The Hammer Part 36

Scornful look. "Since when did you climb trees?"

He grinned at her. "That's why I fell," he said. "Lack of experience."

"I'm sick of covering up for you," she said, walking a little faster. It cost her disproportionate effort, because she would wear those ridiculous shoes. "I'm always having to lie for you, and I've had enough. Next time..."

"Oh, that's wonderful," the boy said. "It was all your fault anyway. If you hadn't been making eyes at that soldier..."

(Which he knew was a lie; but a lie he could pretend to believe, thereby putting her on the defensive.) "That's just rubbish," she snapped. "And you're stupid. I've got a good mind to tell Father what happened. It'd serve you right if I did."

She didn't, of course. As it turned out, there was no need for anybody to say anything. The First Citizen and his wife were out for the evening at a reception, and off early the next morning for the state opening of the a.s.sembly. Undoubtedly the servants noticed his scabbed knuckles, and when the ringing in his ears didn't go away, they quickly learned to talk to his right side or speak a little louder. He had no trouble hearing his father, because the First Citizen's voice was plenty loud enough, even at home, and his mother never had anything much to say for herself at the best of times.

Six months later, the boy's father lost the election and was replaced as First Citizen by Didius Vetranio, whose father had been a sausage-maker. That is to say, Didius Maesus had owned a twenty per cent stake in a slaughterhouse where they made the best-quality air-dried sausage for the export trade, along with a large number of other sound investments. As far as the boy's father was concerned, that made him a sausage-maker. He sulked for a month, then bought a s.h.i.+p-ridiculously cheap, he told anybody who'd listen, the most incredible bargain-and cheered up again. His good mood lasted five weeks, until the s.h.i.+p sank in the Strait of Essedine with a full cargo of pepper and saffron.

"f.u.c.king disaster," the boy overheard his father telling one of his business a.s.sociates (a small, dried man with hollow cheeks and a very sharp nose). "Eight hundred thousand, and that's without what that b.a.s.t.a.r.d gouged me out of for the s.h.i.+p."

The little man frowned. "Borrowed?"

"Six hundred thousand." The boy's father sighed. "Unsecured, which is a blessing, I suppose, but it puts me where I squelch when I walk. b.a.s.t.a.r.d had no business selling a s.h.i.+p that wasn't seaworthy."

The little man thought for a moment. He was a study for a major sculpture, Man Thinking Man Thinking. "You need capital," he said.

"Yes, thank you, that had in fact occurred to me already." The boy's father took a peach off the top of the fruit dish, bit off a third and discarded the rest. "You wouldn't happen to..."

"No."

A slight shrug; no harm in trying. "Looks like marriage, then," he said. "That or mortgage the vineyard, and I'd be reluctant to do that."

The little man nodded. "Which one?"

"Oh, the boy," the boy's father said. "I've already done a deal for the girl, but it's a long-term job, I'd hate to spoil it by rus.h.i.+ng it along. The good thing about children," he went on, "is that when you run out you can always make some more. Friend of mine used to say, a man of good family carries his pension between his legs. No, I had an offer for the boy only last month, but of course I was flush then and told them to stuff it."

"Good offer?"

The boy's father leaned back in his chair and let his head droop forward. "It'd be enough to see me out of this mess, and a bit left over, but that's about it. On the other hand, it'd be cash up front on betrothal, with the real estate settled till he comes of age. I could borrow against the realty, invest it, pick a winner, clear off my debts with the profit and break off the betrothal. It's a thought," he added defensively, though the little man hadn't said anything. "No, I suppose not. I have an idea my luck's not at its best and brightest right now."

The little man folded his hands in his lap. "None of this would've happened if you'd insured the s.h.i.+p," he said.

"Yes, well."

But the little man was like a little dog that gets its teeth in something and won't let go. "How much have you got left, Palo?"

A long sigh; and the boy saw that look on his father's face, the one that meant he was about to answer quietly. "Not enough," he said. "Oh, I've got a.s.sets to show for it, land and good securities, but either they're tied up or they're long-term. Like the brickyard," he said, rubbing the sides of his nose with both forefingers, like a man just waking up. "I've put a lot of money into that. Fifteen years' time it'll be a gold mine, but if I sold it now I'd be screwed. Actual ready cash..." He shook his head. "Hence the short-term unsecured loans, which are eating me alive, of course. And I spent a lot of money on the election, of course, and that was a joke. Beaten by a sausage-maker, very funny, ha ha. Makes you wonder why you ever bother in the first place."

The little man coughed, a strange noise, a bit like a bone breaking. "I never could see the point in running for office," he said. "I've always had better things to do with my time. People talk about the contacts and the influence, but I don't see it myself. Personally, I prefer to concentrate my energies on business."

The boy's father grinned. "With hindsight, I tend to agree with you. Still, your circ.u.mstances are a bit different. You could always afford the best senators money could buy."

A very slight shrug, to concede an inconsequential point. "The offer for your son."

"Quite." (The boy s.h.i.+fted to ease the cramp in his leg and banged his foot against the leg of a table. Fortunately, neither man heard.) "Malo Sinvestri's daughter. Could be worse."

"The Licinii have done very well in bulk grain," the little man said. "You have those warehouses down by the weir standing empty. Presumably your intention-"

"Actually, I hadn't thought of that." A suddenly cheering-up lilt in his father's voice. "Thanks, Galba, that puts quite a nice edge on the deal. Of course, I'd have to use proxies."

"Licinius doesn't know?"

"Why should he?" A short laugh, like a hammer on an anvil, or a bell. "Not in my name, you see, so not on the register. It'd be worth it just to see the look on Malo's face."

On the day of the betrothal ceremony, he wasn't well. He had an upset stomach, ferocious stabbing pains between his navel and his groin that made him twist like a dancer.

His mother didn't appear to believe him. "Don't be stupid," she said. "This is a serious occasion. It's not something you can get out of by pretending you're ill."

He couldn't answer immediately. When he'd got the use of his mouth back, he said, "Tell you what, you can come and inspect the contents of my chamber pot. Will that do you?"

"Don't be-"

"That's evidence," he said. "Solid proof. Well, maybe not solid. For pity's sake, mother, I'm not well well. I can hardly stand upright."

His mother's look held the unique alloy of pity and contempt she reserved just for him. "Well, you've n.o.body but yourself to blame," she said, dipping her hand into the linen pocket she wore on her belt and taking out nine plum stones. "You don't even like like plums," she said. plums," she said.

He nodded. His mistake had been throwing the stones out of the window, instead of burying them in the midden. Attention to detail. "Oh, I like them," he said, "but they don't like me." A particularly sharp spasm put him out of action for a while, and then he said, "It doesn't alter the fact that I'm not well enough to stand through a long formal ceremony. Unless you want me to make a spectacle of myself in front of all those people."

His mother shook her head. "I haven't told your father about these," she said, moving the plum stones a little closer to his nose. "You don't have to go to the ceremony, I'll send a note to say you're ill, but I'll tell your father the truth. It's entirely up to you."

He breathed in deeply. "All right," he said. "What do you suggest?"

She nodded briskly. "I'll get you some medicine," she said.

Her words coincided with yet another spasm, so the face he pulled was submerged in a greater reaction. His mother collected medicines, rather in the way a boy collects coins or seals or arrowheads; one or two genuine pieces, along with a whole load of junk. "Thanks," he said, "but I think I'll be-"

"Stay there," she said, and a few minutes later she came back with a little blue-gla.s.s cup. "Drink this," she said, "it'll get you through the ceremony."

The last attack had left him gasping for air. "Does it work?"

"I don't know," his mother replied, "I've never tried it myself. The man said it's a miracle cure, but I've never dealt with him before. You don't have to take it if you don't want to."

He took the cup and stared into it; off-white sludge, like the sc.u.m on top of new cream. "What is it?"

"The man said it's a special sort of clay dust," his mother answered blandly. "Apparently there's a magic mountain in Sigaea, which is the only place in the world this stuff's ever been found. It's mined by an ancient order of monks exclusively for the Imperial court, but somehow this man managed to get hold of a jar." She shrugged. "You never know," she said. "Anyway, drink it if you like. It might do you good."

Remarkably, it did. At least, it stopped up his bowels like a cork for three days. It didn't do anything for the pain, but he handled that himself, and if any of the guests at the betrothal noticed anything, they didn't mention it. In a way, he was almost glad of it, since it gave him something else to think about apart from the bride and her family. The latter would have scared the life out of him if he'd been in any fit state to care; several huge men, tall, broad and fat, with close-cropped beards that came up to the tops of their cheekbones, and tall thin women who looked at him and shuddered. His father was extremely subdued, which was unnerving, and sober, which was unprecedented. He couldn't see his mother most of the time, because she had to sit on the far side of the temple with his sister and the other women, but he could feel her eyes on him like a bridle. As for the bride, she was m.u.f.fled up in veils like a beekeeper (what's the matter, he thought, is she afraid I'm going to sting her to death or something?) so she registered with him as little more than a shape in a gauze mist and a small, sullen voice that mumbled the words after the priest. But when she first saw him, she stopped dead in her tracks, the way a horse stops when it sees something it doesn't like, and no amount of booting and spurring will get it to s.h.i.+ft. Her father and uncle whispered something to her, "What do you think you're playing at?" or words to that effect; she whispered back, and then her father put his hand between her shoulder blades and shoved so hard she nearly fell over. An auspicious start, he couldn't help thinking; not that he blamed her in the least. He owned a mirror. It was a small comfort to know there was someone who was even more wretched about the performance than he was, but the pain in his stomach was the only thing he could think about.

The priest got his name the wrong way round: Ba.s.sia.n.u.s Severus Arcadius. On the way home, he asked if it was still legal. His father a.s.sured him that it was.

By K. J. Parker THE FENCER TRILOGY.

Colours in the Steel The Belly of the Bow The Proof House THE SCAVENGER TRILOGY.

Shadow Pattern Memory THE ENGINEER TRILOGY.

Devices and Desires Evil for Evil The Escapement The Company The Folding Knife The Hammer

Praise for the Novels of K. J. PARKER K. J. PARKER "I have reviewed books before that I thought might someday be found to have achieved greatness... K. J. Parker is writing work after work that demands to be placed in that category."

-Orson Scott Card "Blends gritty military fantasy with the 18th-century 'island story' tradition.... Parker carries the reader on a headlong gallop to the powerful conclusion."

-Publishers Weekly (starred review) (starred review) "Imagine Lost Lost meets meets The Italian Job The Italian Job... a masterfully planned and executed book, one that builds on ever-revealing characterization and backstory, leading slowly yet inexorably to its final conclusion."

-SFF World "It's a dark, bleak and fiercely intelligent portrait of the human condition..."

-SFX "A deftly paced mix that's br.i.m.m.i.n.g with psychological insights."

-Library Journal "The whole thing is brilliant-disturbingly so, since these fantasies (without a whit of magic) explore the human condition and reveal it all, brain, heart, guts and bowels, with a startling precision."

-Locus "Parker's intricately plotted and meticulously detailed book... moves as deliberately and precisely as an antique watch."

-Entertainment Weekly "An audacious, utterly captivating novel... Parker's prose glitters with intelligence and precision... one of the most entertaining novels I've read this year."

-Realms of Fantasy magazine magazine "K. J. Parker is more of a hurricane than a breath of fresh air."

-Dreamwatch magazine magazine "It's a splendid story, full of turmoil and conspiracy."

-blogcritics.org "As efficient and well constructed as its protagonist's well-oiled machines."

-Starburst