Memory (24 page)

To make a Poldarn's Flute, such as the Rai and Chinly people of Morevich used to employ in war, first cast a solid round bar of good-quality bronze, of the sort used in bell-founding (see below, under bells). Mount the bar in a Morevish lathe (see below, under lathes) and bore out the hole while simultaneously turning down the exterior until it's smooth and even. To make the pins around which the flute pivots, to enable it to be aimed accurately, take a thick wheel tyre and swage the pins by folding a hand's breadth of the tyre into a cylinder on each side; then heat the tyre, slide it over the tube, and shrink it in place firmly by cooling.

And that, as Asburn used to say, is all there is to it. Now that sounded rather more like a god talking, because to a god, it'd be as simple as that – cast a thick bar, drill a hole in it, job done. He wasn't in the least surprised to learn that all this had been done before (in Morevich, where his people originally came from; where else?) because if he'd learned anything over the last year or so, it was that nothing was ever invented or discovered, only remembered – by men or gods who'd had the misfortune to lose their memories for a time. And if that wasn't a precept of religion, it damn well ought to have been.

Then he wondered: had that page been there in the book a month ago, or this time last year? Or had it grown somehow, like the new season's leaves, once the book had realised that the information would be required at some point? He considered the book: big, fat thing, nobody could possibly have read it from cover to cover, not in a single lifetime. So nobody could know for sure whether those pages had always been there (like his own memories, grudgingly spoon-fed him in dreams; had they always been there in his mind, or was someone writing them in from scratch while he was asleep? And had Gain Aciava been telling the truth, really?)

‘Bastards,' Spenno grunted. Poldarn had to concede that he might have a point there.

Well: if the book (standing, of course, for his own lost memories – even Poldarn could understand symbolism when it was stuffed remorselessly down his throat) kept making up new stuff as it went along – and the new stuff was
true
, as true as anything else – then it simply wasn't fair. There was no point running away from memory, if it wasn't just behind you but quite possibly all around you and in front of you as well. You could run as hard as you could manage and not be running away at all; you could be heading straight for it, and never know until it was too late.

That wasn't a pleasant thought, and Poldarn was tempted to dismiss it as unproven or wildly unlikely (but no more unlikely than Spenno's bloody book just happening to contain a full set of detailed instructions for building these Poldarn Tubes that Muno Silsny and his clever engineers in Torcea had only just invented). The only thing he could think of doing was to have another look at the book and see what else it chose to show him. Either he'd catch it out in the act of being written, or he could forget all about this nonsense and get some more sleep before they finally plucked their courage up and tried out the lathe.

Just as tentatively as the last time, he toppled over a page. He saw—

To divert the course of a lava flow from an active volcano, first procure a number of steel-tipped drills, at least ten feet long and two inches in diameter
—

Poldarn scowled. The bloody thing was playing games with him. He tried another page.

The flight of the stones thrown from a Poldarn's Flute can be controlled by raising or lowering the mouth of the flute, causing the stone to fly high or low; the higher it's thrown, within certain limits, the further it will travel
—

Skip a paragraph or so and continue—

An alternative is to substitute for the stone a stoutly made leather bag filled with small rocks, metal scrap, potsherds &c. When discharged at short range, the bag will burst almost immediately on leaving the tube, scattering its contents over a wide area at tremendous speed. Each flying stone, potsherd or metal fragment will become a lethal weapon, making this technique especially suitable for use against closely packed enemy infantry.

Nasty little book, Poldarn decided. He skipped a dozen or so pages, and read—

This effect draws its name from an incident in the myth of Poldarn, patron god of Morevich. According to legend, after playing his pipes which bring death to all who hear them, Poldarn will
—

‘Shit,' grumbled Spenno amiably, stretching his arms and legs and rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. ‘Shit, fuck and piss in a bucket. Fuck—'

This time he was waking up, for sure. Pins and needles or no pins and needles, Poldarn hopped backwards five paces in a straight line, bumped into the small two-horned anvil, sat down on it and pretended to be trying to tease a splinter out of the ball of his thumb. Just in time—

‘Oh,' Spenno said, opening his eyes. ‘Good heavens. Don't tell me I fell asleep.'

He shifted, and the book slid off his lap and onto the floor, closing itself and losing its place. (Which was very considerate of it, Poldarn thought, to wipe out all memory of his intrusion, though arguably rather disloyal to its master.) ‘Where is everybody?' Spenno asked.

‘Resting,' Poldarn replied. ‘Lathe's almost finished, apparently. In fact, you'd better be getting over there right now, or you'll miss the first try-out.'

Spenno made a loud squawking noise, scrabbled on the floor for his book, jumped up and ran. Poldarn counted to ten, to give him time to get clear, then followed, limping.

The sun had come out while he'd been stuck in the forge. (How long had it been since he'd left the building? He couldn't remember. The pools of water that had stood in the yard since the rains began had dwindled into small reservations of black mud. Soon it'd be high Tulice summer (to which, the old lags assured him, the rainy season was vastly preferable): ground-splitting, skin-peeling heat, just the weather for tending the hellburning furnaces they were planning on building to melt the enormous quantities of bronze they'd be needing for the tubes. Under normal circumstances, they'd shut the works down for a month at midsummer. Just my luck, Poldarn thought.

Nobody about; he guessed that everybody was snatching a little sleep before the next phase began. From what he could remember of Galand Dev's briefing, this would consist of building a set of giant trestles fitted with spindles on which the wood and clay patterns would be turned. (More lathes, in other words; at least Galand Dev had had the tact not to call them that.) The idea was basically a variation on the standard method of making bell patterns: a pole, rotating on trestles, around which they'd build up a full-size clay model of the tube; then slap a thick layer of tallow on top of the clay, then more clay on top of that; melt out the tallow to free the core, and you had your mould. All there was to it.

Poldarn yawned, wondering what to do next. He could limp back to his little mud hut, or he could try and find something to eat (fat chance); or he could be really sybaritic and decadent, and have a wash. Not just a splash of black, gritty water out of the slack tub on his face and hands, but a genuine, no-holds-barred, wet-all-over
bath
, the kind that normal people had once a day. He knew just the place; where the river tripped and stumbled down a heap of rock slabs into a deep round pool, curtained with ferns and flag iris. It couldn't have been better suited for the purpose if some duke or king had commissioned an architect to build him an alfresco bathhouse. Of course, nobody ever went there, except in late autumn, when there were rumoured to be fair-sized salmon in the deepest corner.

After Poldarn had scoured off the worst of the grime with handfuls of dry moss, he lay floating on his back in the water, staring up at the blue sky. Suppose, he thought, that the blue sky is a mirror in the same way as the blue water; suppose the sky could show you your reflection, not in space but time. Interesting concept, but false; nothing to be seen except the sun, a few fluffy white clouds, the silhouettes of a few crows – scouts for the big mob that hung around the back of the sheds, robbing the feed bins where the fodder for the treadmill and windlass mules was stored. Suppose, he said to himself (he knew that he was starting to get drowsy) that there are crows in the afternoon sky like there are stars at night: small twinkling spots of black, as opposed to silver. Could you learn to steer a ship by them, or tell your own fortune?

‘There you are.' The voice came from behind the screen of flag irises. ‘Why am I not surprised? You always were a luxurious bastard.'

For a few drowsy moments he tried to convince himself he was dreaming; but the crows were too high up and far away. The voice belonged in his dreams, but also in the real world. ‘Gain Aciava,' he said.

‘Hello, Ciartan.' Gain Aciava pushed through the reeds and stood at the edge of the pool, his reflection torn up and shattered by slight ripples in the water. ‘Father Tutor once said you were an otter pretending to be a monk.'

‘What the hell are you doing here?'

‘Same as you.' Aciava grinned. ‘Wonderful thing, administration. They keep a big list somewhere in Torcea, of people with valuable specialist skills. Then, when the government suddenly needs us – die-founders, fettlers, people with relevant experience in advanced foundry work – they know where to look. And here I am. Some people might consider it an unpardonable intrusion, but the way I look at it, it's got to be better than peddling false teeth for a living. What's the water like?'

‘Overlooked,' Poldarn replied. ‘You know about foundry work?'

‘Practically wrote the book.' Aciava yawned. ‘Not that there really is a book, unless you count that musty old doorstop your pattern-maker lugs round with him. Spenno, is that right?'

Poldarn nodded. ‘Is there really a register?'

‘Oh yes. You're on it, of course, only not under your current name. And half the people on it are dead, or far too old to work. What's the matter? Aren't you pleased to see me?'

‘I don't know,' Poldarn replied. ‘Depends. Were you telling the truth, last time?'

‘I always tell the truth.' Aciava's grin was full of teeth. ‘It's a habit I got into when I was a kid, and I stuck like it. My old mother did warn me; I guess the wind changed when I wasn't looking. Come on,' he added, ‘don't you remember the class motto when we were in fifth grade?'

‘No.'

‘Ah well.' Aciava sat down on a rock. ‘So how's the big secret project coming along? Did Galand Dev get his monster lathe built? Must say, I had my doubts when I heard about it. Seems a bloody strange way to go about making a tube. Me, I'd have tried casting it with a core, and the hell with what the book says.'

For some reason, Poldarn's flesh began to crawl. ‘What book?' he asked.

‘
The
book, stupid.' Aciava reached inside his coat and pulled out a small book, bound in white vellum. ‘Next you'll be telling me you've lost your copy. You haven't, have you?'

‘What book?'

‘Here.' He tossed the book in the air. Poldarn stood up and just managed to catch it before it fell in the water. On the spine, in long, spindly writing:
Concerning Various Matters
.

‘Where that idiot Spenno got hold of a copy, God only knows,' Aciava was saying. ‘Different edition, obviously; probably an earlier one, not quite up to date. You can keep that one,' he added, ‘I've got a spare. Look inside and you'll see that it's not mine anyway.'

Poldarn opened the book at the flyleaf. Written in the top left-hand corner:
If this book should chance to roam, Box its ears and send it home. Xipho Dorunoxy, Grade II
. ‘Where did you get this?' he asked.

‘Ah,' Aciava replied with a smirk, ‘that'd be telling. Are you going to stay in there all day, or are you going to show me where they keep the food? It's been a long day, and you owe me dinner.'

Poldarn waded ashore and put his clothes on; they felt clammy and foul against his clean, wet skin. ‘Why are you here?' he asked. ‘I don't believe there's any register. I'd have heard about it before now if there was.'

Aciava sighed. ‘There is too a register,' he said. ‘And my name's on it. So's yours. But those clowns in Torcea have either lost it or forgotten about it, or else it got burned when your horrible relatives crisped Deymeson. Offhand, I can't recall if there was more than one copy. Like I told you,' he added, ‘I always tell the truth.'

‘Why are you here?'

‘Let's say I came early for the class reunion. What's the grub like on this project? I heard the idea was nothing but the best for our brave lads. But they say that in every war, and it always ends up being porridge and salt bacon. Remember the bean stew at Deymeson? Sometimes I can still taste it, in nightmares.'

‘Are you really an expert in foundry work?'

‘Of course.' Big grin. ‘You don't think they only taught religion and swordfighting at school, do you? I've forgotten more about pouring hot metal than your friend Spenno'll ever know. They were lucky to get me, I'm telling you.'

‘Are you here for the project, or just to annoy me?'

‘That's not a very nice thing to say to an old friend.'

Poldarn shrugged. ‘I'll show you the canteen,' he said. ‘Does anybody else know you're here?'

‘I reported to the brigadier as soon as I arrived,' Aciava replied. ‘I'm glad he's in charge here. He's a good man, and I always did get on well with him.'

The cookhouse was shutting up shop when they got there; they were just about to pour away the last of the soup and put out the fire. Once they'd finished their shift, nothing would ever induce the cooks to issue so much as an apple core – it was an inviolable rule of the foundry.

‘Never mind,' Aciava said. ‘I'll just have to make do with the last of the stuff I brought with me for the road. Join me?'