Memory (26 page)

‘It was logical,' she said. ‘General Cronan, General Muno. General Allectus before that. Tazencius becoming Emperor. That was right at the heart of it—'

‘It was?' He stared at her. ‘Tazencius? That
moron
?' He looked as though he was in physical pain. ‘You mean Father Tutor wanted me to scrag Cronan – General Cronan who was the only man ever who beat the raiders – just so alldick-and-no-brains
Tazencius
could get to be Emperor? Oh for crying out loud, Xipho. It doesn't want faith, it wants brain damage.'

She was starting to get annoyed with him, but he couldn't help that. ‘You don't know,' she repeated. ‘You haven't got the faintest idea, really, what his plan was.' She drew in a deep breath. They'd been taught to do that, in second grade, as a way of keeping their tempers, but it'd never worked for him. ‘Look at it this way. Suppose you came from a place where they didn't have doctors, all right? And suppose you saw a surgeon, a real top-notch Guild surgeon from Boc or some place like that; and he's got his patient on his back on the table, and they've stuffed rag in his mouth and they're holding him down with ropes while the doctor grabs a scalpel and starts cutting him open. And you're thinking to yourself, they must be crazy. This guy's sick enough already, and sticking a knife in his guts is supposed to make him
better
?' He was pulling a face. ‘All right,' she said, ‘it's a corny example. But for all we know, he wanted Tazencius to get the throne so's the provinces would rebel and overthrow the Empire and restore the Republic. It could be as big as that. We just don't know. The thing is, if we don't do exactly what we're told, we're liable to screw it all up and everything'll go wrong. You do see that, don't you?'

He yawned and shook his head. There was a leak in the roof, he noticed; every so often, a big fat drop of water would fall from the thatch and land, plop, on the rotten place in the fifth floorboard in from the wall. ‘Yes, I guess so,' he said. ‘Only, Father Tutor's dead, we don't know what the rest of the plan was going to be; so it's probably pretty safe to say that the plan's gone wrong already. To take your example,' he added (she was beginning to fidget; extended discussions and debates weren't her style), ‘suppose I'm this guy from far away who's never seen a doctor; and I see this surgeon of yours, and I think, great; all I've got to do to cure someone if he's sick is take a damn great knife and carve him open. You and I may think we know what the old fool had in mind, or we can guess, or maybe reconstruct, whatever; but, like you keep saying, we don't
know
. So maybe we should just leave well alone, right?'

‘Oh yes?' Now she was starting to get angry. ‘Fine. The patient's lying on the table with his guts hanging out, you're saying, we don't know what to do, let's just walk away and leave him there. That's so intelligent, Mon.'

He could see the fallacies in her reasoning, but even he had the common sense not to point them out. ‘Screw it, Xipho, it's got me so messed up I don't know anything any more.' Suddenly he laughed. ‘You know what?' he said. ‘You and me, we're in pretty much the same god-awful fix as Ciartan. He's lost his memory, we've lost Father Tutor and the rest of the plan; we're stuck midway across the river, with the current dragging us away, and we don't know what the fuck's going on or what we're supposed to do. Only,' he added with a scowl, ‘Ciartan might get his memory back. Gods forbid, but he might. Father bloody Tutor's going to stay dead, no matter what.'

She was smiling; bad temper averted, apparently. Wise tactic on his part, to show a little weakness to defuse the situation. And he'd worked it all out for himself, too; they hadn't offered Understanding Women at Deymeson. ‘You never know,' she was saying. ‘Maybe he wrote it all down somewhere, and tomorrow or the next day someone'll find the bit of paper and suddenly we'll all know. Yes,' she said, forestalling him, ‘I know, totally unlikely. But it might happen.'

He grinned. ‘Faith.'

She grinned back. ‘Moves mountains.'

‘I thought that was extreme volcanic activity.'

‘That too. But faith doesn't spit them up in the air and dump them on your head.'

Thinking about that, he wasn't so sure; but it was a good place to leave the argument. They had a long way to go today in terrible conditions; it'd probably be as well if the joint commanders of the enterprise were on speaking terms. He pulled on his boots (sad excuses for boots; and not so many years ago, footwear was like the rising of the sun, he never had to worry about it, it was simply there . . .) and squelched outside to see to rescheduling their departure.

Being a warlord, Monach had learned the hard way, was about three per cent fire and the sword, the rest incessant pettifogging administration. Regular armies, he supposed, were like rich men's sons, never having to worry about where the next supply train or six hundred pairs of thick leather gaiters were coming from; they had indulgent parents at the capital who sent them what they needed, and were always there to fall back on when weevils got in the cornmeal or twelve wagonloads of tents got swept away crossing a flooded river. Warlords, by contrast, are the sturdy peasant farmers of warfare, forced to rely on their own sweat and initiative or else do without. Right now he needed fifty sets of chains for cartwheels, if he was to have any hope of getting his sad convoy up the river of mud that passed for a highway as far as the luxuriously metalled military road. No wheel chains to be had for love, money or the fear of death this side of the Bay, so they were going to have to think of something else. Relays of men carrying armfuls of brush to lay down in front of the wheels – no, that'd be ridiculous, all that'd happen would be that half his army would get filthy dirty and bad-tempered, and they'd maybe cover two miles a day before getting hopelessly and irreversibly stuck in some bog. A regular general could simply write a friendly letter to Divisional HQ and be sent sappers, engineers, cartloads of fascines and portable roadway, those great big rolled-up carpets of birch twigs tied together with cord. Spoiled rotten; and could they hold together five minutes against the raiders? Could they hell.

The only other option was to dump the carts, load the supplies onto the men's backs, and porter the whole lot as far as the hard surface; the carts could then follow on as and when the roads were passable again. Or mules; mules were the ideal solution, except that he hadn't got any. Any fuzzy-chinned clown of a hereditary colonel could have all the mules he wanted just by handing a note to his junior equerry, but a hard-working warlord was going to have to break it to the lads that each of them would be lugging a hundredweight of junk on his back all the way to Falcata—

—Unless there was a river. Boats, barges, rafts. All this disgusting water everywhere – there had to be a river going in vaguely the right direction. Then he remembered: they were going
up
the hill to the military road. Even if there was a navigable river, it'd be bugger-all use to him.

(And she wasn't helping, he thought, unfairly. Why the hell didn't she ever stir herself and deal with something; something important, like bacon or socks or duty rosters, instead of all that religious garbage? He knew perfectly well why; because he was in command, and the men wouldn't take orders from her. But he carried on resenting for a minute or so anyway.)

On his way to the staff meeting in the derelict linhay, he shared his concerns with one of the line captains, an ex-monk by the name of Trecian. ‘It's only a dozen miles to the military road,' he said wretchedly, ‘and it might as well be in Morevich for all the good—'

‘Why don't you take the short cut?' Trecian interrupted.

Monach stopped and looked at him. ‘What short cut?'

Trecian grinned foolishly. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘it's not a short cut, because it's actually six miles further; but we call it the short cut, because this time of year it cuts half a day off the trip.'

Monach understood. ‘You're from round here, then.'

‘That's right. Born just down the road, in fact, place called Ang Chirra. Poxy little village, really, haven't been back there since I was fifteen. But I expect the short cut's still there. Don't suppose they could manage without it, this time of year.'

‘What's so good about this short cut of yours?' Monach demanded. ‘We'll just get the carts stuck, same as if we went the other way.'

Trecian shook his head. ‘No fear,' he said. ‘Good hard going all the way. People hereabouts reckon it must've been a government road once, years ago; probably from before Tulice was part of the Empire. True, you'll find about half the paving slabs mortared into farmhouse walls and gateposts from here to Danchout. But the other half are still there, and there's a good eighteen inches of compacted rubble and gravel under that. Whoever built it sure knew how to lay a good road.'

‘Wonderful,' Monach said, rather bewildered at this amazing slice of luck. ‘So how come it's not on any of the maps?'

Trecian laughed. ‘People round here've always had a funny attitude toward telling the government about things. I think the argument was, if the government knew about the road, they'd decide it was worth fixing it up, and we'd be stuck with the bill. Or maybe when the surveyors came out here they pissed off the locals, so they kept quiet about it just for spite. That's Tulice for you. We may look to the outside world like a bunch of inbred hillbillies, but there's less to us than meets the eye.'

It occurred to Monach to ask why nobody'd seen fit to mention this secret road to him earlier. But he reflected on what Trecian had told him about the Tulice mentality, and concluded that he'd be happier not knowing.

The Sticklepath (as the short cut was apparently known) obviously wasn't used much, even in the wet season. In fact, if Trecian hadn't told him where it was Monach could easily have gone past it without realising. A deep carpet of pale yellow flowers covered it; Trecian told him what they were called, something really uninspiring, like gravelwort. But it suited the carts just fine, and when they camped for the night on a spur overlooking the dense, sprawling Cherva forest, they'd already covered just over half the distance to the military road. Monach gave orders for setting watches, organised the duty rosters for the morning, the sort of things he now did without having to think or remember; they came as naturally as drawing a sword.

He was thinking hopefully of getting to bed before midnight for a change when someone behind him called out his name – not Monach; his old name, the one he hadn't heard or thought about for over twenty years.

He turned round slowly. It was fully dark now, and he wasn't even sure of the direction the voice had come from. Instinctively, he lifted his right hand to his sash, until the knuckles brushed the hilt of his sword. ‘Hello?' he said.

‘Over here.' The voice was familiar, sort of; something like a voice he'd once known, except that it had changed, as voices will over time. ‘Keep quiet – pretend you're taking a leak or something.'

At least religion trained a man to do what he was told. Monach advanced on where he thought the voice was coming from, stopped in front of a large oak tree, planted his feet a shoulder's width apart and pretended to loosen his trousers. Bloody ridiculous, he thought; but who on earth who's still alive knows me by
that
name?

‘Hello,' the voice said, this time so close that Monach jumped and took a step back. As his heel touched the ground, he remembered whose voice it was. Absolutely no doubt in his mind at all, in spite of the fact that its owner had been dead at least twenty years.

‘Hello, Cordo,' he replied slowly. ‘Why aren't you dead?'

A hand closed around his right wrist, twisting it behind his back. It never occurred to him to resist. ‘Cordo?' he asked. ‘What're you doing? What's the matter?'

‘Sorry.' The apology was sincere enough; as if Cordo had just trodden on his foot or spilt his beer. ‘You haven't seen Gain lately, have you?'

For a moment, it was as though they were back at Deymeson. It took a conscious effort for Monach to remember where, and when, he was. ‘No,' he answered, ‘not for years – well, not since we left. I don't even know if he's still alive. Why?'

The voice – it
was
Cordo – tutted, as if to say it was a nuisance he'd missed him, but not to worry, he'd be bound to run into him later, after lunch. ‘What about Ciartan? Seen anything of him recently?'

‘No. Look—' Monach was cut short by the extreme pain in his arm, as Cordo twisted it savagely.

‘Sorry,' Cordo repeated, same tone of voice. ‘You wouldn't happen to know where either of them are, do you?'

‘Yes. Look, Cordo, would you mind fucking well letting go of my arm? There's no need, I'm not going to attack you or anything. And you're hurting me,' he added, hearing the surprise in his own voice.

‘Sorry,' Cordo said again, and the pressure relaxed, slightly. ‘Where? And which one?'

‘Ciartan,' Monach said. ‘He's not far from here, in fact. Dui Chirra, the foundry. He's working there.'

‘The Poldarn's Flute project?'

‘That's right. Cordo, will you please tell me what's going on? I
saw
you, you were dead. Bloody hell, I
cried
—'

‘Did you?' Genuine surprise. ‘You soft bugger. No, I'm still alive, more or less. How long's he been there, do you know?'

‘A fair while; a year, eighteen months.'

‘Only,' Cordo went on, ‘I heard he'd gone away. Back to where he came from; you know, originally.'

‘That's right,' Monach said. ‘But there was some trouble.'

‘That I can believe,' Cordo said. (It was one of his turns of phrase.) ‘Any idea what the trouble was? And how do you know this?'