Memory s-3

by K. J. Parker

  Never wanted to be a soldier. Not cut out for soldiering, let alone being in charge. Perfectly happy doing research in the library, teaching school, running murderous little errands for Father Tutor, rolling out of bed at three in the morning for the first office of the day. Leading armies, preparing defences, no. We must've done defending small wooden fortresses against overwhelming odds in sixth year, but maybe I was off sick that day, or I had a music lesson.

  'Right.' The loudness of his own voice shocked Monach. But 'right' was always a reasonable place to start. 'I want five, seven and eight companies here on the front elevation. Two, three and four on the other three sides. One, six and nine in reserve in the yard, ten's going to be a flying reserve on the walls-I want you to stand by, wherever the action is, get yourselves there soonest. There's a fucking lot of them, but the only way they're getting in is through the gate or over the wall, and it's like my old gran used to say, doesn't matter how big the bottle is if it's only got a little tiny spout. Now, unless they're incredibly stupid, they won't try and burn us out with all this volcano dust on the premises, so that's one less thing to piss ourselves about-'

  'Sir,' someone said (someone really insignificant, because of the half-hearted attempt at respect), 'the Flutes. Aren't we going to use the Flutes?'

  Monach rolled his eyes; theatrical gesture, helps relieve the pent-up fury. 'Don't be so stupid,' he growled, 'it's raining. The Flutes don't work in the wet, remember? That's why we haven't even tested them yet.'

  'Actually.' Another interruption; painfully familiar voice. Meanwhile, the front line of the enemy is now so close, we can see the buckles on their belts. 'Actually,' Spenno whined, 'so long as we take care not to let the wet get into the volcano dust or the touch-holes-'

  'Fuck you, Spenno, you told me they wouldn't work.'

  The most annoying man in the world shook his supremely irritating head. 'That's not quite what I said. I said we ought to hold off testing till it stopped pissing it down, because they might not work in the wet and you really do want optimum conditions for scientific testing of a prototype. They may work. They may not.' You evil bastard, Spenno, I ought to have you stuffed down the throat of a Flute and farted up into the biggest cloud in the sky. 'Got to be worth a try, though, surely.'

  'No.' Monach surprised himself by the amount of pleasure he got from just that one word. 'Use your common sense, why can't you? They know we've got the Flutes, they're expecting us to use them. Means they'll be holding back, expecting us to lure them into a trap, with the Flutes as the spring; us not using them'll confuse the hell out of the bastards. We try and set them off and they don't go, we'll lose the only advantage we've got.' Not bad, Monach had to admit, for the spur of the moment, when I'm still three parts asleep, not bad at all. 'We do this the old-fashioned way, like I tell you to, or we might as well open the gates now and have done with it. Now, is anybody else going to waste my time making me explain things, or can we get on with the job?'

  Moment's embarrassed silence-confidence-inspiring generals don't throw temper tantrums-followed by wholesale scurrying about. Monach paused, standing still while everybody else was moving, and spared a moment to review the dispositions he'd just made. Again, not bad at all. The three best companies, full strength, best morale, haven't yet realised about the hiding-to-nothing aspect or don't care, to maintain the point of maximum impact; three companies in the yard, standing by or holding ready if they burst straight in through the gate. Flying reserve: where did that idea pop up from? Must've read about it in some book. Monach peered out to see if there were battering rams, scaling ladders or siege towers anywhere among the advancing multitudes, but all he could see was rain and more rain. Fucking arsehole-of-the-universe Tulice.

  For what seemed like a very long time, they seemed to be moving very slowly-until they were very close, and then it became apparent that they were in fact moving very fast. I've forgotten something, I've bloody forgotten something shrieked a voice in Monach's head as the soldiers of five, seven and eight company bunched up against the rampart palings, trying to make themselves as small as possible under helmets, behind stakes. There must be something I've forgotten to do, because I haven't really done very much, just these men here, those men over there; surely a general ought to be studying maps, sending runners, busy, busy, busy. He shouldn't just be standing here waiting for stuff to happen The enemy had stopped. Monach hadn't seen them stop, he'd been kneeling down trying to get his toes the last three-quarters of an inch into his boots, and when he'd looked up again, there the bastards were, standing still in the rain, getting wet, not moving. Why're they doing that? What're they up to? Shit, I wish we had something nasty we could throw at them or shoot at them. He leaned out as far as he dared (not very far) hoping to see something significant, but all he got was two eyefuls of cold water.

  Do something, please, don't just stand there. But there was something; the front the-gods-only-knew-how-many ranks were standing still, but behind them there were large, rain-mist-shrouded contingents of men moving about; the enemy taking up his position, skilful chess moves that a competent general ought to have been able to read like a book, but Monach couldn't; all he could see was vague grey shapes shifting about through a curtain of flying wet. Calm down, he told himself, let's think about this. They're out there, we're up here, exactly how much scope is there for tactical genius? Still only got two options, you bastards: through the gate, or over the walls. And they're both covered (assuming I haven't forgotten something).

  They're waiting. No sweat, we can wait too. They're waiting, because they're expecting to be blasted at by the Flutes. Can they see them? Good point; no, dammit, they can't, because I had the smart idea of masking them with shutters. They don't know where the danger is. They don't know what to do next.

  Monach could hardly keep from laughing. Bastards, he thought. Call themselves soldiers, don't know what to do. Serve them all right if I suddenly whisked the shutters away and thundered them all into bloody shit. Only I can't, because it's Rain trickled down his forehead, down his face, over his lip into his mouth, as he suddenly realised. Yes, but it's not raining in the animal-fodder store. Namely, the long rectangular wooden building whose longest side was directly parallel to the gate, at a distance no greater than thirty yards. Good, weathertight slate roof; of course, we'd have to tear down the lath-and-plaster wall-would that bring the roof down? Fuck, it'd really help if I knew how buildings work, or if there was a book you could look stuff up in. But assuming not: we drag down the shutters and prop them up in front of the Flutes; they force the gates, and when they're pouring in, jammed tight in the gateway like a turd in a constipated bum, we give fire Brilliant, Monach thought. Never learned that at school, can't teach stuff like that, it comes from inside. Of course, it'd mean having to move the Flutes…

  'Spenno!' Hadn't meant to yell that loud; but here he was, little black tendrils of sodden hair crawling down onto his forehead. 'The Flutes. Got to get them off the tower, into the fodder shed. Mustn't let the enemy see what we're about. Can you do it?'

  Spenno stared at him, swearing silently under his breath. 'Yes,' he said. 'But I'll need-'

  Monach grinned like a lunatic. 'Help yourself. Take command. You're in charge, and give me a shout when you're done, or if the fuckers attack in the meantime. Otherwise I'm going to the drawing office for something to eat. All right?'

  Spenno nodded. 'Fine,' he said, his mind a long, long way away from inanities such as military hierarchies, chains of command. Then he started calling out names, cursing and swearing aloud, waving his arms. Monach smiled. Someone was in charge at last, and they wouldn't be needing him for quite some time. Fine.

  He reached the drawing office unmolested. No food anywhere to be seen, nobody to send out to fetch some; so he lay down on his bed in the corner of the main room, and (just for five minutes) closed his eyes 'Xipho,' he says. (And who was he?) 'You're looking very well. Your condition suits you.' He makes it sound like vampirism or lycant
hropy; but she's used to him after all those years, and smiles him down like a man whistling to a boisterous dog.

  'Ciartan.' She in turn makes his name sound like a criticism, a familiar complaint, wantonly unheeded, just this side of nagging. 'Wonderful that you could spare the time.'

  (And he, himself, the mere Earwig is there too, sitting in the corner of the room-no, it's high up in a tower, circular, no corners; but anywhere the Earwig happens to sit is a corner, by definition. Strange, to see himself through Ciartan's eyes, even though it's only a dream-)

  'Always got time for you, Xipho, you know that.' A reproach, and a point scored. Reckoning back seven years to the start of their duel, that makes the score fifteen thousand, four hundred and ninety-seven to Ciartan, fifteen thousand, four hundred and eighty-one to Xipho. 'So, when's it due?'

  So calm, her smile. 'Winter solstice,' she says promptly, 'give or take a day or so. Talking of which,' she goes on, just a hint of mischief showing in the cracks under her voice, 'we were meaning to ask, would you like to be godfather?'

  Ciartan can feel the pressure on the perimeter of his circle: a hostile intention, if ever there was one. But he doesn't want to fight on this ground quite yet, so he makes a show of turning to Rethman, as though noticing him for the first time. 'Hello, Rethman, how's tricks?' he asks; a question that expects and requires no answer. Then he turns his face back towards Xipho, drawn like a lodestone. 'I'd be absolutely delighted, of course,' he says. 'Though I've never been a godfather before. What'll I have to do?'

  'Oh, nothing much.' Ciartan realises she's got something in her hands-embroidery, by God, Xipho Dorunoxy is sitting there with a belly on her like a beached whale, and she's doing embroidery. Ciartan can't help shooting a very swift glance at Rethman; what in hell's name have you done to her, you bastard? 'You hold him up while Father Tutor says the magic words, then you say "Yes" or something equally incisive-'

  'Father Tutor?' He isn't surprised, or if he is he doesn't give a damn; but he's trying to make it sound like an enormous issue. 'Since when has Father Tutor lowered himself to doing the births, marriages and deaths stuff?'

  Xipho shrugs. 'Since I asked him, actually. He seemed quite pleased to be involved.'

  'Bloody hell.' Ciartan can't help being impressed; it's as if she'd just told him that she was paying some god five quarters a week to do her laundry. 'Well, in that case I'd be honoured-thanks.' He needs a moment to adjust his guard and settle himself on his feet after an unexpected backwards jump out of danger. 'So, Rethman, how are things in the charcoal business?'

  Insignificant Rethman smiles, as though he's flattered that Ciartan managed to remember how he earns his living. 'Not at all bad, right now,' he says. Xipho's husband has a broad, flat face-blandly pleasant apart from an unfortunate chin-and enormous brown eyes like a sick cow's. She could only have married him as a gesture, making a definitive statement of her unavailability, and no need to guess whose benefit such a statement is for. But Xipho was always more of a man than most men; and if Ciartan could marry a dim, wispy, fragile little mouse with huge eyes, loads of money and no brains, so could she. 'Of course, the charcoal trade's very seasonal, and this is usually a slow time. But we're actually up by a sixteenth on this time last year, mostly on account of some very useful new contacts in the Tulice ironworks-'

  Ciartan has to try very hard not to stare. This wetslap got Xipho pregnant? How? With what? Instead, he consults his mental library, precepts of religion: the strongest defence is to counter-attack the enemy's attack. Since the only purpose Rethman served was to be used as a weapon against him, this was obviously the place to cut, at the fingers holding the sword. Ignore her, talk to him, like he's more important 'Ah yes,' he hears himself say, 'Tulice. Fascinating place, with a lot of potential. Lumber growing up out of the ground, iron ore underneath it. Pity that communications are so difficult-bad roads and the incessant rains; otherwise, I'd say the region is wide open for sustained development.'

  Rethman's eyes sparkle. And why not? It can't be every day that someone in this house actually listens to a word he says. 'Actually, the consortium I'm in with are working on that right now,' he burbles. 'We're looking into the possibility of using waterways-rivers, of course, and building canals; and half the year the lowlands are flooded anyhow-'

  She can see right through the ploy, needless to say. The man of the moment doesn't come trundling halfway across the Empire on treacherous roads just to spend an afternoon chatting about commercial prospects in Tulice to the man who married the woman he loves. She's annoyed, in spite of herself, but she's well back inside her circle, guard up, balance perfect, and just sufficiently pissed off to be extremely dangerous.

  Fortunately, some servant or other announces that dinner's ready, Excellent. When facing a tactical stalemate, change the locale.

  Dinner is a bizarre experience. If the real Xipho, the one he knew at Deymeson, ever thought about food, it could only ever have been in the context of how much valuable time had to be wasted each day, taking food in at one end of the body, flushing it out the other end once it'd been processed. The real Xipho would never, ever, have participated in anything involving devilled eggs in sour cream, or sea bass with mushrooms on a bed of wild rice. For pity's sake, he can hear Real Xipho saying, is this garbage supposed to be food? And then she tips a whole jug of vinegar over it to drown out any suggestion of flavour, and loads it into her face like foundrymen stoking a furnace. But this Xipho (married, pregnant; those fingers, that can whisk a sword blade through three tightly rolled reed mats straight from the draw faster than any man in the Empire, now used only for stitching little mauve flowers onto a linen cushion-cover) eats like it's a matter of religion: serious, attentive eating, as if there's going to be a test afterwards. So; either the pathetic Rethman has corrupted her utterly, or this is all an act of war The meal lasts for ever; lichen smothers trees and rocks crumble into loam, and still they bring on more food, tiny bits of minced-up fish in silly little pastry fortresses, encompassed about with redoubts of rare, weird vegetable. But eventually it ends; and she gives Rethman a look, and suddenly he's deep in conversation with the Earwig (forgotten he was there; don't you always?) while Xipho walks across the furniture-cluttered floor towards the fireplace, choosing her ground for single combat.

  'Well, then,' she says. 'You've been busy.'

  Ciartan frowns a little. 'Lots of running about, nothing much actually gets done. That's the military for you.'

  Her lip twitches. Ciartan could draw you detailed maps of her lips. 'And how's the family?' she asks-an expected opening attack, but hard to defend nonetheless. If you ever really loved me, how could you possibly go off and marry that popsy?

  'Fine.'

  She steps into his circle, following up remorselessly. 'Lysalis doesn't go with you when you're in the field, then?'

  Ciartan makes himself show his teeth in a weak imitation of laughter. 'No,' he says. 'Life under canvas isn't really her thing. She'd come along if I asked her to, but-'

  'You spend so much time away, though. Don't you miss her?'

  Cruel Xipho: because of course he does, and that's the shameful part of it-insipid, flavourless Lysalis, Lysalis who every day renews her fatal crime of not being Xipho; and yes, he misses her. Because he loves her. In a sense. 'It's something we've had to figure out how to deal with,' he lies (floods of tears each time he leaves. I can't help it, she always says, I know you've got to go, but-) 'I guess it must be the same for you when Rethman's away on business.'

  'Not really.'

  He lets the words hang, not prepared to commit to what might be a feint. 'Seen Gain lately? I haven't heard from him in ages.'

  'He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth,' she replies. 'Last I heard, he was in Josequin.'

  'Josequin.' Fine; why not? 'Doing what?'

  'No idea. Some errand for Father Tutor, presumably-assuming he's still in orders, that is. For all I know, he could've quit and gone into trade or something. He n
ever struck me as the contemplative type.'

  'He'll turn up again soon enough,' he says. 'He always does. The Earwig still hanging round, then.'

  Xipho's face softens. Ploy. 'He gets on very well with Rethman,' she says. 'They go and watch the horse races together.' Fine; so why couldn't he have married Rethman? Then all four of us could be happy. 'It's good having him so close, otherwise I'd be completely out of touch.'

  Religion: invite the attack you want to defend against. Religion: disconcert the enemy by doing the expected thing. 'So, do you miss-well, the old days?' There, battle joined at last. Took long enough.

  'I don't know.' She's looking over his shoulder. 'I guess it's different for a woman. You start off on something, then marriage comes along, children-I can see why they don't like having women in the Order, it must seem like a terrible waste of resources when we suddenly up and leave.'

  'Like me.' Step forward to parry, lean back to cut. 'I left before you did.'

  'Ah yes.' Smile. 'But look at you now: captain of your own free company, with a prince for a father-in-law. Half the Order's work is training the likes of you-it's just as important as the contemplative side. You go out there, do the things that need doing in the world, taking religion with you. Every bit as important, maybe more so.'

  (Xipho, why in God's name did you marry him? It wasn't just me, or any of us. Certainly not just me; it was only the one time, and we made more hate than love, and ever afterwards you treated me like I was the most evil man in the world. But yes, I did leave, and I did marry Lysalis-)

  'But you're happy,' he hears himself say. 'You don't regret-'

  A smile can be as fast as a draw, a moment that doesn't exist, in religion. She smiles: cold, bitter, vindictive. 'No,' she says. 'I'm happy, this is what I want.' She doesn't move, but the swelling in her body threatens him like a sword in the first or perfect guard. 'This is what I've always wanted.'

  A challenge. You got me into this mess, it's your fault; if it was your brat I'm carrying, it couldn't be more your fault. And she thinks she's got me beaten, put me where I can't fight back, all out of options. And that, Father Tutor, is why I am the best of our year; because there is a way…