Ganne


08 - The Carrot And The Stick.


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Straight as an arrow, eastward to the sea, ran the high road to South
Point.  The ribbon of paved way atop the causeway gleamed wetly,
reflecting the wide, pale blue morning sky.  To the south, glimpsed
through the patches of low-lying mist, a vast expanse of salt marsh
reached away to a line of low hills ten miles distant.  To the north, the
grey and green of the mud and reeds gave way by degrees to larger and
larger pools of shining silver water, until it merged into the Great
River.  Beyond, fifteen miles away, across marsh and river, the dark line
of the Cursed Land of The Ballan Tah drew a sharp line betwixt land and
sky.  Westward, the brown hills of the south curved around to buttress the
south bank of the river with a stretch of low cliffs.  Where the straight
way of the road came to the hills, it ceded the way, and bent left and
right to zig zag up the steep hillside to the Maron Gate.  The monstrous
pile of grey stone and metal was a brooding darkness, standing four-square
on the western sky-line.

Sitting astride his tall, black war charger, Marlek considered the distant
fort, while he waited on the pleasure of the Lady.  In breach of Army
Regulations, he was wearing the brown and green drabs of the field
uniform; being the son of a poor farmer, he had never felt at ease in the
smart grey livery of the commissioned officers.  It was growing warm in
the heavy uniform.  He shoved the heavy riding cloak back off his brawny
shoulders to take advantage of the slight breeze.  He pushed a broad
brimmed black felt hat from his head.  The unorthodox head-gear was
another of his personal affectations of dress.  He shook out his shoulder
length black hair, allowing the breeze to blow through it.  The blowing
strands tickled his clean shaven face; and he reached up a hand to lodge
the hair behind an ear.

With a calloused hand, he slapped at a mosquito on his muscular forearm.
If they didn't move soon, they would have to traverse the last couple of
miles of marsh in the full heat of the day.  By then, the mosquitos would
be really working up some enthusiasm.  It might be on the edge of winter;
but the midges were still very active.

He turned his attention to the Lady.  Genella was mounted on a little
brown mare.  She had grumbled and complained all the way from the town.
The Ganne Witch was not a morning creature.  She was one for the late
night, and the overflowing wine cups.  It was no secret that she drank too
much.  All too often, the Ganne Sensitives suffered a bad time of it for
living in the Ganne Seat for the District.

Marlek shrugged mentally.  He could not blame her for her drinking
excesses.  In his opinion, she had good cause.  She was High Ganne, city
bred, and must be going out of her mind in this Goddess forsaken corner of
the Ganne Lands.  He felt sorry for her.  Which, when he thought about it,
was a strange thought for a common soldier to have about a High Ganne.

Right now, she was sitting regally erect, chatting to a Journeyman
Thatcher.  The brawny man in dull work clothes had been gathering reeds
for his trade.  Genella's somewhat lame attempt at a familiar manner was
making the artisan nervous.  Marlek wished she'd stop trying to exercise
the "common touch"; she wasn't any good at it.  How much longer, he
wondered, was she going to persist in this foolishness?

He shifted in the saddle to look back the way they had come, squinting his
brown eyes against the glare.  The edge of the sun was just showing over
the sea.  The road dived right into the golden glare of sunrise.  Lost
somewhere in that brilliant haze was South Point.  They had departed that
run-down poverty stricken port town well before first light, in order to
make the high ground before the day grew too warm.

Once, South Point had been a thriving port; but some thirty five or more
years ago, the strange Curse had fallen, without warning, upon the land
north of the river.  The ships no longer stopped at South Point; and the
bustling port had died.  However, the Ganne Seat had remained at South
Point.

It was not an administrative oversight.  By law, the Ganne Witch was
compelled to reside at the Ganne Seat for her District.  This requirement
gave the Council a degree of control over the usually rebellious and
aggressive women who made up the Ganne Council.  It was the "stick" part
of the "carrot and stick' mechanism for keeping order.

There was an invisible line beyond which your conduct would not be
tolerated.  You found out where that line was when you were summoned to
the High Seat and informed that the Ganneship of South Point was vacant.
This meant the eyes of the Matriarch's inner circle of supporters were on
you.  If you did not mend your ways, then you would find yourself plodding
your weary way along this very road into the east.

Two years was usually sufficient for consideration of where you had gone
wrong.  If you kept your nose clean in that time, licked the right arses,
and made it clear that you had learned your lesson, then a messenger would
come along the road with a State Decree that you were either needed back
at the Capital or that a more salubrious Ganneship had become vacant.

Genella had been here for nearly twenty years.  She was of the Old Bah
Families, drawn from an aristocratic background - so the Goddess alone
knew what she had done.  Marlek certainly did not - though he had heard
the rumours.  Whatever it was, it must have been something spectacularly
stupid or outrageous to have earned an Old Bah Family this Ganneship in
the first place - let alone twenty years of such a condign punishment.

Perhaps, he mused, the Lady just wasn't the "arse licking" type - or
perhaps one of the New Circle Families had it in for her.  He had been
around Genella for twelve years of her time here; and he was certain that
there was not a truly evil intent in her.  Oh, she could be spiteful and
childish at times, usually when she had had too much to drink.  She was a
little weak of character, but basically honest and certainly not
tyrannical, like some of her peers.

At last Genella was done bothering the innocent thatcher.  With a regal
wave, she urged her brown mare past Marlek.  The soldier watched her for a
moment, exchanged a wryly raised eyebrow with the thatcher, replaced his
hat, and heeled his mount after her.  In a few yards, his horse had fallen
into step beside the little brown mare.


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