzz, a gradual winding down from feverish intensity of feeling, and instead, Gignomai looked as though he'd just spent a day shovelling gravel.

Gignomai turned his head and looked at him. "The trick'll be," he said, "getting down from here without dislodging the boxes. Slow and very careful is my suggestion."

Marzo felt his face twitch but kept the laugh squashed down. He stood up defiantly and walked down the cases as though they were stairs. It'd have been fine if the penultimate crate hadn't skipped out from under his foot and shot him onto his backside on the floor.

A moment later Gignomai was bending over him. "You all right?"

Marzo had jarred his spine and his head was hurting. "Fine."

Gignomai stretched out his hand to help him up. He could have refused to take it. "Thanks," he muttered, as he regained his feet, and Gignomai let go. He had nothing else to say.

"For what it's worth," Gignomai said, "I'm sorry."

"Well." Marzo tried putting his weight on his front foot. His ankle tw.a.n.ged like a harp string. "That's all fine and splendid, but it doesn't change anything, does it?"

"No. Never claimed it did. But I'm sorry." Gignomai was about to walk away, but hesitated. "Furio's fine," he said.

"He'd better be."

"He's my best friend."

Which sounded ridiculous, like Death having a wife and children, and a dog.

Aurelio, formerly smith to the met'Oc, had an extraordinary, inhuman, incredible, unnatural ability to stay awake. Throughout their joint captivity-Furio had no idea how long it lasted; the only unit of time was the Meal, presented at wildly irregular intervals-the last thing he saw before he drifted into sleep and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the old man's insufferable eyes, watching him like an elderly, patient cat at a mousehole. Saying things, shouting them, had absolutely no effect. No matter how he pleaded, yelled or threatened, Aurelio continued to watch over him like an all-seeing, powerless G.o.d, and his foot stayed firmly planted on the fragment of saw-blade which was, as far as Furio could see, the only way out of there.

He'd considered other options, but none of them held any realistic prospect of success. Even if he managed to overpower Aurelio (a fight in a darkened room between two men with their hands tied together; he had no idea how that would work, but he had a shrewd suspicion that Aurelio the blacksmith, though more than twice his age, was probably stronger than he was, and almost certainly knew more about fighting dirty), in doing so he'd make a h.e.l.l of a racket, and that would bring the guards. His only chance was to get the saw-blade out from under Aurelio's foot while the old man was sleeping, and the old man never slept.

Like Marzo and Gignomai's sword, he thought, all I need to get out of here is one miserable artefact.