Chapter 5
“Sol is graceful, Sol is kind. Sol, his will in you I'll find,” Bracket sang as she fried the morning's breakfast. Her voice was deep, melodic, like a well-trained man's. “When I look and you I see, I can tell that he loves me.”
“What's that one called, Mum?” Carmen asked.
“‘Sol is Graceful, and I am Grateful,’” Chain replied.
“You know all the songs!”
Chain smiled. “Not all of them. Just most.”
Delicious bacon scented their kitchen, making Chain's mouth water. Fruit was already before them: both mother and daughter had eaten an apple and drunk grape juice. Now, they awaited the meat to finish their meal.
Chain's kitchen was light and roomy, allowed Sol's light in through great windows. Bracket stood at a great iron skillet heated by a roaring fire. To her right were smooth surfaces, and a sink fed by rainwater. This was the house of every Contegon since Buckle was built, and their wills gave the yellow walls and antique furniture an extra glow.
“I hope you're hungry, Carmen, as I have too much bacon here,” Bracket said, turning from the skillet. Her pale brow furrowed as she counted the rashers. “There's definitely too much here.”
“No. I only want one.”
“Only one rasher?”
“Only one.”
“You should have more,” Chain said. “It'll help you grow big and strong.”
“How many are you having, Mum?”
“I don't know. How many are there?”
Bracket scratched her hair, the short, brown fuzz moving beneath her fingers. “Do you know, I just can't tell. Carmen, can you help me? How many rashers of bacon are there?”
Carmen laughed, jumped down from her chair, and ran over to Bracket. She held the cooling bacon far enough away that Carmen wouldn't burn herself.
“One... two... three... four... f-five...”
“And there's one more, right there, see?”
“Erm... yeah. Five and one. Six. There are six bacons.”
Bracket kissed Carmen. “There are six. How didn't I see that before?”
Carmen giggled and ran back to her chair, held her knife and fork up.
“Well, I'm having two rashers,” Chain said. “How many are you having, Bracket?”
“I've got a big day today so I'm having two.”
“How many are left, Carmen?”
A frown graced her daughter's brow as she worked through the problem, checking her calculations with her fingers. “Two,” she decided. “Two bacons are left.”
“Do you want two?”
Carmen looked at Bracket, and then at Chain, snapping between the two of them as she looked for the right answer. “No,” she said. “I only want one.”
Chain grinned. How could she not love Carmen's determination, her willingness to say what was right? She would one day rock whichever Station she was chosen for, Chain was sure of it.
“I'll have three then,” Bracket said. She could do with the extra weight.
Sadly, Chain had to finish her breakfast quickly: the town expected her morning patrol, a routine set by their second Contegon. It gave them continuity, and served to let them know when she was ill or unable to protect them. The tradition was quite clever: Chain wished she could have met Contegon Soil.
“I shall see you both tonight,” Chain said, standing. “You enjoy school, Carmen.”
“I will, Mum. Bye! The Mister says bye too!”
“Goodbye to The Mister,” Chain said with a wave.
“Good day, Chain,” Bracket said.
“And to you, Bracket.”
Chain picked up her axes, strapped them to her sides. It was threatening rain, so she grabbed a leather shawl from its hook, threw it over her Contegon robes, then left for the day.
The Contegon's Castle – as her home was known – had been built at the dead centre of Buckle. Over the years, Chain had created a number of routes that navigated the whole town. The one she chose that day took two hours, but she learned much about the upcoming Joining, and heard gossip that encouraged her to drop in on some people unannounced. Time well-invested.
After following the town's border, Chain went to her next duty: visiting Par.
Mining towns operated at the behest of Merchants, who paid to build the town in order to make Geos prosperous. Muster's grandfather had created Buckle, and its financial management had passed down to the great walrus of a man. Muster's family had grown in power and influence so that Buckle had fallen down their priorities, become a steady earner to fund their children entering the Lords. As a result, Muster’s company hired someone to ensure Buckle's gem stream never dried up... and that was Par.
Par lived to the north-west, closer to the Mine. When he'd arrived, rumour had it that Muster gave him enough money to build a house befitting one of his employees, but he'd pocketed most of it and built that ramshackle building. With the man's personality, she could believe it.
She knocked, though she didn't need to, and waited for the Merchant to answer.
“I'm coming, I'm coming, don't get your dick in a–” He stopped talking when he opened the door. In many ways, Par resembled his home: poorly-maintained, cheap-looking, with functional features beaten by the weather. “Oh, Contegon. Forgive me. I was expecting someone else.”
“I should hope so,” Chain remarked.
Par blinked, his differently-coloured eyes disappearing momentarily: one green, one blue. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Routine visit. May I come in?”
The Merchant frowned and looked down at his robes, the golden dye long faded. He could easily order a new set, but he hadn't. “I suppose so.”
Chain frowned at his reluctance, but followed him inside. His meagre home had only four rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and an office. She'd only been in the latter, immediately on the left of the narrow entranceway.
Par shuffled behind his desk, a gift from Chain: his previous one had been falling apart, a splintered mess, and she'd wanted his affairs to take place on something worthy of his Station. Its smooth surface was covered with ledgers and papers, a vicious mess, and it had been scratched many times.
“And how are you?” he asked, steepling his fingers as he fired the words at her.
Chain sat in the flimsy guest's chair, spreading her robe and shawl. “I'm fine, thank you. Looking forward to the Joining in a few days.”
“Oh. Of course. Who's being tied again?”
“Tassle and my namesake, Chain the Farmer?” Chain had to smile as she said it: the joke was always to say their full titles – Chain the Farmer and Chain the Contegon – when they spoke about each other. Everyone else just called them Chain and Contegon Justicar.
Par scratched his cheek. “Right, right. I... I won't be able to attend, unfortunately. Paperwork. Lots to catch up on, as you can see.”
“Surely you can join us for a drink, celebrate the knot?”
“No,” Par said. “Sorry. I've let things slip a little here: been ill, you see.”
“Well, okay. Your loss, I suppose.”
He allowed the silence to swell between them, allowed it to gain volume and texture. “Did you want something else? I really am behind on the paperwork.”
Chain leant forward and picked up the nearest ledger that wasn't integral to the pile. “Speaking of paperwork, I'm here to review the expected output for this month's shipment.”
Par blinked then stood. “Of course. The projections are...” He shuffled through the paper on his desk, careful not to disturb the pile and cause an avalanche. “Here they are. I'm sure you'll find them in order.”
The relationship between Contegons and Merchants was delicate: the Council relied on Merchants to generate taxes and tithe their profits to pay for the upkeep of the Stations. In return, they get permission and support to run towns like Buckle, but Contegons and Clerics collect the money. It's a carefully-maintained balance that had been broken by the three Stations more than on
ce.
The most common way to breach each others’ trust was for a middling Merchant or Cleric to skim, take untaxed or untithed money for themselves. It was hard to look around this home, built to the lowest possible budget, see its owner in poor robes, and not think Par the type to skim.
Chain smiled as she looked over the wafted paper. According to the report, the Mine had produced nine hundred Circles of gems last week, give or take a few dozen Circles. Like the rise and fall of Sol, the Mine predictably gave Muster one thousand Circles of profit a month, and the Council another thousand.
Though she didn't like how Par treated his home, Chain couldn't fault how he ran the Mine.
“Mind if I keep this?” Chain asked.
“Of course not, it's just a copy from Grain.”
Chain looked again and saw the Cleric's signature proving this was an official document of the Bureau.
“Alright then. I suppose I'll be on my way.”
“Well,” Par said, standing to acquiesce, “drop by any time. I don't get many visitors so I–”
A knock on the door contradicted him. Par jumped at hearing it, nervous as a puppy.
“You were saying?” Chain asked wryly.
“Sol likes to disprove an arrogant fool, Contegon Justicar,” Par said as he crossed his office, moving with great purpose.
Chain followed him to his door. Stood behind it was a young man wearing dark, Stationless clothes and short, blond hair. “Par,” Shovel said as he stepped past the Merchant. He lit up when he saw Chain. “Oh, and Contegon Justicar! I have not had so pleasant a surprise in weeks.”
“Good morning, Shovel.”
“Contegon Justicar was just leaving,” Par said, holding his front door open. “I've hired Shovel to sort the paperwork for me. He works very cheap.”
“That's... unorthodox,” Chain said, not letting her smile fade.
“What, working cheap?” Shovel asked, grinning. He looked good when he smiled. “You take what work you can get, at the price people will pay. And Par isn't really willing to pay all that much.”
Par's grip on his door tightened, as did his lips. “If you'll excuse me, Contegon, I think I'd like a word with my employee about respecting people of Station.”
“Don't be too hard on him,” Chain said. “Station isn't everything. Good day to you both, Par, Shovel.”
“Good day, Contegon Justicar,” Par said, gesturing out of his door.
“Good day, Contegon Justicar,” Shovel repeated, waving.
Chain stepped out, not overstaying her apparently short welcome. The door closed behind her. She waited longer than was polite, listening, but could not hear Par speaking to the Stationless young man. Perhaps he was waiting for her to be long gone before shouting, not wanting to seem as cheap as Shovel had implied.
Chain shrugged and walked away. She had better things to do than listen to a jack-of-all-trades being berated by a lesser Merchant.