by K. J. Parker
He stopped; not because the chaplain had interrupted him, but because he could sense that the little man was laughing at him. ‘Please,’ the chaplain said, ‘don’t worry about that, it really doesn’t matter. True, we’ve just lost ten centuries of collected theological commentaries, speculation and debate. Good riddance. They were all wrong, you see.’
He frowned. ‘Oh,’ he said.
The chaplain laughed; not the sort of hysterical cackle you might expect from someone who’s watching his entire world slowly drifting down in the form of thin slivers of white ash, but the genuine amusement of someone who’s fully recognised his own absurdity. ‘Well, of course,’ he said. ‘For a thousand years, we’ve been anticipating the return of the divine Poldarn. Every possible interpretation and analysis and hypothesis, every argument and refutation and counter-refutation – I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Sansory school of intaglio jewellery, but its main feature is that every last pinhead of space is covered with florid, intricate engraving and decoration, unspeakably vulgar and overdone. That’s religious scholarship, only we don’t just limit ourselves to the superficial level. We’ve left our tasteless little acanthus-leaf scrolls on everything. And now we have the satisfaction of knowing that everything we ever said and wrote about the subject was completely wrong.’
‘You do?’
‘Obviously we do,’ the chaplain said. ‘It’s as plain as day. Poldarn has indeed returned, and he’s nothing at all like what we’d thought he’d be. All in all, they’ve done us a favour, setting light to the archive, covering up the monumental waste of time, effort and money. Otherwise, we’d have had to do it ourselves, sooner or later.’
He scowled. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re wrong. Poldarn hasn’t returned, and the man passing himself off as Poldarn is really nothing more than a vicious, unscrupulous two-quarter mercenary soldier. He’s no more a god than I am, believe me.’
‘Well.’ The chaplain shrugged. ‘I agree with you about the man’s character and antecedents. But he’s Poldarn, no doubt about it.’
The roof-tree of the vestry fell in, showering the courtyard with brilliant orange sparks that were burnt out by the time they reached the ground. ‘Excuse me,’ he said wearily, ‘but that doesn’t make sense. Either he’s a god or a mercenary captain. He can’t be both.’
‘Why not?’
Dislodged by the fall of the roof-tree, the cross-beams gave way, one by one, pulling the rafters down with them. ‘All due respect, Father,’ he said, ‘but it speaks for itself. Human beings are human beings, gods are gods. If they weren’t gods, where’s the point in having them?’
That amused the chaplain, for some reason. ‘The truth is, Commander,’ he said, ‘you’re far too clear-headed and straightforward to be a theologian.’
‘You’re too kind,’ he grunted.
‘Now I’ve offended you,’ the chaplain sighed. ‘I’m sorry. What I meant was, it takes a rather warped sort of mind to follow high doctrine. It’s like doing arithmetic using only the odd numbers, and arbitrarily missing out any figures that begin or end with a seven. You live by logic and common sense, which is why you’ll never understand theological theory.’
He coughed as the light breeze blew smoke into his face. ‘Probably just as well,’ he said.
‘Oh, quite. You’re far more use to everybody, myself and yourself included, doing what you were born to do, commanding a regiment—’
‘Actually,’ he interrupted, ‘I don’t. You’ve promoted me two ranks. I command a battalion, which isn’t the same thing at all.’
‘There,’ the chaplain said cheerfully, ‘that’s exactly the sort of thing I have in mind. No, the point is, there’s no reason at all why this bandit chieftain can’t be the god Poldarn; and all the evidence suggests that that’s precisely who he is. Of course,’ he added, yawning, ‘I’m not suggesting for one moment that he knows he’s the god. In fact, it’s almost certain he doesn’t.’
‘I see,’ he said, inaccurately. ‘Well, thank you for taking the time to explain. Can’t say I believe any of it, but that’s my loss, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. He’s just as much a god if nobody believes in him; and since believing in him won’t do you the slightest bit of good now that the world’s coming to an end and we’re all going to die, I can’t see that it matters terribly much one way or another.’ Almost absent-mindedly, the chaplain picked a glowing cinder off his sleeve. ‘Which is why there’s no earthly point in trying to save the archives; first, because they’re all wrong, second, because even if they’d all been totally accurate and every prophecy and prediction had been correctly interpreted, we’re all going to fry in a month or two, so, honestly, who cares? Still.’ He shrugged his lean shoulders. ‘My order has just lost its memory,’ he said. ‘From now on, for the very short time remaining to us, we don’t know who we are, what we stand for, what we’ve said or done for the last thousand years. All that’s left of us is us, and that simply isn’t sufficient to justify our existence.’
He wished he hadn’t got caught up in this conversation; the longer it went on, the more he could feel it oozing in over the tops of his boots. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you’re right about the end of the world and all that nonsense, pretty soon you won’t have an existence to justify, and the problem won’t arise.’
‘True. And at times like this, it’s a great comfort, believe me.’
The last of the girts and stays collapsed in a flurry of hot embers, filling the sky with spots of fire, like a volcano. It was obvious that the chaplain had come badly unstuck – hardly surprising, in the circumstances – and although he was talking in the most rational, lecture-to-first-years voice, all that was coming out of his mouth was half-digested drivel. On a basic infantry brigadier’s pay of ninety quarters a month plus five quarters armour allowance, he wasn’t paid enough to listen to elderly academics assuring him that the world was going to be burned to cold ashes before Harvest Festival.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’ll certainly bear that in mind. Still, just in case you’re wrong, I suppose I’d better see about this fire.’
‘Certainly,’ the chaplain answered. ‘You go right ahead. I think I’ll stay here and enjoy the smoke.’
There was enough of it, no doubt about that. Something inside the vestry – whether it was the books or the tapestries or the wall hangings or the irreplaceable masterpieces of eighth-century religious painting – was spewing out rolling black clouds of the stuff, foul-smelling and probably very bad for your health if you breathed in too much of it. Not that there was anything he could do now, needless to say, but he very much wanted to get away from the chaplain; so he walked slowly towards the empty door frame where the bronze double gates had been.
Someone was yelling to him. He looked round and saw a young first lieutenant, whose name eluded him for the moment.
‘Problem, sir,’ the kid panted, wheezing like an old man. ‘My platoon was on the bucket end in the south chapel when the roof came down. We were all accounted for except one. Now we’ve found him.’
‘So?’
‘It’s where we found him,’ the kid replied. ‘He must’ve been in the Lady chapel when the roof fell in, and now he’s got a rafter across his leg and can’t shift.’
He thought for a moment: Lady chapel. Oh yes. No mouldy old books in there, but there’d been a pair of very nice gold candlesticks, a complete service of silver communion ware, and of course the offertory chest as well. All irreplaceable works of art, that went without saying, and it was very brave and heroic of the soldier to go back in there and try and save them for posterity, but now, thanks to his sheer bloody altruism, some poor suicidal fool was going to have to go in there and fish the bugger out.
Even from back here, the heat from the blaze was enough to blister someone’s face. No way he could bring himself to send anyone in there; which left him with precisely one candidate for the mission. Fortunately, he’d just had it on the very best authority that the
world was going to end any day now, so even if it was a suicide mission it was all as broad as it was long.
A few simple precautions, nonetheless; he confiscated a soldier’s heavy overcoat and soaked it with water; did the same with two empty feed sacks and wrapped them round his face; no gloves to be found anywhere, of course, until someone suggested the bee-keeper’s hut behind the guardhouse. The wet fabric felt clammy and revolting against his skin, but he couldn’t think of anything better at such short notice.
He posted the young lieutenant in the doorway, with strict instructions to keep everybody else out; then a very deep breath, and inside—
Poldarn woke up to find that for some reason he’d tangled himself up comprehensively in the bedclothes, as if he’d deliberately twisted them round himself.
‘Fire,’ he shouted. ‘Come on, the building’s—’
He opened his eyes wide. Nothing to see. He was lying on the floor of the great hall. Everybody else had long since trooped off to work.
There’d been something utterly terrifying going on just a moment ago, but he couldn’t remember what it was.
He stood up, rubbed his eyes until they could be trusted to stay open, and tottered out into the daylight. Nothing even remotely scary out there, either; all peaceful and industrious and as it should have been – apart from the carpet of black cinders lying over everything, of course.
One of the women came out of the house, carrying a basket. He stopped her.
‘Rook back yet?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Cettle’s gone over there to see what’s going on,’ she told him. ‘Mountain’s playing up again.’
The way she said it made it sound like a job for the house handyman: mend the burnt skillet, the rat-house door’s sticking, the yard broom needs a new handle, and when you’ve done that, the mountain’s playing up again. ‘Badly?’ he asked.
‘Terrible,’ the woman replied. ‘Been doing it half the night, puking up fire and god knows what else. That filthy ash everywhere.’
Now she was making it seem like the mountain was a naughty little boy given to vomiting on the rugs, just to get attention. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Where’s Halder?’
‘In the cider house,’ she answered, ‘turning the apples.’
Poldarn nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and crunched across the cinder-covered yard to find him. Why the hell bother turning the apples? In case they got bored, presumably.
On his way, he stopped to take a proper look at the mountain. There was that glow again, a red bruise on its cheek, and the black pillar standing out of the summit; it was ugly and unnatural, and he didn’t like looking at it. And surely Rook had to be back by now?
Grandfather didn’t look round when he clambered up the ladder into the cider-house loft. ‘What was that word you used? About the mountain.’
‘Volcano,’ Poldarn replied.
Halder grunted. ‘Well, it’s at it again. Black shit all over the grass. God only knows where it’ll end.’ He made it sound like it was all Poldarn’s fault, as if knowing a special word for the phenomenon made him guilty of causing it. ‘You know any way of stopping the bloody thing?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I mean, if they’ve got them in the Empire, they must’ve figured out a way of dealing with them, or the whole place’d be knee-deep in ashes.’
‘Sorry.’ What was he apologising for, Poldarn wondered. ‘Like I told you, I really don’t know anything about them, except the word.’ Halder didn’t say anything and the silence was embarrassing, so Poldarn went on, ‘But they can’t be all that common over there, because I never saw one, or any black ash or anything like that.’
‘Just our luck, then,’ Halder said gloomily. ‘Well, if there’s nothing we can do, there’s nothing we can do, so we might as well get on and get some work done.’ That reminded him. ‘You should be up at the forge,’ he added. ‘Isn’t Asburn there, or something?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t been over there today. Is Rook back yet?’
Halder grunted. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I asked Asburn the other day how you’re getting on, he says you’re doing fine but maybe you’d care to try your hand at some of the less straightforward pieces.’ He picked out an apple, rotated it in his fingers and threw it in a bucket. ‘He’s very polite, young Asburn; diplomatic, that’s the word. What he means is, you aren’t interested and you can’t be bothered to learn. That’s a pity. That’s your work he’s doing, you know that.’
He managed to make it sound like a reproach and a warning, that Asburn was encroaching on his prerogatives, of which he should be fiercely jealous. Poldarn picked a loose flake of dry timber off the wall with his fingernail.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for forge work. I think you need a feel for it, and I haven’t got it. I’m sure I’d be much more use as a stockman or in the middle-house gang.’
Long silence, during which Halder rejected another apple. ‘And then there’s this wedding coming up,’ he went on, ‘and then you’ll have your house to build. Bloody fool you’ll feel, moving into your own house and all the hinges and nails and fire-irons and hardware’s been made by someone else. You’ll regret it the rest of your life if you let that happen, believe me. Really, you ought to knuckle down, learn your trade. I’m not going to live for ever, you know.’
‘Yes, right,’ Poldarn said. ‘Will you let me know when Rook gets back?’
Halder stood up and looked round at him. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I see what you mean. Yes, if you like. Now, why don’t you get along to the forge and do some work?’
Indeed, Poldarn asked himself, why don’t I do just that?‘You need any help with that?’ he asked, more hopefully than realistically.
‘No.’
‘Fine. If Rook comes back, I’ll be in the forge.’
‘Good boy.’
The forge door stuck, of course; and when he dragged it back, it scooped up a little moraine of black ash. ‘Asburn?’ he called out.
‘Morning,’ the smith answered cheerfully. He was always cheerful, when he wasn’t being worried. ‘Is it still coming down out there?’
No need to ask what it was. ‘Afraid so,’ Poldarn said. ‘Chucking it out all the time.’
‘Filthy stuff,’ Asburn replied. ‘Come on in, you’re just in time to see something.’
Oh, happy day. ‘Just a moment,’ Poldarn said, ‘I’ll get my apron on.’
As usual, it took him a little while to get used to the dim light. Eventually, however, he was able to make out a little stack of thin, narrow plates resting on top of the anvil. Each plate was about as wide as his thumb joint, as long as his hand from fingernails to wrist, and roughly the thickness of a bulrush. There were five plates in the stack, all the same size, and they were carefully wired together.
‘You may not have seen this before,’ Asburn went on – he was grinding something up in the mortar – ‘and it’s quite basic stuff, so it’s just as well you’re here.’
‘Right,’ Poldarn replied. ‘So, what is it?’
Asburn took a pinch of whatever it was he’d been grinding between thumb and forefinger, testing its consistency. ‘The regular term is pattern-welding,’ he said, grinding doggedly with the pestle, ‘though you’ll hear people call it other things, like watered steel and the like. It’s where you take, say, two bits of hard steel and three bits of ordinary soft iron, and you stack ’em up like this – iron, steel, iron, steel, iron, see? – and then you weld ’em together into a single billet, draw it out, fold it over, weld again, draw out, fold – you get the idea. What you finish up with is a piece of material that’s as tough as iron and as hard as steel. Bloody useful for all sorts of things, and it’s a wonderful use for all your odds and ends of scrap.’
‘Ah,’ Poldarn said. ‘So what’s that in the mortar?’
‘Flux,’ Asburn replied. ‘When you’re welding iron to steel, see, you’ve got to make sure you don’t get any rubbish in the join. The flux draws out all the shit.’
> ‘Ah,’ Poldarn repeated. There didn’t seem to be much else he could say about that.
‘Nice thing about this stuff is,’ Asburn went on, ‘when you’ve welded and folded a couple of times, you’ve actually got like – well, if you’ve ever seen where a river’s cut a deep channel, and you can see all the different layers in the sides of the cut, one on top of the other, topsoil and clay and gravel and shale and rock and stuff. It’s like that, only you’ve got maybe a hundred layers, iron and steel alternately; and when you make something out of it, if you etch it right with salt and vinegar, it brings out the most amazing patterns, like ferns or feathers or ripples in water, or the backbone of a fish. Which is why they call it pattern-welding.’
‘I see,’ Poldarn said, relieved to have that particular mystery cleared up before it had a chance to eat into his subconscious mind. ‘Why not just use a piece of solid steel, though? We’ve got plenty in the scrap, haven’t we?’
Asburn nodded. ‘Loads,’ he said. ‘But some people reckon this stuff’s better for holding an edge and not breaking, though I’m not so sure about that myself. Mostly because it looks good, and it’s the way we’ve always done it, I guess.’
‘Fine,’ Poldarn replied. ‘All right, so what happens now?’
Asburn reached up for the bellows handle and gave it an apparently effortless tug. ‘First,’ he said, ‘we need a good heat.’ His eyes took on that worried look. ‘I don’t suppose you’d just fetch over that sack, there by your foot?’
Poldarn nodded. As he lifted it, he realised what it was. ‘This is charcoal,’ he said. ‘I thought we didn’t use it.’
‘Oh, got to use it for this job,’ Asburn replied. ‘Coal’s too dirty and full of clinkers and shit. At least, there’s a sort of coal they’ve got up north that welds really quite nicely, but—’
But Poldarn wasn’t to be deflected so easily. ‘So we can afford to use charcoal for this job, which by all accounts isn’t really necessary; but when I want a couple of handfuls just to get the fire started—’
