by K. J. Parker
If Aciava was trying to be annoying, he certainly had the knack for it. ‘I’ve got no idea what you mean,’ Poldarn said.
‘Don’t suppose you have.’ Aciava pulled a stick of dried meat out of his pocket, bit off the end and started to chew. ‘It’s all part of the tragedy, I guess. Not only have you lost that extra something that made you special, you don’t know you ever had it. Now that’s sad.’
Lying. Of course. But—
‘Explain,’ Poldarn said.
‘All right, then,’ Aciava replied, spitting something out. ‘Here’s a little story for you. Back in fourth grade – I think; not totally sure. Anyhow, it was our first lesson in full-contact sparring. Wooden swords, no worries. Anyhow, Father Tutor calls for a volunteer. All the volunteer’s got to do is knock the sword out of Father Tutor’s hand, and he’ll be let off the ten-mile cross-country run scheduled for that evening. Now you never could abide running, you’d rather stand and fight a herd of stampeding cattle. So up you go; you both stand on the mat, bow and draw, Father Tutor swats the wooden sword out of your hand and cracks you across the cheekbone, hard enough to draw blood. You take a step back, ask – well, demand’s more like it, you demand to be given another shot at it. So you try again, same result, only he bloodies your other cheek. Never mind, he says, you’ve shown character and there was no way you’d ever have been able to win, you’re let off the run. But no, you say, give me another chance. Father Tutor grins, and this time, instead of bashing you, he kicks your knee out from under you before you’ve even reached for the hilt. You go down on your bum, everybody laughs like mad, Father Tutor says, right, back to your place. But you won’t go. You’re hopping mad, and you demand another try. No, says Father Tutor, now sit down. But you won’t sit down. You shout; one more try, just one. Now, instead of punishing you, like we all thought he would, for not showing respect and doing as you’re told, Father Tutor nods and says, all right, but if you fail this time, you run fifteen miles, carrying a sack of stones. Fine, you say, and you both stand on the mat; but before he can go for his sword, you drop down on one knee, grab the edge of the mat and give it an almighty tug. Polished floor, of course; you pull the mat out from under him and Father Tutor goes down flat on his back. He’s up again like a flash, into position, hand on sash ready for the draw, but you look him in the eye and just stand there. Draw, he says. No, you say, and you fold your arms and grin. I said draw, he says; but you shake your head again and say, No, I won’t; precepts of religion – like you’ve scored a point or something. And he scowls at you and says, What do you mean, precepts of religion? And that’s when you grab an inkwell off the lectern and throw it in his face. He’s not expecting that; and while he’s staggering back with ink in his eyes, you reach forward, cool as ice, pull the wooden sword out of his sash and throw it across the room. Never heard such silence in all my life. We were sure he was going to kill you, or at least kick your arse clean over to Torcea; but all he does is stand there, dripping ink, and finally he says, Yes, I see what you mean, well done. And then he lets you off the run, class dismissed, and we’re all out in the fresh air half an hour early.’
Poldarn waited to see if there was any more, but apparently not. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Aciava looked disappointed. ‘Precepts of religion,’ he said. ‘The best fight is not to fight. And you didn’t – fight him, I mean. Beating you wasn’t enough for him, he wanted a proper drawing match, to prove his point. He wanted to fight. You didn’t. All you wanted to do was win. Your best fight was not to fight at all. So you won.’
Poldarn thought about that for a little while. It sounded too romantic to be true; it sounded like something you’d be taught in school, as an example. ‘That doesn’t sound like me,’ he said.
‘Of course not.’ Aciava stood up. ‘You’d never do anything like that now – proves my point. You’ve changed. Back then, you cared about winning. Now, you don’t care about anything.’ He took a couple of steps toward the door, then turned round. ‘If you want to me to go away and never come back, just say so. I can still help you, but you’re no earthly good to me any more. It’s like with you and Xipho. You finally got her, but it doesn’t count, because it wasn’t really you. The real you just wasn’t there.’
‘Fine,’ Poldarn said. ‘The real me sounds like a menace.’
Aciava looked at him. ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Most of all, in all the world?’
Poldarn thought. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘There, you see. The real Poldarn wouldn’t even have had to think; there’d have been something he wanted, and he’d have answered, just like that. Victory, revenge, to be the Emperor, to know the truth, there’d have been something. Something worth coming back for. But you.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re just a waste of space.’
Poldarn turned his back. The fire was almost out, but not quite. With the rake, he flicked a handful of unburnt charcoal onto the glowing embers, and pulled down hard on the bellows handle. The red heart of the fire glowed immediately. He’d have answered, just like that. No need to ask fire what it wants; it wants to burn. No such thing as a fire without purpose.
‘Goodbye,’ Poldarn said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Sweet dreams.’
Poldarn turned to face Aciava. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.
Aciava grinned. ‘I shared a dormitory with you all those years,’ he said. ‘You get strange dreams, where you live bits of other people’s lives. True stuff, things you couldn’t possibly know about, but in your dreams you’re there, like you’d found your way into the other guy’s memory. Do you still get them?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Poldarn said. ‘I know I get dreams, and they’re incredibly vivid, and all sorts of things happen. Sometimes, I think, I even die. But when I wake up, they’re all gone, about a second after I open my eyes. All that’s left is, I remember that, for that one second, I knew—’
Aciava nodded. ‘Sounds right enough. We used to think it was because you were one of them, the island people from across the ocean. They can read minds, for want of a better way of putting it, and we reckoned you saw bits of memories in other people’s minds, and explored them in your sleep. To begin with, it was just like you’re describing now; you knew there’d been something, but as soon as you woke up, it went away again. Then Tanwar and Xipho found something in a book in the library, about how to make it so you could remember your dreams when you woke up. You tried it, and it worked.’
Poldarn looked at him doubtfully. ‘Did it?’
‘So you told us,’ Aciava replied. ‘We only had your word for it, of course. But we trusted you. Anyhow, I suppose you must’ve forgotten how to do it, along with everything else. It’s very simple,’ he went on. ‘You just think of something, deliberately, when you’re awake – a white cat, for instance, or a carthorse, or an old blind man selling buttons. Come to think of it, you decided on a crow, because of it being our group mascot. Anyway, next time you had a dream, there was a crow in it somewhere; and you knew, deep down inside you somewhere, even while the dream was going on, that you were just dreaming and that the crow was you. And ever since then, you could always remember the dream when you woke up. You couldn’t help it,’ he added, ‘after that it always just happened. All your dreams had a crow or two in them, and they didn’t melt away as soon as you opened your eyes.’
Poldarn stared at him. ‘And these dreams,’ he said, ‘they were other people’s memories?’
‘Mostly,’ Aciava replied. ‘Just occasionally, you told us you saw glimpses of the future. But we were almost sure you were lying.’
A strange chill spread up from Poldarn’s fingertips. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that if you’re right—’
‘Proof ?’ Aciava grinned lopsidedly. ‘If you find yourself remembering your dreams from now on, you’ll know I’ve been telling the truth? Oh, come on.’ He yawned. ‘See you around,’ he said. ‘You hav
e changed, you know – rather a lot. For one thing, the man I used to know – he was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a coward.’
Poldarn frowned. ‘Should I be mortally offended by that? I’m not.’
‘You’ve changed. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and poke about in rich people’s mouths.’
Aciava was almost through the door when Poldarn spoke to him. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Have you changed too?’
‘Me?’ Aciava hesitated, as though it was something he hadn’t previously considered. ‘Oh, sure. Ever such a lot. Take care of yourself. Don’t cast any square bells.’
Of course, the fire had gone out. Poldarn prodded it a few times to make sure, then took the rake to it. There was a fist-sized chunk of clinker jammed in the flue. After he’d dragged that out, he had no trouble getting it lit.
Chapter Three
Behind him, the sea was just a huge grey shape; he wasn’t concerned with it any more. He trudged across the beach, worried about turning his ankle over in the deep shingle. Well, he thought, here I am. Directly ahead, a seagull got up and dragged itself into the air, shrieking resentfully at him. At some point in its ascent, it turned into a very large, very black crow.
(Like burning wood, only in reverse; white ash to black charcoal. Which means this fire is burning backwards. Which is fine; now I know where I am.)
The contact was waiting for him on the edge of the shingle; a woman, young, not pretty. ‘You’re him, then,’ she said.
He wasn’t in the mood for cryptic stuff. ‘Depends,’ he yawned.
‘The spy.’
‘Ah yes.’ He grinned. ‘That’ll be me.’
‘You’re to follow me up to the farm,’ she said. She turned and started to walk. He shrugged, and did as he’d been told.
It was a long way, all uphill, and he hadn’t had much exercise on the long sea journey. ‘Hold on,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You’re going too fast.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘You’re dawdling.’
‘Ah. Thanks for explaining.’
It didn’t look like a farm, when at last they got there. He knew what farms looked like; this was just a shack, like a storage shed or a small barn. Also, it was made of piled-up stones, not wood. He thought of how much work there’d be, building something out of stones. Didn’t they have trees in this rotten country?
‘We’re here,’ she said, unnecessarily. ‘You wait here, I’ll fetch my dad.’
‘Here’ was a small cobbled yard. In one corner stood a mounting-block: red sandstone, overgrown with moss and a busy green-leafed weed he hadn’t seen before. Opposite was a midden, of great size and antiquity, newly garnished with leek stalks, turnip-tops and half a dozen fresh turds. Behind that was the plank wall of a small lean-to; the timbers were grey, and about a hundred years ago someone had nailed up two stags’ heads to cure. For some reason or other they’d never come back for them, and now the bone was smudged with green. Directly in front of him was the house. There was a doorway, but apparently no door. Through it, he could see a stone-flagged floor, and a chicken wandering aimlessly about, pecking.
Charming place, he thought. And this is probably the garden spot of the whole Empire.
A man appeared in the doorway and stared at him. He stared back. It was pretty obvious that neither of them had ever seen a foreigner before.
‘You,’ said the man. ‘You speak—?’
He’d said a word that made no sense; the name of the language, presumably. ‘Yes,’ Ciartan replied.
‘Oh, right. Didn’t know if you did or not.’
‘Learned it on the boat,’ Ciartan lied. ‘So you’re our contact, then.’
The man shook his head. ‘I just do as I’m told,’ he said. ‘Bloke you want, he’s due in the morning. Meanwhile, you’re to wait here. There’s dinner, if you want any.’
‘Thank you,’ Ciartan said politely. ‘Do I come in, or what?’
The man nodded gloomily, and stood back to let him pass. Inside, the house was even stranger than on the outside. Ciartan found himself in a tiny little room, no more than ten feet square. It was empty, apart from a few pairs of muddy boots and a rusty scythe, and there didn’t seem to be any point to it. The man went through a doorway in the far wall; Ciartan followed, and found himself in another small room. This one had a table and six chairs in it. Bizarre, Ciartan thought. Do people really live like this?
‘What is this place?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘This – building,’ Ciartan replied. ‘Is it some sort of lodge or guest house or something?’
The man looked at him as though he’d just said something offensive. ‘It’s my house,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Well, no reason why the man should be lying. ‘Isn’t it a bit cramped, then?’
‘No.’ Ciartan got the impression that the man didn’t like him much. ‘It’s plenty big.’
‘I see. How many of you live here, then?’
The man gave him a none-of-your-business-but look. ‘There’s six of us, seven if you count the nipper. Me, the wife, our eldest – Jarla, you met her just now – and the three boys, and Mito, that’s the babe.’
‘Oh.’ Just seven of them; no wonder the house was so tiny. ‘It’s different, where I come from,’ he said, and hoped that’d do for an explanation. The man either accepted it or didn’t care. ‘You can sit down if you like,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ The chair was small, too, and thin, made out of little twiggy bits of wood. No arms. Pathetic bloody excuse for a chair, really.
‘The wife’ll get you your dinner,’ the man said. ‘I got work to do.’
Ciartan looked up. For a moment he felt confused; he had been made aware that there was work to be done, but he didn’t know what it was, and therefore couldn’t figure out what part of it he should be doing. He expected the man to tell him, in default of normal methods of communication, but he just walked away.
Unimpressive, Ciartan decided. You’d have thought that, if these people really couldn’t hear each others’ minds and had to rely on spoken words to talk to each other, they’d have been rather better at it than either this man or his daughter appeared to be. Apparently not. Already, he was starting to feel vaguely panicky. He hadn’t really given much thought to the implications of what he’d been told; that these people couldn’t hear minds, didn’t even know it was possible, and that their minds couldn’t be heard by normal people. In fact, it was downright frightening. For one thing, how on earth were you supposed to know if they were telling the truth or not?
My mother was one of this lot, he remembered uneasily. The idea was disconcerting, as if he ought to be on his guard, in case half of his body turned out to be on their side.
He realised that he was uncomfortably cold, and that the fire in the hearth (one small fireplace, and stuck in the wall, not the middle of the room; now that was just plain perverse) had gone out. The urge to get up and light it was almost overpowering – you see that a fire’s gone out, you light it, that’s what people do; but since everything else was arse-backwards here, maybe he’d be better off leaving it alone. He had an idea he’d already made enough trouble for himself as it was.
He kept himself amused for a while by looking at the battery of strange metal gadgets in the fireplace, trying to figure out what they were for. The poker and tongs were easy enough, though they were ever such a funny shape; but the thing with the long iron spikes – clearly it revolved around its axis, but why? For a long time he couldn’t think what it could be used for, except as a particularly unpleasant instrument of torture. Then inspiration struck; maybe they used it for cooking. You could stick a lump of meat on the spikes – it’d have to be a really big lump, you could practically get a whole sheep on there – and then somehow the thing with the chains and weights would turn the whole thing round, so that the meat would get warmed up evenly all over – yes, and that huge iron dish underneath was to catch the juices and the dripping as they drained off. Ingenious, in a co
ckamamy sort of a way.
A woman came in, carrying a small wooden plate. She was short, and looked as though all the features of her face had been worn away by rain and wind, or by over-vigorous polishing. On the plate were a few slices of hard grey bread, some indeterminate vegetable matter, and what Ciartan devoutly hoped was a sausage. The woman looked away as soon as she could, as if he was somehow obscene, and scuttled back the way she’d come.
The food was, of course, disgusting.
Nobody else came anywhere near him, though from time to time he could hear voices in the yard outside. There were young kids screaming; the man shouting at someone; a female, probably the daughter rather than the wife, singing as she went about some chore or other. He saw the red light of sunset through the doorway, and then it was suddenly dark. It was also getting even colder, all the time. He hoped, and prayed earnestly to the non-existent gods, that this house was just a crummy little peasant shack and not anything bigger or better. If this place was the sort of house the local gentry lived in, then screw spying and screw being in disgrace, he was going home.
Only he couldn’t, of course.
No way home, unless he fancied swimming. No ships; and even if there were any, none of them would be going where he wanted to go, for the simple reason that nobody on this side of the water suspected that his homeland even existed. Stranded, he told himself. Marooned. Stuck.
Or, looked at from a different perspective, a brand new start, a new life in a new country; rebirth. Here, he didn’t have to be Ciartan from Haldersness any more, with all the trouble and unpleasantness that that implied; he could be any damned thing he liked. The question was whether there was anything in this miserable place worth being.
But there. Here I go, he thought, judging an egg by its shell. Bloody stupid proverb. He’d almost made up his mind to light the fire and the hell with the lot of them, when the man came back, carrying a very small pottery lamp.
