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.”