Memory (25 page)

Poldarn remembered that he hadn't had anything to eat for a long time. ‘No, thanks,' he said.

‘Let's see,' Aciava said, as if he hadn't heard. ‘I've got salt beef from Sirupat, you know, with the peppercorns on the outside, and some of that black rye bread, and Torcea biscuits, and there's a chunk of that red Falcata cheese left. And I've got a couple of bottles of Cymari that I was going to take back home with me, but what the hell. They say it keeps, but I've never been able to restrain myself long enough to find out. Oh yes, and some apples. What I always say is, even if you do spend all your time on the road, there's no reason to rough it if you don't have to.'

‘No, thanks,' Poldarn repeated, and walked away. Somehow he got the impression that Aciava hadn't expected him to do that; as though the list of fare had been carefully compiled to include all his pet favourites. (What in any god's name was a Torcea biscuit, anyway?) Instead, he gnawed at the stub end of a stale corn cake and washed it down with needled beer. Wonderful thing, integrity, but it tastes horrible.

He'd just managed to drift off to sleep when somebody prodded him awake. Not again, he thought, and propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Now what?'

This time it was Chiruwa, which made a change, though not a particularly welcome one. ‘Get up,' he was saying. ‘Something's happening.'

Poldarn scowled and sighed. ‘Chir, you bastard, there's always something happening. Can't you piss off and let me go back to sleep?'

Apparently not. He slouched across the yard and joined a mob of foundrymen, mixed up with offcomers (soldiers, the Torcea engineers, a few nonentities from the brigadier's staff; no sign of Gain Aciava, so maybe he'd dreamt him after all). They seemed excited or upset about something, and the way they were milling about round the drawing-office door suggested that they were expecting someone to come out and announce something.

Maybe it'd be worth missing sleep for, after all. ‘What's going on, Chir?' he asked again, but the other man just shrugged. ‘Search me,' he said. ‘Malla met me a short while ago, told me something was on and they'd be issuing a statement any minute now. That's all I know.'

‘Fine,' Poldarn said. ‘So why'd you come and wake me up?'

Chiruwa looked surprised, even rather hurt. ‘You're my friend,' he said, ‘I thought you wouldn't want to miss it.'

‘Oh,' Poldarn said. No, he hadn't been expecting that.

A few moments later, the door opened and Galand Dev came out. He was frowning, as though considering some technical matter that should've been straightforward but that was proving unexpectedly difficult. He looked round, then held up his hand for silence, which he got.

‘Brigadier Muno's asked me to make an announcement,' he said. ‘We've just had word that on his way back to Torcea, General Muno Silsny and his escort were attacked. We don't have any details as yet, but I'm sorry to say that the main point has been confirmed, direct from Torcea. General Muno Silsny is dead.'

Chapter Seven

M
onach woke up out of a strange dream to find that someone was touching him. Immediately, he pushed back the instinctive response. Curious: he'd spent so many years training himself to react instantly to any intrusion into his circle, and now he was having to learn not to.

‘You were shouting,' she said.

‘Was I?' He grinned feebly. ‘Sorry about that.'

She shrugged. ‘That's all right,' she said. ‘It's nearly dawn, anyhow. Was it the same dream, or a different one?'

‘Different,' he replied. ‘And, I don't know, more sort of odd than horrible, if you see what I mean. Did I wake up Ciartan?'

She shook her head. ‘He's dead to the world,' she told him. ‘Just as well,' she added. ‘You know it upsets him when you get bad dreams. Also, he's teething.'

‘Again?' He grinned. ‘That kid's going to have more teeth than a polecat, the way he's going on.'

‘He can't help it,' she said defensively. ‘And he hates it when they hurt.'

‘You fuss too much,' he replied, knowing it'd annoy her. ‘Suppose I'd better be getting up now. We're supposed to be making an early start, aren't we?'

She shook her head. ‘It's pissing it down,' she said. ‘There's no point, we'd only get the wagons stuck.'

‘That's all right, then.' He lay back, staring at the barn rafters. ‘We'll wait for it to stop and try and make up time when we hit the military road. Does it always rain like this in this horrible country?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘This time of year, anyway.'

‘Bloody hell. It's a miracle anybody manages to live here.'

‘They're used to it.' She pulled a blanket round her shoulders and looked at him. ‘You'd better tell me about it,' she said.

‘Tell you about what?'

‘The dream,' she said. ‘It's making you act all nasty, so it must be bothering you.'

He nodded. ‘Like I said,' he told her, ‘it wasn't so much bad as strange. Bad dreams I can handle,' he added with a faint smile.

‘Go on,' she said.

‘Well.' He thought for a moment. ‘We were back at Deymeson, all of us – you, me, Gain, Elaos, Cordo, Ciartan– and it was just after first lesson. We were in third grade, I think, but you know how you can never tell how old you are in dreams. Anyway, the lesson had been metalwork, we'd been doing casting in bronze—'

‘That's odd,' she interrupted.

‘Well, of course it is, that's the point. We never did that, any of us.'

She frowned. ‘Hold on,' she said. ‘Didn't Gain take foundry as an option in fifth grade?'

He thought about that. ‘You know,' he said, ‘I think you're right. Ciartan and Cordo took forgework, you and I did precious metals, Elaos – what did Elaos do? I can't remember.'

‘Engraving.'

‘So he did, you're right. God only knows how you remember all this stuff.'

‘Practice,' she said. ‘So, we were all coming out of class. Then what?'

‘We were moaning,' he continued, ‘about the assignment we'd just been set. We had to cast a flute—'

‘You don't cast flutes. You—'

‘I know that, thank you. But in the dream, we had to cast a flute, in bronze, and we weren't allowed to use a core.'

She looked blank. ‘Is that good or bad?' she asked. ‘I don't know anything about casting.'

‘Well, I don't know a hell of a lot,' he admitted. ‘But in the dream it was pretty serious, because we were all arguing like mad about it. And then Ciartan lost his temper—'

‘What's odd about that?' she interrupted, smiling. ‘Sounds just like real life to me.'

‘Ciartan lost his temper,' he repeated, ‘and one of the other kids – I'm blowed if I can remember his name, but he had straight black hair, small nose, played the flute—'

‘Torcuat.'

‘That's right,' he said, surprised. ‘Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while. Torcuat. Anyhow, they got into a fight; and you remember how Ciartan went through that phase of carrying a knife all the time. Stuffed down inside the leg of his boot, the stupid clown, I'm amazed he never cut his shin open. Anyway, he got this knife out and he was waving it around, and Torcuat was yelling bloody murder at him, and we were all worried Father Tutor'd hear the racket and come and see what was going on. So you jumped in and took the knife off him – only for some reason it wasn't a knife any more, it was a little axe, sort of a hatchet. But you got it away from him, and he'd gone all dumb and ashamed, because you'd told him he was an arsehole. Then the door opened and Father Tutor came in, but he didn't seem to have heard the noise, or maybe he was preoccupied and wasn't bothered about it; he had this really serious look on his face, and we all knew there was something badly wrong. And here's where it gets a bit surreal, because suddenly we were all sitting in his study—'

‘All of us? There wouldn't be room.'

‘All of us,' he repeated. ‘And in front of him, right in the middle of his desk, was this sort of stump thing, and on it there was this statue of a crow; only it wasn't a statue, because suddenly it spread its wings and said “Caw” or whatever crows say—'

‘A crow,' she said. ‘Interesting.'

‘Well, quite. Sort of like what my old mother used to tell me: don't play with that, dear, you don't know where it's been.'

She frowned. ‘Well,' she said, ‘we've both known him a very long time, and remember what he told us, about the people where he came from, so maybe it's not so surprising after all. Go on.'

‘It gets weirder,' he said. ‘Father Tutor calls Ciartan up to the front, tells him there's this really bad news from home; his grandfather's died, and left him the farm – so, I was thinking, not such bad news after all; and his best friend's been burned to death in a fire, and his daughter's expecting a baby.' He paused, and she got the impression he'd missed something out at this point; nothing he felt was important, but something that she wouldn't like. ‘And then he went on, Father Tutor, that is; he said that the volcano had erupted and buried his house and all the farmland under molten lava, so he couldn't ever go back home again – and I was thinking, bloody hell, even though it's him, you can't help feeling a bit sorry for the bastard, all that dreadful stuff happening all at once.'

‘How very sweet,' she said.

‘Well,' he replied, ‘you were sobbing your little heart out, so you can't talk. And he was just stood there, grinning like an idiot; and the crow was cackling away like it was laughing, and then he sort of reached out – I tell you, he never moved that fast in real life – and he grabbed the crow round the neck and squashed it, literally
squashed
it down into the fireplace and held it there till it was all burned up. And Father Tutor just sat there, like he didn't mind a bit; and then he said to Ciartan to cheer up, because as a sort of consolation prize he was being given the hand of the Emperor's daughter in marriage, and if that all went all right – like it was a test or probation or something – if that all went all right, he'd be allowed to kill his son, make the flute and take his rightful place as king of the gods once term was finished. And I was sitting there thinking, that's a bit rich, this is bloody Ciartan we're talking about; then he leans across to me and says, yes, fine, but—' He paused, an embarrassed look on his face.

‘But,' she said. ‘Go on. It's about me, isn't it?'

‘Well, yes. Basically, he was saying it was all very well getting all that nice stuff Father Tutor had just said, but it didn't count worth spit because I'd – well, you and me . . .'

She was grinning. ‘You've gone all pink,' she said.

‘Yes, well. I used to be a
monk
, remember? Anyway, the gist of it was that all the goodies didn't matter if, well, if it was going to be me getting the girl and not him; only that wasn't going to happen, since he'd kill me first, and all sorts of charming stuff like that.'

‘Sounds pretty much like Ciartan to me.'

‘Quite. Anyway, then he got his hands round my throat, and I was struggling and yelling, “No, stop—”'

‘I know. I heard you.'

‘And then,' he concluded, ‘I woke up.' He shook his head sadly. ‘Bloody hell, Xipho, I've got to admit, I've had about as much of him as I can take.'

‘
You
have.'

‘Well,' he said, embarrassed, ‘anyhow. But it's getting beyond a joke.' He looked at her. ‘You don't – well, you don't actually think there really is anything to it, do you? Seriously, I mean.'

It took her a moment to figure out what he was talking about. ‘What, you mean about him? Being the god in— Being
Poldarn
?' She stared, then giggled. ‘You idiot,' she said.

‘Yes, all right. But I can't help it, really, wondering sometimes. Like when I found out you'd been doing that bloody stupid scam thing, with him pretending to be— And there I was, stupid bloody clown, galloping all round the countryside following you two about, and all the time it was
you
. And him,' he added. ‘Which Father fucking Tutor never saw fit to mention—'

She shook her head, as if forbidding him to take the subject further. ‘He must've had a good reason,' she said. ‘He always had a good reason.'

‘Yes, but then he went and
died
, thoughtless bloody bastard; and here's me left behind trying to figure out what in any God's name his ever-such-a-good bloody reason might've been.' He stood up and shivered in the cold. ‘I mean, I ask you; he sends you trailing after him. Then he loses his mind, or his memory, whatever; so Father Tutor sends me off to trail after the two of you, but for some fucking reason neglects to mention to me that the god in the cart and his beautiful lady assistant are two of my old classmates. Yes, I know Father Tutor could be pretty bloody deep sometimes, but that's just—'

‘Just bad luck that he died when he did,' she said calmly. ‘Or maybe even good luck, I really don't know.'

‘Good luck?' He sounded shocked. ‘Like, you think the old fool somehow
decided
to die at that precise moment? You mean, as part of the grand design? Come off it, Xipho, that's just silly.'

But she shrugged. ‘All I'm saying is,' she said, ‘I don't know what he had in mind. But I trusted him and I still do. I have—' She smiled. ‘I have
faith
. You remember faith, don't you? We did it in first grade; or were you away that week?'

He wasn't happy, though. ‘And now all this stuff,' he said. ‘General Muno Silsny. I mean to say, we hadn't even heard of him back when the old man died, so how could he possibly have intended that as part of his grand and wonderful plan?'