Farnham's Freehold

  “I long ago gave up trying to guess what your mother would do. But I haven’t said she is doing anything. You have. I don’t know that her assignment is bedwarmer other than through gossip you have repeated without proof. If true, I still would not know if she had ever carried out the assignment by actually getting into his bed, voluntarily or otherwise—I’ve never seen his bed nor even heard gossip on this point…just your evil thoughts. But if those thoughts are correct, I still would have no opinion as to whether or not anything other than sleep had taken place. I have shared beds with females and done nothing but sleep; it can happen. But even stipulating sexual activity—your assumption, not mine—I doubt that Their Charity has ever raped any female in his life. I doubt it especially now.”

  “Crap. There never was a nigger bastard who wouldn’t rape a white woman if he had the chance.”

  “Duke! That’s poisonous, insane nonsense. You almost persuade me that you are crazy.”

  “I—”

  “Shut up! You know that Joseph, to give one example, had endless opportunity to rape any of three white women for nine long months. You also know that his behavior was above reproach.”

  “Well…he didn’t have a chance to.”

  “I told you to shut up this poison. He had endless chance. While you were hunting, any day. He was alone with each of them, many times. Drop it! Slandering Joseph, I mean, even by innuendo. I’m ashamed of you.”

  “And I’m ashamed of you. Fat cat for a nigger king.”

  “Very well, the shame is mutual. Speaking of fat cats, I don’t really need you. if you want to quit being a fat cat, you can wash dishes or whatever they assign you to.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Let me know when you wish to be relieved. It will lose you your private cubicle but such luxury is a fat cat privilege. Never mind. I see only one way to get at the facts, if any, underlying these foul suspicions in your mind. Ask the Lord Protector.”

  “Go right ahead! First sensible thing you’ve said.”

  “Oh, not me, Duke. I don’t suspect him of rape. But you can ask him. See the Chief Domestic. He’ll see any Palace servant who wants to see him. At the servant’s risk, but I doubt if he’ll tingle anyone in my department without good cause; I do have some fat cat privileges. Tell him you want an audience with the Lord Protector. I think that is all it will take, although you may have to wait a week or two. If Memtok turns you down, tell me. I fancy I can get him to arrange it. Then, when you see the Lord Protector, simply ask him, point blank.”

  “And be lied to. If I ever get that close to that black ape, I’m going to kill him!”

  Mr. Farnham sighed. “Duke, I don’t see how one man can be so wrong-headed so many different ways. If you are granted an audience, Memtok will be at your side. With his whip. The Lord Protector will be about fifty feet away. And the whip he carries doesn’t just tingle; it’s a deadly weapon. The old man has lived a long time, he’s not easy to kill.”

  “I can try!”

  “So you can. If a grasshopper tries to fight a lawnmower, one may admire his courage but not his judgment. But you are equally silly in thinking that Their Charity would lie about it. If he has done what you think he has—raped your mother, forced her to submit—he would feel not the slightest shame, not in any way reluctant to answer you honestly. Duke, he would no more bother to lie to you than it would occur to him to step aside if you were in his way. However—would you believe your mother?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Then tell him also that you would like to see her. I am almost certain that he would grant the request. For a few minutes and in his presence. The harem rules he can break if he chooses. If you have the guts to tell him that you want to hear her confirm whatever he tells you, I think he would be astonished. But I think he would then laugh and grant the petition. If you want to see your mother, assure yourself personally of her welfare and safety, that’s all I can suggest. You can’t see her otherwise. It’s so irregular that your only chance is to spring it on him, face to face.”

  Duke looked baffled. “Look, why the devil don’t you ask him? You see him almost every day, so I hear.”

  “Me? Yes, I see him fairly often. But ask him about rape? Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes, if you choose to put it that way.”

  “‘Rape’ is what you claim to be worried about. But I don’t suspect him of rape. I won’t be a front for your evil suspicions. If it is to be done, you must have the guts to do it yourself.” Hugh stood up. “We’ve wasted enough time. Either get back to work, or go see Memtok.”

  “I’m not through.”

  “Oh, yes, you are. That was an order, not a suggestion.”

  “If you think I’m scared of that whip—”

  “Heavens, Duke, I wouldn’t tingle you myself. If you force me to it, I’ll ask Memtok to chastise you. He’s reputed to be expert. Now get out. You’ve wasted half my morning.”

  Duke left. Hugh stayed, trying to compose himself. A row with Duke always left him shaking; it had been so when the lad was only twelve. But something else troubled him, too. He had used every sophistry he could think of to divert Duke from a hopeless course. That did not worry him, nor did he share Duke’s basic worry. Whatever had happened to Grace, he felt sure that rape was not a factor.

  But he was sourly aware of something that Duke, in his delusions, apparently did not realize—the oldest Law of the Conquered, that their women eventually submit—willingly.

  Whether his ex-wife had or had not was a matter almost academic. He suspected that she had never been offered opportunity. Either way, she was obviously contented with her lot—smug about it. That troubled him little; he had tried to do his duty by her, she had long since withdrawn herself from him. But he did not want Barbara ever to feel the deadening load of hopelessness that could—and had, all through history—turned chaste women into willing concubines. Much as he loved her, he had no illusions that Barbara was either angel or saint; the Sabine women had stood no chance and neither would she. “Death before dishonor!” was a slogan that did not wear well. In time, it changed to happy cooperation.

  He got out his bottle of Happiness, looked at it—put it back. He would never solve his problems that way.

  Hugh made no effort to learn if Duke had gone to see Memtok. He got back to work at his endless task of buttering up Their Charity in every way available, whether by good bridge, moneymaking ideas, or simply translating. He no longer had any hope that the boss would eventually permit him to move Barbara and the twins into his apartment; old Ponse had seemed adamant on that. But favor at court could be useful, even indispensable, no matter what happened—and in the meantime it let him see Barbara occasionally.

  He never gave up his purpose of escape. As the summer wore on he realized that the chances were slim of escaping—all four of them escaping, twins in arms—that year. Soon the household would move to the city, and so far as he knew the only possible time to escape was when they were near mountains. No matter. A year, two years, even longer, perhaps wait until the boys could walk. Hard enough even then, but nearly impossible with babies in arms. He must tell Barbara, with whispered urgency, the next time they were left alone even for a minute, what he had in mind—urge her to keep her chin up, and wait.

  He didn’t dare write it to her. Ponse could get it translated—other scholars somewhere understood English, even though Joe would never give him away. Would Grace? He hoped not, but couldn’t guess. Probably Ponse knew all about those notes, had them translated every day, chuckled over them, and did not care.

  Perhaps he could work out a code—something as simple as first word, first line, then second line, second word, and so on. Might risk it.

  He had figured out one thing in their favor, an advantage that might overcome their lack of sophistication in this society. Runaways rarely succeeded simply because of their appearance. A white skin might be disguised—but servants averaged many inches shorter and many
pounds lighter than the Chosen.

  Both Barbara and Hugh were tall; they were big enough to pass in that respect for Chosen. Features? The Chosen were not uniform in feature; Hindu influence mixed with Negroid and with other things. His baldness was a problem, he would have to steal a wig. Or make one. But with stolen clothes, squirreled food, weapons of some sort (his two hands!), and makeup—they might be able to pass for “poor black trash” and take to the road.

  If it wasn’t too far. If the hounds did not get them. If they did not make some ridiculous bumble through ignorance. But servants, marked by their complexion, were not allowed to go one step outside the household, farm, ranch, or whatever was their lawful cage—without a pass from their patron.

  Perhaps he could learn what a pass looked like, forge one. No, Barbara and he could not travel as servants on a forged pass for the very reason that made it dimly possible for them to disguise as Chosen: Their size was distinctive, they would be picked up on sight.

  The more Hugh thought about it the more it seemed that he would have to wait at least until next summer.

  If they were among the servants picked for the Summer Palace next year—If they both were—If all four were—He had not thought of that. Christ! Their little family might never be all under this one roof again! Perhaps they would have to run for it now, in the short time left before the move—run and take a chance on hounds, on bears, on those nasty little leopards…with two nursing babies to protect. God! Was ever a man faced with poorer chances for saving his family?

  Yes. He himself—when he built that shelter.

  Prepare every way he could…and pray for a miracle. He started saving food from meals served in his rooms, such sorts as would keep a while. He kept his eyes open to steal a knife—or anything that could be made into a knife. He kept what he was doing from Kitten’s eyes.

  Much sooner than he had hoped he got a chance to acquire makeup. A feast day always meant an orgy of Happiness in servants’ hall; one came that featured amateur theatricals. Hugh was urged to clown the part of Lord Protector in a comic skit. He did not hesitate to do so, Memtok himself had pointed out that his size made him perfect for the part. Hugh roared through it, brandishing a quirt three times as big as Their Charity ever carried.

  He was a dramatic success. He saw Ponse watching from the balcony from which Hugh had first seen Happiness issued, watching and laughing. So Hugh ad-libbed, calling out, “Hey, less noise in the balcony! Memtok! Tingle that critter!”

  Their Charity laughed harder than ever, the servants were almost hysterical and, at bridge the following day, Ponse patted him and told him that he was the best Lord of Nonsense the pageant had ever had.

  Result: one stolen package of pigment which needed only to be mixed with the plentiful deodorant cream to make him the exact shade of the Lord Protector; one wig which covered his baldness with black wavy hair. It was not the wig he had worn in the skit; he had turned that one back to the chief housekeeper, picking a time under Memtok’s eyes and urging Memtok to try it on. No, it was a wig he had tried on out of several saved from year to year—and which had fitted him just as well. He tried it on, dropped it, kicked it into a corner, recovered it in private—and kept it under his robe for several days until it seemed certain that it hadn’t been missed. It wound up under a file case in his outer office one night when he chose to work later than his clerks.

  He was still looking for something he could grind into a knife.

  He did not see Duke during the three weeks following their row. Sometimes Duke’s translations came in, sometimes he skipped a day or two; Hugh let him get away with it. But when Hugh could not recall having seen any scrolls come through of the sort Duke was concerned with for a full week, Hugh decided to check up.

  Hugh walked to the cubicle that was Duke’s privilege for being a “researcher in history.” He scratched on the door—no answer.

  He scratched again, decided that Duke was sleeping, or not in; he slid the door up and looked in.

  Duke was not asleep but he was out of this world. He was sprawled naked on his bunk in the most all-out Happiness jag Hugh had ever seen. Duke looked up when the door opened, giggled foolishly, made a gesture, and said, “Hiyah, y’ole bas’ard! How’s tricks?”

  Hugh stepped closer for a better look at what he thought he saw, and felt sick at his stomach. “Son, son!”

  “Still crepe-hanging, Hughie? Old hooey Hugh, the fake fart!”

  Gulping, Hugh started to back out, and backed almost into the Chief Veterinarian. The surgeon smiled and said, “Visiting my patient? He hardly needs it.” He moved past Hugh with a muttered apology, leaned over Duke, peeled an eyelid back, examined him in other ways, said to him jovially, “You’re doing fine, cousin. Let’s give you another little treatment, then I’ll send you in another big meal. How does that sound?”

  “Jus’ fine, Doc. Jus’ dandy! You’re m’ frien’. Bes’ frien’ never had!”

  The vet set a dial on a little instrument, pressed it against Duke’s thigh, waited a moment, and came out. He smiled at Hugh. “Practically recovered. He’ll dream a few hours now, wake up hungry, and not know any time has passed. Then we’ll feed him and give him another dose. A fine patient, he’s rallied beautifully. Doesn’t know what’s happened—and by the time we’re ready to taper him off, he won’t be interested.”

  “Who ordered this?”

  The surgeon looked surprised. “The Chief Domestic, of course. Why?”

  “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “I don’t know, better ask him. I got it as a routine order, we carried it out in the routine fashion. Sleeping powder in his evening meal, I mean, then surgery that night. Followed by post-surgical care and the usual massive dosage to keep him tranquil. It tends to make some of them a little nervous at first, we vary it to suit the patient. But, as you can see, this patient has taken it as easily as pulling a tooth. By the way, that bridge I installed in your mouth. Satisfactory?”

  “What? Yes. Never mind that! I want to know—”

  “May it please you, the Chief Domestic is the one to see. Now, if this one may be excused, I’m overdue to hold sick call. I merely stopped by to make sure my patient was happy.”

  Hugh went to his apartment and threw up. Then he went looking for Memtok.

  Memtok received him into his office at once, invited him to sit down. Hugh had begun to value the Chief Domestic as a friend, or as the nearest thing he had to a friend. Memtok had formed a habit of dropping in on Hugh in the evenings occasionally and, despite the boss servant’s vinegary approach to life and the vast difference in their backgrounds and values, Hugh found him shrewd and stimulating and well informed within his limits. Memtok seemed to have the loneliness that a ship’s captain must endure; he seemed pleased to relax and enjoy friendship.

  Since the other upper servants were correctly polite with the Chief Researcher rather than warm, Hugh, lonesome himself, had enjoyed Memtok’s unbending and had thought of him as his friend. Until this—

  Hugh told Memtok bluntly, without protocol, what was on his mind. “Why did you do this?”

  Memtok looked surprised. “Such a question! Such a very improper question. Because the Lord Protector ordered it.”

  “He did?”

  “My dear cousin! Tempering is always by the lord’s order. Oh, I recommend, to be sure. But orders for alterations must come from above. However, if it is any business of yours, in this case I made no recommendation. I was given the order, I had it carried out. All.”

  “Certainly it was my business! He works for me.”

  “Oh! But he had already been transferred before this was done. Else I would have made a point of telling you. Propriety, cousin, propriety in all things. I hold subordinates strictly accountable. So I never undercut them. Can’t run a taut household if one does. Fair is fair.”

  “I wasn’t told he was transferred. Don’t you count that as undercutting?”

  “Oh, but you were.” The Chief Domestic gla
nced at the rack of pigeonholes backing his desk, searched briefly, pulled out a slip. “There it is.” Hugh looked at it. DUTY ASSIGNMENT, CHANGE IN—ONE SERVANT, MALE (savage, rescued & adopted), known as Duke, description—Hugh skipped on down.—relieved of all duties in the Department of Ancient History and assigned to the personal service of Their Charity, effective immediately. BILLETING & MESSING ASSIGNMENTS: Unchanged until further—

  “I never saw this!”

  “It’s my file copy. You got the original.” Memtok pointed at the lower left corner. “Your deputy clerk’s sign. It always pleases me when my executives can read and write, it makes things so much more orderly. With an ignoramus like the Chief Groundskeeper, one can tell him until one’s throat is raw and later the stupid lout will claim that wasn’t the way he heard it—yet a tingling improves his memory only for that day. Disheartening. One can’t be forever tingling an upper servant, it doesn’t work.” Memtok sighed. “I’d recommend a change, if his assistant wasn’t even stupider.”

  “Memtok, I never saw this.”

  “As may be. It was delivered, your deputy receipted for it. Look around your office. One bullock gets you three you’ll find it. Perhaps you’d like me to tingle your deputy? Glad to.”

  “No, no.” Memtok was almost certainly right, the order was probably on his own desk, unread. Hugh’s department had grown to two or three dozen people; there seemed to be more every day. Most of them seemed to be button sorters, all of them wanted to take up his time. Hugh had long since told the earnest, fairly literate clerk who was his deputy that he was not to be bothered—otherwise Hugh would have accomplished no translating after the first week; Parkinson’s Law had taken over. The clerk had obeyed and routine matters stacked up. Every week or so Hugh would go through the stack rapidly, shove it back at his deputy for file or burning or whatever they did with useless papers.

  Probably the order transferring Duke was in the current accumulation. If he had seen it in time—Too late, too late! He put his elbows on his knees and covered his face. Too late! Oh, my son!