1
Pearl
I knew it was risky, heading to Graves territory. After all, the Graves are more tolerant of the other families. Unlike my father, who would sooner shoot a member of the Claymore clan rather than suffer their presence in his lands, the Graves allow all the families to intermingle. Families who have various monopolies on the economy around here – people who’ve managed to carve themselves out a niche since everything changed.
“The bar they have is great,” Emma assures me, though she has a hand braced against my shoulder blades, as if to suddenly push me somewhere if danger intruded. “It has a lot of the tech from the old world, so we can play games, play pool – there’s even a small golf course in its garden where people play.”
Golf and pool aren’t things I’ve tried before, and I’m eager. Everything’s utilitarian in the Hartson farmsteads. My father, and all the other Hartsons and their retainers believe in effort and toil, and loathe wasted time. Doesn’t stop the younger of us going out and finding ways to waste our time, anyway, but the family motto follows us all the way to the afterlife. There is one thing bugging me, though.
“We won’t see any Claymores there, will we?”
Emma scrunches her face in distaste, sharing it with me. “It’s a possibility,” she concedes. “I haven’t seen any there yet, though. Even if we did see one,” she adds, brown eyes glittering fiercely, “they can’t hurt us. The Graves will see to it. They don’t like the families fighting. Not at all.”
I’m dubious, but too excited to see what the bar is like. My father’s retainer families seem to head over here all the time. I keep hearing them talk about this great place they keep visiting in Graves territory, how it’s great they have a neutral policy so that any feuding families just drop their weapons at the border, so people don’t have to worry about talking a walk through their territory and being gunned down by someone… it seems too good to be true. My uncle Ian was originally a Graves, before he married my aunt. It took Emma a lot of persuading for me to leave my own gun behind, because I didn’t feel safe leaving the farmstead without it.
The green, arable lands of the Hartsons and our retainers fade into the rough, craggy domain of the Graves. The plant life is scarce, mostly grass with scraggly flowers and some twisted trees. My brother says that the Graves territory was hit by a really big bomb back in the day, which is why there’s a great crater where the original city used to be. You can still see the bones of some of the buildings, metal and stone, but the Graves have since focused on building their city outside of that ruined center, and preserving the heart as a kind of pilgrimage location. I’m interested in seeing it for myself, since all I can imagine is great metal spikes sticking out of the ground, and black earth beneath them. We have ruins in our lands as well. Old corroded structures, and a place people say used to be an entertainment park of sorts, where people used to ride on cars that went on bendy train tracks, and slide down metal chutes. I’ve tried the Ferris wheel as a child – most of the Hartson kids like to boast they’ve rode it at least once. No one’s died on it… yet.
My mind is full of the past as two Graves retainers inspect us as we cross into their territory, patting us down to make sure we’re not holding any weapons. I notice how the Graves keep their weapons very open and obvious, and don’t like feeling so vulnerable to them, but they let us through without much incident.
“It’s not much further. You’ve got to try their ale, they’ve got a special one they call a Coughin’ Coffin, but we just call it the Coffin.”
“Is that safe?” I don’t think naming a drink after a coffin sounds particularly safe. We produce some lovely ciders on our farms, thanks to our well-tended orchards, but I’ve heard they only have access to gut-rot drinks and hard liquors where the land isn’t so good, and if they don’t want to trade with us.
Like the Claymores. Excellent land with isolated areas where they produce some supposedly great ales and meads, but there’s a conspicuous gap in trade between our families. Those curious to try the enemy family’s goods will get them in neutral territory. Most of us, however, would not touch a Claymore product.
“It’s about as safe as any drink you’re going to get. Oh yeah, make sure you don’t leave it unattended – sometimes you get guys trying to get lucky by drugging lonely drinks. You drink one of those, next thing you know, you’re naked in some alleyway somewhere.” She grins as she says this, but I find myself feeling more and more alarmed by the second. Emma sold me on all the amazing things about this bar, but now she decides this is the time to start cramming with all the potential dangers of going to it.
Thanks, Emma. Really helpful.
“I suppose you’re going to warn me about the bandits, too?”
“Oh, we’re fine from bandits. The Graves patrol their territory better than they do ours,” Emma says, and I let out a little snort at that. Families like mine, the Hartsons, pay the Graves to patrol around our perimeters, to stop invaders outside of the economy threatening us. There’s people who live wild out there, rather than adhere to laws like we do, or trade for resources. A few nomads risk the journey to bring our families luxury goods from other lands, but mostly, we shoot bandits on sight.
Emma finally stops pushing me on the back, long enough to point out a fancy looking building with white walls and black beams running across it. A thatched roof completes the look, and we walk inside the building, instantly hit by warmth. Two fires are burning, puffing their smoke into chimneys, and people are sat at tables, or standing up at strange, glittering machines, or walking in from what looks like a back garden, holding long, thin clubs. I tug at my Hartson sash nervously – yellow with black stripes – and shrink behind Emma.
“Damn, your family really needed to let you socialize more,” Emma says, gently prodding me towards a table. “Okay, I’m getting you a Coffin. Sit tight!”
A coffin, I think wryly, looking at some of the decorations in the crowded bar, and seeing miniature coffins dotted around the counter, including one with a drink tucked in its open casket. It feels strange to sit here, with so many strangers. I’ve been in bars before, sure – we have plenty on Hartson lands, given that we make some fantastic drinks and it’s a shame if we can’t even sample them ourselves, but I know almost everyone in those bars. Everyone wears a Hartson sash to show they belong to us or are us, and you’re safe among your fellow people.
Here, there’s different sashes. Different colors, different families here, including some I don’t recognize. There’s no flood of yellow and black to provide security. Other people choose to ditch their sashes altogether, so we’re left with nameless people who could be bandit or Graves, for all I know. It doesn’t feel safe. I watch Emma like a hawk as she orders drinks and brings them back. “It’ll set a fire in you, promise,” she says.
I grimace and sip at it from the glass. It looks like black sludge, and I can certainly imagine that being in someone’s coffin, and the first assault of flavor is so strong that I cough, spluttering. A few patrons near us cheer and slam their mugs down at my reaction.