emblematic jewel—but not before it had made extensive checks that the citizenship papers were authentic. Ghemphs did, in fact, act as a check on any corruption of citizenship officials. They were so thorough that it was considered impossible for a child who wasn’t entitled to a tattoo to receive one. And they never, never, accepted a bribe themselves, even though none of them was rich. As far as I know, their only income was from payments for tattoos. Funnily enough, they didn’t bother with citizenship tattoos for themselves and no authority, not even the Keepers, questioned their right to come and go and live as they pleased.
No one knew when or how or why they became tattooists; it had just always been so. Because of what they did, because no one else knew how to do it so well, because they were incorruptible, they were indispensable. So they were tolerated, even respected, because they were necessary. Yet they were not liked, nor were they understood.
Like most people, I found them rather ugly. Unlike most, I disliked them for their rigidity in applying citizenship laws. Had ghemphs been more flexible or more corruptible, the whole system might have been bearable or, better still, unworkable, and people like me might not have been regarded as outcasts, as less than human.
It was puzzling to see one of these creatures in Gorthan Docks. There was no such thing as citizenship of Gorthan Spit and therefore no work for a citizenship tattooist, although I suppose there might have been the odd sailor wanting to have a naked lady etched on his forearm.
As I’ve said, the Spit was just the place you went if you had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t even recognised as a nation. There was no government, no law, no order except what came from your own individual strength. So why would a ghemph go there? The only reason I could think of was that it too was an outcast, a renegade. And renegades could be bought…
I walked across to its table and stood there. ‘May I join you?’ I asked, smothering my distaste for its kind.
The creature looked up, its face expressionless. As far as I knew, ghemphs never showed any emotion that was discernible to humans. It inclined its head in what I took to be a gesture of consent, so I seated myself. In answer to my raised hand, the waiter came across and reluctantly dumped a mug of swillie in front of me.
I couldn’t speak the ghemphic tongue of course; no one could except they themselves. However, it didn’t matter; all ghemphs understood the language of the Isles of Glory and they could speak it too, if they had to. Mind you, most of the time they said nothing. That was their way.
‘I call myself Blaze Halfbreed,’ I said, speaking softly.
It inclined its head again, but didn’t give a name to itself. As far as I knew, ghemphs had no names.
Knowing their dislike of conversation, I went right to the point. I unobtrusively pulled my hair away from my ear and said, ‘As you can see, I am citizenless.’
It knew immediately what I wanted and it didn’t wait for me to frame the question before it gave the answer: ‘No.’ The single word was brutally uncompromising.
I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘Not for any price?’
It shook its head.
‘Ah.’ I made a gesture of surrender with my hands and smiled ruefully. ‘It was worth a try.’ I raised my mug in salute and it did likewise, but it didn’t smile. I was none too sure that ghemphs could smile.
I don’t know why I didn’t get up and walk away right then: there was no reason for me to stay. I think it might have been because I glimpsed something after all on that flat grey face, and it struck a chord within me. I could have sworn that I saw the ache of loneliness…
‘Not much of a place, Gorthan Spit, is it?’ I asked easily.
It regarded me with slate-grey eyes. Then it glanced around as if to test the truth of my remark, looked back at me and shook its head by way of agreement.
‘Been here long?’ I didn’t
No one knew when or how or why they became tattooists; it had just always been so. Because of what they did, because no one else knew how to do it so well, because they were incorruptible, they were indispensable. So they were tolerated, even respected, because they were necessary. Yet they were not liked, nor were they understood.
Like most people, I found them rather ugly. Unlike most, I disliked them for their rigidity in applying citizenship laws. Had ghemphs been more flexible or more corruptible, the whole system might have been bearable or, better still, unworkable, and people like me might not have been regarded as outcasts, as less than human.
It was puzzling to see one of these creatures in Gorthan Docks. There was no such thing as citizenship of Gorthan Spit and therefore no work for a citizenship tattooist, although I suppose there might have been the odd sailor wanting to have a naked lady etched on his forearm.
As I’ve said, the Spit was just the place you went if you had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t even recognised as a nation. There was no government, no law, no order except what came from your own individual strength. So why would a ghemph go there? The only reason I could think of was that it too was an outcast, a renegade. And renegades could be bought…
I walked across to its table and stood there. ‘May I join you?’ I asked, smothering my distaste for its kind.
The creature looked up, its face expressionless. As far as I knew, ghemphs never showed any emotion that was discernible to humans. It inclined its head in what I took to be a gesture of consent, so I seated myself. In answer to my raised hand, the waiter came across and reluctantly dumped a mug of swillie in front of me.
I couldn’t speak the ghemphic tongue of course; no one could except they themselves. However, it didn’t matter; all ghemphs understood the language of the Isles of Glory and they could speak it too, if they had to. Mind you, most of the time they said nothing. That was their way.
‘I call myself Blaze Halfbreed,’ I said, speaking softly.
It inclined its head again, but didn’t give a name to itself. As far as I knew, ghemphs had no names.
Knowing their dislike of conversation, I went right to the point. I unobtrusively pulled my hair away from my ear and said, ‘As you can see, I am citizenless.’
It knew immediately what I wanted and it didn’t wait for me to frame the question before it gave the answer: ‘No.’ The single word was brutally uncompromising.
I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘Not for any price?’
It shook its head.
‘Ah.’ I made a gesture of surrender with my hands and smiled ruefully. ‘It was worth a try.’ I raised my mug in salute and it did likewise, but it didn’t smile. I was none too sure that ghemphs could smile.
I don’t know why I didn’t get up and walk away right then: there was no reason for me to stay. I think it might have been because I glimpsed something after all on that flat grey face, and it struck a chord within me. I could have sworn that I saw the ache of loneliness…
‘Not much of a place, Gorthan Spit, is it?’ I asked easily.
It regarded me with slate-grey eyes. Then it glanced around as if to test the truth of my remark, looked back at me and shook its head by way of agreement.
‘Been here long?’ I didn’t
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