Excerpt from “To Hold the Bridge”

An Old Kingdom story by Garth Nix

In LEGENDS OF AUSTRALIAN FANTASY edited by Jonathan Strahan and Jack Dann, published by HarperCollins Australia 1 June 2010

Available to be purchased online from Galaxy, Infinitas, Dymocks, Booktopia, Shearers (I’d compare shipping costs outside Australia)

Excerpt

Morghan stood under the arch of the aqueduct and watched the main gate of the Bridge Company’s legation, across the way. The tall, twin leaves of the gate were open, so he could see into the courtyard, and the front of the grand house beyond. There was great bustle and activity going on, with nine long wagons being loaded, and a tenth having a new iron-bound wheel shipped. People were dashing about in all directions, panting as they wheeled laden wheelbarrows, singing as they rolled barrels, and arguing over the order in which to load all manner of boxes, bales, sacks, chests, hides, tents and even a very large and over-stuffed chair of mahogany and scarlet cloth that was being carefully strapped atop one of the wagons and covered with a purpose-made canvas hood.

The name of the company was carved into the stone above the gate: ‘The Worshipful Company of the Greenwash & Field Market Bridge’. That same name was written on the outside of the old and many-times folded paper that Morghan held in his hand. The paper, like the company, was much older than the young man. He had seen only twenty years, but the paper was a share certificate in an enterprise that had been founded in his great-grandfather’s time, some eighty-seven years ago.

The Bridge Company, as it was universally called, there being no other of equal significance, had been formed to do exactly as its full name suggested: to build a bridge, specifically one that would cross the Greenwash, that wide and treacherous river that marked the Old Kingdom’s northern border. The bridge would eventually facilitate travel to the Field Market, a trading fair that by long-held custom took place at the turn of each season on a designated square mile of steppe some sixty leagues north of the river. There, merchants from the Old Kingdom would meet with traders from the nomadic tribes of both the closer steppe and the wild lands beyond the Rift, which lay still farther to the north and west.

Despite the eighty-seven years, the bridge was still incomplete. During that time the company had constructed a heavy, cable-drawn ferry; a small castle on the northern bank; a fortified bastion in the middle of the river, and the piers, cutwaters and other foundation work of the actual bridge. Only the previous summer a narrow planked way had been laid down for the company’s workers and staff to cross on foot, but the full paved decking for the heavy wagons of the merchants was still at least a year or two away. Consequently, the only way to safely carry loads of trade goods across the river was by the ferry. The ferry, of course, was also a monopoly of the Company, as per the licence it had obtained from the Queen at its founding.

The ferry, and the control it gave over the northern trade, was the foundation of the company’s wealth, nearly all of which was re-invested in the bridge which would one day enormously expand the northern trade and repay the investment a hundred-fold. It was this future that made the old, dirty and many-times folded share certificate Morghan held in his hand so valuable.

At least, he had often been told it was very valuable, and he hoped that this was true, since it was the sole item of worth that his recently dead, feckless and generally disastrous parents had left him. The only doubt about its value was that they had left the share certificate to him, rather than selling it themselves, as they had sold all other items of worth that had been handed down from his grandmother’s estate.

There was only one way to find out. The grim and cheerless notary who had wound up his parents’ estate had told him the share could not be freely sold or transferred without first being offered back to the company, in person, at Bridge House in Navis. Of more interest to Morghan, the notary had also informed him that the share made him eligible to join the company as a cadet, who one day might even rise to the exalted position of Bridgemaster. Then, true to his miserable nature, the clerk had added that very few cadets were taken on, and those only after most rigorous testing which none but the best-educated youngster might hope to pass. The implication was clear that he did not think Morghan would have much of a chance.

But it was a chance, no matter how slim. So here Morghan was in Navis, after a rough and literally sickening three-day sea voyage from Belisaere, a passage that had cost him the single gold noble he possessed. It had been the gift of one of his mother’s lovers when he was fourteen, not freely given but offered to buy his silence. The weight of the unfamiliar gold coin in his hand had so shocked him that the man was gone before he could give it back, or tell him that he had no need to bribe him. He had learned young not to speak of anything his parents did, whether singly or together.

One of the gate guards was looking at him, Morghan noted, and not in a friendly way. He tried to smile inoffensively, but he knew it just made him look even more suspicious. The guard rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and swaggered across the road. After a moment’s hesitation, Morghan stepped out from the shadow under the aqueduct and went to meet him. He kept his own hand well clear of the sword at his side. It was only a practice weapon anyway, blunt and dull, not much more than a metal club. That was why Emaun had let him take it from the Academy armoury, it had already been written off for replacement in the new term.

‘What are you up to?’ demanded the guard. His eyes flickered up and down Morghan, taking in the cheap sword but also the Charter Mark, clear on his forehead. The guard had the mark too, though this didn’t necessarily mean he was schooled in Charter Magic, as Morghan was — at least to some degree. Not that he could do any magic, even if the guard decided he was some sort of threat and attacked him. There were probably a dozen or more proper Charter Mages within earshot, and many more around the town. They would note any sudden display of magic and come to investigate. A penniless trespasser would not be accorded much consideration, he was sure, and misuse of magic — Charter or Free — was a serious offence everywhere in the Old Kingdom.

‘I . . . I want to see the Bridgemaster,’ said Morghan. He held out his share certificate, so the guard could see the seal, the crazed wax roundel bearing the symbol of the half-made bridge arching over the wild river.

‘Bridgemistress, you mean, till tomorrow,’ said the guard, but his hand left his sword-hilt. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Morghan.’

‘In from the ship this morning? From Belisaere?’

Morghan shrugged. ‘Most recently.’

‘And what’s your business with the Bridgemistress?’

‘I’m a shareholder,’ said Morghan. He lifted the certificate again.

The guard glanced at the paper, and then at Morghan. He didn’t have to say anything for Morghan to know that he was looking at the young man’s frayed doublet that showed no blazon of house or service. His shirt had too few laces, and his sleeves were of very different colours, and not in a fashionable way. Even his boots, once of very high quality, did not quite match, the left boot being noticeably longer and more pointed in the toe. Both had been his father’s, but not at the same time.

‘You’d better see her, then,’ said the guard amiably, which was not the reaction Morghan had been expecting.

‘T-thank you,’ he stammered. ‘I . . .’

He waved his hand, unable to say that he’d been expecting to be kicked to the roadside.

‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said the guard. ‘If you have real business here, that’s one thing. If you don’t, you’ll get worse from the Bridgemistress than you’d ever get from me. Go on in, across the court, up the stairs.’

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