Pattern (77 page)

Instead, he exchanged a few words with the other passengers. One of them was just a crazy old woman; she was dressed in a man's shabby coat several sizes too big for her, and her lanky grey hair was mostly crammed under a cracked old leather travelling hat. On her lap she nursed a small wicker basket as if it was a newborn baby. She started to tell Poldarn a very involved-sounding story about her younger son's progress in the district excise office in Falcata, but fortunately she fell asleep in the middle of a sentence.

The other passenger was a man. He was wrapped up in more coat than the slightly chilly air called for, with the collar drawn tight round his chin and the hood down over his eyes. This gave him an almost comically furtive look, like a caricature of a spy, or of the young prince in exile on the run from the usurper's guards. When Poldarn asked him who he was, however, he replied that he was a travelling salesman on his way to Scieza. His particular line of business, he added, was dental prosthetics.

‘What?'

The salesman grinned under his hood. ‘False teeth,' he said.

Poldarn frowned, puzzled. ‘How do you mean, false?' he asked.

For a moment the salesman wilted, as if the thought of explaining it all
again
was too much for him. But he pulled himself together and launched into what was clearly a well-worn sales pitch. Are you missing a tooth or two? he asked dramatically. Are you one ivory chorister short of a full choir? Do you find excuses not to smile, because of the ugly secret your lips protect? If so, help is at hand, because—

‘No, actually,' Poldarn said. ‘I've got pretty good teeth, as it happens. Look.' And he smiled.

‘Fine,' said the salesman tetchily. ‘Good for you. Now, if it so happened that you weren't so almighty fortunate in that respect, our company would undoubtedly be able to help you out and improve your quality of life to a degree you wouldn't have thought possible. Our individually made, twenty-four-carat fine replacement gold teeth can be fitted painlessly in minutes, and are guaranteed to last you a lifetime of normal and reasonable use. For only thirty-five quarters, we undertake to replace any standard-size front or back tooth—'

‘Oh,' Poldarn said, ‘I see. Hang on, though – thirty-five quarters for a little stub of gold? That's a lot of money.'

The salesman scowled at him. ‘Cheap at half the price,' he grunted. ‘I mean, twice. Well, anyway, there's no point telling you any more because, like you said, you don't need one. Though,' he added half-heartedly, ‘that's no reason why you shouldn't join the long list of satisfied customers who've discovered that a Collendis Brothers gold tooth is an outstandingly impressive fashion statement.' He stopped, and leaned forward a little in his seat. ‘I know you from somewhere, don't I?'

This time, it was Poldarn's turn to feel weary. ‘Maybe,' he said. ‘I don't recognise you, but that's nothing to go by.'

‘Oh?'

Poldarn shook his head. ‘I have a truly appalling memory,' he said. ‘Straight up, I do. Basically, I can't remember anything that's happened to me since about three years ago.'

Instead of pulling a sceptical face at him, the salesman nodded. ‘Accident, was it? Bump on the head, something like that?'

‘More or less,' said Poldarn, mildly impressed.

‘Same thing happened to a cousin of mine,' the salesman said. ‘Got kicked in the head by an ox. This was before I was born, mind,' he added, as if to assure Poldarn that he had an alibi. ‘Anyhow, he couldn't remember spit, not even his name or where he lived, and then quite suddenly, twenty years later, he was walking up the street in the village where he used to live, and someone bumped into him and without thinking he said, “Mind where you're going, can't you, Blepsio, you idiot” – something like that, anyway, I'm making the name up, of course – and then, wham! It all came back to him in a flood.'

‘Really,' Poldarn said. ‘That's encouraging.'

The salesman grinned. ‘You'd think so,' he replied. ‘But my cousin wasn't too pleased. He rushed home, found his wife had declared him legally dead, married someone else, and the new bloke had mortgaged the farm fifteen ways to buggery and then run off to Torcea with the money. Still hadn't sorted out all the legal bullshit when he died. Whereas before he started remembering stuff, he was nicely settled as a wheelwright and was doing quite well.'

Poldarn looked away. ‘Funny you should say that,' he said. ‘You see, it's crossed my mind that maybe, if I did get my memory back, I'd find out that my old life wasn't really worth going back to; and, like your cousin, I'm just starting to get settled, I'm quite happy as I am. So—'

The salesman nodded. ‘So if I suddenly remember where I've seen you before, and tell you who you used to be, you'd rather I kept my gob shut and didn't tell you.' He pulled a face. ‘Just goes to show, really, what you'd assume people want and what they really want aren't necessarily the same. Actually,' he added, looking sideways at Poldarn under his hood. ‘I seem to recall there's a precept of religion that says the same thing, only neater.'

Poldarn nodded. ‘Kindness is for enemies,' he said; and then looked up sharply. ‘Precepts of religion,' he repeated.

The salesman was still looking at him. ‘Proverbs,' he said. ‘Little snippets of popular wisdom, made up by the monks for the most part, like the maxims of defence and stuff like that, only they're usually even more useless than the maxims. Don't worry,' he added, ‘loads of people beside the sword-monks know them, so you haven't inadvertently tripped over a slice of your past. It doesn't prove you were once a monk, or anything like that.'

Poldarn looked away. ‘That's all right, then,' he said. ‘Just out of interest, have you figured out where you know me from?'

‘No,' the salesman replied.

‘Good.' Poldarn looked up as the salesman rolled back his hood to reveal a round, clean-shaven face with cropped black hair. ‘Did you say you were headed for Scieza?' he asked.

‘That's right,' the salesman replied. ‘Actually, just for once I'm not really going there on business. That is, if I can possibly get a few orders along the way, so much the better, though to be honest there's a fat chance of that out here in the sticks. But mostly I'm going there for – well, personal reasons, if you follow me.'

‘Of course. None of my business, in other words.'

The salesman grinned. ‘Precisely,' he said. ‘So, what line of work are you in? Haven't been to Scieza before, but isn't it all metalworking down that way?'

‘That's right,' Poldarn said. ‘Biggest foundry in the district, which is where I work.'

‘Got you,' the salesman said. ‘The bell-foundry at Dui Chirra, right? Well, maybe that's how I know you, then. Before I got into this gold-tooth lark, I was a pattern-maker. Well, I say that; mostly I just sanded and painted. Very boring, so I packed it in. So, what do you make at this foundry? Just general casting, or do you specialise?'

Poldarn smiled. ‘We make bells,' he said.

‘Bells.' The salesman looked slightly bewildered, as if he'd always assumed they grew on tall brass trees. ‘Well, that's probably a good line to be in – must be a fair old demand, and I've never heard of anywhere else that makes them.' He shrugged, dismissing the topic like a wet dog shaking itself. ‘My name's Gain Aciava, by the way.'

Poldarn smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you,' he said. ‘I'd tell you my name if I knew what it was – well, that's another long story – but recently I've been answering to Poldarn. Like the god in the cart,' he added before Aciava could say anything, ‘I know; but I sort of picked it up before I knew any better.'

Aciava looked at him for a moment. ‘Fair enough,' he said. ‘Anyhow, pleased to meet you too. Welcome to Tulice.'

‘Thank you,' Poldarn replied solemnly. ‘Just out of interest,' he went on, lowering his voice a little, ‘what're they in aid of?'

‘What, the soldiers?' Aciava looked grave. ‘You haven't been in these parts long, then, or else you've been out of the flow. Bandits.'

‘Oh,' Poldarn said.

Aciava grinned ruefully. ‘They call them that,' he said, ‘because it doesn't sound so bad. You know, bandits, sort of thing that can happen anywhere. Actually, they're nothing of the sort. Civil war's more like it, only it's not as simple as that. All you need to know really is, don't bother them and they probably won't bother you. Unless you're a bandit, of course.'

A slight sideways glance came with that last remark. Poldarn ignored it. As far as he could tell, Master Aciava just enjoyed making himself seem mysterious to strangers met on the road. No harm in that, coming from a gold-tooth salesman. ‘Thanks,' he said, and changed the subject to the merits of the inns along the road between Falcata and the coast, on which topic Aciava proved to be erudite, passionate and fairly amusing. He was in the middle of a tirade against the Light In Darkness at Galbetta Cross when Poldarn looked up and realised that he knew where he was. ‘Scieza,' he said.

‘Ah,' said Aciava, ‘here we are, then. Just as well, I've never been here before, and they don't always call out the names of the stops.'

The wagon rolled to a halt outside the Virtue Triumphant (which had received a vote of qualified approval in Aciava's catalogue, its effect slightly tarnished by the assessor's admission that he'd never been there). Poldarn jumped down while Aciava started unloading his baggage, of which there seemed to be an unexpectedly large amount.

‘Right,' Aciava said, straightening his back and grimacing. ‘Are you staying here overnight or heading straight back home? Only, if you're stopping, I think I owe you a drink and a meal for keeping me entertained on the road.'

Strange way of putting it, Poldarn thought; but it was almost dark, and he didn't fancy three hours' stumbling on the boggy, rutted track to the foundry. ‘Go on, then,' he said. ‘After all, I'm on expenses.'

Aciava smiled. ‘In that case,' he said, ‘you can buy the drinks.'

‘No,' Poldarn replied, and led the way to the taproom.

Like most of the inns on the coast road, the Virtue had originally been built as a religious structure, complete with dorters, refectory, great house, library, chapter house and several small chapels. The stables and kitchens were a hundred yards away from the main buildings, tucked out of sight among the barns and stores. With the decline of public religion, the great house had evolved into the taproom and common room; the crypt was now full of barrels rather than desiccated monks, and the potmen scampered to and from the transept carrying sticky jugs full of beer. To get something to eat, you had to traipse through the cloisters and climb the refectory stairs; or you could make do with bread and cheese from the baskets in the nave, all you could eat for two quarters; or, for six quarters, you could have the roast brought to you in the Lady chapel, with enough beer to poison a garrison town. Aciava, who was on expenses too, opted for the Lady chapel. This surprised Poldarn slightly, since he couldn't imagine that the tooth merchant wanted
that
much more of his exclusive company after a day on the road; then again, perhaps Aciava simply wanted to finish his witty remarks about the cockroaches in the Light In Darkness. Since Poldarn stood to get a hot meal out of it, without costing the foundry anything, he didn't mind particularly.

‘Well,' Aciava said, while they were waiting for the food to arrive, ‘here I am. It's been a long trip, but I'm hoping it'll turn out to have been worth it.'

Poldarn sipped his beer. It was considerably better than Basano's home-brew. The same could have been said about sea water. ‘You said you'd come here to meet someone,' he said politely.

‘That's right.' Aciava steepled his fingers over his nose. ‘An old friend, actually. Someone I haven't seen in years. Come to think of it, not since we were at school together.'

Poldarn stifled a yawn. ‘Really?'

‘Yes.' Aciava tilted the jug over his cup. ‘Took me a while to find him, but I got there eventually.'

‘I don't know many people in these parts,' Poldarn said, ‘apart from the guys at the foundry, of course, so I don't suppose I know who you mean.'

Aciava was looking at him. ‘Oh, I expect you do,' he said.

‘Oh? Who is it, then?'

‘You.'

K.J. Parker is a pseudonym. Find more about the author at
www.kjparker.com
.

Colours in the Steel

The Belly of the Bow

The Proof House

Shadow

Pattern

Memory

Devices and Desires

Evil for Evil

The Escapement

The Company

The Folding Knife

The Hammer

Sharps

Title Page

Welcome

Author‘s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18