Pattern

by K. J. Parker

  ‘That’s no lie.’ This time, he was almost certain it was Raffen. ‘But the bastards asked for it. They had it coming, turning us out of our own house.’

  Someone else said, ‘That’s right,’ but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. And failing.

  ‘And the way they went about it.’ Asburn’s voice, slightly hesitant. ‘Sure, we’ve just done something pretty bad, but they started it. They got what they deserved. We showed them. And anyway, it’s too late now.’

  ‘What the hell are you all moaning about?’ That was Elja, and she sounded hard, firm, resolute. ‘It was all Eyvind’s fault; he was supposed to be your friend, and he started this stupid feud. If it hadn’t been for him, we’d all be getting on with our lives in the places where we ought to be. Come on, we all knew that before we started this. Otherwise we wouldn’t have done it.’

  The roof-tree fell in, lifting up a cascade of sparks, like a mob of crows put up off a newly sown field. It was a beautiful sight, regardless of context. ‘If anything’s to blame,’ someone said, ‘it’s the mountain. If that hadn’t started playing up, we’d none of us be in this mess.’

  ‘Yes,’ Poldarn said, ‘but it was my decision. It all went wrong when Boarci died. I could overlook the rest, there was a sort of cack-handed justice about it, but he saved my life, and there wasn’t anybody else to stand up for him. But getting killed like that was his own fault. He should never have stolen that barrel.’

  ‘True,’ Elja said. ‘But if you hadn’t hidden it, he couldn’t have stolen it. You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘I did it for you,’ Poldarn mumbled. ‘So you’d have something to eat besides porridge and onions. It was only a little thing.’

  ‘So’s the peak of a mountain,’ Elja replied, ‘but everything else stems from it. I don’t suppose it matters now, but if you want to know where it all started to screw up, that was it.’

  ‘You should have killed Eyvind back in the old country,’ Asburn said. ‘Didn’t he try to kill you the first time you met him?’

  ‘He saved my life,’ Poldarn replied. ‘And anyway, it’s not as simple as that. Nobody’s to blame here except me. I killed a man, for no reason. I hid the barrel. I turned the fire-stream away. I brought Boarci home, and if I hadn’t he’d still be alive.’ He tried to look away, but the burning house held him, as though he was the one lying pinned by a fallen rafter. ‘I did it all, everything. At the time, each time round, I thought I was doing the right thing – no, I was doing the right thing. At every turn, all I wanted was to be a good man, honourable, putting others ahead of myself. And this is where I’ve brought you all to, by doing the right thing. I guess that’s the way it’s got to be, with me. Everything I do turns bad on me, and I’ve never knowingly done anything wrong, in the small part of my life that I can remember. I don’t know; Raffen, you’re a sensible sort of man, what would you have done, if it’d been up to you? If you’d been the head of house and the fire-stream was headed straight at you down the mountain, what would you have done?’

  Raffen laughed. ‘Not what you did, that’s for sure. But only because I wouldn’t have had the wit to think of it. Maybe you’re too smart for your own good.’

  ‘You can’t say you’re sorry for doing that,’ Asburn put in. ‘It was amazing, how you thought of it. Anybody else would’ve run away, but you didn’t. You figured out a way to save the house, and you made it happen. Nobody else could’ve done it but you.’

  Poldarn closed his eyes. ‘And look what happened. I saved the house from being burnt down by the fire-stream, then came back and did the job myself.’

  Someone was pulling at his arm. ‘Stop it.’ Elja’s voice. ‘Listen to yourself, will you? You’re trying to make out you’re some kind of evil monster. Well, if you were, wouldn’t I be the first person to know it? After all, I’m married to you. But I know for a fact you aren’t evil, you’re just a man who’s done what he had to do, and in the end it’s meant you’ve done some pretty unpleasant things. So, that’s how it is sometimes. But I don’t blame you, because it’s not your fault, really it isn’t. I don’t think it was anybody’s fault, it was just the way things turned out. Worse things than this happen every day, and the world doesn’t come to an end. Don’t stand there staring at me,’ she went on. ‘You’ve all done worse things than this, and for less good reasons – or haven’t any of you gone raiding over the winter, and burned down whole cities, not just one house, all so there won’t be witnesses, anybody who can say what we look like or where we come from? Is that a good reason for killing people, women and children? Oh, you can say it’s because of what was done to us in the old country, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, but that’s not why you do it, and you know it. It’s just the most efficient way of going about the job, and you don’t care about the people who get killed any more than you care about smoking out a wasps’ nest. And that’s all right,’ she continued, ‘because everybody does it and nobody even thinks about whether it’s right or wrong. But you –’ she tugged at his arm again, like an impatient child – ‘you’ve been fretting and worrying yourself about whether you’re doing the right thing or not, but it’s not like you ever had any choice – well, except for hiding the barrel, but you didn’t mean for any harm to come of it, you were just trying to be nice. And when Boarci got himself killed, you did the right thing, you sorted out a settlement; and then they had to go and break it, sneaking over here and stealing that horse because Eyvind changed his mind. That was that, there was no way we could trust them after that. One morning we’d have woken up and there we’d be again, them pointing spears at our throats and moving us on because they wanted their farm back, or killing us even, because Eyvind had changed his mind again. You thought, the only way we’ll ever be safe is if Eyvind and all his people are dead and can’t hurt us any more. There really wasn’t anything else you could have done, honestly.’

  Poldarn pulled his arm free. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Even when I do the right thing, it comes out bad. In which case, what sort of a man am I? I don’t know, I can’t remember. But even if a fire can forget it’s a fire, if you stick your hand in it, it’ll still burn you. The only thing that matters is what people do. Everything else is beside the point.’

  ‘And you’re forgetting something really important,’ Raffen added. ‘We won, remember? They’re all dead and we’re all alive. Isn’t it obvious what that means? We must’ve been right and they must’ve been wrong. Otherwise, nothing makes any sense.’

  Nobody replied to that. Instead, there was an uncomfortable silence, until Asburn said: ‘Well, so what’re we going to do now?’

  Poldarn opened his eyes and turned round to face them all. ‘We’re going to go home and get on with our work,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to be done here, and plenty to be getting on with at home.’ He looked up at the sky, but the red glow in the east was the fire-stream rolling over Haldersness. ‘We’ll have to stay here for the rest of the night,’ he said. ‘It’s still four or five hours before sun-up. I don’t think this is a good place to hang about, but we can get our heads down in the barn. Even if anybody does turn up looking for us, they won’t expect to find us there. Then, as soon as it’s light, we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Reno. ‘I suppose someone’d better stay awake and keep an eye out, just in case.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Poldarn replied. ‘I don’t suppose I’d be able to sleep tonight.’

  He was wrong about that. About an hour after the rest of them had settled down in the hayloft, he opened his eyes and found himself in a garden. It was a stunningly beautiful place (I must be remembering, he thought, I’d never be capable of imagining something like this). A closely mown raised camomile path led arrow-straight from the steps of the house behind him, which he couldn’t see, to an ornate wrought-iron gateway. On either side of the path were neatly trimmed enclosures surrounded with knee-high hedges of box and la
vender; inside each enclosure, intricate flowing patterns were picked out in flowers, their colours matching and contrasting to emphasise the clarity and grace of the design. In the centre of each enclosure there stood a small arbour, iron trelliswork covered in climbing roses. Another path bisected the first at right tangles, dividing the garden into four perfect squares; and at the point where the paths met, there was a circular fountain. Without being aware of having moved, he found himself sitting on a marble bench looking down into the water. He couldn’t see his reflection because the streams from the fountain jets disturbed the surface, but that didn’t matter, because he knew perfectly well who he was: this was his garden, and he was at home. Everything here was in its right place, because he’d put it there; he’d directed the placement of each flower, each bush, each slab of stone; it was his creation, a place he’d made where everything was right and all the choices had been good.

  There was someone sitting beside him, though he couldn’t see his face. ‘You did well today,’ the other man said. ‘It was difficult and dangerous, it took some planning and seeing through, but you managed it. Nobody else could’ve done it but you.’

  He looked up, because that was more or less what Asburn had said to him earlier, and he’d known it was true. ‘Oh, that,’ he heard himself say. ‘That wasn’t anything clever. Still, I don’t suppose we’ll be having any more trouble from that quarter for a while.’

  The other man laughed. ‘You’re being modest,’ he said. ‘You planned the whole business out from the start, and none of them ever suspected a thing, right up to the last minute. And then, of course, it was too late. Really, I don’t know how you did it. It’s as if you could read their minds or something.’

  He nodded gravely. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘It’s just a knack I’ve got. Everybody can do it, where I come from.’

  The other man whistled in admiration. ‘That must be a very strange place to live,’ he said. ‘Really, are you serious? They can all see what everybody else is thinking?’

  ‘Pretty much. There’s a few exceptions, but they’re very rare.’

  The other man was clearly impressed. ‘And they can do this all the time?’

  ‘All the time, without even trying. It’s a way of life with them, like being able to see or hear. They don’t think anything of it.’

  ‘No wonder they wipe the floor with our lot, then,’ the other man said. ‘Just think of it, an army of soldiers who know exactly what they’re supposed to be doing without having to be told. Is that how it is?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He yawned; it was warm, and he was feeling drowsy. ‘No disagreements, either; there’s no one man giving orders, the whole lot of ’em decide what to do, and then they do it. There’s nothing else special about them, though. They’re just a bunch of farmers the rest of the year.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ the other man said. ‘You know, that must be a wonderful thing, to be linked so intimately to so many people. I’d love to be able to do that. If I’d have been you, I don’t think I’d have left there.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, I had my reasons,’ he said. ‘Truth is, I made myself a bit unpopular, and it seemed like it was time to be on my way.’

  ‘Ah.’ The other man didn’t press for further details. ‘So, do you think you’ll ever go back there? On the one hand, I don’t suppose you’re in a hurry to get back to the farm and dig turnips. On the other hand, being so close to the rest of them, I don’t see how you could give that up, once you’d got used to it.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll go back again some day,’ he replied, ‘once things have calmed down a bit. I left there once before, when I was still just a kid – things hadn’t worked out very well, one way and another. Then I went back, a year or so ago, and everything was fine for a while until someone let me down badly and I had to do something about it. Well, that was a pity, because it meant I had to clear out again; but it’ll all blow over sooner or later. They’re a very forgiving people.’

  ‘I suppose it’s hard to bear a grudge when you can see what’s in the other man’s mind,’ his companion said. ‘I really would like to go there one day, it sounds absolutely fascinating.’

  At the far end of the path, the gates were opening, though he couldn’t see who was coming through. ‘It’s all right, I suppose,’ he said, ‘if you like the quiet life. Nothing much ever happens, but that’s the whole point of the place, really.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘You know, if all the generals and elder statesmen in Torcea could go there and actually see these people they’re so terrified of, they’d never believe it. This whole empire, scared stiff of a bunch of farmers. There isn’t enough gold in the whole country to make up a year’s wages for a palace clerk.’

  Behind him the sun was setting, and the fiery red light glowed in the streams gushing down from the fountain. It put him in mind of a mountain far away; and that made him think of another pool, circled round with ferns and tall grass, where he’d first seen his face, on the day he stood up out of the river. He wondered about that; but the logical conclusion was disturbing, so he thought about something else instead. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘tomorrow’s the big day. Are you feeling nervous?’

  ‘Me?’ The other man laughed. ‘Well, yes and no. After all, it’s not as though it actually means anything, we both know that. But standing up in front of all those thousands of people, and trying not to make a bog of the ceremony, that sort of thing – I don’t think I’d be human if I wasn’t a bit nervous. So, yes.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he replied. ‘It’s just a theatrical performance, after all, and I’ve had a bit of experience in that line myself. Of course, I wasn’t playing at being a king or an emperor, and the audience was rather smaller, too. But I should imagine the principle’s the same.’

  The sunset was closing in, and it was starting to get cold. He stood up. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we might as well go inside. Neither of us is going to do any good if we’re sneezing and snuffling all through the ceremony.’

  ‘True,’ said the other man. ‘Look, do you mind if I ask you a question?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘If you had your time over again,’ the other man said, ‘would you do things differently?’

  He smiled. The fountain was a bubbling cauldron of red-hot lava, and it was all his doing. ‘First, yes, I will. And second, no, I won’t. All right?’

  ‘Fine,’ said the other man. ‘I was just asking, that was all. No offence, by the way.’

  ‘None taken,’ he replied. ‘After all, when I haven’t done anything wrong, what’s there to be offended by?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They walked back over the mountain to Poldarn’s Forge. Two crows followed them all the way. By the time they got their first view of the house, Poldarn knew he’d lost the ability to see the others’ thoughts. He’d hardly noticed it coming or going, and he was left with the conclusion that it was no big deal. Most of what he’d seen on the night of the burning was the sort of thing he’d have been able to guess quite easily anyway – I’m cold, I’m scared, I don’t like what we’re doing, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea – and none of it was important. In a way, he felt cheated because gaining and losing the knack had both been such an anticlimax; it had come and gone and he’d hardly noticed, being preoccupied with other concerns.

  They reached home in the middle of the afternoon, and the rest of them went straight back to work, pausing only to dump their knapsacks and change their boots. Poldarn sat down on the porch and sat for a while, staring at the sky over the mountain, but that wasn’t really achieving anything; so he hauled himself up out of the chair and crossed the yard to the forge.

  Asburn had already laid in the fire; he had a long double-edged spearhead in the coals, which Poldarn couldn’t remember having seen in the scrap, so he asked where it had come from.

  ‘Oh, I picked it up at Ciartanstead,’ Asburn replied, his gaze fixed on his work. ‘I saw it there when I went over to their forge for charcoal, and I knew we needed
something to make a long-handled bean-hook out of. So I brought it on.’

  Poldarn shrugged. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘What else needs doing? I’m at a loose end.’

  Asburn pulled out the steel, but it was only just starting to blush, so he put it back. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’re pretty much up to date, really. Saying that, it wouldn’t hurt to draw down some more wire. Or there’s always nails.’

  ‘Fine,’ Poldarn replied. ‘I’ll make some nails, then.’

  He made a show of prowling round the workshop floor looking for splinters and offcuts that couldn’t be used for anything else, but he wasn’t in the mood for nail-making. Instead, he leaned up against the west wall and watched Asburn as he pulled out the orange-hot spearhead with the inside tongs, laid it over the anvil beak and started bending it round with a succession of quick, hard blows from the four-pound sledge. Once he’d got the curve he wanted, he slapped it down on the face and straightened out the crinkles and twists with six mighty smacks, then nudged it back under the coals and hauled on the bellows handle until the fire began to flare. He took another good heat, waiting till the metal was bright orange, almost ready to burn; then he thickened the convex edge into a spine by slamming it against the anvil face, stopping every now and then to straighten and square it with deft nips from the hammer. The whole job only took him five heats; then one more to get the whole thing up to cherry red (patience and diligence, passing the curved blade to and fro through the fire, turning it over to spread the heat evenly) before dumping it into the slack tub. The thin oil caught fire, but he put out the flames by dunking the hook an inch deeper; then he held it still until the oil had stopped bubbling, pulled it out and laid it on the anvil to cool. Under the broken skin of burnt oil the blade was a dull slate-grey, a sure sign that it had hardened properly. Asburn took a few moments to rake up the fire and damp down the backplate with a splash of water from the ladle; then, gripping the socket of the hook with the tongs and supporting the spine on the head of the hammer, he held it up to the light to see if it had warped. The expression on his face suggested that it hadn’t. He nodded to himself, put the hook down again, and took down a coarse grey stone from a rack on the wall.