The Hammer Part 26

Marzo shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "If it was Glabrio, and he was mad enough to do something like this-Only he's not." He sighed. "Maybe Scarpedino's got principles," he said. "I don't know him well enough. But I don't suppose Luso himself would bank on hitting a moving target at thirty-five yards, and he practises every week. Scarpedino..."

"Didn't mean to kill Melo, just give him a good scare?"

"You aren't helping, you know." Marzo opened the lid of the rosewood box, lifted the scales and dropped them on the floor. "I want you to tell me how it couldn't have been Scarpedino, or Luso, or Boulo met'Ousa." Furio stooped, gathered up the scales and put them back in the box. "All right," he said. "The h.e.l.l with who actually did what. Tell me what I'm supposed to do about it."

"Go to Luso," Furio said. "Sort it out." Suddenly he grinned. "Be practical."

"Two words I wish I'd never heard," Marzo said, sweeping the rosewood box into a drawer, "are practical and mayor. Odd, isn't it, how two little words can really screw up your life?"

"Go to Luso," Furio repeated. "He'll know what to do."

Lusomai met'Oc presented his compliments to Mayor Opello, but regretted that he was unable to meet him at that time, being engaged in preparations for his forthcoming wedding. If the mayor would care to call again in twenty-eight days' time, Lusomai met'Oc would be delighted to speak to him.

The guard had recited this with his chin raised and eyes averted, as though repeating by rote some incantation in an unknown dead language. Marzo winced, but stayed put.

"Fine," he said. "In that case, I'd like to see Sthenomai."

The guard looked at him. "You know the difference between luck and a wheelbarrow?"

"Go on."

"Pushing a wheelbarrow doesn't get you a smack on the head."

Marzo nodded. "Heard it," he said. "Now go and tell Stheno the mayor wants to see him."

The guard withdrew, and Marzo collapsed against a fortuitous tree trunk, breathing hard and reflecting that he might have been hasty in his judgement. Marzo Opello would never have dared talk to a Tabletop guard like that. If he had, he'd probably have carried his teeth home in his hat. The mayor, apparently, could get away with it.

He stayed leaning against the tree for quite some time. Then he sat down on the ground, trying to look dignified. Twenty yards away, the mule was happily guzzling the long, unmown meadow gra.s.s, a luxury it never usually encountered. It wasn't his mule, of course. He'd borrowed it from the livery. Mayor's privilege.

After a very long time, a different guard came down to him. "This way," he said.

Marzo hesitated, then said, "No blindfold?"

The guard shrugged. "n.o.body said anything to me. You can have one if you want."

"No, that's fine."

Not that it made the slightest difference. Marzo had always lived in and around town, where trees were landmarks. In the first ten yards, he saw more trees than he'd seen in his whole life put together. He kept very close behind the guard so as not to get hopelessly lost.

After a long walk through the forest, uphill (his calves ached until he was sure the muscles were going to burst out through the skin), they came out into the open into a twenty-acre field of poor gra.s.s, with flints showing through. They crossed it and came to a post and rail fence. There was a gateway. The gate was off its hinges. A huge man was slowly, carefully pulling it apart. For a moment, Marzo couldn't think why then he saw that the crosswise bar had splintered, and was about to be fixed.

"Lucky for you," the man said without looking round, "I happened to be up here doing this rotten b.l.o.o.d.y job. Might as well talk to you while I work. If I'd been out the far side, you'd have had a wasted trip."

Marzo couldn't think of anything to say.

"Right." Stheno had prised off both parts of the broken rail and laid them on the ground. He took a step back and looked at them. "What can I do for you?"

"It's about the attack on Melo Fasenna."

"I see. Who the h.e.l.l is Melo Fasenna?"

Marzo debated with himself whether he should go round the other side, so Stheno would have to look at him. He decided it would be the best course of action, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He felt about twelve years old. "The Fasennas are farmers out by East Ford. Someone fired a shot at Melo Fasenna, with a snapping-hen pistol."

Stheno turned round slowly. "Is that right?"

Marzo opened the fist in which the squashed ball lay. "We dug this out of his barn door," he said. "Someone set light to his reed store, then shot at him when he went out to see what was going on."

"Missed?"

"Yes. A foot high." He hesitated, then added, "We think it might have been your brother's man Scarpedino."

"That little s.h.i.t," Stheno said. His hand dipped into his coat pocket and came out grasping a tangled ball of plaited-straw twine. "Evidence?"

"The Fasennas are on bad terms with their neighbour Glabrio. Glabrio's Scarpedino's grandfather, and Scarpedino'll inherit the Glabrio farm."

Stheno shrugged, then knelt down and started binding the two broken ends of the bar together. "Sounds like a motive," he said. "Not that that b.a.s.t.a.r.d'd need a reason. I gather he killed a man's wife."

"We think so, yes."

"Nasty piece of work," Stheno said, exerting an impossible force on the ends of the twine. "But he's not here."

Marzo took a moment to understand. "Not on the Tabletop?"

"Haven't seen him in a while," Stheno replied. He tied a complex knot, then stood up. "Go on," he said, "ask me why I'm trying to mend a busted gate with string."

"It's none of my-"

"Because I can't be f.u.c.ked to walk all the way back to the house for a hammer and a bucket of nails," he said. "Because I've got too much to do. So I mend it with string, because string's all I happen to have on me. Makes a p.i.s.s-poor job, won't last five minutes, but it's very slightly better than nothing. I can't swear you a solemn oath the Heddo boy's not up here somewhere, but I haven't seen him for a long time, and I'm pretty sure I'd have seen him if he was here. He tends to lounge around the steps of the long barn, along with the rest of Luso's thugs. It's not like they've got much else to do, except when Luso's hunting." He knelt and lifted the lashed-together bar. It sagged unhappily around the splice, but Stheno laid it in position on the carca.s.s of the gate, and picked up a twice-fist-sized lump of flint. "Lazy man's hammer," he explained. "I suppose you're going to go home and tell everybody who comes in your store how this is the way the high and mighty met'Oc do things."

Marzo hesitated. "Not if you don't want me to."

Stheno laughed. The sound bounced back off the forward ridge. "Doesn't bother me," he said. "Might do some good if your lot knew how we really live. Just poor farmers, same as you. Anyhow," he went on, lining the bar up, "I wouldn't spit on Scarpedino if his a.r.s.e was on fire, but it can't have been him if he isn't here. Setting the fire could be him, but not shooting. We'd all know about it if one of Luso's precious toys had gone missing."

"It wasn't Luso's gun," Marzo said, in a rather small voice. "We think it could have been your cousin Boulomai's. It's a smaller bullet."

Suddenly he had Stheno's attention. He put down the stone and stood up slowly. "Boulomai's gun."

"Lusomai explained," Marzo said, "that Boulomai's snapping-hen shoots a smaller bullet. I weighed this one and it's quite a bit lighter."

Stheno nodded to stop him wasting time with further details. "Boulo's got three of the things," he said, with a curious mixture of disapproval and awe. "Two half-inchers and a three-quarter. Oh, and Cousin Pasi's got one, a little wee tiny thing, shoots a ball like a pea. You'd have every right to be annoyed if she shot you in the a.r.s.e with it and you found out about it."

Marzo waited for a moment, then said, "Would Boulomai have noticed if one of his was taken?"

Stheno shrugged. "No idea," he said. "He wears them as ornaments sometimes, rest of the time I a.s.sume they're in his bedroom. Boulo's got all manner of stuff in there. Probably hasn't unpacked half of it yet."

"So Scarpedino could have..."

"It's possible. Mind you, he'd need b.a.l.l.s like boulders. Luso'd snap his neck like a carrot if he got caught." He paused and rubbed his eyes, the weariest man Marzo had ever seen. "All right," he said. "You say a barn was on fire. Anyone hurt?"

"No."

"Damage?"

"The whole winter store of reed, quite a bit of straw, and the barn'll need a lot of work with winter coming on."

"s.h.i.t," Stheno said. "Luso's stupid wedding complicates things, of course." He lifted his head and looked Marzo in the eye. It felt like carrying a hundredweight sack on your head. "Fact is, Mister Mayor, we're broke. Can't offer you money because we haven't got any. Can't offer you much in the way of goods or livestock because we'll be eating beetles before too long thanks to Luso's big day using up all our surpluses. Can't give you Scarpedino because he ain't here." He grinned, a huge expression. Marzo caught sight of the back of his left hand; it was a mess of briar-scratches. "I don't suppose that's what you came all this way to hear."

Marzo shrugged. "I just want to sort it all out."

"Keep the peace, I know," Stheno said. "It's a pain in the a.r.s.e Luso can't deal with it; he'd send you away with f.u.c.k-all and make you feel he was doing you a grand favour." His shoulders sagged, and he said, "Don't suppose you've got any suggestions?"

Marzo struggled with himself, then said, "You haven't got..."

"Anything. Take my word for it."

"In that case," Marzo said, "I'm sorry, no."

"Fine. So you've come asking politely for justice, and the met'Oc spat in your face and told you to get lost. What do you do next?"

"Your cousins-"

"Ask them for a loan? Father'd burn the house down with his own two hands rather than think of it. Guests, see. Also, it'd mean admitting to them we're broke, and that's not an option. They know, obviously, they're not blind, but there's some things you can't say out loud. No, forget them." He paused again, ground something out of his eye with his knuckle. "Which just leaves my kid brother Gignomai. He's got money, hasn't he?"

It was like the time he'd put his full weight on the ice in the brook, believing it would take his weight. "Gignomai? But I thought..."

Stheno grinned at him. "Indeed. Father disinherited him. Formal doc.u.ment, grand gesture, very n.o.ble, very us us. But what Father doesn't know won't upset him."

"You wouldn't tell him? Surely-"

"You'd be amazed what we haven't told Father over the years. Learnt that lesson the hard way," Stheno added with a frown, "but that's none of your d.a.m.n business. No, it's ideal. You go to my brother and tell him to pay off this Fasenna character and we'll handle Father. Fact is..." Stheno hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision. "Things may be happening around here quite soon. You didn't hear this, but it's possible the time's coming when you might not have to worry about us at all. We'll be out of your hair for good. No promises, mind, but that's what we're working towards, and it goes without saying, we really wouldn't want to screw it up for the sake of some stupid local dispute with your people. Just think about it, Mister Mayor. Wouldn't your life be so much easier if you woke up one morning and found we'd gone?"

Marzo felt stupid, as though he'd just walked into a door. "You mean, gone Home?"

"I didn't say that. In fact, I haven't said anything. But if you nagging Gignomai into parting with a few dozen thalers means not having to put up with us any more, isn't it worth the effort? Well?"

Life without the met'Oc. Marzo realised his mouth was open, and closed it. What would that be like? He had no way of guessing, because it was unthinkable. "Well, yes," he said. "No offence," he added quickly. "But-"

"None taken. Now, I'm not saying it will happen. What I'm saying is, if there's a blazing row between you and us and things turn nasty and word of it reaches Home, then I can more or less guarantee that it won't won't happen, and I'm sure that'd make you very unhappy, thinking about how you had a really great chance and you blew it." His face changed. Something that could almost have been a sly smile spread over it, like the rusting of metal speeded up. "For one thing," he said, "there'd be this place. All the timber you could ever want. Lousy with small furry animals to help you meet your fur quota. p.i.s.s-awful grazing and growing land, but somebody might want it. We could do you a deal, maybe a doc.u.ment of t.i.tle with your name on it." Suddenly Stheno laughed, as if thinking of a private joke. "In twenty years' time, you could be us. Now wouldn't that be worth a bit of tact and diplomacy?" happen, and I'm sure that'd make you very unhappy, thinking about how you had a really great chance and you blew it." His face changed. Something that could almost have been a sly smile spread over it, like the rusting of metal speeded up. "For one thing," he said, "there'd be this place. All the timber you could ever want. Lousy with small furry animals to help you meet your fur quota. p.i.s.s-awful grazing and growing land, but somebody might want it. We could do you a deal, maybe a doc.u.ment of t.i.tle with your name on it." Suddenly Stheno laughed, as if thinking of a private joke. "In twenty years' time, you could be us. Now wouldn't that be worth a bit of tact and diplomacy?"

Marzo thought hard as he drove home. He thought about Gignomai met'Oc, whom he'd always found pleasant and polite enough. His nephew's best friend, so he'd made a bit of an effort, like you do. And then the deal had come along-the sword, unimaginable wealth, possibly even escape from the colony, the glittering prospect of Home, a gentleman's life in the soft, fat countryside he'd never seen but could picture effortlessly in his mind. Then the reality of the deal, putting his business on the line, wheedling and cajoling his neighbours and customers, the exhausting burden of filling carts with barrels of flour and getting nothing in return. Then the first crates of finished goods, the exhilaration, the wild dance of selling and getting money. He grinned at the thought of how exciting he'd found that. He despised himself for it. The money was just flat metal discs for all the good it'd do him, at least until spring when the ship came, but it had been glorious, the apotheosis of shopkeeping. And now the eldest son of the met'Oc was tempting him with an offer of all the kingdoms of the Earth, if only he could persuade Gignomai met'Oc to do something he'd never, ever do.

I'm a simple man, he told himself, a simple, greedy man, a small man. All I ever wanted to do was screw my neighbours a little bit on a few small deals, make a nice profit and live quietly and peacefully, keep the peace, be on good terms with everybody. A greedy man, but not greedy enough. All you ask for is more than your fair share of a pound of sausages, and some b.a.s.t.a.r.d offers you the whole pig.

He couldn't pretend to know Gignomai well, but he knew him a bit, enough for the job in hand. There was something going on. Gignomai was up to something. All that stuff about the bloodless revolution and freedom for the colony; it was possible, true and achievable, and Gignomai meant to do it, but only as a necessary ch.o.r.e of a step on the way to something else. And if Gignomai had wanted to be a member of the met'Oc, he'd never have left in the first place.

But if the met'Oc were to leave, go Home, abandon the Tabletop with its defences and its fine house, its barns and outbuildings and extensive estate of mediocre farmland-well, somebody would have to take it over, as public trustee, run it for the benefit of the people (the newly independent people; the new nation), and who better, who possibly other than the mayor? Chosen by the people, not a single voice dissenting. The obvious leader of the community, the one man who everybody trusted.

(That was going a bit far. Trusted with their lives, perhaps, quite possibly, but not necessarily with small sums of money.) No use thinking that way, he thought, and gave the mule an unnecessary flick of the whip, which the animal completely ignored. Gignomai won't pay, and that's an end of it.

An idea emerged from his unconscious mind like the yoke from a cracked eggsh.e.l.l. A few dozen thalers, Stheno had said. To speak so airily of such a sum was of course the mark of a gentleman, even if that gentleman had only raised the subject because he didn't have two quarters to rub together. A few dozen thalers was still a fortune, but Marzo Opello had a few dozen thalers. If he lent the money to the met'Oc, saying it had come from Gignomai, and the met'Oc paid off the Fasennas, and the peace was kept and everybody stayed practical and realistic long enough for the met'Oc to clear off back where they'd come from...

A few dozen. Could mean anything from twenty-four to forty-eight. He winced. Then he thought long and hard about the Fasennas, the cost of lumber and day labour, and came to the conclusion that the whole thing could be done for twenty-eight thalers, no bother. Twenty-six if he could do a deal on the lumber. Twenty-five if he twisted a few arms over the labour cost. With Gignomai making nails at his factory, twenty-four.

On the other hand, he thought, do I really want all the kingdoms of the Earth?

That question troubled him for a long time: what do I really want? As opposed to what I should should want, as a properly greedy man. The sword money should be enough, more than enough, but what if there could be more? I want, as a properly greedy man. The sword money should be enough, more than enough, but what if there could be more? I ought ought to want it. Do I? to want it. Do I?

There's young Furio to think of, he told himself (he knew he was lying, but he lied well enough to get away with it), and Teucer-she deserves better. They both of them ought to have the chance of going Home, making something of themselves.

Since he'd raised the matter, he thought about Teucer. Back home she could be a comfortable housewife in a comfortable house, probably spend most of her waking life doing embroidery. Here, give her a few books from the met'Oc library and in a year or so she'd be the colony's only competent surgeon.

I only want to do what's for the best, he told himself. For the colony, for my family, but most of all for me.

Furio found what he was looking for in the pile of sc.r.a.p metal outside the back door of the store. It was, of course, bound for the factory, not that there was very much of it, since Gignomai had already used up nearly all the rusty and broken iron in the colony. But Uncle Marzo had sent a cart round the outlying farms in the valleys. The carters had taken two days, and come back with about a quarter of a full load.

He unearthed the nozzle of a household bellows, crumbly brown and blocked with mould and soft black dirt from under a rusted bucket. He carefully rodded it out with a bit of thin stick. Then he took the pebble and a sc.r.a.p of waste cloth and made his experiment. As he'd antic.i.p.ated, the pebble could be lodged good and tight. It wasn't conclusive, because he didn't really understand the science behind it, but it left a case to answer.

Getting the pebble out again turned out to be awkward; he tried driving it out using the stick and a stone as a hammer, but the stick snapped off, increasing the blockage. He wasn't quite sure how to interpret that data-either it strengthened his hypothesis or completely disproved it, and he had no way of knowing which.

Gignomai was st.i.tching up a broken drive belt when they found him. The hammer was quiet, waiting for him to mend the belt. He looked up and said, "Well?"

"You'd better come," they said.

"I can't, I'm busy," Gignomai replied. "Can't someone else deal with it, whatever it is?"

"Not really," they told him. "You'd better come and see for yourself."

He shrugged, looped the half-mended belt over the branch of a tree, and followed them down to the river. There he saw a party of strangers, sitting on the ground. They were wearing long coats without pockets and absurd-looking round hats, all except one man, the oldest, whom he recognised. He hesitated, then went down to greet them.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

The old man looked up at him and didn't smile. He looked sad, and lost. "They insisted," he said. "I had no choice." The old man breathed in as though drowning in air. "You told them you would give them snapping-hen pistols."

"That's right," Gignomai said.

"The demonstration you gave them had a considerable effect." The old man wasn't looking at him. "After you'd gone, the news spread quickly. Dozens of our people came to see. They stuck their fingers in the hole the bullet made." He frowned. "Many of them feel it was the most important thing that has happened to our people for centuries. There has been..." He shivered, "a great deal of debate."

Gignomai glanced at the other strangers. "Do they want the guns or not?"

"We now have two factions in our society," the old man went on, "those who believe, and those who do not. The former are a small minority-most of them are here with me now-but more and more of my people are coming round to their way of thinking every day. If you give them the snapping-hens, they propose to use force to make the rest of us believe. They have compelled me to be their spokesman. I didn't want to come here, but I had no choice."

Gignomai nodded slowly. "So they've decided we're real after all."

"They saw the hole the bullet made," the old man said. "They pushed down into the hole until they could feel it. They said that any agency that could do that must be real, existing in our reality, sharing our time and s.p.a.ce." He paused, then went on, "They saw what you could do. They are afraid that unless they acquire the same power, sooner or later your people will attack them and destroy them. I told them that your people are a n.o.ble, enlightened race. I tried to explain to them about the wonders I saw in the Old Country, the beautiful way in which your people live, the magnificent houses, the well-ordered streets, the fine clothes, the books. I told them that if your people had wanted to destroy them, they could have done so effortlessly at any time in the past seventy years. A few of them may have listened to me, but most are too afraid. They refuse to take my word for it. All they've seen for themselves is the bullet hole. They said, 'If he will give us the power, we have to take it.' So," he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, "here we are."

"I'm sorry," Gignomai said.