“Shall I include that in my report?”
“Go ahead and do what you like.”
Haighman flopped in his chair laughing, startling poor little Cooper at the typewriter. He wagged a finger at Donald.
“You are so like your brother Lawrence. Absolute defiance in the face of authority. Let me put the question differently: it’s none of my business, but I’d be interested to know how an insubordinate man like you makes a living from the sovereigns.”
Donald hesitated. The sudden mention of his brother came straight from the blind side—but one did not succeed as a barrister without the resilience to take such shocks. He set the matter of his brother aside and stuck to the topic at hand.
“The same way anyone does, I provide them something of value. There is nothing the sovereigns value more highly than face: getting the better of a rival sovereign, publicly. That’s what I provide them.”
“How?”
“I’m a barrister. I specialise in disputes arising from the laws of Naclaski and Frite.”
“Is it lucrative?”
“Not by sovereign standards—to them, I’m just a higher grade of servant. But as a one-man band, I do quite well, if I say so myself.”
“Give me an example of such a case.”
Haighman sat back. He was obviously bored with life at Broadstairs garrison and grasped for any diversion.
“The most interesting cases are those on the limit of what is testable,” Donald said. “For instance, wild creatures are a constant source of ambiguity. If an eagle nests on one sovereign land but hunts on another, is that in breach of Naclaski? What about a herd of wild boar breaking out of one sovereign land into another? Is that a breach of Frite? The legislation states that animals ‘not related to human endeavours’ are outside the scope of the law, but even that can be hard to interpret. Wild animals may predate upon domestic animals, or ruin crops—wild boar being a case in point. Does that make them ‘related to human endeavours’ or not? These questions sustain a cerebral arena that keeps me out of mischief.”
Haighman listened to this closely, obviously fascinated to learn about another man’s livelihood, whilst at the same time expressing a rising amusement.
“I can sense certain parallels with your brother Lawrence,” Haighman said. “You’ve channelled your defiance into a professional income. What about fighting arts? You’re bloody trim for your age; do you box?”
“I did at school.” Donald had almost been expelled from the fifth year for fighting. Boxing lessons had been the ‘deal’ to placate the head master’s wrath. “These days it’s wrestling and gym workouts.”
“Fighting with brains and body. That’s the healthy way for a misfit to survive.”
Donald said nothing. He would not have described his life as other than a loathsome subservience imposed on him by the caste system—he was not to the manor born on fifty square miles with five thousand natives, therefore he had to work for a living. It was Haighman who continued, perhaps feeling his comment had been taken badly.
“Is Lawrence still flourishing?” he asked.
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Donald said. “Lawrence abandoned the family ten years ago. We only learned he’d joined General Wardian because the school needed our permission to release his records. You’ll know more than I do.”
Haighman buckled forward in astonishment. “He never said a word about anything like that! I had absolutely no idea he was estranged from his family...” Haighman stared up at Donald in obvious embarrassment. This time it was Donald who filled the silence.
“Lawrence had a difficult relationship with Father. A daredevil and a disciplinarian are not natural buddies. Each inflamed the other. In retrospect, I should have made more effort to mediate...” Donald stopped, irritated by his own pomposity. He sensed under the pomposity an unexpected wrench of sadness. Odd how a conversation will peel open an unknown corner of the mind. He had never felt remorse for his long-lost brother until this moment. “Then one day, it was too late. Lawrence walked out one summer’s day and that was the last we ever saw of him.”
Haighman obviously regretting having raised the subject at all.
“I was just making a polite enquiry,” he said quietly.
He clasped his hands and planted them on the desk, to emphasise the topic was closed and it was time to be serious.
“Let me explain what happens now. You will be held here in the cells whilst my bosses inform the Dasti-Jones clan. They will contact the Krossington clan through the usual diplomatic channels. If the Krossingtons agree to negotiate for your repatriation, all well and good. Otherwise, you’ll be classed as infestation and discharged to the public drains. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Haighman’s eyes surveyed Donald up and down.
“You’re a bloody mess. I’ll get you cleaned up and those wounds dressed. You need a change of clothes too. I don’t suppose our stores will miss a stable hand’s outfit.”
*
Six days passed. Donald kept a discreet record of the days scratched onto a brick in the wall under his bunk. He was roused at 06:00 every morning to clean his cell. Provided the nit-picking sergeant was satisfied with the exact squareness of the blanket folded on the pillow, the precise inch between the latrine bucket and the bed and so on and so forth, Donald could then be served breakfast of porridge and tea. Lunch was a couple of thick slices of rough country bread with butter and strawberry jam, dinner was mashed turnip or potatoes with cabbage and a couple of inches of pork sausage or a chunk of cod. Lights went out at 22:00. In between these bursts of excitement, time crawled. He had all the time in the world to contemplate life on the public drains.
The problem was, he had never seen the drains in his life. All of his travels from the Central Enclave had commenced by flying boat or yacht from one of the quays of the sovereign caste. Such knowledge of the public drains as he possessed
