Part 10 (1/2)

”I'm sorry,” he said. ”I had an accident.”

”Most unfortunate. Sit down. The books you will be reading are on the small table.”

Gignomai saw them, but he was looking past the table, towards the corner of the room. If the sword had been found, it would be there, leaning against the wall; that was what Father would do. Not there. He kept his face straight, crossed to the table and sat down.

”Your mother was worried about you.” Father's head was bent over the book.

”I'm sorry. I fell off the-”

”Please be more considerate in future.”

Gignomai took a book off the top of the pile, glanced at the spine (Caecilius on Prosody) and opened it. It began with a beautiful illuminated letter B and went downhill from there.

He ran into his mother on the way from the library to the Great Hall. She gave him a filthy look and walked past him without saying anything. He decided it could have been worse.

At dinner, conversation was even spa.r.s.er than usual. Luso kept looking at him. Father looked over the top of his head from time to time. Mother huddled over her food and didn't look up. Stheno looked past him, the way you carefully fail to notice someone with a ghastly disfigurement. Dinner was roast wild duck. Gignomai got the bit where the bullet had pa.s.sed through, smas.h.i.+ng bones and pulping flesh.

After dinner, he announced that he was tired and was going to bed. n.o.body looked up, and he walked out of the hall. Stheno, who'd gone out to check on the calves, was hovering by the stairs, evidently waiting for him. Gignomai stopped.

”Why did you come back?” Stheno asked.

Not why did you leave why did you leave. ”I fell off the edge of the world,” Gignomai replied.

”Gig...”

”Seriously,” Gignomai said. ”I was in the woods, out on the west side. This boar jumped out at me-”

”I heard all that,” Stheno cut him off (so Luso did talk to his brother sometimes). ”But you weren't in the woods because you felt like a stroll.”

”Well, yes, actually,” Gignomai said. ”That's why I was-”

”Right.” Stheno made a slight movement, a small s.h.i.+ft of the shoulders. If Luso had done that, Gignomai would have sidestepped. ”And for a stroll in the woods, you took your sword.”

Rather like the moment when you're stalking a deer, and it suddenly lifts its head and stares straight at you, you freeze, and everything hangs in the balance.

”It wasn't in your room,” Stheno said. ”When we realised you were missing, I went to see if you'd taken anything with you.”

Gignomai nodded slowly. ”You told Luso.”

”No. Nor Father.”

It occurred to Gignomai to ask why, but he decided not to. He kept perfectly still, closed, not saying anything. The met'Oc family, he reckoned, were probably better at not saying anything than anyone else in the world.

”So,” Stheno said, ”why'd you come back?”

”I live here.”

Once, many years ago, Luso and Stheno went through a phase of playing chess. It lasted about three months, and for the first six weeks, Luso won every game, quickly and often cruelly. Then-it surprised Gignomai even now to think about it-Stheno figured out how to turn a losing game into a stalemate. For the next four weeks, he still didn't win, but he somehow contrived to draw one game in five. Then, quite suddenly, he won everything, and eventually Luso gave up and went back to playing against Father instead. Over the years, Gignomai had often tried to a.n.a.lyse Stheno's strategy and had never managed to pin it down. Quite a large part of it was making moves so totally illogical that Luso couldn't cope with them, but there was also a thread of tactical skill that went so deep Gignomai couldn't trace it; he only knew that it was there.

”That's not an answer,” Stheno said.

”Would you rather I hadn't come back?”

Stheno ignored that. ”All right,” he said, ”I'll try guessing. You fell out with your town friends, or they didn't want you hanging round.”

”Yes, that's right.”

Stheno nodded, as if to indicate that the interview was over. Gignomai turned away, and Stheno's hand swooped down on his shoulder like a hawk. It was so much bigger than any human hand had any right to be, and so very strong. Gignomai felt his back pressing hard against the wall. He could only breathe in part of the way; not far enough.

”Other people,” Stheno said quietly, ”have to live in this house too. Sometimes it's not easy, but generally I manage to cope. But it's hard enough as it is without you pulling stunts like that. Do you understand?”

He'd have said anything to get the hand off his shoulder before he choked to death. ”Yes, I understand. I'm sorry.”

Stheno held him just a little longer; just a little too long. Then he let go, and all Gignomai could think about was breathing. ”I can see why you did it,” Stheno said, not at all unkindly. ”In your shoes, probably I'd have done the same. But you don't have that luxury. Right?”

”Right.”

Stheno nodded. A curt nod that said, quarrel over, let's not bother with grudges. ”Glad you're back,” he said. ”I was worried.”

”Stheno?”

”Yes?”

”The sword,” Gignomai said. ”I lost it, in the woods. Really.”

Stheno frowned. ”I suggest you find it,” he said, ”else, Father'll kill you.”

”That's what I was thinking.”

”All right,” Stheno said. ”Tomorrow morning you go and do your studying. Soon as I've seen to the pigs I'll come up and borrow you. Urgent job-I'll think of something. You can have the rest of the morning. All right?”

”Yes,” Gignomai said. ”Thanks.”

”A quiet life,” Stheno replied. ”You wouldn't think it was a lot to ask.”

Luso woke him up quite some time before daybreak. At least, he woke up and saw Luso sitting on the end of his bed. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but n.o.body else sat motionless quite like that.

”Just wanted to make sure you're still here,” Luso said. Then he got up and left, leaving the door open. Luso never closed doors behind him.

Not enough night left to make it worth trying to go back to sleep, so Gignomai got up, dressed and lit the candle. He'd intended to read (he'd smuggled Gannasius on Ethical Theory Gannasius on Ethical Theory out of the library under his s.h.i.+rt; it had been on the pile of compulsory reading, but he'd found it interesting) but he couldn't keep still. He opened the window, leaned out and looked up at the sky. Too late, but not early enough. out of the library under his s.h.i.+rt; it had been on the pile of compulsory reading, but he'd found it interesting) but he couldn't keep still. He opened the window, leaned out and looked up at the sky. Too late, but not early enough.

So he pulled on his boots and went quietly down the stairs-long practice-and out into the back yard. Aurelio the smith was opening up the forge. He always started early, because it took a long time to lay in the fire and get it going properly. Gignomai didn't feel like being seen, but that wasn't a problem. He'd long ago worked out a sequence of doorways and edges that would keep him concealed in half light.

He made it easily to the barn, slipped inside and climbed up into the hayloft. It was well known as one of his places, so there was no point staying there too long. What they hadn't realised, as far as he knew, was that there was a loose stone in the back wall, a hand's span from the floor, which you could tease out with your fingernails if you were careful and patient.

He took out the stone and felt inside the cavity. The glove was still there. He'd very nearly taken it with him when he made his escape attempt; just as well he hadn't, or it'd be in the pillowcase, along with the rest of his stuff. The sword was one thing-failing to find it simply wasn't an option-but he was more or less resigned to the pillowcase being lost and gone for ever. In which case...

He put the stone back, then ran his fingertips all round it to make sure it was flush to the rest of the wall. For four months of the year, of course, it was completely inaccessible, buried deep under the winter hay, like one of those underwater cities in fairy tales.

The other thing he'd come for was lying on the floor where he'd last seen it, weeks ago. It was the broken-off head of a push-hoe, which at some time had been ground on a wheel to make it narrower (for weeding between rows of turnips, at a guess). He found it by feel, wrapped a sc.r.a.p of sacking round the splintered handle end and stowed it in his right-hand coat pocket.