by K. J. Parker
The old man smiled. “A civilised man’s question,” he said. “I’m afraid we don’t think like that. It doesn’t have to work, that’s just the way it is. We’d never met strangers before. We were born and grew up in a world with a finite number of human beings. By the time a man died, it was entirely possible for him to have met everybody. We saw you, and we didn’t recognise you. Therefore, you couldn’t conceivably be human—not like us, at any rate. But you looked human, you acted more or less as humans do. We drew what seemed to be the only logical conclusion. You were humans in another phase of existence—dead, or not yet born. I told you this.”
Gignomai nodded. “You did. But it set me thinking. You see, when I lived up on the hill, there were only a very few people: my family, the hired men, a few women servants. I came to realise there were more people down below, on the plain, in town. I wanted to meet them, but for some reason it wasn’t allowed. That’s when it all started to go wrong. And surely, that’s more or less what happened to you, except I ran away and you were kidnapped. That’s why, when you said about different worlds…”
“Ah.” The old man shrugged. “The hill, the plain and beyond that, the savages. The further away from home, the more barbaric, the less human. But when I was furthest from home, I was among my own kind. It’s here that I’m out of place. Put yourself in my position: I was snatched up by the gods and taken to heaven. Then they brought me back to live a long life among strangers.” He thought for a moment, then said, “If you feel uncomfortable here, why don’t you wait for the spring ship and go Home? You could be yourself there. You could…” He paused, and licked his lips. “You could take me with you, as your servant. I could clean your boots and wash your clothes and scrub the floors of your house, I have seen all these things done, I could do them. And I would be there, not there. It’s all I could possibly want.”
Gignomai stared at him. Then he said, “I can’t go Home. You’ve convinced me. It’s a different world. I’d be dead there or not yet born. Like my father is here. I read a bit of his history of our family once. We shouldn’t be here at all. We never did anything wrong.”
“Neither did I,” the old man said calmly, “and my punishment was to live in heaven.”
He said it in such a sad, serious voice that Gignomai wanted to laugh. He managed not to, and reached in his pocket. “Here,” he said. “I thought you might like this.”
The old man stared at the book as though it was the most wonderful thing. He reached for it, then hesitated, as though he was afraid it would burn his hand. “Go on,” Gignomai said. “Really.” He felt the book pulled from between his fingers, and for a split second was tempted to snatch it back. “It’s nothing special, I’m afraid,” he said. “Just a selection of late Mannerist lyric poetry: Pacatian, Numerian, that sort of thing. From my father’s library.”
Originally, at least. He’d stolen it years ago to give to Furio, and stolen it back the last time he stayed at the store. He’d examined it and found the two pages he’d gummed together near the end hadn’t been separated, so clearly Furio hadn’t liked it much either.
“For me?” the old man said. “To keep?”
Gignomai nodded. “But not a gift,” he said. “A trade.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Fine. I’ll need food for three days to get me home.”
The old man jumped up and clapped his hands. Immediately, a woman stepped through the tent curtain. She looked straight through Gignomai as though he wasn’t there. The old man barked a command at her, and she vanished.
“And I’ll need a goat,” Gignomai said.
The old man gave him a bewildered look. “Certainly, of course. A male or a female? What age?”
“About so big,” Gignomai replied, moving his hands apart. “Oh, and one more thing. I’ll need you to pass on a message.”
The old man frowned, but the call of the book was too strong. He opened it, glanced quickly down at the page, then shut it again. “This is the most wonderful—”
“You’re welcome,” Gignomai said abruptly. “Well, I figured it’d make a change from reading about fishing rods. Personally, I can’t stick Numerian at any price, but then, I always liked the Literalists best. At least they rhyme.”
The woman reappeared with a sack, which she dropped on the floor before disappearing again. “That’s my food, presumably.”
“Quite so. Dried meat, cooked rice, dried fruit. Excellent for long journeys.”
Gignomai, who’d rather have eaten worms than cold cooked rice, dipped his head in gratitude. “Thank you for seeing me,” he said.
“My pleasure, my dear fellow. My very great pleasure.”
They left the tent, and the old man said something to somebody, and straight away a boy appeared leading a fine yearling she-goat on a bit of string. Gignomai looked round. There were at least thirty people watching, mostly women. He put his knapsack on the ground, loosened one strap and hauled out the snapping-hen in its cloth bundle. He looked back at the old man.
“Ever seen one of these?” he said, as he peeled back the cloth.
The old man was staring. “Yes,” he said.
“Splendid.” He slipped his fingers round the grip, and used his left hand to move the hammer to full cock, leant the frizzen forward to make sure the priming powder hadn’t fallen out, then eased it back into battery. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the old man. Then he levelled the muzzle of the snapping-hen about six inches from the goat’s forehead. At that range, even he couldn’t miss.
The goat slumped, as though the bones had been magically extracted from its legs. It twitched a couple of times, but that was just the muscles relaxing. Gignomai looked at it through the clearing smoke, and beyond it to the circle of faces. The silence was so hard, so brittle he wasn’t sure he’d be able to break it just by talking.
“Be so kind as to tell them,” he said (his voice came out thin and squeaky), “that if they want the power of the dead and the not yet born, I’ll be happy to give it to them. Any time. No charge.” He tried to put the snapping-hen back in his pack, but it slipped through his fingers and fell on the ground. He had to stoop and pick it up. Not very impressive, he thought.
The old man’s eyes were very wide. “My dear fellow,” he said.
“You promised,” Gignomai said. “I’m sorry. But you do want the book, don’t you? And you did promise.”
The old man closed his eyes for a moment; then he said something loud and clear, in a firm, carrying voice. “Your exact words,” he said. “I only wish—”
“Thanks,” Gignomai said. “I can find my own way out.”
The rice was soapy and the dried fruit revolting. He threw the dried meat away, and watched a crow swoop down on it, peck at it a couple of times and fly off, croaking angrily. He tore strips off the cloth the snapping-hen was wrapped up in and tried to bind up his blistered heels, but couldn’t get the strips to stay in place. He couldn’t help feeling it served him right.
He bypassed the site and walked straight into town, arriving just before noon. That suited him. He knew Marzo always went through the books about that time. The side door wasn’t locked. It never was; he’d stolen the key on his third visit, and nobody knew how to make a new one. He went in quietly and found Marzo in the back store room. He looked up as Gignomai entered, and scowled at him.
“If you want Furio…”
“No,” Gignomai said. “I’d like a word with you, if you can spare me a minute.”
Marzo didn’t look well. He’d lost weight, and his skin looked as though it had been handed down by an older brother. There was a quarter-empty bottle at his elbow.
“If it’s about the biscuits I can explain,” he said.
Gignomai made a mental note. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. I just dropped in to give you something. A present. Token of my appreciation.”
For some reason, that made Marzo wince. “There’s no need,” he said. “Really.”
“Fi
ne.” Gignomai shrugged. “If you don’t want it, drop it down a well.” He slipped his knapsack off his back, rested it on the table and unbuckled one strap. “I seem to remember a while back hearing that you wanted one of these.”
He laid the snapping-hen on the table and flicked off the wrapping. Marzo looked at it, then up at him. “Is that…?”
“Yes,” Gignomai said. “Genuine City-made snapping-hen, by Cioverto, about a hundred years old. Used to belong to my brother Luso, but he lost it. You tried to buy it off Calo Brotti, but he wouldn’t sell.”
Marzo reached out, hesitated, then allowed the tips of his fingers to rest on the lock-plate. “How much do you want for it?”
“Present.” Gignomai grinned at him. “Gift. Free. Nothing to pay. Oh, and it’s not much use without these,” he added, dumping the powder-horn and the bag of balls on the desk beside it. “Don’t ask me how you make it go bang. I assume it works, unless Brotti played around with it and broke something.”
“I wasn’t planning on using it,” Marzo said.
“That’s all right, then,” Gignomai said. “Hang it on the wall. It’ll look nice there, over the fireplace.”
Marzo drew his fingers away, slowly. “Are you sure?” he said. “It’s got to be worth a lot of money.”
Gignomai laughed, a sound like a breaking stick. “Who’m I going to sell it to around here?” he said. “If Luso catches me with it, I suspect I’ll get rather more than a stern talking-to. The same goes for you, of course. Unless you had it in mind to give it back to him. He’d be ever so grateful, I’m sure.” Gignomai buckled the strap on his pack and wriggled it back over his shoulders. “Anyway, that’s up to you. Your pistol, you do what you like with it.”
Marzo’s hand had drifted back; he was gripping the stock, looking like he was holding a red-hot bar. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s incredibly generous of you.”
“It’s just a thing,” Gignomai replied. “And you don’t own something like that, it comes and stays with you a while, like the aunt nobody can be doing with. I’m glad to be rid of it, to tell you the truth.”
Furio didn’t turn up till mid-morning, and he went straight to where Gignomai was supervising the raising of the hammer-shed roof.
“I’m leaving,” Furio said.
“Right.” All of Gignomai’s attention was on the roof-tree, as it swung into place on a long-beam crane. “How long will you be gone for?”
“For good. I’m quitting. I’m going home.”
“Hold it!” Gignomai yelled. The roof-tree froze in mid-air, like a bird hovering. “Say that again.”
“I’m quitting. I’ve had enough. Besides, you don’t need me here. I’m in the way half the time.”
Gignomai sighed. “Fetch it down again,” he called out. “We’ll try again later. Right,” he said to Furio, grabbing his elbow and hauling him along with him as he walked towards the office cart, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Furio jerked his arm free. “You heard me,” he said. “I’ve got better things to do with my time, you don’t need me, other people do.”
“Of course I need you.” Gignomai looked straight at him, but then his eyes flicked in the direction of the crane. “We started this whole thing together. We’re partners.”
“So are all of them,” Furio said, waving his arm vaguely towards the shed. “Difference is, they’re doing something useful. At least, I’m assuming it’s useful. Since I don’t actually know what the hell it is you’re up to here, I can’t say for sure.”
“Calm down,” Gignomai said. “Have a drink, pull yourself together. This isn’t like you at all.”
“I don’t want a drink.” Furio took a step back, a bit like a fencing move. “I’m not my uncle. And I don’t need to pull myself together. Either you tell me what you’re really doing here or I’m going home. Is that clear enough for you?”
Gignomai leaned his back against the side of the cart. He looked worn out, but that was nothing new. “I honestly don’t know what you mean,” he said. “You know perfectly well what all this is about, we talked about it. Bloodless revolution, a future for the colony, and for both of us. All right,” he said, rubbing his eyelids with forefinger and thumb, “right now, maybe you’re not exactly of the essence, if you see what I mean. You’re not a time-served carpenter or smith, neither am I. I’m sorry if it’s been a bit boring for you.”
“That’s not—”
“But,” Gignomai went on, as if he hadn’t heard him, “we’re pretty close to completion on the building works. It won’t be long now before we finally start making and selling things, which is where I really will need you—you and nobody else. If you walk out on me now, I’ll be completely screwed and you’ll have wasted all the time you’ve already put in. You can see that, surely.”
Furio shook his head. “Sounds good,” he said, “but not in fact true. All this”—another wave at the shed—“is a sideshow, it’s a blind, it’s cover for what you’re really doing. And either you can tell me what that is, or I don’t think I can be here any more. Come on, Gig, for crying out loud, I’m not that stupid.”
Gignomai looked at him. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
“You haven’t? Fine.” Furio took a step forward this time. Gignomai didn’t move. “Where’s your friend Aurelio, and what’s he doing? He’s not in the livery any more. Did he finish what he was doing, or did someone else see him there, so you had to move him somewhere else?”
“Aurelio,” Gignomai repeated. “You mean my father’s smith?”
“You know perfectly well.”
Gignomai shrugged. “I heard he’d left the Tabletop,” he said, “but I haven’t seen him. You’re saying you saw him in town? In the livery?”
Furio felt his fists clench. “Why were you trying out the snapping-hen? Planning on shooting someone?”
“Oh, that.” Gignomai grinned at him. “That’s nothing. I’d gone to a lot of trouble to get it, and I wanted to see if it works. Actually, I haven’t got it any more. What would I want with it anyway?”
“You haven’t got it.”
“No.” Gignomai yawned—genuinely, Furio decided, probably just a sign of how tired he was. “As a matter of fact, I gave it to your uncle.”
One of those sentences that have perfectly good words in them but don’t seem to make sense. “Why?”
“He wanted it. Tried to buy it off Calo Brotti, but he wasn’t inclined to sell. I got hold of it, and I reckoned it’d be good politics. After all, Marzo’s had a lot to put up with lately. Thought I’d show him he’s still loved and wanted. You ask him, he’ll show it to you, I expect. That’s all there is to it.”
Furio shook his head slowly. “I thought we were friends,” he said. “That’s the only reason I’m here. I’d have done anything for you, you know that. But if you’re going to lie to me, I might as well go home. Sorry,” he said, “but that’s it.”
“Furio,” Gignomai said, but Furio was already moving. He paused to look up at the crane, then speeded up, taking long strides to get him out of the clearing. He maintained the pace most of the way up the hill, which he wouldn’t have been able to do a month or so ago. At least he’d gained something from the experience.
Teucer was on the porch when he got back to the store. “You’re home early,” she said, laying down her book on the empty chair beside her. “Something wrong?”
“I walked out,” Furio said.
“You’ve left?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said, and picked the book up again. She’d got it upside down. “Uncle’s gone out,” she said. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“I wasn’t looking for him particularly,” Furio said. For some reason he was reluctant to go inside. The porch seemed a good compromise, for now.
“He said he needs four barrels of malt fetching up from the cellar.”
“Later.” He sat down beside her. “What are you reading?�
��
“Leothymus on fractures,” she replied. She turned the book the right way up. It was just possible she’d been looking at a diagram. “It’s a bit out of date, but there are some useful things in it.”
“Where’d you get something like that?”
She looked at him over the top of the page. “If you must know, it’s from the met’Oc library.”
“Gig gave it to you?”
“No.”
Furio waited, but either she didn’t want to tell him or she wanted him to beg. He wasn’t in the mood. “You were right,” he said.
“Quite likely. What about?”
“Gignomai’s up to something, and he won’t tell me what.”
“Mphm.” She turned a page. “So what upset you? Him being up to something, or him not letting you join in?”
Furio looked away. She wasn’t the only one who could avoid giving answers. He sat still for a while, and then a question came into his mind. He had no idea where it had come from, or why he asked it. “You really liked him didn’t you?”
“No.”
He did still and quiet again. It was quite some time before she said, “All right, yes. But not any more.”
“Why not?”
“He’s up to something,” she said.
“Doesn’t that just add to the mystery?”
“It did,” she said. “But you can get sick of it quite quickly. I think he’s dangerous.”
Furio thought about the snapping-hen, but Gig had given it away. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s planning something big,” she said, “and he really hates his family, which wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t so like them.”
“He went back to talk to the savages,” Furio said. “I don’t know why. Do you think that had anything to do with it?”
She marked her place in the book with a dried leaf. “Why else would he go there?”
“And he gave the pistol to Uncle Marzo.”
