Farnham's Freehold (23 page)

Memtok was silent while he led Hugh back down to servants’ country; he was figuring out how to handle this startling development to his own advantage.

This savage’s status had troubled the Chief Domestic from arrival. He didn’t fit—and in Memtok’s world everything had to fit. Well, now the savage had an assigned status; Their Charity had spoken and that was that. But the situation was not improved. The new status was so ridiculous as to make the whole belowstairs structure (the whole world, that is) a mockery.

But Memtok was shrewd and practical. The bedrock of his philosophy was: You can’t fight City Hall, and his basic strategy in applying it was the pragmatic rule: When you can’t beat ’em, you join ’em.

How could this savage’s preposterous promotion be made to appear necessary and proper—and a credit to the Chief Domestic?

Uncle! The savage wasn’t even tempered. Nor would he be. At least not yet. Later, possibly—it would make everything so much more tidy. Memtok had been amazed when Their Charity had postponed the obvious. Memtok hardly recalled his own tempering; his emotions and drives before that time were a thin memory—of someone else. There was no reason for the savage to have kicked up a fuss about it; tempering marked promotion into real living. Memtok looked forward to another half century of activity, power, gracious living—what stud could claim that?

But there it was. How to make it look good?

A Curiosity!—that’s what the savage was. All great lords possessed Curiosities; there had been times when visiting in his own caste that he had been embarrassed by the fact that his own lord took no interest in Curiosities; there were not even Siamese twins nor a two-headed freak in the whole household. Not even a flipper-armed dwarf. Their Charity was—let’s admit it—too simple in his tastes for his high rank; sometimes Memtok was a little ashamed of him. Spending his time on scrolls and such when he should be upholding the pride of the house.

That lord in Hind—What title? Prince something or other silly. Never mind, he had that big cage where studs and sluts lived and mated with great apes, talked the same jabber—it wasn’t Language—and you couldn’t tell which was which save that some were hairy and some were smooth.
There
was a Curiosity worthy of a great household! That lord’s chief domestic had declared by the Uncle that there were live crossbreeds from the experiment, hidden away where the priests couldn’t object. It might be true, since it was a fact that despite official denial crossbreeds between servants and Chosen were possible—and did happen, even though designated bedwarmers were always sterile. But these accidents were never allowed to see the light of day.

A Curiosity, that was the angle. An untempered who was nevertheless a servant executive. A Famous Scholar who had not even been able to speak Language when he was almost as old as Memtok. A man out of nowhere. From the stars. Everybody knew that there were men somewhere in the stars.

Probably a miracle…and the temples were investigating and any year now this household would be famous for its unique Curiosity. Yes. A word here, a word there, a veiled hint—

“Hugh,” Memtok said cordially. “May I call you ‘Hugh’?”

“What? Why, certainly!”

“You must call me ‘Memtok.’ Let’s stroll a bit and pick out space for your departmental headquarters. You would like a sunny place, I understand. Perhaps rooms facing the gardens? And do you want your personal quarters opening off your headquarters? Or would you rather have them elsewhere so that you can get away from it all?” The latter, Memtok decided. Roust out the head gardener and the studmaster and give the savage
both
their quarters—that would make everyone understand how important this Curiosity was…and get both of them sore at the savage, too. He’d soon realize who was his friend. Memtok, namely, and nobody else. Besides, the gardener had been getting uppity, implying that his work didn’t come under the Chief Domestic. A touching up was what he needed.

Hugh said, “Oh, I don’t need anything fancy.”

“Come, come! We want you to have every facility. I wish
I
could get away from it all sometimes. But I can’t—problems, problems, problems, every minute of the day; some people have to have all their thinking done for them. It will be a treat to have a man of the mind among us. We’ll find you cozy quarters, plenty of room for you and your valet. But separate.” Valet? Was there a tempered young buck around, well housebroken and biddable, who could be depended on to report everything and keep his mouth shut? Suppose he had his sister’s eldest son tempered now, would the lad shape up in time?

And would his sister see the wisdom in it? He had great hopes for the boy. Memtok was coldly aware that he would have to go someday—though not for many years—and he was determined that his heir should succeed to his high office. But it would take planning, and planning could never start too soon. If his sister could be made to see it—

Memtok led Hugh through crowded passageways; servants scurried out of the way wherever they went—save one who stumbled and got tingled for his awkwardness.

“My!” said Hugh. “This is a big building.”

“This? Wait till you see the Palace—though no doubt it is falling to rack and ruin, under my chief deputy. Hugh, we use only a quarter of the staff here. There is no formal entertaining, just garden parties. And only a handful of guests. In the city the Chosen are always coming and going. Many a time I am rooted out of bed in the night to open apartments for some lord and his ladies without a moment’s warning. And that is where planning counts. To be able to open the door of a guest-wing flat and know—
know
, mind you, without looking—that beds are freshly perfumed, refreshments waiting, everything spotless, music softly playing.”

“That must take real staff work.”

“Staff work!” Memtok snorted. “I wish I could agree. What it takes is for me to inspect every room, every night, no matter how tired I am, before I go to bed. Then stay up to see that mistakes are corrected, not depend on their lies. They’re all liars, Hugh. Too much ‘Happiness.’ Their Charity is generous; he never cuts down on the ration.”

“I’ve found the food ample. And good.”

“I didn’t say food, I said ‘Happiness.’ I control the food and I don’t believe in starving them, not even as punishment. A tingle is better. They understand that. Always remember one thing, Hugh; most servants don’t really have minds. They’re as thoughtless as the Chosen—not referring to Their Charity of course; I would never criticize my own patron. I mean Chosen in general. You understand.” He winked and gave Hugh a dig in the ribs.

“I don’t know much about the Chosen,” Hugh admitted. “I’ve hardly laid eyes on them.”

“Well…you’ll see. It takes more than a dark skin to make brains no matter what they teach in temple. Not that I expect you to quote me nor would I admit it if you did. But—Who do you think runs this household?”

“I haven’t been here long enough to express opinions.”

“Very shrewd. You could go far if you had ambition. Let me put it this way. If Their Charity goes away, the household goes on smoothly as ever. If I am away, or dare to fall sick—Well, I shudder to think of it.” He gestured with his whip. “
They
know. You won’t find them scurrying that fast to get out of
his
way.”

Hugh changed the subject. “I did not understand your remark about a ‘ration of Happiness.’”

“Haven’t you been receiving yours?”

“I don’t know what it is.”

“Oho! One bullock gets you three that it has been issued but never got as far as you. Must look into that. As to what it is, I’ll show you.” Memtok led him up a ramp and out onto a balcony. Below was the servants’ main dining hail, crowded with three queues. “This is issue time—studs at a different hour, of course. They can have it as drink, in chewing form, or to smoke. The dosage is the same but some say that smoking it produces the keenest happiness.”

Memtok used words not in Hugh’s vocabulary; Hugh told him so. Memtok said, “Never mind. It improves the appetite, steadies the nerves, promotes good health, enhances all pleasures—and wrecks ambition. The trick is to be able to take it or leave it alone. I never took it regularly even when I was at stud; I had ambition. I take it now only on feast days or such—in moderation.” Memtok smiled. “You’ll find out tonight.”

“I will?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Banquet in your honor, just after evening prayer.”

Hugh was hardly listening. He was searching the far queue, trying to spot Barbara.

Memtok sent the Chief Veterinarian and the Household Engineer as an escort of honor for Hugh. Hugh was mildly embarrassed at this attention from the physician and surgeon in view of the helpless posture he had been in the last time he had seen the man. But the veterinarian was most cordial.

Memtok headed the long table with Hugh on his right. Twenty department heads were seated; there was one lower servant standing behind each guest and endless streams coming in and out from kitchen and pantry. The banquet room was beautiful, its furnishings lavish, and the feast was sumptuous and endless; Hugh wondered what a meal of the Chosen must be like if their upper servants ate this way.

He soon found out, in part. Memtok was served twice, once from the tasty dishes everyone shared, again from another menu. These dishes he sampled, using separate plates, but rarely did more than taste. Of the regular menu he ate sparingly and sometimes passed up dishes.

He noticed Hugh’s glance. “The Lord Protector’s dinner. Try it. At your own risk, of course.”

“What risk?”

“Poison, naturally. When a man is over a hundred years old his heir is certain to be impatient. To say nothing of business competitors, political rivals, and subverted friends. Go ahead; the taster tries it half an hour before Their Charity—or I—touches it, and we’ve lost only one taster this year.”

Hugh decided that his nerve was being tested; he tried a spoonful.

“Like it?” asked the Chief Domestic.

“Seems greasy to me.”

“Hear that, Gnou? Our new cousin is a man of taste. Greasy. Someday you’ll be fried in your own grease, I fear. The truth is, Hugh, that we eat better than the Chosen do…although courses are served more elaborately in the Grand Hall, of course. But I am a gourmet who appreciates artistry; Their Charity doesn’t care what it is as long as it doesn’t squeal when he bites it. If the sauces are too elaborate, the spices too exotic, he’ll send it back with a demand for a slice of roast, a hunk of bread, and a pitcher of milk. True, Gnou?”

“You have said it.”

“And frustrating.”

“Very,” admitted the chef.

“So Cousin Gnou’s best cooks work for us, and the Chosen struggle along with ones whose chief skill lies in getting a bird’s skin back on without ruffling the feathers. Cousin Hugh, if you will excuse me, I must lift up to the Grand Hall and attempt by proper ceremony to make Cousin Gnou’s pièce de résistance seem better than it is. Don’t believe what they tell you about me while I’m gone—regrettably it’s all true.” He exposed his teeth in what must have been a smile and left.

No one spoke for a while. Finally someone—Hugh thought it was the transportation master but he had met too many—said, “Chief Researcher, what household were you with before you were adopted, may one ask?”

“One may. House of Farnham, Freeholder Extraordinary.”

“So. I am forced to admit that the title of your Chosen is new to me. A new title, perhaps?”

“Very old,” Hugh answered. “Extremely ancient and granted directly by Uncle the Mighty, blessed be His Name. The rank is roughly that of king, but senior to it.”

“Really?”

Hugh decided to drop that shovel for a wider one. In earlier conversation he had learned that Memtok knew a great deal about many things—but almost nothing about such trivia as history, geography, and matters outside the household. And from his Language lessons he knew that a servant who could read and write was rare, even among executives, unless the skill was necessary to his duties. Memtok had told him proudly that he had petitioned the opportunity while he was still at stud and had labored at it to the amusement of the other studs. “I had my eyes on the future,” he had told Hugh. “I could have had five more years, probably ten, at stud—but as soon as I could read, I petitioned to be tempered. So I had the last laugh—for where are they now?”

Hugh decided on the very widest shovel; a big lie was always easier to sell. “The title is unbroken for three thousand years in House Farnham. The line remained intact by direct intervention of the Uncle right through Turmoil and Change. Because of its Divine origin its holder speaks to the Proprietor as an equal, ‘thee’ and ‘thou.’” Hugh drew himself up proudly. “And
I
was factotum-in-chief to Lord Farnham.”

“A noble house indeed. But ‘factotum-in-chief’? We don’t use that designation here. A domestic?”

“Yes and no. The chief domestic works under the factotum.”

The man almost gasped. “And so,” Hugh went on, “do
all
servant executives, domestic or not—business, political, agrarian, everything. The responsibility is wearing.”

“So I should imagine!”

“It is. I was growing old and my health was failing—I suffered a temporary paralysis of my lower limbs. Truthfully I never liked responsibility, I am a scholar. So I petitioned to be adopted and here I am—scholar to a Chosen of similar scholarly tastes…a fitting occupation for my later years.”

Hugh realized that he had stretched one item too far; the veterinarian looked up. “This paralysis, I noted no signs of it.”

(Damn it, doctors never cared about anything but their specialty!) “It came on me suddenly one morning,” Hugh said smoothly, “and I haven’t been troubled by it since. But to a man of my years it was a warning.”

“And what are your years? Professional interest, of course. One may ask?”

Hugh tried to make the snub as direct as some he had heard Memtok pass out. “One may not. I’ll let you know when I need your services. But,” he added, to soothe the smart, “it would be fair to say that I was born some years earlier than Their Charity.”

“Astonishing. From your physical condition—quite good, I thought—I would have judged you to be no more than sixty, at most.”