“Which one, Father?” Ealstan looked down to see what he’d done wrong. He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I’ll fix it,” he said, “and I’ll remember next time, too.” He hated making mistakes, in which he was very much his fathers son. The only real difference between them was that his dark beard was still thin and wispy, while gray had started to streak Hestan’s. Otherwise, they could have come from the same mold: broad-shouldered, swarthy, hook-nosed, like most Forthwegians and their Unkerlanter cousins.
“Let me explain again when you use simple interest and when you must compound,” Hestan began.
Before he could explain, Hengist interrupted once more: “Looks like the Algarvians and the Zuwayzin are both heading toward Glogau. That’s the biggest port the Unkerlanters have up on the warm side of Derlavai. Cursed near the only port up there, too, except for a couple way out to the west. What do you think of that?” He waved the news sheet at Hestan.
“I think it would matter more if Unkerlant didn’t have such an enormous hinterland,” Ealstan’s father answered. “The Unkerlanters need things from the rest of the world less than other kingdoms do.”
“They need sense, is what they need, though you can’t haul that on ships.” Hengist pointed toward his brother. “And you need some sense yourself. You just hate the idea of Algarve winning, that’s all.”
“Don’t you, Uncle Hengist?” Ealstan spoke before Hestan could.
Now Hengist shrugged. “If we couldn’t beat the redheads, what difference does it make? Things won’t be too bad, I don’t expect. It’s not like we were Kauni-ans, or anything like that.”
“Remember what the Algarvians are letting your son learn,” Hestan answered. “Remember what they aren’t. You’re right, they save the worst for the Kaunians--but they do not wish us well.”
“They ruled here when we were boys--have you forgotten?” Hengist said. “If they hadn’t lost the Six Years’ War, if the Unkerlanters hadn’t fought among themselves, we wouldn’t have gotten a king of our own back. The redheads treated Forthwegians better than the Unkerlanters did farther west, that’s certain.”
“But we shouldbt free,” Ealstan exclaimed. “Forthweg is a great kingdom. We were a great kingdom when the Algarvians and the Unkerlanters were nothing to speak of. They had no business carving us up like a roast goose, either a hundred years ago or now.”
“Boy has spirit,” Hengist remarked to Hestan. He turned back to Ealstan. “If you want to get right down to it, we aren’t carved up any more. King Mezentio’s men hold all of Forthweg these days.”
Ealstan didn’t want to get right down to it, not like that. Without waiting to hear when he should use simple interest and when compound, he left the parlor. Behind him, Hestan said, “In the old days, a Forthwegian or even a blond Kaun-ian could get ahead in Algarve--not as easily as a redhead, but an able man could make do. I don’t see that happening now.”
“Well, I don’t want a Kaunian getting ahead of me--unless she’s a pretty girl in tight trousers.” Uncle Hengist laughed.
That’s where Sidroc comes by it, all right, Ealstan thought. Instead of going back to his room, he went into the kitchen, intending to hook a plum. He hesitated when he discovered his older sister Conberge in there kneading dough. Since hard times and the Algarvians came to Gromheort, his sister and even his mother had grown stern about making food disappear like that.
But Conberge looked up from her work and smiled at him. Thus encouraged, he sidled up. Her smile didn’t disappear when he reached toward the bowl of fruit. She didn’t swat him with a floury hand. He took a plum and bit into it. It was very sweet. Juice dribbled down his chin, through the sparse hairs of his sprouting beard.
“What have you got there?” his sister asked, pointing not to the plum but to the paper in his other hand.
“Bookkeeping problems Father set me,” Ealstan answered. With a little effort, he managed a smile. “I’m not wild about doing them, but at least he doesn’t switch me when I make mistakes, the way a master would at school.”
“Let me see,” Conberge said, and Ealstan handed her the sheet. She looked it over, nodded, and gave it back. “You used simple interest once when you should have compounded.
“Aye, so Father told--” Ealstan stopped and stared. “I didn’t know you could cast accounts.” He couldn’t tell whether he sounded indignant or astonished--both at once, probably. “They don’t teach you that in the girls’ academy.”
Conberge’s smile turned sour. “No, they don’t. Maybe they should, but they don’t. Father did, though. He said you never could tell, and I might have to be able to earn my own way one day. This was before the war started, mind you.”
“Oh.” Ealstan glanced back toward the parlor. His father and Uncle Hengist were still going back and forth, back and forth, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Father sees a long way ahead.”
His sister nodded. “It was a lot harder than writing bad poetry, which is what my schoolmistresses set me to doing, though they didn’t know it was bad. But I think better because of ii, do you know what I mean? Maybe you don’t, because they will teach boys some worthwhile things.”
“They would--till the Algarvians got their hands on the school,” Ealstan said bitterly. But he shook his head. He didn’t want to distract himself. “I didn’t know Father had taught you anything like that, though.”
“And up until not very long ago, I wouldn’t have told you, either.” Conberge’s grimace made Ealstan see the world in a way he hadn’t before. She said, “Men don’t usually want women to know too much or be too bright--or to show they know a lot or they’re bright, anyhow. If you ask me, it’s because most men don’t know that much and aren’t that bright themselves.”
“Don’t look at me like that when you say such things,” Ealstan said, which made his sister laugh. He grabbed another plum.
“All right, you can have that one, but that’s all,” Conberge said. “If you think you’ll get away with any more, you aren’t that bright.”
Ealstan laughed then. Perhaps drawn by his amusement and his sister’s, Sidroc came in from the door that opened on the courtyard. Seeing Ealstan with a plum in his hand, he grabbed one himself. Conberge couldn’t do anything about it, not with Ealstan eating one. As she turned back to the bread dough, Sidroc asked, “What’s so funny?” His voice came blurry around a big mouthful of plum. He looked a good deal like Ealstan, save that his nose bore a closer resemblance to a turnip than to a sickle blade.
“Getting stuck with bookkeeping problems,” Ealstan answered.
“Men,” Conberge added.
Sidroc looked from one of them to the other. Then, suspiciously, he looked at the plum. “Has this thing turned into brandy while I wasn’t looking?” he asked. Ealstan and Conberge both shrugged, so solemnly that they started laughing again. Sidroc snorted. “I think the two of you have gone daft, is what I think.”
“You’re probably right,” Ealstan told him. “They do say that too many bookkeeping problems--”
“Compounded quarterly,” his sister broke in.
“Compounded quarterly, aye,” Ealstan agreed. “Bookkeeping problems compounded quarterly cause calcification of the brain.”
“Even you don’t know what that means,” Sidroc said.
“It means my brain is turning into a rock, like yours was to start with,” Ealstan said. “If the Algarvians had let you take stonelore, you would have found out for yourself.”
“Think you’re so smart.” Sidroc kept smiling, but his voice held an edge. “Well, maybe you are. But so what? So what?--that’s what I want to know. What’s it gotten you?” Without waiting for an answer, he pitched his plum pit into the trash basket and stalked out of the kitchen.