Page 52 of Something Human

CHAPTER XVIII

“WE CHOSE WELL,” said Gunthanaruth, wiping his moustache and holding out his mead-horn for the servant to refill. Then, seeming to realize what he’d said, he corrected himself lazily: “You chose well, I mean.”

Suthus snorted tolerantly. He reached over to pat Rus’s shoulder, but his hand slipped and somehow ended up on Rus’s knee instead. He withdrew it quickly.

“I know,” he said. “I did.”

Rus laughed.

They were sitting at the upper hearth in the headman’s hall following Rus’s investiture as deputy and successor to the stathan. It was late, and the occasion had not merited a full-blown feast, so the hall was fairly quiet by now. It was early spring, the weather still chilly, but the hall was warmed by the throng of bodies and the flames of the hearth, and Rus was wearing a formal wool jacket. It was too warm for the jacket, but not warm enough to take it off when he had no shirt under it.

His investiture had gone well. Unumus, who had not concealed his anger when Rus was chosen, had pulled himself together enough to be gracious, and the rest of the kahar had seemed genuinely happy for Rus. His parents had been there to express their pride, stiffly but sincerely, and that had made Rus happier than he would have expected—had made him almost feel that it had not all been a terrible mistake.

Others had congratulated him warmly. Kuth and Genet, who knew how little he wanted this, had been stoutly sympathetic while at the same time giving him friendly reminders that it was something to be proud of, being made successor to the head of the kahar at twenty. Their children enjoyed the day, and Meret acted as though he was a member of the family. Hath, the old bull-fighter, had embraced him with tears in his eyes and confessed that he had hoped Suthus was going to choose him, “But he knew better. You are worthier of it than I will ever be.” Rus didn’t think that was true at all, but didn’t say so.

“We must soon think of sending tribute to the Phemians,” said Gunthanaruth some time later, speaking to Rus. Suthus had nodded off, leaning back against the cushions.

“Ah. Yes, my lord.” Rus roused himself as best he could from the drowsiness brought on by the warmth, the lateness of the hour, and the mead he had sparingly drunk. “If I can be of any help—the Phemians are like the Kossians in their ways, as you know.” And the kahar were the guardians of the knowledge of Kossian ways.

“So I understand. That is why I mention it. Will they take horses, do you think, or will we have to send hostages, as the southern tribes do?”

Hostages were just what Rus had at one time meant to suggest, but that was when he had hoped to make himself one of the hostages, or at the very least part of the escort for the hostages. Neither was possible now.

Earlier that evening, Suthus had been reciting a list of things he would need Rus’s help with that spring. There were lessons to organize for the votive boys, whose education had been neglected during the campaign in the fall, and it would soon be time to begin arranging the competition for new votives. There were divinations for the coming year to be performed, paddocks to be blessed, repairs to be made to the kahar hall before the repainting of the walls, hunts to be organized, and some badly moth-eaten ritual costumes to be repaired or replaced altogether. Some of their library of Kosoth books needed recopying, and some reports of omens that had come in from one of the villages over the mountains would need to be investigated before long. There was no way Suthus would let his new deputy travel south any time soon.

“I don’t believe the Phemians care about hostages,” he said truthfully.

It was something Adares had told him: “The tribes all exchange hostages among themselves, as pledges of loyalty, and when they send them to us, we have to take them, but we don’t know what to do with them. Of course they don’t send us stonemasons or cooks or anyone who can earn their keep. It’s all useless chieftains’ younger sons and things.”

“They might like horses,” Rus went on, “but their tradition is jars of wine and oil of olives.”

Gunthanaruth gave him an impatient look. “Where are we going to get that? Will they not accept anything else?”

“Herds of cattle or goats.”

The headman’s look changed to one of alarm. “Herds?”

“They keep tame ones on their islands—they wouldn’t know what to do with wild cows or mountain goats. The wine and oil could be … approximated. For wine, mead, with some fine drinking horns, perhaps, and for the oil—I think they use it mostly for soap.”

“Soap,” Gunthanaruth repeated. “You are sure?”

He was not, and all of this about tribute came from the story Adares had told him about the king of the Black Isle, which had also involved men who were goats from the waist down and a woman who had sex with a goose, so it was doubtful how rooted in fact any of it was.

“It is recorded in the tales,” he said, as a sop to the truth.

Gunthanaruth shrugged. “Well, if I can get away with sending them casks of mead and soap instead of men and horses, I won’t complain.”

“There is one other thing you must not omit to do, my lord.”

“Ah?”

He glanced at Suthus, who was still sleeping peacefully. Here he ventured into the territory of pure invention. If he had been less tired, thinking more clearly, it might have been harder.

“You must invite their headman to your hearth.” He gestured at it, the flames dying low in the circle of ash and charred wood under the fire-dogs with their ornamental iron bulls’ heads. “They expect it of an ally. He will be waiting for your invitation.”

“Ah! I am glad you told me. He won’t accept, of course. It’s a long journey to make for form’s sake. He wouldn’t come all the way up here. Would he?”

Rus shrugged. That was the question, really.