The Company

by K. J. Parker

  “I need it now,” Kunessin said firmly. “What’ve you got?” The old man thought for a very long time. “I know for a grab,” he said. “Three masts, two hundred ton. Head’s all rotted out, mind, and shipworm pretty bad in the keel. Could have her sea-worthy in nine months, but not before.”

  “No good,” Kunessin said. “Anything else?”

  “Got a brigantine,” the old man said doubtfully. “At least, I know for one. Prize of war; it’s with the agent now. He might take ten thousand for it, to be shot of it.”

  “Too much money,” Kunessin said. “Nine’s my limit, and that’s pushing it.”

  The old man scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand. “There’s a snow might suit you,” he said doubtfully. “Belongs to a man out to Schetlia. Good ship, sound; had it from his brother who died, and he’s no sailor, so he’d most likely sell for ready money.” He shrugged. “I can ask.”

  Kunessin frowned. He’d done his best with the chapter on ships in Standing Orders, but that was the sum total of his maritime knowledge. “All right,” he said. “What the hell’s a snow?”

  The old man looked at him as though he was simple. “Merchantman,” he said. “It’d be around two hundred pushing two fifty, two masts, only the small mast back of the mainmast carries a mizzen. Well?”

  Kunessin shrugged. “If that’s all there is, fine,” he said. “And you think I can have it for nine thousand?”

  “Don’t know about that,” the old man said. “Reckon he’d want nine and a half, and that’s without sheets and lines. I can ask.”

  “You do that,” Kunessin said. “Tell him it’ll be cash, no bills or letters, just silver money. That ought to make a difference, I’m sure.”

  The old man studied him for a while. “I thought you said you were in the army,” he said. “Where’d you get hold of that kind of money?”

  Kunessin smiled. “From dead people,” he said. “A great many of them. I’m at the Glory; leave a message for me there as soon as you’ve talked to this man, all right?”

  As he walked back into town, he thought: so I’ve just bought a snow. A snow, for crying out loud; what kind of name for a ship is that? Not, he reassured himself, that it matters, just so long as it gets us there and we can fit all the stuff inside. Still, if I’m spending that much money, I’d have preferred something I’d at least heard of.

  (And supposing they refuse? Supposing they don’t want to come with me, and the whole thing falls through? What the hell am I going to do with a two-hundred-ton mizzen-rigged snow? But if they refuse, none of it’ll matter very much. So let’s hope that won’t happen.)

  Nothing to do for the rest of the morning; no errands, no visits. He went back to the Glory of Heroes and sat on his bed, staring out of the window.

  “Teuche Kunessin,” he said, mouthing the words like a child playing with its food. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

  Alces nodded. “I never thought I’d see him again,” he said. “I assumed he’d probably carry on in the service till he was a field marshal or something, then retire, buy a big country estate somewhere on the mainland, and spend his life riding to hounds and building ornamental fountains in the grounds of his mansion. That, or he’d buy a farm and settle down. I don’t know,” he added with a shrug. “I guess I just stopped thinking about him, once I came back.”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “I really can’t begin to imagine.” Alces hesitated, the glue pot in one hand, the brush in the other. “I don’t suppose it’ll be good news for anybody.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” Alces said, putting the brush down. “There was always this rather scary streak in his nature. Don’t know how you’d describe it. He kept getting big ideas.”

  Heure Alces grinned. “I can see where that’d strike you as dangerous,” he said. “Never been a major fault of yours, thinking big.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Alces said grimly. “You were the one who said pack it in, settle down.”

  “True.” Heure Alces nodded. “But maybe I had something other in mind. Damn it, son, when you came back from the war, you had money. You made damn sure you let us know about it. What happened?”

  “Oh, well.” Alces took the strip of rawhide and began stretching it over the glue-brushed handle, pressing out the air-bubbles as he went. “It didn’t seem real, if you see what I mean. I guess I’d never really believed there’d be a rest of my life; after the service, I mean. So when I woke up one morning and found myself in it, I didn’t really know how to handle it. I ended up treating being home as one long leave, the assumption being that sooner or later I’d be going back, so what I did couldn’t possibly matter. And then, of course, I met Enyo and . . .” He shook his head. “Trouble was, by that point there wasn’t quite as much money left as I’d have liked. But there’s still some. A bit, just in case. And the school’s doing all right. It’s a living.”

  Heure held down the end of the rawhide with his fingertip while his son wrapped string round the handle to keep the hide pressed down firm while it dried. “You’ve never talked much about any of that stuff,” he said. “I always assumed—”

  “Nothing to talk about,” Alces interrupted. “Mostly it was just boredom and hard slog: marching, sleeping rough, eating garbage. Waiting around. You’d spend a week sat in a tent in a muddy shithole in the rain, bored out of your head, and then suddenly it’d be forced marches, dragging yourself through a swamp to get somewhere in a hurry, then another week sat doing nothing and then back to where you started off from. Or else it’d be digging ditches, or building walls, and we never did find out what the hell it was in aid of. Some clown on a horse’d come along and say, ‘You men, build a wall,’ and that’d be that. Hardly ever came back to see if we’d done it how he wanted it; and then there’d be new orders, be twenty miles away by this time tomorrow.” He shook his head. “Actual fighting time, maybe one month in every year. It was the least of our worries really.”

  Heure Alces waited till his son was looking the other way, then considered him carefully. Whatever else he might have been, he’d never been a liar before. But people changed at the war, he knew that, even though he’d never been a soldier himself. “Talking of which,” he said, “I seem to remember you brought some other stuff home with you, besides the money. What became of it?”

  Alces’ head twitched, like a horse avoiding the bridle. “Got rid of it,” he said. “Hardly likely I’d ever need it again. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Junk,” Alces said, “cluttering the place up. And we’re not exactly well off for space here.”

  “I guess not,” Heure said. “Only, you could’ve made a display of it or something. Impress the customers, genuine war souvenirs. Something to show you’d actually been in the service.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, it’s all gone, so it’s too late now. All right, that ought to do it, you can let go now.” Heure moved his finger, and Alces tied off the ends of the twine in a small, neat knot. “There,” he said, “that’s saved me a thaler fifty.” He picked up the mended foil and put it back on the rack. “That’s the Eridi boy,” he said. “He loves to whack with the foil, like he’s back on the farm threshing corn. God only knows why his father sends him up here, he’ll never learn anything. Thinks he knows it all already.”

  Heure shrugged. “The public,” he said, “bless them. It’s the same in tailoring: they always think they know more about your job than you do, and then you get the blame when it ends up looking a mess.” He grinned. “Do you remember Thoas Proiapsen? Great big fat man, but he insisted on trousers five inches too small in the waist.”

  “Oh God, him.” Alces smiled. “Yes, and he used to come hammering on the door in the middle of the night, after he’d been thrown out of the Golden Bow, said you’d made him look like a fool and he wanted the alterations done then and there.”

  Heure nodded. “Your mother threw a bucket
of water at him once.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. She missed, mind, which was just as well, since the old bugger was a justice of the peace. Don’t suppose he even noticed, though.” Heure paused - in retrospect, just a bit too long. “You knew his son, didn’t you? What was his name?”

  “Aidi,” Alces replied.

  “That’s right, of course. He’s got the big mercantile in the Ropewalk now. Done very well.”

  “Indeed. A damn sight better than me, is what you’re saying.” Alces shrugged. “If he’s done all right for himself, he’ll have deserved it. Always very smart, top of the class at college. Of course, brains run in the family. His great-grandfather—”

  “Yes, I’d forgotten that,” Heure said. “The famous philosopher.”

  Alces grinned. “Aidi didn’t inherit that,” he said. “Always the practical sort. Saved all our necks a time or two, though. Now if he’d stayed on in the service, he’d be commander-in-chief by now. But he’d never have stuck it. Not exactly the fools-gladly type; and if there’s one thing you get in the army, it’s fools. You can tell them quite easily: they’re the ones on white horses with gold braid down their fronts.”

  “Like your friend Teuche Kunessin.”

  “Ah well, he’s the exception.” Alces suddenly stood up, and Heure knew what that meant: end of subject. “You coming round later for your dinner?”

  Heure shook his head. “Your aunt Theano asked me over,” he said.

  “Ah.” Alces nodded gravely. “Run out of excuses, then.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Heure said. “At least she can’t ruin bread.”

  After he’d gone, Alces swept the floor, checked the guards and buttons of the foils and trimmed the lamps, taking his time about it. It was getting dark outside. He went to the window; he could just see the glow of the porch lantern of the Glory of Heroes. Well, he thought. He sat down in the window seat, as the last of the light faded.

  “Fifty thalers,” the man said. “Take it or leave it.”

  Muri Achaiois turned his back on him for a moment, walked a step or two toward the door. “Sorry to have wasted your time,” he said.

  The man frowned, and maybe he moved just a little bit closer to the large wooden box in the middle of his shop floor. “You won’t get a better offer,” he said. “Not in Faralia.”

  “Then I won’t sell them,” Muri said. The man retreated as he approached the box, and reached down and slammed the lid. “You’re quite right,” he agreed. “You’d only have ended up losing money. It’s not what you might call a big reading town.”

  The man was staring at the box. “I can run to fifty-five,” he said.

  Muri shook his head. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “You’ll regret it if you do. I mean,” he went on, flinging back the lid of the box and snatching a book at random, “look at this. Types of Ethical Theory. Who’s going to want to buy that round here?”

  “Quite,” the man said nervously.

  “Or this one. Neas’ Metaphysics. You’d get so sick of looking at it up there on the shelf after a while, gathering dust, taking up space. No, I think you’re wise to pass on this lot. Thanks for listening.”

  The man frowned. “Where’d you get them all, anyway?” he asked.

  Muri shrugged. “My old college books, a lot of them,” he said. “And others I picked up while I was abroad, in the service.”

  “That’s right,” the man said. “I remember someone telling me you were in the army. I was in the war too, you know.”

  Muri’s eyes went blank, but the man didn’t appear to have noticed. “Were you really?” Muri said. “What unit?”

  “Commissariat,” the man replied. “Master supply sergeant. How about you?”

  Muri moved a little closer, just within arm’s length. “I was a linebreaker,” he said.

  The man’s lips moved, but no sound came out at first. “Is that right?” he said. “Well . . .”

  “Anyway,” Muri said. “That’s where most of them came from, plus a few I bought since I got home. Not many, though. Not many booksellers come this way, after all.”

  The man was nodding. “So basically,” he said, “they’re imported books, right?”

  Muri frowned. “You could say that, yes.”

  “Imported books are different,” the man said quickly. “Imported anything’s got to be better than the local stuff, hasn’t it?”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh yes, no question about that. Cushions, lamps, crockery and tableware. Books too, stands to reason. I mean, I don’t suppose there’s another copy of - what was that one again?”

  “Types of Ethical Theory.”

  “Don’t suppose there’s another one of them anywhere in Faralia,” the man said. “Scarcity value. Prestige item. Bound to find the right buyer sooner or later.”

  Muri considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “Practical Carpentry, yes, or Secrets of the Bedchamber. But not philosophy and ethics.”

  “You got either of them?”

  Muri smiled. “Oddly enough, yes,” he said. “They’re down at the bottom of the box somewhere, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Good condition? All the pictures?”

  “Unopened,” Muri replied. “But some of the others are downright tatty. I mean, look at this one.”

  The man peered at the spine. “Principles of Applied . . . What’s that word?”

  “Geometry,” Muri said. “It means the study of lines and angles.”

  “Sounds interesting,” the man said, with less than total conviction. “Seems to me, if there’s some kid going up to the Military College, he’ll be able to buy all his books here before he starts. Give him an advantage over the other kids, I bet, if he’s read the books before he gets there.”

  For some reason, Muri’s face darkened. “Quite possibly,” he said. “A bit of a long shot, though, don’t you think? I mean, nobody sends their sons to the College these days.”

  “Tell you what,” the man said desperately, “I’ll give you seventy-five for the lot. Apart from Types of . . . that one,” he added. “You can keep that. But throw in the box, I could use that myself. Well?”

  Muri nodded gravely. “Deal,” he said, and held out his hand. The man hesitated, very briefly, before shaking it, and he held his body out of the way, like someone stoking a very hot fire.

  When Muri had left the shop, the man’s wife came out from behind the curtain separating the front and back rooms. She marched up to the box, kicked it open with her tiny, delicate foot and said, “Are you out of your mind?”

  The man scowled at her. “Bargain,” he said. “We’ll make a packet off this lot.”

  She swung round to face him, and not for the first time he wondered if he’d been sensible, marrying a woman half his age and height, who nevertheless had the knack of making him feel like he was six years old. “Books,” she said. “College books,” she added, making the word sound intolerably decadent.

  “Like I told him,” the man muttered. “Get a student in here, just off to the College—”

  “Oh, right,” his wife cut in, swift and sharp as an arrow. “Like we get a lot of them.”

  “We get all sorts,” the man said firmly. “Anyway, they’re not all college books. There’s a Secrets of the Bedchamber in there, that’s got to be worth—”

  “That’s going on the fire,” his wife said. “And don’t you let me catch you so much as opening it.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” the man pleaded. “To the right customer, it’ll near enough pay for the whole lot, and then anything else we sell’ll be straight profit. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  Her face told him she knew no such thing. “Who was he, anyhow?” she said. “You were practically licking his boots.”

  “Soldier,” her husband replied, looking the other way.

  She sniffed. “Soldier doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “Everybody’s a soldier. You were a sold
ier. Doesn’t mean anybody treats you like you’re God almighty.”

  Self-evident, he thought; but it was far too late to do anything about that now. “He was a linebreaker,” he said. “Got to show a bit of respect.”

  “What’s a linebreaker?”

  Muri Achaiois didn’t go back to the tanner’s yard. Instead, he crossed the road, walked up the alley between the livery stables and the tailor’s shop, then up the steep, narrow street that led out of town, on to the hill. At the top, he paused and looked down at the town.

  Faralia, he thought: a place to have come from, a place to get away from. People from Faralia tended to do well in the outside world, presumably because they had the extra incentive that if they failed, they’d have to go back home.

  The seventy-five thalers filled both his jacket pockets; they bumped on his thighs as he walked, like saddlebags on a mule. The books had made Faralia bearable, and now they were gone; but that was all right (apparently), because Teuche Kunessin was back, back but not stopping, and wherever Kunessin was going, he was going too.

  (He could almost hear her voice, in the back of his head: are you out of your mind? Going off with Kunessin, after the last time? Get real, Muri, you’re too old for the wars, and if it’s not that, it’ll be something even worse. Mark my words, that man’ll be the death of you.)

  He thought about that. Probably not the wars, he decided. If Kunessin wanted to fight, he’d have stayed in the army; and besides, Kunessin had always been the one who didn’t want to fight, only to stay alive and win if possible. The terrible thing about him was that, quite early, he’d reached the horrible truth that the best way to achieve those ends was to kill the enemy, as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  Teuche wasn’t to blame, he told himself, firmly and without conviction. He only did what was necessary. Without him, we’d none of us be here now. He was the only one who—

  He realised he’d reached the edge of the cliff. Below (nothing between him and them but empty air) were the rocks of the North Shoal: Steeple Rock, Spit Rock, the Needles. Someone had said of Kunessin, years ago, that if he fell off a cliff, he’d learn to fly before he reached the bottom. The same, they said, was true of A Company as a whole. They were unkillable. Death simply didn’t apply to them. He took one step forward, until the tip of his toe was just over the edge.