The Hammer

by K. J. Parker

  To his surprise, he found Furio waiting for him in the drawing office, sitting on the high draughtsman’s stool, staring at the plans he’d been working on for the improved iron furnace. They were upside down.

  “I never could make head nor tail of your drawings,” he said.

  “Don’t see why not,” Gignomai replied, throwing the brush-hook into the corner of the room and taking off his hat. “I taught myself to read this sort of thing, so you could do it too, if you wanted.”

  Furio smiled at him. “Can’t be bothered,” he said. “Presumably it all means something to you, and that’s all that matters. What…?”

  “The new furnace,” Gignomai said. “Been having a bit of trouble joining the flue to the chimney hood. But I think I can see how to do it.” He pulled the paper gently out of Furio’s hand and laid it down flat on the desk. “What brings you here?”

  It was always interesting to watch Furio trying to bring himself to tell a lie. Sometimes he struggled so hard that you really wanted him to succeed. The nearest thing to it that Gignomai had ever seen was a very old man pushing a very heavy wheelbarrow halfway (and no further) up an impossibly steep, narrow ramp.

  “Five years,” Furio said, giving up the attempt.

  “Ah.” Gignomai nodded. “You want to talk to me about what happened five years ago.” He shrugged, and sat on the edge of the long plank table. “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve never talked about it. I think it’s about time.”

  “Sure,” Gignomai snapped impatiently, “fine. Like I said, go ahead. You know your trouble, Furio? You’re incapable of taking yes for an answer.”

  But Furio wasn’t going to be rushed, flustered or bounced. Maybe Luso could’ve done it, in his prime, but Gignomai wasn’t in his league. He folded his arms and looked so solemn that Gignomai wanted to laugh. “I never told my uncle,” he said.

  “I know. But he’s guessed quite a lot, I think. At least,” Gignomai went on, scratching the back of his head, “he’s got a number of theories, and he sort of tries them out on me by needling me, ever so gently, every time we meet. Never goes too far, but always keeps up a slight, continuous pressure. I don’t mind,” he added, “I reckon he’s earned the right.”

  “He worries,” Furio said, “about what he did, what he was party to. Actually, he’s asked me direct questions, once or twice.”

  “And you said?”

  “Don’t be so bloody stupid, or words to that effect. But it’s like the way you ask a kid if he’s done something, when you know he’s done it. He wouldn’t have asked me if he wasn’t sure in his mind he knew the answer.”

  Gignomai smiled. “Your uncle is a shrewd man,” he said, “but a pragmatist.”

  “Oh, sure.” Furio shrugged. “He’d never pass on his suspicions to anybody else, he’s too deeply implicated himself. He likes the way things have turned out. I’m just saying, I didn’t tell him. In case you were wondering.”

  “Never crossed my mind,” Gignomai replied. “You had your chance to turn me in, and—”

  “I missed it. Because I was held up, killing a man.”

  Gignomai acknowledged that with a slight movement of the head and shoulders. “Not your fault.”

  “I’m grateful to you, actually,” Furio said. “I never had to make the choice: intervene, or stand by and say nothing. You were kind enough to spare me that.”

  “Least I could do,” Gignomai said. “After I’d used you, like I used everybody else. I’m not proud of that. In fact, I’m not proud of anything I’ve done, ever.” Furio raised an eyebrow, so he went on, “Motive, you see. Always motive. It’s like when someone’s born particularly tall or very handsome—good things to be, and people will always like you for them, but you don’t deserve the admiration because you had no part in it. You were born that way. Same with me, in a sense. I reckon I don’t deserve blame or praise for what I did. Something happened when I was a kid that demanded that action be taken. For various reasons, I was the only one who could take that action. I did what I had to do. I did bad things and good things. I don’t think we need to go through the bad things; the good things gave us independence, and a somewhat better life for the people of this colony. I didn’t intend the good things any more than the bad. They were incidental by-products. So, no pride, no guilt.” He grinned. “In theory, anyway.”

  Furio looked at him for a moment. “Is that why the richest man in the colony lives in a hut and eats cold porridge twice a day?”

  Gignomai laughed. “That’s incidental too. I live here because it’s on site, I eat what I eat when I eat because I haven’t got time for anything else, I’m too busy.”

  “Why? You don’t need to be.”

  “Oh come on,” Gignomai said. “Who else could run this place?”

  “Only you,” Furio said. “Only the last of the met’Oc. Is that it?”

  “Partly,” Gignomai said (he surprised himself with the admission). “Mostly because it needs doing, I’m good at it, there’s nobody else and I haven’t got anything better to do. Motive, you see. Always motive.”

  Furio sighed. “Motive doesn’t matter a damn. Only what happens matters.” He stood up, as if he’d decided to make that his exit line, then he must have changed his mind. “Which is why I’ve never said anything, about what you did.”

  “Oh,” Gignomai said. “I thought it was because we were friends.”

  “Really?” Furio scowled at him. “You didn’t bloody well treat me as a—”

  “No,” Gignomai said, and although he didn’t raise his voice, it was as though he’d shouted. “No, I didn’t. But you’re a better man than me. I expected more from you than I’d ever expect from myself.” He smiled again, and said, “Also, you didn’t have that one great big important thing you had to do, not like me. You had a choice. Makes a difference, that does.”

  Furio was still looking daggers. “Sorry if I disappointed you.”

  Gignomai’s turn to frown. “Is that it,” said, “or were there other issues you wanted to explore?”

  There was a brittle moment, then Furio shook his head. “What the hell did you marry Teucer for, anyhow? You never could stand her.”

  “That’s overstating it,” Gignomai said mildly. “But I needed to marry someone.”

  “To acquire a legitimate heir, yes, I know. But Teucer.”

  “Back Home,” Gignomai said, “there used to be a fashion among the monks of the Studium for wearing hair shirts under their sumptuous robes of velvet and ermine. The reasoning was we don’t give a damn what people think about us, we certainly don’t make a show of our true piety, so we dress up like spoilt rich kids and let everyone believe we’re effete and corrupt. But underneath, we’re who we are, and it’s good if it itches, it helps concentrate the mind. And when a monk died and they peeled off the thousand-thaler shell, they’d find the body was rubbed raw with sores and abscesses, but they were sworn to secrecy, on their immortal souls, and nobody ever knew.” He smiled pleasantly. “Teucer keeps me raw under the met’Oc,” he said. “But don’t tell a soul.”

  Furio looked at him. “You’re…”

  “Crazy?”

  “Incorrigible,” Furio replied. “Never occurred to you to wonder what sort of a life she has, being your hair shirt.”

  “True,” Gignomai said calmly. “Well, no. First, when I asked her she could’ve said no, and she didn’t. Second, because she’s married to me, she can be a doctor, which is what she really wanted.”

  “By-products.”

  “Yes, of course.” Gignomai shrugged. “I try and keep the inconvenience to others as slight as possible, but I do what I have to.”

  “What gives you the right?”

  Gignomai grinned suddenly; he looked about twelve years old. “I’m a met’Oc,” he said. “We were born with the right, along with the responsibility. If I could’ve chosen my parents, I’d have been a merchant’s son, probably, I’d have made a fortune by the time I was twenty-five, and spent the rest
of my life playing at being a country gentleman. No such luck. You, on the other hand…”

  “Screw you, Gig.”

  “You, on the other hand,” Gignomai persisted, “would have made a splendid met’Oc. Not in exile, maybe, but back Home you’d have done well. Noble, honourable, principled. You’d have been a great First Citizen. And if you’d been my father’s youngest son, you wouldn’t have sat still and done nothing.” He looked away for a moment, then back again. “And none of this would’ve been necessary. Ironic, don’t you think?”

  “And we’d still be ruled by the Company.”

  “Well, yes,” Gignomai said. “It wouldn’t have occurred to you to break the law.”

  Furio thought for a moment. Then, “The hell with it,” he said. “Serves me right for raising the subject in the first place.”

  “Agreed,” Gignomai said. “A mistake you won’t make again.”

  Furio smiled weakly. “Agreed,” he said. “But there’s one thing…”

  “Oh for crying out loud. What now?”

  “If the men who laid out the dead monks were sworn to secrecy, like you just said, how come you know about it?”

  Gignomai laughed out loud, with relief that was almost joy. “Because the monks couldn’t resist telling someone,” he said, “because if nobody knew, what’d be the point?”

  On his way home, Furio stopped off at Gignomai’s town house, or the doctor’s house, as everybody else thought of it. Teucer was sweeping up in the big room she used as a surgery.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, when the maid showed him in.

  He asked after young Lusomai, who was fine, thank you, and after Teucer herself, who couldn’t complain (a lie if ever he’d heard one). Then he stood looking nervous for a while, until Teucer asked him what he really wanted.

  “Why did you marry Gignomai?” he asked.

  You could ask her things like that, but there was a price to pay. She could ask you things like that right back. “It’s a marriage of convenience,” she said. “I got all this. Back Home, I’d have spent my entire life planning meals and embroidering cushion covers.”

  “The real reason,” Furio said.

  “Because I love him,” Teucer replied.

  When Furio had gone, and he was sure he was alone, Gignomai unbuttoned his shirt halfway down and slipped his hand inside. With his fingertips, he gently encountered the texture of the coarse horsehair vest he’d worn for the last five years. It had been the only thing he’d taken from the house, just before he slipped out to join the colonists and start the fire. It had belonged, of course, to his father, who had worn it ever since he ordered his daughter’s death (and nobody had known, except for Passer, his wife, and Gignomai, who’d watched him undress once through the key hole), only once taking it off, as custom prescribed, for the day of his son’s wedding, but leaving it neatly folded by his bed, to put back on as soon as the ceremony was over.

  Teucer had asked him about it, once. He said it was for warmth, because he had a weak chest. She knew he was lying, but didn’t say or do anything, at which point, he knew she was well suited to be a met’Oc.

  He rebuked himself for the indulgence, which was a sort of pride, and buttoned up his shirt to the neck.

  extras

  meet the author

  K. J. PARKER is a pseudonym. Find more about the author at www.kjparker.com.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE HAMMER,

  look out for

  THE FOLDING KNIFE

  by K. J. Parker

  Basso the Magnificent. Basso the Great. Basso the Wise. The First Citizen of the Vesani Republic is an extraordinary man.

  He is ruthless, cunning, and above all, lucky. He brings wealth, power, and prestige to his people. But with power comes unwanted attention, and Basso must defend his nation and himself from threats foreign and domestic. In a lifetime of crucial decisions, he’s only ever made one mistake.

  One mistake, though, can be enough.

  On the morning of the day when Basso (Bassianus Severus, the future First Citizen) was born, his mother woke up to find a strange woman sitting at the foot of her bed.

  Her husband was away somewhere on business, and the servants slept downstairs. The woman was dirty and shabby, and she was holding a small knife.

  “Hello,” Basso’s mother said. “What do you want?”

  Over the woman’s shoulder, Basso’s mother could see that the skylight had been forced. She was shocked. It had never occurred to her that a woman could climb a drainpipe.

  “Money,” the woman said.

  Basso’s mother assessed her. About her own age, though she looked much older; a foreigner, most likely a Mavortine (blonde hair, short, fat nose, blue eyes); there were always Mavortines in the city at that time of year, seasonal workers. She was wearing the remains of a man’s coat, several sizes too big.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Basso’s mother said, “but I don’t have any. My husband doesn’t let me have money. He does all the…”

  The woman made a strange grunting noise; frustration and annoyance, all that work for nothing. “I’m sorry,” Basso’s mother repeated. “If I had any money, I’d give it to you.” She paused, then added, “You look like you could use it.”

  The woman scowled at her. “What about downstairs?”

  Basso’s mother shook her head sadly. “All the money in the house is kept in my husband’s iron chest,” she said. “It’s got seven padlocks, and he carries the keys about with him. The servants might have a few coppers,” she added helpfully, “but it’s nearly the end of the month, so I doubt it.”

  The woman was holding the knife rather than brandishing it. Basso’s mother guessed she’d used it to work open the skylight catch. It was a folding knife, an expensive item, with a slim blade and a gold handle; the sort of thing a prosperous clerk would own, for sharpening pens.

  “If you’re that hard up,” Basso’s mother said, “you could sell your knife. It must be worth a bit.”

  The woman looked at it, then back at her. “Can’t,” she said. “If I went in a shop, they’d know it was stolen. I’d be arrested.” She gasped, then burst into a noisy coughing fit that lasted several seconds.

  Basso’s mother nodded. “So jewellery wouldn’t be much use to you either,” she said. She was feeling sick, but managed to keep her face straight and calm. “All I can suggest is that you help yourself to some decent clothes. The dressing room’s next door, just there, look.”

  The woman was looking at her, considering the tactical implications. “Shoes,” she said.

  Basso’s mother wasn’t able to see the woman’s feet. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of shoes,” she said. “I think a pair of good stout walking shoes would be the most useful thing, don’t you?”

  The woman started to reply, then broke out coughing again. Basso’s mother waited till she’d finished, then said, “I’m sorry about the money, but at least let me get you something for that cough. How long have you had it?”

  The woman didn’t answer, but there was an interested look in her eyes. Medicine clearly didn’t feature in her life. Basso’s mother pushed back the sheets and carefully levered herself out of bed and onto her feet. She didn’t bother putting her slippers on.

  “Rosehip syrup, I think,” she said, waddling across the room to the table where her apothecary chest stood. She took the key from the little lacquered box and opened the chest. “There’s a jug of water on the stand beside the bed. Would you mind?”

  The woman hesitated, then brought the jug. Her feet were bare, red, nearly purple; quite disgusting. “While I’m fixing this, have a look in the shoe closet. It’s just there, look, on your left.”

  Not that the woman would be able to read the labels on the bottles. Basso’s mother poured a little dark brown syrup into a glass and added water. “Here,” she said, “drink this.”

  The woman had already pulled out two pairs of boots; she was clutching them, pinched
together, in her left hand. The knife was still in her right. She hesitated, then threw the boots on the bed and took the glass.

  “When you’ve drunk that,” Basso’s mother said, “I’ll ring for some food. When did you last have anything to eat?”

  The woman was staring at her, a stupid look on her face. Basso’s mother counted under her breath. On five, the woman staggered; on seven, she flopped down on the floor. Usually it was at least ten before it had any effect at all.

  Later, Basso’s mother decided she must have given her too much (understandable, in the circumstances). Also, the woman may have had a weak heart or some similar condition. It was sad, of course, but just one of those things. Basso’s mother paid for a coffin and a plot in the public cemetery. It was, she felt, the least she could do.

  Whether the shock induced early labour the doctors couldn’t say. In the event, there were no complications and the baby was perfectly healthy, though a little underweight. Basso’s father had bars fitted over the skylight. A better catch would have done just as well, but he was that sort of man. Basso’s mother tried not to notice the bars, but they were always there in her mind after that.

  The woman must have dropped the folding knife when she fell over, and knocked it under the bed. A maid found it and put it away in a drawer. Basso’s mother came across it some time later and decided to keep it; not quite a trophy, but not something you just throw away. Besides, it was very good quality. When Basso was ten years old she gave it to him. He knew the story that went with it, of course.

  Back home his name was seven syllables long, but here, in the army of the Vesani Republic, he was Aelius of the Seventeenth Auxiliary, the youngest captain in the service, kicking his heels in barracks in the City when men with half his ability were shipping out to the war in charge of a battalion. He was checking supply requisitions in his office when a flustered-looking sergeant interrupted him.

  “We’ve arrested a boy, captain,” the sergeant said.

  Aelius looked up. “And?” he said.