Master and Servant (Waterman)

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER THREE

  Autumn droned on. So did the school masters.

  "Calendar drill next. I am sure that even boys of your intelligence can handle it." That was the mathematics master, forced, against his will, to teach a class in basic maths to a mixed-rank group of first-formers.

  "Victis honor, as said Aurelia, a close contemporary of Remigeus. But if we compare her attitude with that of the Vovimian playwright Ogier—" That was the classics master, a newly appointed young man who was forever taking the opportunity to slip in daring references to foreign literature.

  Meredith tried to close his ears to both voices. He was sitting in a lesson-room in between those two other lesson-rooms, supposedly taking an exam on the constitutional foundations of mastery and service, though he had actually closed his exam book long ago and was now jotting down notes on scratch-paper about which birds frequented the school pond during the autumn.

  "One tri-year is made up of three sun-circuits: Barley, Clover, and Fallow. One sun-circuit is made up of three seasons: Spring, Summer, and Autumn. One season is made up of three months: End, Middle, and Beginning. One month is made up of three weeks . . ."

  The chorus of first-formers recited the obvious. In the other lesson-room, the daring classics master said, ". . . as we see in the tale of Mehetabel and Micah, two well-known characters in Vovimian literature, sadly neglected in our own nation, due to its insular rejection of the best in other nations. Mehetabel and Micah are the best-known examples of a type of drama known as 'the comedy of errors.' . . ."

  Silently predicting to himself that the classics master would last no more than a term before being sacked for his seditious lessons, Meredith turned his scratch-paper over and began listing the factors that might affect when the birds arrived at Hoopers Island, and why they chose to stop at the pond on the middle of the three islands that made up Hoopers Island. Beside him, his fellow lesson-mates sighed periodically as they attempted to wend their way through the exam questions.

  "Spring Waning, Spring Illness, Spring Dying, Spring Death, Spring Transformation, Spring Rebirth, Spring Childhood, Spring Youth, Spring Manhood, Summer Waning, Summer Illness, Summer Dying . . ."

  The tedious recital of the obvious was now taking the form of a student's recital of the weeks of the sun-circuit. The classics master said, ". . . causes Micah to believe that Mehetabel is seeking to spurn him, when in actual fact she is planning to ask him to marry her. In the next scene, Micah sights Mehetabel with her friend Thomasina, and in a rare literary reference to the forbidden relationship between women that is known in our nation as a 'particular friendship' . . ."

  Meredith revised his estimate of the classics master's time at the school; he now suspected that the master would be packing his bags by the end of Autumn Illness. He began sketching a clam, while nearby, the first-former said, "Summer Childhood, Summer Youth, Summer Manhood, Autumn Waning, Autumn Dying . . . Er, I mean Autumn Illness—"

  "Stop, stop, stop!" The mathematics master's way of coping with his own boredom was always to rage at his students. "You stupid little boy! Can you not even remember the name of the very week we're in? You'll take one hundred lines for that. What is your name?"

  "Lovelace minor, Master Trundle."

  "Lovelace minor? Who is your elder brother? Some sort of layabout, I've no doubt. Come up to this desk, boy – I'll make sure that your family has no more layabouts. Stick out your hand."

  "I'm a first-ranker, Master Trundle." The tone of the boy was without mockery, but all around the mathematics classroom, students giggled. The mathematics master – carried away as always by the zeal of his righteousness – had failed to notice two quite obvious signs of the boy's rank: the rank-mark tattooed to his wrist, and the fact that he had addressed his teacher as "Master Trundle." If Lovelace minor had been a second- or third-ranker, he would more likely have addressed the mathematics master as "sir."

  The mathematics master was suddenly silent. Like all of the school masters except the House Masters and Head Master, he was a second-ranker, and as a second-ranked master, he had no power to punish first-ranked masters, no matter how young or ill-educated. After a moment, during which the students' giggling continued, he said gruffly, "Then you will take your punishment from your House Master. I will spare you the Head Master."

  The giggling increased. Everyone knew that Master Trundle actually meant, "I will spare myself the humiliation of letting the Head Master know about this episode."

  "Yes, Master Trundle." Lovelace minor sounded relaxed, as well he might. He was from the Third House, and his elder brother, Lovelace major, was a skilled, energetic batter on the House's picket team, in the same manner that their father and grandfather had been. As far as the Third House was concerned, the family of Lovelace could do no wrong. In any case, a trip to the House Master's rooms would only result in the House Master giving an irritable lecture on how his studies should not be interrupted with unimportant matters. A trip to Rudd's rooms would have been far more dangerous.

  "Finished, Meredith?"

  Meredith jerked his head up at the sound of the soft voice. Absorbed as he was in the comic drama taking place in the mathematics lesson, he had failed to hear the Head Master's approach. "Yes, sir," he whispered, and showed his exam book.

  The Head Master read it carefully, his reading glasses perched on his nose, and then nodded in acknowledgment. "Well done. But put away that sketch; this is not a science lesson."

  "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Meredith quickly stowed away his scratch-paper. Any other school master would have confiscated the offending notes and given Meredith lines to write out – perhaps even given Meredith five strokes on the hand for disobedience. But the Head Master – a first-ranker who answered only to the High Masters' council for his leadership of their school – never seemed to feel the need to show off his power against petty infringements of school rules. Now, disdaining even to look back to see that Meredith was acting as ordered, he strode up the aisle between the desks, pausing only to snatch up a forbidden crib that a student had failed to hide in time. "My rooms, after the lesson," he said sternly to the offender.

  "Yes, sir," said the offender bleakly. Under these circumstances, a trip to the Head Master's rooms could only mean a caning.

  The other students exchanged glances and then returned with renewed diligence to their exam books. There were no more sighs. Meredith, forbidden from opening any schoolbooks during exam time, stared out the window that overlooked the lawn and bushes in front of the school. Beyond it he could see the marsh-grass of Richland Point. A great blue heron rose from the marsh and soared in the direction of the Bay.

  ". . . from which we can conclude that Mehetabel and Micah's troubles are the result of their own unwillingness to communicate their fears and longings to each other. This shows the high importance of communication, of which poetry is one example. The Yclau balladeer, Yeslin Bainbridge, once wrote . . ."

  The Head Master abruptly stopped in his tracks, looked round for a free student, and beckoned to Meredith. Meredith quickly hurried to the front of the room.

  Bending forward, the Head Master murmured, "Please convey my reminder to Master Tester that under no circumstances is Egalitarian literature to be taught in this school. Tell him that I will see him in my rooms at the end of the day."

  "Yes, sir," whispered Meredith, revising his predictions yet again. Tomorrow, he suspected, the classics lesson-room would be empty. As a Traditionalist institution, Narrows School barely tolerated references to Reformed Traditionalist beliefs. References to Egalitarianism were quite beyond the pale.

  He delivered the message to the classics master, who – poor, undiscerning man – seemed merely annoyed at the Head Master's words. "Oh, very well," he said, waving away Meredith. "Though that is taking a very narrow attitude in such matters. The importance of the Yclau balladeers to the world of literature—"

  "Master Tester, you might want to consider that the Head Master is in the adjoining lesson-room and
can therefore hear every word you speak." This quiet comment came from a student sitting in the front row of the lesson-room.

  The literature master frowned. "Well, really, I do not need unsolicited advice from, from—"

  "Carruthers, Master Tester." Carruthers's gaze was steady upon his school master.

  The classics master – who, as it happened, was a citizen of the Second Landstead – seemed taken aback. "Ah. Yes, of course. But your own father—"

  "—would be happy to discuss Egalitarian literature with you at any time. I would be glad to send him a letter tonight, recommending your re-employment at a school of more advanced tastes in literature." Carruthers's tone was utterly bland as he conveyed his warning.

  The classics master blinked, trying to absorb this message. Meredith took the opportunity to make his exit. Carruthers had not looked in Meredith's direction, which was just as well, since Rudd sat two seats away from him in that lesson-room.

  Meredith returned to his own lesson-room to find that a couple of the third-ranked students were gathering up the exam books on the Head Master's behalf. He slipped into his seat, while in the next lesson-room, the bored mathematics master said, ". . . crowning glory and identifying first-ranked mark of our nation is our ternary system, which we use for our numbers, alphabet, holograph color codes, calendar, logic, and even for simple messages such as 'stop,' 'caution,' and 'go.' The clear superiority of a base-three system over rival number systems demonstrates the manifest superiority of the Dozen Landsteads' native way of thinking over foreign heresies and—"

  "Sir, excuse me, sir, but don't we use tri-decades and tri-centuries, in the same way that the Mippites use decades and centuries in their nation's decimal system?"

  Before the mathematics master had the opportunity to quash this line of thought, another student cried, "Sir, oh please, sir, I need your help in understanding something. If the Dozen Landsteads remains untainted by foreign heresies like the ancient base-four system of numbering in Vovim, why is it, please, that the High Masters' council has always met for quarterlies rather than for thirdlies?"

  "Sir, sir!" This was Percy, usually quiet and well-behaved at lessons, but unable to resist the temptation to join into the ragging. "Oh, I must know, sir! Is it true, as my eldest brother says, that the First Landsteaders use the ternary system also? And how can that be if, as you've told us in the past, the First Landstead isn't part of the Dozen Landsteads?"

  "Master Trundle." Lovelace minor's voice was silky smooth; he was obviously getting his own back for the earlier reprimand. "I find what you say most confusing, for I have it on good authority, from my father, who masters the foreign affairs office of our landstead, that all the computers of the world now use the ternary system. Would you care to explain how that can be, if the ternary system is 'the identifying first-ranked mark of our nation'?"

  The mathematics master strove vainly to restore order by means of logic – quite difficult to do, since he had driven himself into a box whereby he could not admit to his students that the computers owed their superior numbering system to the First Landsteaders, who had created the world's earliest computers. That would mean acknowledging that the First Landstead shared the same numbering heritage as the upper landsteads. The first-formers, their voices scrambling over each other like eager puppies, took advantage of the mathematics master's stammering replies to pelt him with questions at the top of their lungs.

  The Head Master, who had been skimming the exam books as they were handed to him, sighed as he glanced in the direction of the offending lesson-room. "Finnemore."

  "Yes, sir?" Finnemore looked up from where he was passing notes with a fellow second-ranker.

  "Averill Lovelace is your liege-master, am I correct?"

  "Yes, sir." Finnemore stiffened. A call for a student's liege-master usually meant that the Head Master was about to discipline the student for a particularly heinous infraction.

  "Kindly visit your liege-master next door and offer to him my reminder that I will be taking into consideration the behavior of first-ranked masters of the Third House when it comes time for me to consider who to appoint as the next Head Prefect of that House."

  There was light laughter from the Head Master's students, who had been listening to the chaos erupt next door. Finnemore, smiling, said, "Yes, sir. Any message for Master Trundle, sir?"

  "No," said the Head Master in a weary tone that suggested he had given many messages to the hapless mathematics master in the past, without success. "No message for my liegeman. Only for your liege-master."

  Finnemore departed, and a short time later, Lovelace minor's voice could be heard, sharply urging the second- and third-ranked students in his lesson-room to attend to their school master. The other first-ranked masters, taking their cue from this, rebuked the second- and third-rankers for the very ragging that the first-rankers had helped to instigate.

  Finnemore, glowing from the success of his mission, returned in time to seat himself as the Head Master said to his students, "A few of you are in need of extra tutoring, it appears." As most of the Lower Seventh students groaned, the Head Master added, "Let us review the fundamentals of constitutional law again by discussing a recent Act, enacted within your own lifetimes. Who can tell me what the Abuse of Power Act covers?"

  "Head Master, it permits masters to act as servants, and servants to act as masters, provided that their acting is done in private!" This triumphant shout came from Hobson, always ready with an answer, and always, invariably wrong.

  "No, Hobson," the Head Master replied patiently. "That clause is from the Act of Celadon and Brun, which was revoked around the time you were born. We will not be discussing that Act until next term. Anyone else?"

  The students exchanged looks. Nobody seemed particularly eager to venture an answer. Meredith, who could have recited every clause of the Abuse of Power Act in his sleep, was careful not to raise his hands. A know-everything student provided extra ammunition for bullies.

  Finally a student grasped his hands over his head, was called upon, and said, "The Abuse of Power Act, enacted in 1956 Clover, forbids a master from abusing his power over a lesser-ranked master or his power over a servant."

  "Correct, Sefton," said the Head Master. Then, as the student was sighing in relief, the Head Master added, "And what is the difference between a master and a servant?"

  Sefton remained silent, not wishing to answer what was evidently a trick question. Hobson, wishing to redeem himself, practically shouted, "A master masters and a servant serves!"

  "Correct, Hobson," the Head Master said, "though you should wait to be called upon. Now, tell me, what is the difference between a liegeman and a servant?"

  "Er . . ." Having realized that he had ventured out into waters too deep for him, Hobson gripped his pen uncertainly. "A liegeman is a master who serves a higher-ranked master?"

  "Correct." The Head Master gave Hobson the smile he reserved for slow students who tried their best. "What other differences are there between a liegeman and a servant? Anyone?"

  Hobson, relieved of the grilling chair, slumped back onto his bench with an audible sigh of relief. Several other students had their hands up now.

  "Gerant." The Head Master pointed.

  "Sir, the difference between a liegeman and a servant is that a servant does worse work than a liegeman." Gerant sounded smug as he cast a look of scorn at Hobson for his simple answer.

  The Head Master nodded. "You have served your liege-master in this school, I believe?"

  "Yes, sir," replied Gerant, who was now leaning back against the desk behind him in a nonchalant manner. Meredith carefully capped his ink bottle so that Gerant wouldn't spill it. "Master Naughton was in the sixth form when I arrived here. I fagged for him during my first three terms."

  "And what sort of service did you render him that a servant would not render?"

  Gerant's smug expression disappeared. Several of the students – who had remembered better than Gerant the Head Master's
blithe manner of setting traps – had been nudging each other knowingly throughout Gerant's speech. Now they snickered outright.

  "Silence, please." The Head Master did not remove his gaze from Gerant. "Gerant, what is the answer? It is a simple enough question."

  Hobson buried his head in his arms to hide his smile. Gerant, after a couple of false starts, said, "Well, he didn't require me to empty his chamber-pot. He had a servant do that."

  "But that was his choice, not yours?"

  "Yes, sir," muttered Gerant, slumping in his chair. Then he straightened suddenly, as though stung by a jellyfish. "But I gave the orders to the servant!"

  "Good," said the Head Master. "So we see another distinction between a master and a servant. A liegeman, unlike a servant, can give orders to men and women below his rank."

  Sefton waved his hands wildly. Upon being called upon, said, "Sir, our House's majordomo, Ben, gives orders to the other servants. My father's liege-master says that Ben is really the one who runs the House, not him."

  The other students laughed. The Head Master, smiling, said, "It sometimes feels that way when one employs a good servant, doesn't it? But yes, you've made an important point: a servant, if he is of sufficient status in the household, can give orders to other servants. So." The Head Master's voice turned brisk. "We've established that, under certain circumstances, a master can serve, and that under certain circumstances, a servant can give orders. Can no one here tell me the difference between a liegeman and a servant?"

  The students looked at one another with blank looks. Meredith stared at his desk, tracing with his finger the markings of older students. Finally Hobson said, "My valet at home kneels to me."

  There were groans at this simple answer, but the Head Master said firmly, "Very good, Hobson. We are approaching the answer. Does he kneel on two knees or one?"

  "Two knees, sir." Hobson sounded bewildered. "Only liegemen kneel on one knee."

  "And does anyone know why a liegeman kneels on one—?"

  "Oh, sir!" Thus prompted, Sefton shot up his hands. "Sir, I know! The liegeman has taken a vow of allegiance."

  "Yes!" The Head Master slapped his hands down on his desk. "There we have it, young masters. A liegeman takes a vow of allegiance to be faithful to his liege-master until death. A servant makes no such vow; it is quite common for a servant to serve three or four masters before his death. And a master . . . Anyone? What is a master's duties toward his liegeman or his servant?"

  "Sir, a liege-master is required to protect his liegeman." That was Oates, a quiet Third Landsteader who was one of the best students in the Lower Seventh. "By law, a lesser-ranked master cannot fight against higher-ranked masters, so it is the liege-master's duty to protect and guide his liegeman. Normally, he will also offer employment to his liegeman, but that is a less important matter than the protection and guidance. A servant-master, on the other hand, is under no obligation to either protect or guide the servants he has employed. The servants have taken no oath of allegiance to him."

  The Head Master had been smiling as he listened to this speech. Now he said, "Are you planning to try for the Constitutional Law Prize this term, Oates?"

  Oates, taken off-guard, said, "Ah . . . no, sir, I'm not sure whether I'm good enough to . . ."

  "I think you should try," the Head Master said flatly, and then returned his attention to the rest of the class. "Oates has put the matter as well as I could. An oath of allegiance binds liege-master and liegeman together. Even masters who have not taken an oath of allegiance hold a special relationship with higher-ranked masters that cannot be found between a servant and master. The Abuse of Power Act recognizes this and applies especially heavy penalties against any master who abuses his power over a lesser-ranked master. A master who abuses his power against a servant may be penalized, but not in so strict a fashion, for he has no responsibilities toward his servants, other than to provide the servants with decent conditions of employment."

  "No sex," whispered Gerant, and the lads nearest to him sniggered.

  "Would you care to repeat that remark to the rest of us, Gerant?" said the Head Master. "Please raise your voice so that we can all hear you."

  Gerant, scarlet-faced, said, "Um . . . sir . . . the Abuse of Power Act forbids masters from requiring servants to serve them sexually."

  "And all of you who are laughing consider this to be an amusing matter?" The Head Master looked round at the appropriate students, who hung their heads.

  "Now, young masters." The Head Master leaned across his desk. "You are all of journeyman age now. You are all at least seventeen sun-circuits – some of you are close to your sixth tri-year. So I can speak openly with you about matters that apprentice-aged students normally learn about only in their catechismal classes."

  He gestured toward Davenham, who had received special permission to attend the class, since he would be leaving school when he reached journeyman age. Davenham failed to notice the gesture; he was busy scribbling down all that was said in the lesson.

  "Sex . . ." The Head Master leaned on the word, causing several of the students to gasp in shock. "Sex is a sacred trust, instituted to bind together husband and wife, in order that they might bring back to life, through their union, the souls of men and women who have died in the past. Each time a husband and wife make love, they may be drawing back the soul of a man or woman who has been held in affection by others in the past, and whose loss to this world has been mourned. They are giving that soul another chance at life, allowing the soul to join again the spiral of time, climbing upwards. There can be no greater human responsibility than this."

  There was a silence before O'Niel, who was of the Second Landstead, said, "Er, Head Master . . . Our High Master has never married. He says he doesn't intend to."

  The Head Master nodded. "Nor have I. Some masters have responsibilities too great to permit them the privilege of marriage. But all higher-ranked masters, without exception, take on a responsibility that permits them the option of binding themselves to another in a carnal manner. I refer, of course, to what is commonly known as liegeman's service – or in franker language, bed-service."

  Now the students of the Lower Seventh were still indeed, so much so that the sound of Master Trundle's voice drifted into the lesson room: "Death comes to us three times a year, in the weeks of Spring Death, Summer Death, and Autumn Death. Yet death, which is represented by the color red, is ever-present throughout the calendar cycle, for the heliograph signal of red, representing one of the numerals of the ternary system, can be seen over and over again in the letters of the heliograph alphabet . . ."

  "Some of you," said the Head Master, looking at the second-ranked masters in the front rows of the classroom, "are liege-masters, or will be in the future. All of you, being second- and third-ranked journeymen, are liegemen. Not all of you will be required to offer bed-service. Bed-service, as you know, is intended to provide liege-masters with a form of release before marriage, in order that they not seek out illegitimate bonds – yes, I am referring to the prostitution of women, Gerant." He looked sternly at Gerant, who had been on the point of enlightening his bench-mate through a whisper. "Bed-service therefore ends at the time of marriage. Some liege-masters marry young, in which case it would be inappropriate for them to ever receive bed-service from their liegemen. Other liege-masters, for their own reasons, prefer not to receive bed-service, or they have so many liegemen that it would be impossible for them to accommodate all of their liegemen's offers of service . . . however much some of them might want that." The Head Master's gaze landed on Baxter, and his mouth twitched.

  The students were startled into laughter. Baxter, a popular lad who was notorious for acquiring new liegemen at the rate of one per term, laughed with the rest. The Head Master, openly smiling now, said, "When I say that sex is sacred, I do not mean to suggest that it must be solemn. There is room for good-hearted play in bed-service. But note that, whether the service is offered by a wife or by a liegeman, in b
oth cases the service is offered willingly. How is this willingness signified, Oates?"

  "By a vow, sir," said Oates. "The liegeman offers his oath of allegiance, and the wife offers her oath of marriage."

  "And in both cases, it must be stressed, the oath is public." The Head Master slammed his palms onto the table a second time. "The high law will not countenance hideaway affairs. It demands that any master who accepts sexual service be willing to make his pledge of protection to that person in public. No servant may be forced to serve a master in bed, because no servant makes an oath of allegiance—"

  "Except Celadon."

  Gerant's remark brought laughter to the room. Meredith, who was still tracing incisions on his desk, felt his cheeks burn.

  The Head Master looked at Gerant, so long that the laughter died down, to be replaced by uneasy looks. Finally the Head Master said, "Gerant, did you or did you not hear me say earlier that we would not be studying the Act of Celadon and Brun until next term?"

  Gerant hesitated before responding, "Yes, sir."

  "You will take five hundred lines. Deliver them to my rooms by week's end."

  "Yes, Head Master," Gerant murmured.

  The Head Master looked round to where the other students were exchanging whispers of dissatisfaction. He said slowly, "Since there appears to be such strong interest here in the Act of Celadon and Brun, it may be best for us to address that matter. The Act of Celadon and Brun, passed in 1317, permits what?"

  "A master and servant to exchange places," ventured Hobson.

  "No, that's not right," interjected Sefton. "It permits a master to act as a servant, or a servant to act as a master, provided that it's done in private."

  "Provided that it's done without public scandal," corrected Oates. "That's what the Act says. A master can privately tell his friends what he's doing; he just can't stand up in public and say, 'I act like a servant sometimes.'"

  "Who'd want to admit that?" Gerant wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  "Celadon—" began Oates.

  "Celadon was a High Master. If a High Master wants to amuse himself by playing he's a servant, who's going to question his right to do that? But if one of us acted like a servant – well, I'd question whether that lad was properly ranked at birth."

  There were murmurs of agreement. Meredith cast a quick look at the Head Master, but he was leaning back in his chair, evidently preferring the students to voice their opinions fully.

  "What about Brun, though?" asked another student. "He was a slave – he didn't take any oath of allegiance to Celadon. Celadon shouldn't have forced him to serve in bed."

  Gerant shrugged. "What servant is going to pass up the chance to act as though he's a master?"

  "Not all servants want to be masters," Sefton argued.

  "But Brun did," inserted another student. "He said so publicly. That's why the Act of Celadon and Brun lets servants rise to the rank of master."

  "And lets masters be lowered to the rank of servants," Oates added. "Remember, Celadon wanted to be a servant as much as Brun wanted to be a master."

  "So why have the clause about letting servants act in private like masters, or masters act in private like servants?" rejoined the other student. "That just complicates things."

  "Everything is complicated about the Act," said yet another student. "How do you figure out whether a servant is really a master, or whether a master is really a servant? That's what the Act is supposed to be about – not about masters playing they're servants, or vice versa, but about a master actually being a servant."

  "Or a servant actually being a master."

  "And the Act implies that they were given the wrong rank at birth."

  "But how could that be?" asked Hobson plaintively.

  "Exactly." The Head Master's soft remark cut into the discussion like a culling knife. "How could a man, born and raised as a master, be mismatched with his rank? Are we to say that the powers which transform us into new lives make a mistake? Are we really that arrogant?"

  Nobody wanted to reply directly to this question, though some of the Reformed Traditionalists in the room were exchanging looks. Finally one of them said, "Sir, that's not the only reason the Act was revoked. Even if you believe that a master or a servant may be given the wrong rank at birth, there's the practical problem that lots of servants who really are servants will demand to be re-ranked, simply in order to gain power they shouldn't have."

  The Head Master nodded. "Which is why four out of the five Reformed Traditionalists on the High Masters' council voted to revoke the Act of Celadon and Brun. The only abstaining vote on the council – an abstaining vote, not a vote against the revocation – came from the High Master of the Ninth Landstead, no doubt out of respect to his ancestor, High Master Celadon. Celadon, I think we can all agree, was a strong and good High Master, and the revocation of his Act is not intended to be a smear against his memory." His eye lingered momentarily on Sefton, a Traditionalist who had been punished for tearing pictures of Celadon out of the school's library books. "But even the best High Masters may make mistakes. Celadon's error was in believing that a particular arrangement he had made with his own slave could be enacted throughout the Dozen Landsteads without bringing chaos to our ranking system. For tri-centuries, our courts were clogged with servants who were demanding changes in rank. For tri-centuries, masters forced their servants to serve them sexually, and then invoked the Act of Celadon and Brun when their shameful behavior was discovered, arguing that the servant had acted willingly. Since the servant had supposedly given his agreement in private, it was impossible to prove that the master was lying." The Head Master, his face now drawn on stern lines, said, "Young masters, perhaps it is indeed wise for us to consider the Act of Celadon and Brun at the same time as the Abuse of Power Act, for the latter was promulgated partly to eradicate the horrible sufferings caused by the former. The Abuse of Power Act says there will be no hideaway affairs, whether sexual or otherwise. None. If a master is unwilling to state publicly that he will protect and guide the liegeman who serves him, or if he is unwilling to publicly sign a servant's certificate of employment, then he has no right – no right – to require that person to serve him. Privacy is no excuse for abuse!"

  The Head Master's voice seemed to echo in the lesson room. The students were silent, as they always were on the very rare occasions that the Head Master raised his voice. The Head Master looked round the room, reading acquiescence in the lads' faces. Then his gaze paused. "Meredith," he said, "you appear, from your expression, to have a question or comment."

  Meredith struggled to his feet. He could feel himself trembling. "Head Master," he said, "you stated earlier that a servant could not serve a master in the same way that a liegeman does, because the servant does not take an oath of allegiance. But what if he should?"

  The snickers broke out almost immediately. The Head Master, frowning, rapped his cane on the desk to silence the students. Then he said in a gentle voice, "Meredith, the servants you will own one day will not take an oath of allegiance to you because it is not in the nature of a servant to be faithful until death. As I said before, the typical servant flits from master to master, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower. There is no shame in this; indeed, the emancipation of the Dozen Landstead's slaves, in 1508, was intended to allow servants this opportunity. But this means that a servant, unlike a liegeman, cannot pledge himself to another man without doing violence to his very nature. Does that answer your question?"

  Meredith, biting his lip, nodded as he sat down. He was conscious of whispered discussions taking place throughout the lesson room. One of the lads who had been whispering clasped his hands above his head. "Head Master?"

  "Yes, Gerant?" The Head Master, who had been continuing to scrutinize Meredith, turned his attention to the other student.

  "Head Master, what about the servants who became ranked as masters before the Act of Celadon and Brun was revoked? Are they really masters?"

  Snicker
s broke out all over the lesson room. Meredith bowed his head over his desk, which caused the snickers to transform into open laughter.

  "Silence!" The Head Master rapped on his desk again. "Gerant, are you trying to increase the number of lines I gave you?"

  "Oh, no, sir!" Gerant's voice was studiedly innocent. "I'm not laughing. I just wondered what the status is of such men, in case I should happen to meet one of them."

  The students exchanged knowing smiles with one another. Baxter cleared his throat. "Ah, sir? My father only lets me attend this school on condition that I not be forced to accept Traditionalist doctrine."

  The Head Master nodded. "Then it would be best, Baxter, for you to seek an answer to this question from your father. The same is true for any other Reformed Traditionalist students here. However, this is a Traditionalist school, and Traditionalist beliefs are taught here. The answer to your question, Gerant, is that this school does not recognize such men as being masters. They have never been permitted to attend here as students. —However," he added as the whispers increased, "it is the position of this school that anyone who is raised as a master from the time of birth is indeed a master. Such a person is welcome in this school and will be accorded all respect due to a master. Does that answer your question, Gerant?"

  Gerant was saved from having to respond by the tolling of the chapel bell. The Head Master sighed, consulted his pocket watch, and said, "The bell is early today."

  This brought new snickers, for the bell was often early. The servant whose duty it was to ring the chapel bell at the end of each lesson accepted bribes from the students.

  Footsteps and conversation entered the corridor as the other school masters released their students. The Head Master sighed again. "Very well, we will finish this discussion tomorrow. —Meredith, I would like a word with you."

  As the other students sauntered toward the door of the lesson-room, Meredith hurriedly scooped up his schoolbooks; he had learned, long ago, the ill wisdom of leaving his belongings unattended. Then he rushed up to the Head Master, who had stood up from his desk and was stretching. "Yes, sir?" Meredith said. "Do you require my service?"

  The Head Master looked at him for a moment before saying gently, "No, Meredith, that is the wrong protocol. The protocol from a lesser master to a higher-ranked master who is not his liege-master is to ask whether the higher-ranked master has need of any aid."

  Meredith dipped his eyes; his face had turned warm. "I'm sorry, sir."

  "It can be difficult sometimes, remembering all the different types of protocol." The Head Master's voice remained gentle. "Perhaps you would care to attend the Service & Protocol class again this term, simply as a refresher?"

  He looked up quickly. "Yes, sir. I'd like that."

  "Well, then, I'll just need a note from your liege-master, excusing you from your duties to him during that time."

  Meredith barely managed to suppress a sigh. Pembroke, he knew, would consult with Rudd, and Rudd would say no, even though he never needed Meredith to fag for him when the Service & Protocol lesson was taking place, since, by long-standing school custom, that was the time when the Heads of Houses required service from their own liegemen.

  The voices in the corridor were growing louder now as all of the students were released from their lessons. Davenham had paused at the doorway to talk with Trafford, who had just emerged from the Upper Seventh lesson with Master Tester. Oates was standing silently nearby, while Jeffries hovered on the edge of the conversation.

  "Your lesson-work this term has been a shade more slipshod than in the past, I'm afraid," the Head Master remarked to Meredith.

  His work had been slipshod because Rudd left him little time in which to study. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll do my best to improve."

  "Is your liege-master continuing to supervise your studies?" The Head Master peered at Meredith over his spectacles.

  Meredith could see that Jeffries's attention had wandered from the conversation at the doorway to the conversation at the Head Master's desk. What Jeffries overheard, he would report to Fletcher, and what Fletcher learned, he would report to Rudd. "Whenever his duties to his liege-master permit it, sir." Which was to say, never.

  "Good. Even though your liege-master is only in the fifth form, he has a fine grasp of geography and military history. He should be able to help you in those areas."

  Meredith ventured, "I've been creating a map of the Bay in my spare time, sir."

  "Excellent!" The Head Master smiled as he placed his hand on Meredith's shoulder. "I would like to see that map. Perhaps we can put it on display in the geography lesson-room when it is completed."

  "Thank you, sir." Meredith felt himself grow warm with happiness. He always ended up cheerful after talking with the Head Master, though the Head Master rarely had time for him, being responsible for a dozen schoolmasters who were his liegemen, a dozen more who simply worked for him, four hundred boys and young men, and all of the school servants who were not owned by the Houses.

  "Well, now," said the Head Master, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. "I must correct these . . . and I have promised to meet with one of your lesson-mates."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Meredith backed away, then remembered, belatedly, that as a lesser master he was permitted to turn his back on higher-ranked masters. He quickly turned round and started toward the door.

  At the doorway, Davenham was saying, ". . . talked as though the Act was all for the sake of the servants, when everyone knows that a servant can just as easily be sent to prison for violating the Abuse of Power Act as a master can. All that the master needs to do is pretend that the servant raped him or blackmailed him or otherwise severely harmed him. And even when the master and servant both enter into the affair with honor . . . I kept wondering when someone would ask the obvious question: If it's forbidden for a master and servant to make private arrangements for bed-service because the servant hasn't made a public oath of allegiance to his master, and if it's forbidden for a servant to make a public oath of allegiance to his master, what happens if a servant longs for his master and truly wants to serve him in bed?"

  Trafford shrugged. "There can't be many servants like that. I suppose that the few who exist must sacrifice their desires, for the sake of the greater good."

  "No, it was for the sake of the Traditionalists," inserted Jeffries. "They're the ones who really hated the Act of Celadon and Brun, because it was originally passed by Reformed Traditionalist High Masters."

  Trafford said nothing. Oates shook his head in mute commentary. Davenham elbowed Jeffries hard in the ribs.

  "Sir," added Jeffries belatedly.

  "You know," said Trafford slowly, "if you keep up this habit of acting disrespectfully toward higher-ranked masters, someone is likely to invoke the clause in the Abuse of Power Act that covers what acts are forbidden to liegemen and servants."

  Jeffries flushed. "I've never severely harmed a master, sir. And it's not disrespectful to contradict you. It's not as though I'm a servant, forbidden by law from directly contradicting masters."

  "He means well, sir." Davenham spoke up in defense of his friend. "He just forgets protocol sometimes."

  Nobody was looking in the direction of Meredith, who had paused near the doorway, waiting for the masters there to step back. Trafford said, "If you back-talk a first-ranked master, one thing leads to another. Just because your liege-master is still in first form—"

  But here the conversation was interrupted by a scuffle in the corridor. Trafford, glancing in the direction of the battle, said with a sigh, "They always choose a moment when I'm due for footer practice. —No, you can stay here, Davenham. Oates is waiting to talk with you. —All right, you lot, that's enough. Save your House rivalries for the playing fields."

  Amidst the chorus of protests from the squabbling students of the Second and Third Houses, Meredith tried to slip through the vacant space that Trafford had left. Jeffries caught sight of him and sneered. "I hear that the
school thinks you're a master, Meredith. Aren't you glad that the school knows what you are?"

  "Oh, give it up, Jeffries," said Davenham, who had turned away to speak to Oates. "We don't need another battle in the corridor."

  "As though he'd fight back." Jeffries kicked Meredith in the ankle as he passed. "Bloody servant. Hey, Davenham, is it true that Meredith stood up when the Head Master called on him, just like a servant does?"

  Meredith closed his thoughts to Davenham's reply, squeezing his way carefully past the feuding students, who had been forced by Trafford to lay down their weapons: schoolbooks that they had been flinging at one another. Rudd was noticeably absent; he was talking with Pembroke, within sight and sound of the rumpus. Meredith, feeling his ankle throb from the pain of the kick, began to limp down the corridor that curved round the circular building. Then he halted in his tracks as he caught sight of who stood beyond the battleground.

  Carruthers had just turned away from the battle. It was not clear whether he had taken part in the battle himself or was simply satisfied that Trafford had matters in hand. Arthurs – overlooking all the fuss in the blithe manner he had – was saying, "And he failed to heed what you said? Sweet blood, the man should be sent down for sheer idiocy. I mean, first he ignores the Head Master's warning, and then he ignores you. . . ."

  "Well, if everyone was sent down who made a mistake—" Carruthers stopped speaking abruptly. Meredith, hunched over his schoolbooks, was aware of the Head's gaze upon him as he passed. As he reached the door to the outside, Carruthers said behind him, "I'm sorry – what were you saying, Arth?"

  o—o—o

  Safely back in his dormitory – or as safe as he could be, for the dormitory was abandoned at this time of day – Meredith ducked into his cubicle, pulling shut the dark green curtain behind him. The walls of the ceilingless cubicle were made of pine and were just high enough not to be seen over casually. Davenham, who had charge over the third-rankers' dormitory, had been chosen for his height: he could stand on tiptoe each night and look over the curtain-rods to be certain that all was well in the cubicles.

  Meredith had never been entirely sure what nefarious deeds Davenham expected to see in the cubicles. He knew, of course, that it was wrong to deliberately spill his seed without his liege-master's permission; his father had told him that, long before such matters were of any importance in Meredith's life. Meredith supposed that some liegemen were faithless enough to waste what belonged to their liege-masters, and that Davenham was in charge of reporting them to their liege-masters.

  Meredith himself had not felt any temptation to touch himself there since the term began. Rudd had decided, early on, that it would be amusing to make Meredith spill his seed against his will. Even though Meredith knew that he was not responsible for acts committed against his will, and even though he knew that he was attending Rudd at Pembroke's orders, still he always felt ashamed afterwards that he had not been able to preserve for his liege-master the gift that should belong only to Pembroke.

  Or to Meredith's wife. He suspected that if he went to Pembroke and told him he wanted to marry, Pembroke would give his permission, and that would be the end of Meredith's service to Rudd. Even Rudd dared not require bed-service from a married master. But it seemed a sorry end to the tale: that Meredith should take a wife simply because he had failed to find a way to serve Pembroke.

  Setting his schoolbooks aside on the chair in the cubicle, Meredith poured cold water from the pitcher into the washbasin and splashed it over his face. Perhaps the way to impress Pembroke was through his studies. If the Head Master displayed Meredith's map in a lesson-room, surely that would make Meredith worthy of notice?

  Now filled with eagerness, Meredith wiped his hands on the towel that hung from the hook on the wash-stand; then, with a quick look at the curtain to ascertain that it was closed, he got down on his knees. He kept the map hidden between the mattress and the hard wood beneath. The map was too large to carry from room to room, as he carried his schoolbooks and his copy of The Tale of Celadon and Brun.

  He stuck his hand under the mattress, but found that the map must have shifted during the night, for it was not in its usual spot. He reached further, but his hand encountered only mattress and board.

  Now feeling panicky, he stood and heaved up the mattress so that it jolted one of the walls of the cubicle, sending a muffled thump throughout the dormitory. Meredith's heart pounded as he looked down.

  It was gone. The map of the Bay that he had been working on for two terms – the map that showed every tributary, every inlet, every wharf – was no longer there.

  "Looking for something, servant?"

  Meredith jerked round at the sound of Jeffries's voice. Jeffries had pulled back the curtain and was standing there, along with many of the Second House's other third-ranked lads. Jeffries held a chamber-pot.

  "Here," said Jeffries, laughing. "Catch!" And he flung the chamber-pot at Meredith.

  Meredith, who had quick reflexes, managed to catch the pot before it crashed into his head. The scraps of paper in the chamber-pot, on the other hand, were impossible to catch: they poured out of the pot, drifting into his hair, his eyes, his nose, his mouth . . . Over his coughs, he heard Jeffries say, "Better clean that mess up, servant, before Rudd beats you. You know how he hates a dirty servant."

  The other lads shouted with laughter. Meredith, wiping his face clean and trying to brush the scraps of paper from his hair, looked down. At his feet, where the map lay shredded, he could just see a torn piece of paper that said, "Barren—"

  His eyes teared up. Somebody hooted, "Cry-baby! Look at him, crying over a few pieces of paper!"

  "He's sensitive as a servant," said Jeffries with mock solemnity. "Poor servant. Do you miss not having a master to tell you what to do? Don't worry, you'll find one some day. —Say, that's the bell for footer practice." Jeffries whirled round. "Let's go watch."

  The third-rankers darted off. Meredith stood still a minute, weighing in his mind the punishment he would receive for being late for footer practice versus the punishment he would receive for leaving the shredded paper on the floor. Sighing, he knelt. Pembroke might not even notice if he failed to turn up for practice. Rudd, on the other hand, had a habit of turning up at Meredith's cubicle after every rag that Meredith endured, in order to cane his fag for untidiness.

  Wiping away his remaining tears, Meredith set to work.