Pattern (37 page)

Poldarn nodded, and took a step back. Eyvind took a moment to settle himself: three deep breaths while he adjusted the position of the sword in the sash, blade uppermost, handle diagonally across his body. No scabbard, of course, for a wooden foil, so he hooked his left thumb in the cloth and gently gripped the sword through it, simulating the scabbard's grip on the blade. Poldarn found it rather fascinating to watch; there was always something rather fine about a skilled practitioner of any art going about his business, and Eyvind's calm, solemn preparations were the antithesis of Poldarn's own experiences in sword-drawing – everything so deliberate, so carefully controlled. He made a mental note to ask Eyvind to run through his routine some time when his hands were better. As he watched, he almost believed he could see a circle in the air around his friend, fitting neatly into the circle of the fenced-off ring and the surrounding crowd of spectators, like ripples in a pool after a stone had been thrown in. Each circle, it seemed to him, bore on the circle next to it, so that disturbing one would disturb them all, as the ripples spread out. Where the circles ended, of course, he had no idea.

Then Eyvind drew. He was quick; extraordinarily so, there was almost nothing to see, only a palpable physical shock as his own circle was broken into—

(– And he was suddenly in a different place, though still inside the concentric rings; he was standing on the white sand of an arena ringed by raked stone benches, on which sat hundreds of men in the black robes of the sword-monks, all watching him and someone else, although which of them was which he couldn't quite make out. It was as if the rings spread out between them, as if he was looking through the ripples at his own reflection in the water just as it broke up, ruined by the sudden violence of the draw. He knew – he
remembered
– that the other man's name was Monach, that they were best friends, and that the swords in their hands were the finest grade watered steel, and sharp—)

The shock of contact brought Poldarn out of the memory. The first thing he saw was that real-but-imaginary circle, his circle, but once more whole; then the tip of his wooden sword, held out (arms straight, elbows locked) in the rest position, to which it must return after the draw and the cut have been completed. He looked past it and saw Eyvind stretched out on the ground, lying on his face with his arms under his body. At first Poldarn thought Eyvind was dead, but then he realised that he was remembering somebody else who'd lain exactly that way, at some unspecified point in the past. Eyvind wasn't dead, because he was twitching slightly and groaning softly. There was blood on the bevelled side of his foil.

Damn, Poldarn thought; and then, Serves him right for being so quick. It was all Eyvind's fault, he had no doubts on that score. His draw had been a hostile act, regardless of the intentions behind it, and an act is an act, speaking for itself. Poldarn realised that he was going through the closing moves of the drill – flicking the blood off his blade with a quick snap of the wrists, then sliding the sword back into the sash, resetting the sear for the next draw, whenever it came. Meanwhile, both households were staring at him in complete silence, and nobody was moving. What's the matter? Poldarn thought. Haven't you ever seen a swordfight before?

Chapter Sixteen

T
wo of the Colscegsford men – Poldarn couldn't remember their names – carried Eyvind into the house, while some of the women fussed round with basins of water and bandages. The rest of the crowd melted away, leaving Poldarn in sole possession of the field.

It was, of course, the worst possible thing he could have done in the circumstances; after ostentatiously losing seven bouts, to club down the one man who'd come up with a respectably quick draw, who also happened to be his benefactor and closest friend. (Yes, he told himself, but I couldn't help it, I wasn't even there, I was somewhere else back in the Empire, twenty years ago.) Besides, it was only foils. The last time – but the memory disintegrated as he touched it, like a dandelion clock or the ashes of a burnt page. Probably just as well.

At least the party seemed to be over. Men and women from both households were crossing backwards and forwards across the yard, busy with jobs Poldarn hadn't realised needed doing. Some of them were hefting timbers in a purposeful manner, some of them had tools for cutting and tools for digging – it was like watching ants, he decided, obviously they were all doing something necessary for the general good but no human being could ever understand what or why. He'd hoped that it'd all be different when it was his house, that he'd somehow be able to get a grip on it all, learn the mysteries from the very beginning, but apparently that wasn't going to happen; he'd missed some small but crucial element and now it was too late, the story had already become too complicated for him to follow. The hell with it, he thought, if they need me they can come and find me. He headed for the house without having any clear idea of what he could find to do when he got there.

He passed Elja in the doorway, but apparently she was too busy to stop and talk, though she smiled at him as they passed each other, in a perfunctory way. Inside, once he'd got used to the darkness, he saw Eyvind lying on a pile of blankets. He'd forgotten all about him for a while.

‘How are you feeling?' Poldarn asked, kneeling beside him. Eyvind didn't move, but he said, ‘Go away.'

‘I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?'

‘No. I just don't want to talk to you right now, that's all.'

‘Oh.' Poldarn stayed where he was, mostly because he had nowhere else to go. ‘Look,' he said, ‘I'm really sorry about what happened. It was an accident—'

‘No, it wasn't,' Eyvind said. There was a broad, messy cut running diagonally from his right eyebrow up to his hairline; someone had gummed it up with spider's web to stop the bleeding, but nuggets of caked blood glittered in the strands like jewels. ‘God only knows what you thought you were doing, but it wasn't an accident.'

‘No, you're right,' Poldarn said. ‘What I meant was, I didn't do it on purpose, not consciously. One minute you were standing there fiddling with your sash, and then – I think I remembered something from when I was in the Bohec valley, something to do with fighting a duel in a ring with a load of sword-monks watching me. And then you were lying there, and I was so stunned I couldn't think what to do.'

Eyvind tried to prop himself up on one arm, but gave it up with a groan. ‘What you're saying doesn't make sense,' he said. ‘What happened was, I started my draw and you smashed me over the head. That's not how the game works, it's just a draw, not a draw and a cut.'

Poldarn shook his head. ‘Not where I learned it, apparently. It was just reflex – I honestly didn't know what I was doing. It happened, but I can't actually remember pulling that wooden thing out of my sash, let alone hitting you. It's like I wasn't even there.'

‘Sure,' Eyvind grunted. ‘Look, didn't I tell you? Don't go raving mad, stay calm. And you managed it in all the other bouts, you did the moves just right, so don't go trying to tell me you don't know the rules. Then, when it's me you're facing, you suddenly go crazy and bash my head in. Everybody thinks you're a dangerous lunatic or something.'

Maybe they're right, Poldarn thought; how would I be supposed to know, anyhow? ‘I promise you,' he said, ‘I really didn't mean to hurt you, there wasn't any malice in it. It was like a cat batting at a bit of wool.'

Eyvind didn't reply immediately. ‘Well, maybe,' he said grudgingly. ‘And I guess it's just as well it was me you bashed, because I guess I can make allowances the way the others couldn't, me not being one of the household. But you've really screwed up this time; it's going to be years before they treat you like a normal person. They're going to think you did it to show off, or because you enjoy hurting people. The thing is, people here don't behave like that. I've been abroad, I know how different they are on the other side of the world. A lot of these people haven't ever been further than Roersbrook or Vitesness. How are we going to explain this to them?'

‘I don't know,' Poldarn admitted. ‘But that can wait – I don't actually care all that much. What bothers me is that I did this to you. And you've got to believe me, I didn't do it deliberately. I'd never do anything like that on purpose, to you or anybody else.'

Eyvind turned his head slightly so he wasn't looking at Poldarn any more. ‘That I doubt,' he said. ‘Seems to me you've had a lot of practice. You know, when I first met you I was sure I had you figured out, but now it strikes me I don't really understand you at all. We all thought that once you'd been here a while, it'd all come back to you and you'd slowly pick up where you left off. But maybe we were all wrong about you, and really you're nothing like us at all.' He sighed. ‘And it's pointless asking you, because you know even less about who you are than we do. God, this is a mess. They'll just have to find a way of putting it out of their minds, I suppose. Don't ask me how, though.'

There didn't seem to be anything more to say, and Poldarn had aches and pains of his own to complain about, though he couldn't imagine anybody in either household wanting to hear about them. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, and went into the inner room, where he was fairly sure of getting some privacy. He'd had enough of his people (these people) for one day.

He lay down on the bed, wincing as he did so. His clothes were filthy with dust and earth, but it was too much effort to take them off, and he was in no hurry to inspect the handsome crop of bruises that he suspected were coming into bloom all over his body. Not the sort of honeymoon he'd have chosen, given the choice. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was only because someone was prodding him on the point of his shoulder, where a couple of substantial hits had landed during the quarterstaff match.

‘Are you going to lie there all day?' Elja said.

Poldarn turned his head. Light was flooding through the crack between the shutter and the window frame. ‘Bloody hell,' he groaned, ‘what time is it?'

‘Well after sun-up,' Elja replied. ‘Come on, there's work to be done.'

‘Is there really,' he grumbled. ‘Can't see what that's got to do with me. Why can't they just get on with it, they all seem to know what they're supposed to be doing. Wish I did.'

‘Get
up
.' She prodded him again, and he howled.

Elja wasn't very sympathetic. ‘Now what are you fussing about?' she said. ‘You're not the one who's laid up with a busted head.'

Poldarn groaned. ‘No, but I wouldn't give more than scrap value for the rest of me. Can't I go back to sleep and wake up in a month or so, when I'm better?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, all right, then.' He swung his legs off the bed, but they were cramped and painful. His ankle protested as soon as he put his feet on the ground. ‘I don't suppose you'll tell me, but I'd really like to know what I'm meant to do this morning. Just for once, it'd be nice to be in on the deadly secret. I thought it'd be different, after we all worked together building this house, but now it's like we're all back to where we were before.'

Elja laughed. ‘You're strange,' she said. ‘You really don't know, do you?'

‘No.'

‘All right,' she said, ‘I'll tell you.'

‘You will?'

‘Of course, why shouldn't I?'

‘Thank you,' Poldarn said gratefully, and tried to stand up, but his knees weren't up to the challenge. He sat down again and massaged them with the palms of his hands.
They
were painful, too.

‘Well,' Elja said, pulling her shawl around her shoulders, ‘mostly the men are working on the cattle pens, and laying the stone foundations for the main barn. We're going to be sewing, mainly: curtains for the doors and some shirts. That's the morning taken care of.'

Poldarn nodded gravely. ‘That seems reasonable enough,' he said. ‘What about this afternoon?'

‘The pens should be finished by then, barring accidents, so the men'll probably head off down to the old house and start tearing down the outbuildings.'

‘Oh. Why?'

‘For the lumber, silly. Where else are you going to get materials from?'

Poldarn frowned. ‘But your father and his lot,' he said. ‘I thought it was settled, they're going to move in down there until they can rebuild Colscegsford.'

There was a disapproving tone in Elja's voice as she replied. ‘They've agreed to stay in the house, for now,' she said. ‘But you can't let them have the barns and buildings too, there just isn't enough timber to go round. Not unless you've got another plantation squirrelled away somewhere that you haven't told us about.'

Best not to argue, Poldarn told himself; after all, it wasn't as if he was talking to just one individual here. Everything Elja was thinking and saying had undoubtedly come direct from the Colscegsford household, popped into her mind like a pinch of sage sprinkled into a pot of stew. Somehow or other, what he'd assumed was the generous gesture of letting Colsceg and his brood have the use of Haldersness had turned into a mortal affront to their dignity, or something of the kind. He wished Elja'd explain how that worked too, but he didn't want to overtax her patience.

‘Fair enough, then,' he said. ‘If that's the way everybody wants to do it. But where's your dad supposed to get his timber from?'

‘That's his business,' Elja replied promptly. ‘I'm part of
this
household now, so there.'

She stood up and pushed her hair back over her shoulders, a gesture that Poldarn found strangely familiar. ‘You really ought to get up,' she said. ‘You know they can't start without you.'