The Hammer Page 10

  While the met’Oc were engaged at Headwater Top, Calo Pasenna sent his eldest son running up the valley to warn the neighbouring farms. He reached the Spetti home first, and they evacuated. In the event, however, the met’Oc bypassed the Spetti farm and attacked the Nadi house, reaching it not long after young Pasenna arrived. Lusomai’s men caught Ora Nadi, his wife, mother and three daughters and the Pasenna boy on the point of leaving. They drove them back inside. One of the met’Oc raiders recognised young Pasenna and realised what he was doing there. Lusomai had the boy beaten and hung by his feet from the rafters. He stole a side of bacon and several hams, and broke up the kitchen table with an axe. When Ora Nadi tried to stop him stealing the hams, Lusomai hit him with his sword, cutting a slice off his left ear. Before leaving, the met’Oc lit a torch from the hearth and set fire to a haystack.

  This nearly proved their undoing. The trapper Filio Maza, coming home from checking his snares at the top of the valley, saw the fire and hurried down to the Nadi house to warn the family that their hay was burning and to see if he could help. He saw the met’Oc ride away, guessed that a raid was in progress, and ran back up the hill, where he had the good fortune to come across the Nadi family’s horse, which had bolted when the met’Oc arrived. An accomplished horseman, Maza caught the horse and rode it bareback along the crest of the ridge (the met’Oc had followed the bottom of the valley), and made straight for Blackwater, home of the Dravi family. He told Azo Dravi what he had seen. Dravi, his four sons and their three hired men armed themselves as best they could with pitchforks and billhooks, and set off in the hay cart to intercept the met’Oc at Lower Barton, assuming—correctly, as it turned out—that Lusomai intended to raid the Sanni farm and then fall back onto the Shavecross road before leaving the valley. On the way they stopped at the Razo farm, where they were joined by the four Razo sons and their two hired men.

  Lusomai stole four ducks from the Sanni family, killed a pig and threw it down the well. Then, as Nadi and the Dravis had anticipated, he headed back towards Shavecross by way of Lower Barton, where Maza and his allies were waiting for them.

  What happened at Lower Barton is by no means clear. All accounts agree that the ambush was initially successful. Maza’s party took the met’Oc by surprise, at least two of Lusomai’s men took flight immediately, and one of the met’Oc’s horses was killed, either deliberately or by impaling itself on a pitchfork in the confusion. At this point, the sequence of events is disputed. The Dravi family asserted that Lusomai was the first to draw blood. Some time after the event, however, Filio Maza stated that Azo Dravi was determined to get hold of one of Lusomai’s snapping-hen pistols, as a trophy or because of its monetary value. According to Maza, it was Azo Dravi who attacked Lusomai, rather than the other way about. What is not disputed is that Dravi and Lusomai fought some form of single combat, in the course of which Lusomai was stabbed in the back (giving some credence to Maza’s version, though the point is not conclusive) and Lusomai cut off Dravi’s right hand with his sword.

  That effectively ended the encounter. The ambushers were only concerned to get Azo Dravi to the nearest house before he bled to death. The met’Oc, apparently sobered by the escalation of violence, took one of the Razos’ horses and rode straight home. It’s unknown whether they had intended to make any further attacks or whether they had already done everything they had planned to do. The ambushers put Azo Dravi in the cart and took him to the Sanni house, but he was found to be dead on arrival from loss of blood.

  Two days later, Dravi’s severed hand was found nailed to the door of the bonded warehouse in town. A gold ring worth two thalers had been removed from the middle finger.

  “Your brother must be horrible,” Teucer said.

  Outside, the sun was bright. A stiff breeze was nagging at the awning over the shop porch, like a bad boy pulling his baby sister’s hair. Gignomai shifted in his chair. It was bad enough fighting the urge to scratch the scab on his shoulder, which was itching him to death, without Teucer as well. But Furio liked her, so he made the effort.

  “We’ve never got on well,” he said. “But he’s not that bad.”

  “He killed that man.”

  Yes, Gignomai thought, he did. “I very much doubt he meant to.”

  “He cut off his hand.”

  There were rules. He was allowed to say bad things about his brother, but that privilege didn’t extend to strangers. “Exactly,” he said. “Look, if Luso had meant to kill him, he’d have stabbed him in the eye or heart, no messing. My guess is that he was trying to knock a weapon out of his hand, and he overdid it a bit.”

  “A bit.”

  “He believes in killing cleanly.” As he said the words, he realised what they made him sound like. “He wouldn’t leave an animal to bleed to death, far less a human being. Those men shouldn’t have tried to fight him.”

  “So it’s their fault.”

  Well, yes, he thought, like someone going swimming off a beach known to be dangerous—you can’t blame the sea. “They should have had more sense than pick a fight with armed men. It wasn’t even as though they were defending their homes. Luso was on his way back.”

  Teucer gave him what he’d come to think of as her magistrate’s look. Father had one quite like it, only better, of course. “Furio says you’re not like the rest of them. I’m not so sure.”

  “Really?” Gignomai shrugged. “You can think what you like.”

  She let him have a second or two more of her undiluted attention, then went back to her sewing. Gignomai picked up his book, but he’d lost interest in it long ago. He’d stolen it for Furio last year, because Furio liked books with knights and tournaments and castles and dragons. But most of the characters in it were just like his family, though the author didn’t seem to have realised that, or he wouldn’t have made them out to be heroes.

  “So why did you leave home, then?” she asked.

  He felt under no obligation to reply. Good manners were all very well, but she’d set the rules by saying nasty things about his brother. On the other hand he was a guest here. “There wasn’t anything for me to do there. So I left.”

  “But you people don’t do anything anyway,” she said. “Unless you count hunting and hawking and fencing and all that. And they’re hobbies, not a trade.”

  He thought of Stheno, lifting houses on his shoulders. “Whereas you’re sitting there embroidering a sampler,” he said. “I consider myself duly chastened.”

  “I do housework,” she said, “and I mend clothes. I’d do a proper job if I could. I’d have been a surgeon, like my father, except it’s not allowed.”

  He frowned. “It isn’t?”

  “Of course not. Women can’t be surgeons or clerks or lawyers or lecturers at Temple or merchants. There’s not actually a law, but there doesn’t have to be. People wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “That’s at Home,” Gignomai said. “I think you’ll find it’s different here.”

  She put down her sewing. “Is it?”

  Gignomai shook his head. “I’m hardly an authority,” he said, “but as far as I can gather, yes, it is. Furio’s aunt does all the book-keeping for the store.”

  “That’s different. That’s just helping.”

  “This store’s the biggest business in the colony,” Gignomai pointed out, “and Furio’s aunt practically runs it.”

  “Yes, because she’s Uncle Marzo’s wife.”

  “She runs the store,” Gignomai went on, “because someone’s got to, and Marzo can’t manage it all on his own. Also, she’s better with figures than he is. So she does the numbers while he shifts barrels. And on the farms—”

  “That’s different,” she interrupted. “That’s peasant stuff. I’m talking about—”

  “What?”

  “Better-class people.”

  Gignomai laughed. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “Sorry,” Gignomai said. “It’s you reckoning you’re better than the farmers’ wives. My
father wouldn’t see there was any difference at all.”

  “Your father encourages his son to go out killing and stealing.”

  “I’m not him,” Gignomai said quietly.

  “No,” she said. “You left home. But I don’t think it’s because of what you said.”

  Gignomai sighed. Talking to her was like walking in a swamp. When you pulled one foot out of the mud, it made the other one sink in deeper. “All right,” he said. “I left home out of high-minded disgust at my family’s wickedness. Will that do?”

  “That’s not true,” she said.

  “Maybe not. But you didn’t like my other answer.”

  She lifted her head, as though she was trying to look at the end of her nose. “You should say what you mean, not what you think people will like,” she said.

  He stared at her, then asked, “So why do you think I left?”

  “Because you don’t get on with your father and your brothers,” she replied promptly. “And because there’s nothing there to do that interests you. And because you can see it doesn’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Your family. Living like peasants and bandits and acting like noblemen. Doing everything on the assumption that one day soon you’ll be going Home, which is never going to happen, believe me. I can see that’d get to be too much to bear after a while.”

  “My family—” he started to say, then stopped himself. “So what are you doing here?” he said. “ I know your parents died, but surely you’ve got other relatives at Home. Did you choose to come here?”

  “Hardly.” She scowled at him. He had to admit she had a pretty scowl. “But it was here or my cousins in the country. Farmers.”

  “So you chose a shop instead of a farm?”

  “Uncle Marzo’s not just a shopkeeper, you said so yourself. He’s a businessman. And this colony won’t always be just a dock and a few huts. It’s got an exciting future, and—”

  “Who told you that?”

  Furio appeared in the doorway. He hesitated for a moment, as though something wasn’t quite right, then sat down on the step close to Gignomai’s chair.

  “Your brother—” he started to say.

  “Yes.” Gignomai cut him off. “Quite. Can we talk about something else, please?”

  “Well, no, actually,” Furio said apologetically. “At least, we don’t have to talk about him, but there’s stuff you ought to know.”

  Gignomai thought of the scroll of paper that Father had made him burn. “Undoubtedly,” he said. “Such as?”

  “Uncle was talking to Uverto and Menoa—”

  “Who?”

  “Big men down at the harbour,” Furio replied, and Gignomai was able to translate: Company agents and beef traders. Uncle Marzo’s kind of people. “They were on at him about you being here. After what happened.”

  Gignomai laughed. “Tell them I’ve got an alibi. At the time of the crime I was flat on my back with bits of stick up my nose.”

  “Your family’s not exactly popular,” Furio said carefully. “Especially right now. Uncle Marzo feels…”

  “He wants me out of here.”

  “God, no.” Furio looked mildly offended. “He’s worried about keeping you safe, if you must know. The Dravi boys have been making a lot of noise, about coming into town and… Well, you can guess.”

  “So he wants me out of here,” Gignomai said pleasantly, “for a perfectly understandable reason.”

  “Don’t say that,” Furio snapped, then immediately drooped his head, as if accepting an unspoken rebuke. “Uncle doesn’t let people push him around, and the Dravi boys are all talk anyhow. They wouldn’t want to pick a fight with us.”

  Gignomai wasn’t so sure about that. Whatever else the Dravis had shown themselves to be, they had to be brave men to attack Luso and his riders with farm tools. “So?” he said.

  “Basically, he reckons you should stay indoors and not go outside. Probably best not to sit out here, even. If the Dravis or the Razos do come into town, they wouldn’t come bursting into our house, or the store. But—well, you’re pretty visible out here.”

  “I enjoy the fresh air,” Gignomai said.

  Furio shrugged. “I’m telling you what Uncle said. He’s concerned.”

  Gignomai asked, “Why?”

  Furio hesitated; then he grinned and said, “Well, I think he’s still entertaining longing thoughts about your twenty-thousand-thaler sword. You know, ten per cent on twenty thousand is more money than he’ll ever make selling hoe blades to farmers. But to be fair, there’s a bit more to him than that. For one thing, he’d take it as a personal insult if anything happened to a guest under his roof.” He shrugged, then added, “And he’d want to do his best for you because you’re my friend, and he’s sort of keen to be nice to me, because of Dad leaving the store to him, not me. I think he feels bad about that.”

  And so he should, Gignomai thought, but Furio had never seemed worried about it. Then again, Marzo had no children of his own, so the store would be Furio’s eventually. “He doesn’t need to get in a state about it,” Gignomai said—it came out rather more unkindly than he’d meant it to. “Soon as I’m on my feet again, I’m off.”

  Furio looked furtively round (it was quite comical to watch), then lowered his voice. “You’re still set on going back after that bloody sword.”

  Gignomai nodded. “And then your uncle can sell it for me, and I’ll be on the next ship Home. New name, new life, money in my pocket. I can’t wait, to be honest with you.”

  Furio looked like he had toothache. “Any ideas about what you’re going to do there?”

  “Haven’t decided,” Gignomai said. “I suppose I could buy a farm; after all, it’s something I know a bit about. But I must admit, I quite fancy the idea of a factory—making things and selling them. I think I might be good at it.”

  “A factory,” Furio repeated, as if saying the name of some magical beast. “You don’t know the first thing about—”

  “True,” Gignomai said. “Or about buying and selling, come to that. Still, it can’t be all that difficult or ordinary people wouldn’t be able to do it.”

  A ship came in. Gignomai, who’d never seen a ship, went down to the dock to see it. Uncle Marzo got quite upset when he said he was going. There would be a great many people, Marzo said, and it wouldn’t be safe. Gignomai smiled at him and said, on the contrary, it’d be as safe as a stroll in the woods. Uncle Marzo made a despairing noise and said Gignomai had better go with him; he had business to see to. Furio thought he’d given in rather too easily, and then remembered the sword. Never too early to start sounding out possible buyers.

  So Furio stayed at home and minded the store. There was absolutely nothing unusual about that, but for some reason he felt resentful; he could only imagine it was because Gignomai was going and he wasn’t, and of course that was a stupid thing to get upset about. Recognition of his own presumed stupidity just made him surlier, and he was quite rude to a woman who came in for a dozen pins, though luckily she was deaf and didn’t actually hear what he said.

  He’d been on his own for about an hour when Teucer came in. She sat down on the chair next to the stove and produced her sampler.

  “I’d be better off on the porch,” she said. “The light’s not too good in here.”

  Furio shrugged. He didn’t want her to go out onto the porch. “You’d do better next to the window. I’ll move the chair for you if you like.”

  She moved the chair herself without comment, sat down again and tried to thread a needle. Furio tried not to watch her. He had an idea her eyesight wasn’t anything special, close up. She was certainly patient. She tried and failed for several minutes, until Furio couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Could I try?” he said.

  “If you like,” she said.

  Furio was quite good at threading needles. His mother had always got him to do it for her. She had good eyesight, but there had been something wrong with the
feeling in her fingertips due to an accident, years ago. Furio took a pair of small scissors from the counter and snipped the end off the thread, where her efforts had left it crushed and mangled. He cut it at an angle, not straight, to leave a sharp point. The needle was exceptionally fine and small. He guessed she’d brought it from Home, because it was much better than anything they sold in the store. He tried twice and failed, and felt a quite unreasonable surge of anger building up. Still, he wasn’t beaten yet. He put the end of the thread in his mouth and sucked it.

  “Yuck,” Teucer said. “That’s disgusting.”

  Furio looked at her. “It’s what everybody does.”

  “Not where I come from,” Teucer said firmly. “At Home, we use a little chunk of beeswax. You pull the thread across it, and it makes the thread easier to draw.”

  Furio was now resolved the thread the damn needle or die trying. Luckily, he managed it on his fourth try. “There you go,” he said, handed it back and waited a moment for the customary word of thanks, which didn’t come. He crossed the room and straightened up a row of chisels.

  “So Gignomai’s leaving,” she said.

  He remembered; she’d been on the porch. “So he says.”

  “You’ll be upset about that.”

  He didn’t answer, concentrating instead on getting the chisels exactly equally spaced on the shelf.

  “I like him,” she said, “but he’s very arrogant.”

  Furio turned round and looked at her. “No he’s not.”

  “Oh he is,” she said. “Thinks he’s so much better than us.”

  “Maybe he’s right.”

  He’d said it to annoy her. He thought about it, nevertheless.

  “Really?” Teucer said. “Well, you know him better than I do, but I can’t see anything special. What’s he done that’s so marvellous?”

  The five-eighths skew and the quarter bevel were in the wrong places. He switched them round. “Leaving home, for a start,” he said.

  “What’s so good about that?”

  “Think what he’s leaving behind,” Furio said.