“Memtok, I told you it was to be taught to speak, read, and write Language.”
Hugh listened, eyes downcast, while the Chief Domestic tried to protest that the order had never been given (it had not) but nevertheless had been carried out (obviously false), all without contradicting the Lord Protector (impossible to reconcile, inconceivable to attempt).
“Garbage,” Ponse remarked. “I don’t know why I don’t put you up for adoption. You would look good in a coal mine. That pale skin would be improved by some healthy coal dust.” He twitched his quirt and Memtok paled still more. “Very well, let it be corrected. It is to spend half of each day in learning to read and write, the other half in translating and in dictating same into a recorder. I should have thought of that; writing takes too long. Nevertheless, I want it to be able to read and write.” He turned to Hugh. “Anything you can think of? That you need?”
Hugh started to phrase a request in the involved indirection which presumed nothing, as required by protocol mode, rising.
Ponse chopped him off. “Speak directly, Hugh. Memtok, close your ears. No ceremony needed in Memtok’s presence, he is a member of my inner family, my nephew in spirit if not in the eyes of my senior sister. Spit it out.”
Memtok relaxed and looked as beatific as his vinegar features permitted. “Well, Ponse, I need room to work. My cell is the size of that divan.”
“Describe your needs.”
“Well, I’d like a room with natural light, one with windows, say a third the size of this one. Working tables, bookshelves, writing materials, a comfortable chair-yes, and access to a toilet without having to wait; it interferes with my thinking otherwise.”
“Don’t you have that?”
“No. And I don’t think it helps my thinking to be touched up with a whip.”
“Memtok, have you been whipping it?”
“No, my uncle. I swear.”
“You would swear if you were caught with cream on your lip. Who has been?”
Hugh dared to interrupt. “I’m not complaining, Ponse. But those whips make me nervous. And I never know who can give me orders. Anybody, apparently. I haven’t been able to find out my status.”
“Mmm- Memtok, where do you have it in the Family?” The head servant barely conceded that he had not been able to solve that problem.
“Let’s solve it. We make it a department head. Mmm- Department of Ancient History. Title: Chief Researcher. Senior head of department, just below you. Pass the word around. I’m doing this to make clear how valuable this servant is to me . . . and anyone who slows up its work is likely to wind up in the stew. I suppose it will really be a one-servant department but you fill it out, make it look good, by transferring its teachers, and whoever looks out for its recorder and prepares the stuff for me, a cleaner or two, an assistant to boss them- I don’t want to take up its valuable time on routine. A messenger. You know. There must be dozens of idlers around this house, eating their silly heads off, who would look well in the Department of Ancient History. Now have fetched a lesser whip and a lesser badge. Move.”
In moments Hugh was wearing a medallion not much smaller than Memtok’s. Ponse took the whip and removed something from it. “Hugh, I’m not giving you a charged whip, you don’t know how to use it. If one of your loafers need spurring, Memtok will be glad to help. Later, when you know how, we’ll see. Now- Are you satisfied?”
Hugh decided that it was not the time to ask to see Barbara. Not with Memtok present. But he was beginning to hope.
He and Memtok were dismissed together. Memtok did not object when Hugh walked abreast of him.
Chapter 13
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.