The Company Page 2

  “Hello, farmer,” he said.

  Kudei looked round and saw him. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.” For a moment he hesitated, then he grinned; it was as though his face was splitting, like a log to the wedge. “You’re back, then.”

  Kunessin realised he’d taken a step back, just as he’d always done when talking to Kudei. Too close and he had to look up to him, because Kudei happened to be a head taller than him. He’d always resented that, for some absurd reason.

  “How’s the farm?” Kunessin asked.

  “Could be worse,” Kudei replied with a scowl. “Short on hay this year because of the rain, but the grass is good and fat, so we won’t have to start feeding till late.” He must have realised he was scowling; he deliberately relaxed his face, then smiled. “You didn’t come all this way to ask about the farm.”

  “Actually,” Kunessin said, then shrugged. “Hasn’t changed much in seventeen years.”

  Kudei thought for a moment, then said, “It’s changed slowly.”

  “The cider house.”

  “You noticed.” Kudei laughed: a slight shudder in his massive chest. “Well, of course you did. Sorry about that. I guess we never got round to doing anything about it.”

  “There’s always something,” Kunessin said.

  “Not when you had the place.” Kudei frowned, then disposed of that expression too. “You really came back just to see what we’ve done with it?”

  “No, of course not.” The calf was twisting its neck against the rope. Quite soon, there’d be a sore patch. Dad would’ve padded the halter, Kunessin thought. “That’s a nice little heifer,” he said. “Going to show her in the spring?”

  “We don’t show any more,” Kudei said. “No time.”

  Kunessin nodded. “Are you done here? I could do with a drink.”

  “Come up to the house. You’ll have to excuse my brothers,” he added sadly. “They haven’t exactly mellowed with age.”

  “I met Euge just now,” Kunessin said. “Wasn’t he ever pleased to see me.”

  “I can imagine,” Kudei said; he was pulling the rag tighter round his damaged hand.

  “You should wear gloves when you’re roping cattle.”

  “I would, if I had any.”

  For some reason, Kunessin was shocked by that. “You’re kidding.”

  Kudei laughed. “Sort of,” he said. “We’ve got seven pairs of gloves, actually, all of them with the palms worn through. And we’ve got three good cured sheepskins hanging up in the barn, going mouldy with the damp, but cutting a bit off and patching a glove . . .” He smiled. “It’s a case of getting round to it, you see. Always tomorrow, always directly. Well, you know.”

  Shocked and, he realised, angry. “That’s no way to live, Kudei,” he said.

  “We manage,” Kudei replied quietly. “Come inside, we’ll have that drink.”

  “Forget it,” Kunessin said, more abruptly than he’d have liked. “I need to get back to town by nightfall,” he lied. “It was good to see you again.”

  Kudei stopped dead in his tracks. “Is that it, then?” he said. “You came all this way to yell at me for not patching a pair of gloves?”

  “You shouldn’t have let the cider house fall down,” Kunessin replied. “That was just idleness.”

  (He could always tell when Kudei was starting to get angry. It was a long, gradual process, and it always began the same way. He’d start to slow down, his movements gentler, his voice growing softer. Just before he got furious, you could barely hear him.)

  “It hasn’t been easy,” Kudei said. “I was away for ten years.”

  “I know.” Time for another lie. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “My brothers . . .” It was as though Kudei was searching the shelves and drawers of his mind for the right words. “They do their best,” he said.

  Which was true, and of course that was what made it unforgivable. But Kunessin hadn’t come here to fight. “I’ll be at the Glory of Heroes for three days,” he said. “Drop in and I’ll buy you that drink.”

  He started to walk away. Kudei didn’t move. A pity, Kunessin thought; but when did we ever say a dozen honest words to each other without falling out? “If I don’t see you, take care of yourself,” he said, not looking round.

  He took five steps; then he heard Kudei say, “If you can hang on an extra day, I’ve got to take a load of grain to the mill.”

  He had his back to Kudei, so it was safe to smile. “I’ll see you then,” he said, and walked away.

  The sign didn’t hang straight, and the paint was starting to flake in the salty sea air. It read:

  Royal United School of Defence

  Founder & Propr Thouridos Alces

  Late Master Sgt at Arms 5th Infantry

  All schools, styles & techniques expertly taught

  Vacancies usually available

  Under the sign was a small door that looked as though it had been made for a larger doorway and cut down to fit. The latch didn’t quite line up with the keeper, so someone had bent it enthusiastically with a hammer. Beyond the door was a long, dark passageway leading to a flight of stairs; and at the head of the stairs, another door with another sign:

  Fencing School

  No Admittance While Class In Progress

  Kunessin pushed it open, and saw a large square room, brightly lit by a great bay window that occupied most of the outward-facing wall. The polished floorboards reflected the light, which meant that the man standing in the centre of the floor was a backlit silhouette. Nevertheless . . .

  “Hello, Fly,” Kunessin said.

  There was a loud clatter as the man dropped the two-handed sword he’d been holding. “Teuche?” he said, in a bewildered voice, like someone woken up in the middle of a complicated dream.

  “Yes,” Kunessin said.

  The man started forward, trod on the blade of the dropped sword, stumbled, jumped a foot in the air, landed perfectly and ran towards him - all, apparently, in one concerted movement. Instinctively Kunessin took a step back and sideways, but the man must have anticipated the move; he lunged, caught Kunessin round the waist and lifted him off the ground.

  “For God’s sake,” Kunessin gasped. “You’re breaking my bloody ribs.”

  Thouridos Alces laughed and let him go; he slid down the front of Alces’ canvas fencing coat until his heels jarred on the floor.

  “Teuche, you complete bastard,” Alces said, gripping Kunessin’s shoulders and shaking him. “What the hell do you mean by it, sneaking up on me like that? You might at least’ve let me know you were coming.”

  He’d forgotten, he realised, quite how short Fly Alces was: five feet four, five at the most. Hardly surprising: it was something you had to make a conscious effort to remember. For one thing, he never seemed to hold still for long enough to be quantifiable by any normal system of weights and measures; more like a wave than a solid object, someone had once said. For another, he had a knack of seeming to fill all the space available, regardless of whether he was standing in an empty barn or hiding in a flour barrel.

  “You’re a strange man, Fly,” Kunessin said, pulling gently away. “First time I’ve ever come across someone who demotes himself when he leaves the army.”

  Alces’ face became a total grin, from chin to eyebrows. “Professional licence,” he said. “No bugger’s going to pay money to be taught fencing by a captain. Got to call yourself a sergeant or they think you don’t know anything.” Kunessin didn’t actually see Alces move, but suddenly he was a full pace closer and clinging to his elbow. “Come in the back and have a drink,” he said. “My God, it’s good to see you again.”

  (There was a scar, Kunessin noticed, running from the corner of his left eye to the lower edge of his cheekbone. He hadn’t got that in the army.)

  “Tea,” he said, “or no deal.”

  “Sure.” He was being towed along, like a cart, towards a green door in the far corner. “I’m a tea drinker myself these days. Haven’t to
uched a real drink in five years. Mind your head on the beam.”

  Too late. He winced; for some reason, it was important to him not to yelp or swear. Alces opened the door, and Kunessin followed him into the back room.

  It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Instead of chaotic poverty, he saw good furniture, silverware on a polished walnut table, a velvet-curtained alcove where he assumed the bed would be, a worn but good-quality imported rug on the floor, and (the last thing he’d been expecting) a wife.

  “Enyo,” Alces said, “this is an old friend of mine, Teuche Kunessin.”

  She wasn’t impressed, he could see that. There were, in his experience, two sorts of wives. There was the easy-going kind, usually stout, plain-faced and harassed-looking, who smiled at the unexpected visitor and immediately set out an extra plate and spoon; and there was the other kind, who regarded their husbands’ old army friends as marginally better than bailiffs but definitely worse than mice. They were the ones who kept tidy houses and cooked cheap, wholesome meals with plenty of fresh vegetables.

  “My wife,” Alces said, and although he sounded properly embarrassed, there was also a deep, unmistakable pride.

  (Well, Kunessin thought. This makes things awkward.)

  “You’ll stay to dinner,” Enyo said; not a question but a statement, a grim fact stoically accepted.

  “Thanks, but no,” Kunessin said. “I’m meeting some people in half an hour.”

  She made an unintelligible noise, turned her back on him and started peeling something; a dismissal, but also a withdrawal: just pretend I’m not here. Which, of course, he couldn’t do.

  “How’s business?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Alces said, sitting down in a fine chair (he makes the room look untidy, but presumably she’s learned to cope with that). “We’ve been running this place for - how long’s it been, five years?” No confirmation from the other end of the room. “And it’s turned out pretty well. Tradesmen’s sons, a couple of the local gentlemen farmers; Faralia’s changed quite a bit since our day, more money about since the war. No competition. We’ll never be rich, but I do three classes a day, all fully booked. It’s a living, and not particularly arduous.”

  The back of Enyo’s head let him know exactly what she thought of her husband’s summary, but he fancied that her definition of a living was rather different. He managed to keep his face straight.

  “What about you, though?” Alces went on. “General Kunessin. Only goes to show, if you stay in the service long enough . . ”

  “I retired,” Kunessin said.

  “I heard that,” Alces replied. “What did you want to go and do that for? You’d done all the hard work; I’d have thought you’d have stayed on and taken it easy.”

  Kunessin forced a laugh. “Don’t you believe it,” he said. “I reached the point where I couldn’t stick the aggravation any more. Best decision I ever made, actually.”

  Alces shrugged. “So, what’s the plan?” he said. “Buy some land and play at farming?”

  He knew Alces didn’t mean anything by it, so he let it pass. “Sort of,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it some time. So,” he went on, turning away a little, “do you see much of the others these days?”

  A slight frown, but no change in Alces’ tone of voice. “A bit,” he said. “Not a great deal. I run into Kudei in the street from time to time, but he doesn’t come into town much. Muri - you know about Muri?”

  Kunessin nodded. “I don’t get that,” he said. “I thought he had plans.”

  “Apparently not,” Alces replied. “Or else he changed them, or they fell through. He seems happy enough, which is what matters, I suppose.”

  “What about Aidi? I heard he’s running a shop, for crying out loud.”

  Alces grinned. “Very successful,” he said. “Got a real flair for it. Also, he got married about three years ago, but she died in the spring. Lost the kid, too, which must’ve been hard to bear.”

  Kunessin nodded. “I suppose it’s something we never really considered,” he said, “bad stuff still happening even when the war’s over. It’s so much easier when you can pile it all on to the enemy. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what wars are really for.”

  Maybe a barely perceptible shake of the head; he wasn’t sure. But he had the distinct impression that that wasn’t a subject to be discussed, even in the presence of the back of Enyo’s head. Fair enough, he thought. Any woman who married Thouridos Alces would have to be firm about what could and couldn’t be talked about.

  (And then he noticed; or rather, he became aware of the lack of it. Not on the wall, or leaning in a corner of the room; not in a glass case or over the fireplace or hung by two nails from a rafter. He couldn’t have simply got rid of it, not even for her sake; but in a room so neat and orderly there were only so many places it could be, and it wasn’t there - a glaringly empty space, like a place laid at the dinner table where nobody sits down. Could it have been in the rack of blunts and foils in the schoolroom? He’d have noticed it there, and besides, it was unthinkable.)

  He planted his feet squarely on the floor and pushed himself up. “I really have got to make a move,” he said. (Alces started to say something, then thought better of it.) “I’m in town for the next few days, I’m staying at the Glory . . .”

  Alces grinned. “Haven’t been in there for years,” he said, and the back of his wife’s head quite definitely twitched. “If you can afford to stay there, you can afford to buy me a cup of tea.”

  “Just about,” Kunessin replied - it didn’t even sound like him talking. “Pleased to have met you,” he said to the room in general, and left quickly. Alces went with him as far as the green door.

  (Outside in the street, he turned and looked up at the sign. Here lies Thouridos Alces, he thought, may he rest in peace. Not, he acknowledged with a faint grin, that there was much chance of that.)

  After the visitor had left, she asked him, “Who was that?”

  Inevitably. He marshalled his face and mustered his words. “Old army friend of mine,” he said, picking up an empty cup and taking it over to the washstand. It was a valiant effort but tactically unsound; he never washed up dirty crockery.

  “General Kunessin, you called him,” she said, and he could feel her eyes on the back of his head.

  “That’s right,” he said, up-ending the cup and swilling its rim in the washbasin. “He stayed on in the service after I quit. He’s from around here, originally.”

  “He wanted something,” she said.

  “You think so? I thought he was just calling in to say hello, since he’s in the neighbourhood. I haven’t set eyes on him for seven years.”

  “He wanted something,” she repeated. “But he wasn’t going to tell you about it in front of me.”

  Retreat to prepared positions. He half-turned and smiled at her. “What could a retired general possibly want from someone like me?” he said. “Besides, he’s retired. And so am I. You know that.”

  One of those looks: uncomfortable, like gravel in your shoe. Never for one moment had he regretted marrying her, but she could break his defences the way he used to break the schiltrons. “You want me to tell you about him?”

  Shrug. “If you like.”

  He left the washstand and sat down in his favourite chair, where he could be besieged in comfort. “We were all at the Military College together, six of us, all from Faralia, which meant we had something in common; the city kids treated us like peasants, so we formed what you might call an offensive and defensive alliance, for mutual support. Then the war came, and amazingly enough the brass had the good sense not to split us up. They made us into a lance—”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sorry? Oh, right. A lance is a military unit, an officer and ten men, only they were so short of manpower by then, most units were understrength. It was the six of us plus the officer, Lieutenant D’Eteleieto. Anyhow, we stayed together all through the war. One of us didn’t make it, but compar
ed to most we got off lightly. Specially since we were linebreakers. That means we were the ones who—”

  “Don’t tell me about that,” she said sharply.

  “Fine,” he said, recognising the edge in her voice. “Anyway, that’s about it. The war ended, we went our separate ways. I always thought that afterwards we’d stay in touch, specially since we were all Faralians and all of us except Teuche - that’s his name, Teuche Kunessin - came back here to settle down. But we didn’t. There wasn’t any grand falling-out or anything like that. I guess that once we split up - we’d been together twenty-four hours a day for ten years; just think about that - I guess we realised we didn’t have anything in common worth holding on to.” He paused, just long enough to breathe. “And that’s all there is to it.”

  A lie so monumental you could have dug a moat round it and called it a citadel. He offered it to her with a sort of honesty; her choice whether to attack and invest or withdraw and leave him in peace. But she was a better strategist than that. “Those other people you were talking about,” she said. “He seemed to know all about them.”

  Which hadn’t escaped his attention, but he hadn’t had time to reflect on the implications. “Presumably someone’s been sending him news from home,” he said. “Like I said, he’s a local boy, grew up on a farm in the valley. Actually, there’s a bit of a story there,” he added, not sure whether it was a good idea to open another front but willing to take the risk. He paused, and she sort of nodded: yes, I’m waiting. “His family lost the farm just before we all went off to the College, and Kudei Gaeon’s dad - Kudei was one of us - he bought it cheap and took it over, and Kudei and his brothers are still there, as far as I know. Now, Teuche and Kudei were best friends practically from the cradle, but I think that once the Gaeon boys got the farm, there was always this little bit of edge between them, buried really deep. Maybe that’s why we’ve all lost touch, I don’t know: Teuche was very much in charge, if you see what I mean; the rest of us were more or less pulled in, like filings to a magnet.”