The Hammer Part 30

He was dreaming. In his dream, he was back in the store, except that the store was this room he was confined in, and he was tied to the chair he was sitting in, and the chair was clamped to the floor with brackets Aurelio had made, and Teucer had sewn his lips together, scolding him for being a baby when he winced as the needle sank into his skin, and Gignomai and Uncle Marzo and the old savage, and Aurelio, of course, were all sitting in the dark watching him, waiting for him to die. He tried to struggle against the utterly immovable rope that bound him to the chair when the rope suddenly gave way, and he fell forward onto the floor, and realised he was awake.

Next to him, two inches from his nose, was the toe of Aurelio's boot. Between the boot's sole and the floor, he could see a little grey strip, no more than a sixteenth of an inch wide, metal crystallised by fracture. He craned his neck, keeping his body as still as he could, and saw Aurelio's head lolling forward on his chest, his eyes shut.

Glory and wonder, the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had finally nodded off.

Furio considered the tactical position. If he tried to shift Aurelio's boot off the saw-blade, and he got it wrong and the old man woke up, with Furio's nose less than a finger's length from the toe of his steel-capped boot, the outcome could well be distressing, anything from a broken nose to concussion and a fractured skull. On the other hand, the opportunity was too good to waste.

He wriggled his tied at the wrist hands across the floor until his fingernails were resting against the sewn-down welt of the boot. Then, horribly afraid, he used the fingers of his left hand to raise the boot off the floor, proceeding by slow multiples of the width of a strand of a spider's web. His nerve failed by the time he'd lifted the boot an eighth of an inch, but in theory that ought to be enough. With the tips of his bruised, crushed right-hand fingers, he pecked and scratched at the bit of saw until he felt it come loose from under the old man's foot. He pulled it towards him-it proved to be considerably longer than he'd imagined it would be-then lowered the boot, gentle as a mother finally getting her baby to sleep, until its whole weight was once again resting on the floor.

Victory.

But don't celebrate yet. He inched and edged and squirmed his way back onto his chair, looked quickly to make sure Aurelio was still asleep, then began the difficult, painful and exquisitely awkward job of sawing through the ropes around his wrist with a sliver of saw-blade wedged between the pads of his left and right index fingers.

The saw-blade was largely blunt, and its teeth were widely s.p.a.ced, just fine for rip-sawing rough lumber into planks, but nearly useless for nibbling through hemp rope. By the time he finally got there and the ends of the severed rope fell away to the floor, he'd ripped open his fingertips on the blade's serrated edge, and gouged several caverns into his wrist and the heels of his hands with the sharp, fractured end.

The sense of achievement, though...

No time for fooling about. He flexed his newly released hands, like a man working his fingers into tight new gloves, then sat in the chair again, shuffled about to find the least uncomfortable position, and drew his hands together in his lap, so that n.o.body would guess just by looking what he was up to.

He sat motionless and quiet. Aurelio, still asleep, didn't stir.

An infinity of time later, a guard came in with a wooden trencher bearing the usual stale bread and grindstone cheese. Furio made himself wait till the man was close enough for him to smell b.u.t.ter on his breath, then kicked with both heels against the man's shins. The guard yelped, of course, but Furio was out of the chair and squeezing his throat before he had time to draw breath.

Furio had no idea how to kill a man with his bare hands. It turned out to be one of those things you can pick up as you go along.

He hadn't meant to do it. Right up to the point where the struggling stopped, he hadn't even thought about the man as a man at all, just as an obstacle, a really difficult and awkward problem he didn't know how to deal with, a writhing, twisting, horribly strong thing that'd be the death of him if he relaxed his grip for a moment. Then it went still; then it started jerking again; then there was a revolting smell. Then he let go, and the dead man slithered down him, down his chest and his leg, and slid onto the floor like a drunk's discarded clothes. Furio jumped back, horrified by its touch, and realised he'd just killed someone.

Which makes me...

But he didn't have time for that. It occurred to him, as he observed the thing on the floor not moving, that no matter how deeply asleep he'd been, Aurelio must've woken up with all that going on. He turned and looked at the old man, his head still slumped forward, and thought, Oh. Then, to be sure, he stretched out two fingers and touched the neck. No pulse.

Furio had never seen a dead body before.

The most important thing, so essential that it blotted out all other considerations, was to get out of there, before the dead men crowding in on him changed their minds and woke up. The door was ajar. He was through it and out the other side before he knew it, and found himself in blazing, glaring light, stunned and helpless for a good, long five heartbeats. Then he sprinted across the clearing for the nearest line of trees. If anybody saw him, they didn't do anything about it. He ducked behind a waist-thick oak and slumped down onto the wet leaf mould.

I didn't mean to. The skin under his fingers had been warm. It had been fear and horror that had given him the strength to squeeze. He knew from experience that he'd probably strained one hand. Neither of them would be any good the next day, when they'd had a chance to stiffen up; he wouldn't be able to make a fist for a week. I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to, he told himself. It sounded pathetic. It had been a stranger, one of Cousin Boulo's crew, who'd gone to give two men something to eat, who'd died because he was in the way. Some reason. he told himself. It sounded pathetic. It had been a stranger, one of Cousin Boulo's crew, who'd gone to give two men something to eat, who'd died because he was in the way. Some reason.

Time to go, urged a voice in his head, but he couldn't move. Communications were out between his head and his legs; orders weren't getting through. It was a bit like the way you feel in bed on a very cold morning-you know you've got to get up and go outside and feed the pigs, but you can't quite make yourself do it, even though you know perfectly well that the longer you leave it, the later you'll be and the more you'll have to hurry for the rest of the day to make up. He reasoned, I escaped from there because I've got to get to town and tell them that Gignomai's gone off his head, he's cooked up an appalling scheme to start a war. I've escaped and it's cost a man I didn't even know his life. If I don't go, what an unforgivable waste that'd be, like killing a chicken and then not eating it.

The opposing view said, Gig had a reason, a bad one, but very strong. You just killed that man because he was an impediment.

In the distance, he saw two men walk from the foundry to the store shed. The voices in his head went quiet while he considered: n.o.body had any reason to go in the hammer-house, not till it was time for the prisoners' next meal. Yes, but someone's going to miss the man I killed. How long, before they find I've gone and come looking? Can't afford to sit here a moment longer. He stayed where he was.

Deliberate murder, he thought. The colony had its own way of dealing with that on the extremely rare occasions when it happened. If there were adult males in the victim's family, they took care of it; if not, there were always neighbours. It was always done quickly, with a rope whenever possible, but if the murderer was liable to make a fuss, then anything would do-an axe or a big hammer or a knife. It was generally considered not to be murder, provided you made no effort to conceal the body. There had been two feuds in the colony's history, both long since resolved. People still talked about them: the South Room War and the Sesto War. The general consensus was, nothing like that should ever happen again. And now, of course, they had a mayor, who'd be sure to see justice done.

In spite of everything, the thought of it made him grin.

Not deliberate murder: heroic action, justified force. In an ideal world, he'd have smacked the man on the point of the chin and he'd have gone out like a snuffed candle and woken up an hour or so later with a splitting headache. But instead he'd died. Gignomai, on the other hand, had been at great pains not to hurt anybody. He'd shot bullets into doors, which don't bleed or die. For some reason, Furio got the impression that he'd just lost the argument.

For the first time, he thought about the old man, Aurelio. For the first time, he realised that he hadn't seen the old man eat anything, or drink anything. He'd been so hungry he hadn't bothered to look, and so bored that eating the food was the absolute highlight of each time period. Or maybe he had a weak heart, or perhaps it was a stroke, brought on by confinement, fear, lack of sleep. People don't just die, but, yes, sometimes they do.

I've got to make a move, he told himself.

When he stood up, his legs proved to be treacherously weak. He staggered, just managed to fling his arms round the tree, steadied himself and hung on tight, like a child clinging to its mother. The thought of climbing the rather steep hill was miserably daunting. I didn't mean to, he told himself for the third time, and it sounded even weaker now than before. Legs stiff, one step at a time, he walked away up the hill.

Luso grabbed Gignomai, pinning both his arms, and crushed him till he couldn't breathe. His fingers lost the strength to hold the strap of the bag he was carrying, and he heard it hit the floor with a b.u.mp.

"Leave off," he whispered, with the very last wisps of air in his lungs. "You're suff-"

"Sorry." Luso let go and Gignomai reeled backwards, dragging in air. His throat was raw, as it had been the few times in his life when he'd completely exhausted himself. "I'm just so pleased you came," he heard Luso say. He'd have replied if he could, but he had other priorities.

"You've lost weight," Luso went on, clamping a ma.s.sive hand over his right shoulder. "G.o.d, you're a b.l.o.o.d.y skeleton. When Mother sees you, she'll have a fit."

Indeed, he thought, death by starvation. Enough to upset anybody. "I'm fine," he wheezed. "At least, I was, before you started strangling me."

He looked his brother in the face, and saw happiness, and love. "So," he said, "how's it been around here while I've been away?"

Luso laughed, a brief, intense roar, abruptly cut off. "Guess," he said. "And guess who's had to take the brunt of it. I ought to smash your face in, after what I've been through."

Gignomai grinned feebly. "Father wasn't happy, then."

"You could say that." Luso let go of him, and smiled instead. "And of course it was all my fault. Apparently I was responsible for your moral welfare. He wouldn't even speak to me for a week. For crying out loud, Gig, what the h.e.l.l made you do a thing like that?

Gignomai took a step back; it brought him up against the wall. "We can talk about that," he said, "or we could keep our mouths shut and thereby not spoil your wedding. Up to you, really."

"Fine." Luso held up his hand, which meant it was decided. "You're right. You're here now and that's all that matters. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, though, it's good to see you again."

"I'm not staying," Gignomai said.

"Whatever. We'll talk about it later."

"No," Gignomai replied. "We'll get it straight right now, or I'm leaving. After the wedding, I go. Agreed?"

"If you say so." You couldn't beat Luso down in an argument like this. It was like fencing with him-you lunged, and he simply wasn't there. "Now, for G.o.d's sake, let's find you something to wear, instead of those rags. And a bath. When was the last time you had a bath?"

"This morning, actually."

"You mean you waded about in the river for two minutes. Not the same thing, and you know it."

The hand was on his shoulder again, propelling him out of the room. It was like being a dog on a lead. "So," Luso was saying, "was she worth it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The girl. No, don't do the gormless stare, it must've been some girl, in the town. I'm guessing it's Opello's niece, the smart one from Home. Well? Any good?"

"You're an idiot, Luso," he said, and got no further, as his brother accidentally on purpose steered him into a door frame. He banged his chin. It hurt.

"Anyway." Luso guided him through the door. "Let's talk about something really important. Where's my present?"

"What?"

"My wedding present, you half-wit. Even a no-good waste of s.p.a.ce like you wouldn't show up to a wedding without bringing a present."

"Actually, I did," Gignomai said, and that was enough to stop Luso in his tracks.

"Did you?"

"Yes," Gignomai said. "It's in the bag I brought, but you made me drop it. If it's broken..."

"Gig, I was just kidding." Luso was looking at him, a curiously subdued, puzzled look. "I never expected-"

"Well, I brought you something. At least," he went on, "it's not for you and it's not mine to give, and I know for a fact you've got one already. But it's the thought that counts."

He could see the thought take shape in Luso's mind, and made a bet with himself: would Luso say it, or just wait? He lost the bet.

"It's the sword," Gignomai said. "You know, the one I-"

"But you sold it to Marzo Opello," Luso said, "to pay for the supplies for your factory."

Gignomai allowed his eyebrows to lift. "You really are going to have to tell me how you know all this stuff, Luso. Anyone would think you've got someone in town keeping an eye on me."

"You stole it back."

Gignomai shrugged. "I reckon the true ownership of that stupid thing is such a grey area, it really doesn't matter any more. I just thought it might be good politics to return it, that's all."

Luso beamed at him. It wasn't the diplomatic smile; it was the real thing. "Thanks," Luso said. "It's appreciated."

"He's been going on about it, I take it."

Luso rolled his eyes. "You could say that, yes. Actually, I can just about put up with the gross betrayal of trust speech, all I do is look solemn and nod occasionally. But the been in our family for seven generations speech is starting to get on my nerves, because anybody with half a clue about swords can tell just by looking at it, it's simply not that old. But what the h.e.l.l." He grinned, a huge grin, a sunburst. "Best present I could've asked for, little brother. Thanks. Now," he went on, renewing his grip on Gignomai's shoulder, "clothes. And a bath. And then, I guess, we'll have to go and see Father."

Some time later, he closed the door of his old room and lifted the lamp, letting the light soak into the shadows.

The stupid thing was, he'd never really thought of it as his, not when he'd lived and slept there, perched next to the window just before dawn, waiting for the first glow of light so he could carry on reading a stolen book where he'd left off the night before (a lamp or candle would show light under the door; his father had a suspicious and sharply a.n.a.lytical mind). He'd never dared think of it that way, just as he'd never considered his clothes or his shoes to be his own. He'd been issued with them, like a soldier's kit. They were liable to be inspected at any time, without notice, and he would be held to account for loss, damage or neglect. The only property he'd owned had been junk salvaged from the sheds and barns, things Stheno had lost or forgotten about, or couldn't be bothered with, and which Gignomai had lovingly renovated, modified, converted to his own use: a small knife slowly, painfully ground out of a worn-out file; a pair of sacking leggings to keep mud off his trousers; a derelict coat thrown over the harrow to keep off the damp, which he'd surrept.i.tiously worn for a year until Father saw him through the window and ordered the offending item confiscated and burnt. As a boy he'd always thought of Furio as fabulously, obscenely rich, and of his house as a sort of royal treasury.

His room, accordingly, shouldn't have hurt. The memories should have been resentments, further arguments to support his case. It shouldn't have felt, it had no right to feel, like home. Force of habit, he told himself. Perhaps a released prisoner would get a little misty-eyed, revisiting his old cell. For the room to argue that he belonged here was an insult. He lowered the lamp a little to cast light on the small, straight chair in the corner. His sister used to sit there, when he was small, when she heard him crying in the night and came to shut him up before he woke Father, to tell him stories, to make him laugh. He summoned her, chief witness for the prosecution, and dutifully she came, but she was faint, a forced recollection of the memory of her that had haunted him lying in that bed, looking at those rafters. The truth was, she'd died too long ago, and he'd been too young at the time. He let her go, no further questions, in case the other side found out she was an unreliable witness.

He put down the lamp and sat on the bed. It was, he remembered (he hadn't given it any thought since he'd left) a moot point whether his sleepless nights here had had more to do with the lumpy, compacted mattress than the unquiet spirit of his murdered sister. Same thing, in a way: the mattress woke him up, the ghost kept him from getting back to sleep. Query, therefore, whether a comfortable bed would have made a difference, back then, when he was still red-hot under the hammer and capable of taking a shape.

But, he reflected, easing off one savagely uncomfortable borrowed shoe, he'd learned a thing or two since then. This room wasn't the forge any more, and the bed was too lumpy for an anvil. Just because the memory was no longer sharp didn't mean it had never happened. The chair in the corner was a scar, to mark the place where the wound had been.

Stupid, to let his old room upset him so much, when he'd made himself so cold and hard that the hammer glanced off and the file skidded. Yet again, his mind turned back to what the crazy old savage had said, about the quaint beliefs of his misguided people. The old fool had known all that stuff was mere nonsense, but had been shocked and dismayed when the snapping-hen disproved it. Why? he wondered. Why would the old man have minded being proved right, after a lifetime of being considered insane for trying to tell people the truth? He frowned, aware that he'd missed the point. Look at it rationally, he told himself. One man says one thing, everybody else believes otherwise. What possible value can there be in a truth that chooses to manifest itself to one outsider only? Justice, of course, doesn't work that way. As far as justice is concerned, truth is defined as the shared opinion of the majority of twelve jurors, and that criterion is reliable enough to hang people by. Therefore, for the purposes of a court of law, the old man was crazy and the others were right, at least until Gignomai met'Oc shot a goat.

But Gignomai met'Oc is a notorious deceiver, plotter, contriver and traitor, so his evidence can't carry too much weight. Disregard his evidence, and the case collapses. Therefore, the old man must be wrong and the accepted view must prevail; therefore, the savages share the country with images from the past and the future but not the present, with people who aren't really there at all. Imaginary friends.

Such as my sister, Gignomai thought, for whom I seek to achieve justice (a jury of one). She's still here, in that chair, and I'm still here, in the bed, which accounts for my discomfort here, being torn in half between the present and the past, one place, two times. A touch on the trigger, the fall of the hammer, makes no difference really. She'll always be here, no matter what I do, and all I can reasonably expect to achieve is to disturb the peace.

So, which is it? he demanded of himself, justice, revenge, spite, a blood sacrifice to appease the angry spirit of his imaginary friend? Yes, he replied.

He put the shoe back on. It pressed on his instep and cut into his heel.

Gignomai had drawn a map, a remarkably accurate one. Even so, finding the place wasn't easy. They walked right past it three times, staring up at the hole in the sheer cliff face without seeing it, until the sun came out for a moment and cast a faint shadow on a crease in the rock, faint and alluring as make-up under a woman's eye.

They stood and considered it for a while. The advance party had brought a long ladder, and half a dozen scaffolding poles, rope and an a.s.sortment of tools, loaded on a couple of donkey carts, along with packed lunches and a small barrel of cider, and the billhooks, still in the crate. They looked as if they were off to mend someone's roof.

Needless to say, the ladder was just too short, so they unhitched the donkey from one of the carts and stood the ladder on the bed, its feet secured by wooden battens nailed to the floor. n.o.body wanted to be the first to go up.

"Don't look at me," Marzo said. "I'm too fat, for one thing."

No arguing with something so self-evidently true. Eventually, the youngest Fasenna shrugged his shoulders and scrambled onto the cart. They handed him a trowel and a hoe with the shaft cut down to ten inches, and he began to climb. n.o.body could bear to watch as he disappeared into the hole, dragging himself up by his hands and elbows, his feet dangling uselessly, so that he looked like a dead mouse in a cat's mouth.

Marzo was thinking about Gignomai's description of his escape. As far as he could remember, Gignomai had slithered down a lot of the way, because of the steepness of the gradient. Climbing up would be an entirely different proposition, not so much danger of getting hopelessly wedged, of course, and young Fasenna had the advantage of knowing that the shaft really did go all the way through.

After a disturbingly long time, during which there was nothing at all to see, Fasenna's toes poked out of the hole, then his legs, waving wildly, feeling for the top rung of the ladder. When at last he got down, his hands and face were a horrible mess of grazes and cuts.

"Can't cut it," he said, feebly brandishing the bent hoe; he'd abandoned the trowel. "Rock. Hammer and a cold chisel."

Another uncomfortable silence. Then Ilio Jacolo, who was a bit of a stonemason when he needed the money, muttered, "Oh, for crying out loud," pulled a lump hammer and three chisels out of the tool bag, and slowly climbed up out of sight. They couldn't see him, either, but at least they could hear the soft, woodp.e.c.k.e.r taps, and from time to time, gravel and small stones dropped out of the hole and rattled on the bed of the cart.

"Does he have to make so much noise?" Ra.s.so demanded, loudly. "If we can hear it, so can they."

"Gignomai said they'd all be at the house," Marzo replied.

"Yes, but what if he's wrong?"

Marzo shrugged. "Then we're in trouble."

Jacolo came down eventually, brown with stone-dust with a gleam of red showing through on his skinned knuckles, turning the dust to mud. "Just give me a while," he said, and flopped on the ground, his back to the cart wheel, and fell asleep.

Marzo looked round. He really didn't want to be the man who gave the orders, but someone had to do it; the supply of volunteers had dried up completely. "What we need," he said, giving the Grado twins a long, thoughtful stare, "is someone who's used to working up ladders."

The Grado twins were the colony's best thatchers, only using their slender, miserable tongue of land between the river and the marshes to grow reed. They took it better than he'd antic.i.p.ated. Also, Marzo noted with approval, they'd brought their gloves.

Piro Grado went first, with Gelerio close on his heels. They were short, slim men, with forearms like legs, used to working fast because they were paid by the job, not the hour. Chips and stones rattled on the cart-bed like hail, and the rest of the company began to relax, the way you do when finally someone who knows what he's doing takes charge and gets on with it. Everybody except Marzo, of course. He was watching the sun. The simple fact was that, when Gignomai drew up the plan, he seriously underestimated how long it'd take to widen the hole enough for the company to get through. Since Marzo didn't actually know what Gignomai had in mind-you leave that side of things to me, he'd said, and they'd been delighted to let it go at that-he couldn't tell what ill-effects the delay would have: whether the worst of it would be Gignomai waiting impatiently for them on the doorstep, tapping his foot, or whether they'd all end up walking into a lethal trap. He wondered, as mayor, if it was his duty to share his misgivings with his fellow citizens, but decided against it. One thing he was absolutely sure about: if they gave up now and went home, they'd never come back and try again, not if Luso and a thousand armed savages burnt a farm a day and nailed their victims' heads to every tree in the colony. And the job had to be done; he knew that now-he believed. Cattle raids and bullets in doors were one thing. People were used to putting up with that sort of nuisance, just as they were used to rooks trampling down the barley and the water-troughs freezing over in winter. But the savages-that was, of course, a different matter entirely. Anybody insanely irresponsible enough to unleash a force that powerful had to be stopped and put down.

Piro Grado's head appeared in the hole, upside down. "We're through," he called out. (How the h.e.l.l was he doing that? Must be hanging by his toes, like a bat.) "We've cut steps where it's too steep to crawl. We're going on ahead."

There was a moment of shocked stillness, as sixty men who'd secretly believed the pa.s.sage would prove impa.s.sable and the mission would be called off were suddenly faced with the prospect of going through with it after all. Piro's head had already vanished back up the hole. n.o.body wanted to go up the ladder, but everybody knew they couldn't just abandon the Grado boys. There was still, of course, the awkward matter of who was going to go up first. Marzo was just about to talk himself into believing it had to be him when Gimao the chandler, who'd had unnaturally little to say for himself so far, sang out, "Here goes, then," and scampered up the ladder like a twelve-year-old picking apples. Marzo would've been at a loss to know what to make of it if he hadn't met Gimao's eye, as he stooped to pick a billhook out of the crate. Sheer blind terror, the sort that makes you do the thing that's freezing you to the marrow, just so it'll be over and done with.

The thing is, Marzo thought, we're supposed to be the aggressors. We shouldn't be terrified like this, we're predators, we're the ones starting the fight. Suddenly he grinned, and people standing next to him must have wondered what the joke was. I don't feel the slightest bit like a predator, Marzo thought. I couldn't be Luso met'Oc if I practised for fifty years.

They were scrambling up the ladder now, grimly quiet, concentrating on what they were doing, and a whole new motivation had taken hold of them, the desperate urge not to show themselves up in front of their neighbours and friends. Seeing the looks on their faces, Marzo understood. All the causes and dangers and injustices in the world wouldn't be enough to force a civilian up a ladder into a narrow tunnel leading to a war, not even if the alternative was fire in the night and the charred bones of their children in the ashes in the morning. But fear of shame would be enough to make them do anything, and that trigger had been pulled as soon as Piro Grado had told them he was going on ahead. Ridiculous, Marzo couldn't help thinking. Completely stupid, he thought, as he put his foot on the first rung of the ladder and hoped like h.e.l.l that n.o.body could see he was shivering.

Furio limped into town, too preoccupied to wonder why there was n.o.body about in the middle of the day, and headed straight for the store. He found Teucer in the main room. She'd cleared everything off the long table, which she'd dragged into the middle of the room. She was sharpening a filleting-knife on a fine whetstone.

"There you are," she said. "You missed the meeting."

"What are you doing?" he asked.