Farnham's Freehold

  “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.”

  “Blood will tell,” Hugh said smugly. “I am not the only one of my bloodline to live a very long time.”

  He was saved from further evasions by the return of Memtok. Everyone stood up. Hugh didn’t notice in time, so he remained seated and brazened it out. If Memt
ok resented it, he did not let it show. He clapped Hugh on the shoulder as he sat down. “No doubt they’ve told you how I eat my own young?”

  “I was given the impression of a happy family presided over by a beloved uncle.”

  “Liars, all of them. Well, I’m through for the evening—until some emergency. Their Charity knows that we are welcoming you; he commanded me not to return to the Grand Hall. So now we can relax and be merry.” The Chief Domestic tapped his goblet with a spoon. “Cousins and nephews, a toast to our newest cousin. Possibly you heard what I said—the Lord Protector is pleased at our modest effort to make Cousin Hugh feel at home in Their Family. But I am sure that you already guessed that…since one cannot miss that Cousin Hugh carries, not a least whip, but a lesser whip exactly like mine!” Memtok smiled archly. “Let us trust that he will never need to use it.”

  Loud applause greeted the boss’s brilliant sally. He went on solemnly, “You all know that not even my chief deputy carries such authority, much less the ordinary department head…and from that I am sure you conclude that a hint from Cousin Hugh, Chief Researcher and Aide in Scholarship to Their Charity by direct appointment—a hint from him is an order from me—so don’t let me have to make it a direct order.

  “And now the toasts! All cousins together and let Happiness flow freely…so let the junior among us give the first toast. Who claims it, who claims it?”

  The party got rowdy. Hugh noted that Memtok drank sparingly. He remembered the warning and tried to emulate him. It was impossible. The Chief Domestic could drop out of any toast, merely raise his glass, but Hugh as guest of honor felt compelled to drink them all.

  Some unknown time later Memtok led him back to his newly acquired, luxurious quarters. Hugh felt drunk but not unsteady—it was just that the floor was so far away. He felt illuminated, possessed of the wisdom of the ages, floating on silvery clouds, and soaked through with angelic happiness. He still had no idea what was in Happiness drinks. Alcohol? Maybe. Betel nut? Mushrooms? Probably. Marijuana? It seemed certain. He must write down the formula while it was fresh in his mind. This was what Grace should have had! He must—But of course, she did have it now. How very nice! Poor old Grace—He had never understood her—all she needed was a little Happiness.

  Memtok took him into his bedroom. Sleeping across the foot of his lovely new bed was a female creature, blond and cuddly.

  Hugh looked down at her from about a hundred-foot elevation and blinked. “Who she?”

  “Your bedwarmer. Didn’t I say?”

  “But—”

  “It’s quite all right. Yes, yes, I know you are technically a stud. But you can’t harm her; this is what she is for. No danger. Not even altered. A natural freemartin.”

  Hugh turned around to discuss it, wheeling slowly because of his great width and high sail area. Memtok was gone. Hugh found that he could just make it to the bed. “Move over, Kitten,” he muttered, and fell asleep.

  He overslept but the kitten was still there; she had his breakfast waiting. He looked at her with unease—not because he had a hangover; he did not. Apparently Happiness did not exact such payments. He felt physically strong, mentally alert, and morally straight—and very hungry. But this teen-ager was an embarrassment.

  “What’s your name, kitten?”

  “May it please them, this one’s name is of such little importance that whatever they please to call it will be a boon.”

  “Cut it, cut it! Use equals speech.”

  “I don’t really have a name, sir. Mostly they just say, ‘Hey, you.’”

  “All right, I’ll call you ‘Kitten.’ Does that suit you? You look like a kitten.”

  She dimpled. “Yes, sir. It’s ever so much nicer than ‘Hey, you.’”

  “All right, your name is ‘Kitten.’ Tell everybody and don’t answer to ‘Hey, you.’ Tell them that is official because the Chief Researcher says so and if anybody doubts it, tell them to check with the Chief Domestic. If they dare.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Kitten, Kitten, Kitten,” she repeated as if memorizing it, then giggled. “Pretty!”

  “Good. Is that my breakfast?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He ate in bed, offering her bits, and discovered that she expected to be fed, or at least allowed to eat. There was enough for four; between them they ate enough for three. Then he learned that she expected to assist him in the bathroom; he put a stop to that.

  Later, ready to go to his assigned duties, he said to her, “What do you do now?”

  “I go back to sluts’ quarters, sir, as soon as you release me. I come back at bedtime—whatever time you say.”

  He was about to tell her that she was charming and that he almost regretted passing out the night before but that he did not require her services on future—He stopped. An idea had hit him. “Look. Do you know a tall slut named Barbara? Oh, this much taller than you are. She was adopted something over two weeks ago and she had babies, twin boys, about a week ago.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. The savage.”

  “That’s the one. Do you know where she is?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. She’s still in lying-in quarters. I like to go in there and look at the babies.” She looked wistful. “It must be nice.”

  “Uh, yes. Can you take a message to her?”

  Kitten looked doubtful. “She might not understand. She’s a savage, she can’t talk very well.”

  “Mmm—Damn. No, maybe it’s a help. Wait a moment.” His quarters were equipped with a desk; he went to it, got one of those extraordinary pens—they didn’t stain and didn’t wear out and appeared to be solid—found a piece of paper. Hastily he wrote a note, asking Barbara about herself and the twins, reporting his odd promotion, telling her that soon, somehow, he would see her—be patient, dear—and assuring her of his undying devotion.

  He added a P.S. “The bearer of this note is ‘Kitten’—if the bearer is short, blond, busty, and about fourteen. She is my bedwarmer—which means nothing and you’ve got an evil mind, wench! I’m going to hang onto her because she is a way—the only way, it would appear—for me to communicate with you. I’ll try to write every day, I’ll darn well expect a note from you every day. If you can. And if anybody does anything you don’t like, tell me and I’ll send you his head on a platter. I think. Things are looking up. Plenty of paper and a pen herewith. Love, love, love—H.

  “PPS—go easy on ‘Happiness.’ It’s habit-forming.”

  He gave the girl the note and writing materials. “You know the Chief Domestic by sight?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I’ve warmed his bed. Twice.”

  “Really? I’m amazed.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Well, I didn’t think he would be interested.”

  “You mean because he’s tempered? Oh, but several of the executives like to have a bedwarmer anyhow. I like it better than being sent upstairs; it’s less trouble and you get lots more sleep. The Chief Domestic doesn’t usually send for a bedwarmer, though—it’s just that he checks us and teaches us manners before we are allowed to serve upstairs.” She added, “You see, he knows all about it; he used to be a stud, you know.” She looked at Hugh with innocent curiosity. “Is it true what they say about you? May one ask?”

  “Uh…one may not.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She looked crushed. “I didn’t mean any harm.” She glanced fearfully at his whip, dropped her eyes.

  “Kitten.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “See this whip?”

  “Uh, yessir!”

  “You will never, never, never feel my whip. That’s a promise. Never. We’re friends.”

  Her face lit up and she looked angelically beautiful instead of pretty. “Oh, thank you, sir!”

  “Another thing. The only whip you need fear from now on is the Chief Domestic’s—so stay out of his way. Anyone else—any ‘least whip’—you tell him, or her, that this lesser whip is what he’ll get if he touches you. Tell him to check with the Chief
Domestic. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked smugly happy.

  Too smug, Hugh decided. “But you stay out of trouble. Don’t do anything to deserve a tingle—or I might turn you over to the Chief Domestic for a real tingling, the sort he is famous for. But as long as you work for me, don’t allow anyone but him to tingle you. Now git and deliver that. I’ll see you tonight, about two hours after evening prayer. Or come earlier if you are sleepy, and go to bed.” Must remember to have a little bed put here for her, he reminded himself.

  Kitten touched her forehead and left. Hugh went to his office and spent a happy day learning the alphabet and dictating three articles from the Britannica. He found his vocabulary inadequate, so he sent for one of his teachers and used the man as a dictionary. Even so, he found it necessary to explain almost endlessly; concepts had changed.

  Kitten went straight to the Chief Domestic’s office, made her report, turned over the note and writing materials. Memtok was much annoyed that he held in his hand what might be important evidence—and no way to read it. It did occur to him that that other one—Duke? Juke? Some such—might be able to read these hen scratches. But not likely, of course, and even under tingling there would be no certainty that Juke would translate honestly, and no way to check on him.

  Asking Joe never crossed his mind. Nor did asking Their Charity’s new bedwarmer. But the impasse had one intriguing aspect. Was it possible that this savage slut actually could read? And perhaps even essay to write a reply?

  He stuck the note in his copier, gave it back to the girl. “All right, your name is Kitten. And do exactly as he tells you about not letting yourself be tingled—and be sure to gossip about it; I want it known all over. But get this—” He gave Kitten the gentlest of reminders; she jumped. “This whip is waiting for you, if you make any mistakes.”