by K. J. Parker
He felt a certain degree of anxiety as he walked over the skyline to look down into the next valley, but when it appeared there was nothing much to see; no familiar landmarks to jog his memory, no column of bloodthirsty soldiers advancing on him with swords drawn. Instead there was a gentle slope falling away to a heather-covered plain, across which was a road. He didn’t know why exactly, but he knew that a road was a good thing, potentially. A road could take him in the right direction, towards people who might help him. There were other things it could do, of course, but he preferred not to think about them.
The boot he’d taken from the dead man became uncomfortable pretty quickly; being too big, it rubbed his heel and instep, and it was full of muddy water. It occurred to him that he might want to go back, find a boot that fitted a little better, and while he was at it he could scrounge around for other things he might need – a better cloak, something to eat, money, all the advantages the dead could offer to a man making a start in life. He decided against it, though the decision was irrational. He couldn’t keep going back there; if he went back, maybe the next time he wouldn’t be able to leave. At any rate, he had to do something, and walking away down the road was probably as good a choice as any.
No more choices, please. Take all the choices away, and I’ll be a happy man. He shook his head, and was glad he hadn’t said that aloud, just in case someone was listening. When he reached the road he didn’t stop. East was slightly uphill, west was slightly downhill, so he went west. See? Another choice successfully made, in a rational manner with due regard to prudent self-interest, and no need even to break stride for it.
After that he walked for a long time, until it was too dark to go any further. He hadn’t noticed any houses, forests, rivers, other roads, there was nowhere to reach, so when he felt it wasn’t safe to walk any further (last thing he needed was a twisted ankle) he stopped, lay down with the spare cloak rolled up as a pillow and tried to go to sleep. Perversely, he couldn’t. Instead he lay with his eyes open, feeling the rain tapping his face, with nothing to see however hard he looked. When he started to feel cramp coming on he shifted over on to his side but the sensation of rain falling in his ear wasn’t pleasant. He stood up, wondered about walking a little further, chose not to, lay down again. All the while his mind was looking hard and there was nothing to see there either.
That night lasted a long time. He tried to make use of the time by taking stock, making a rational analysis of his position and the options available to him, laying plans, figuring out. That didn’t work. Instead he kept coming back to a sound in the back of his mind. At first it was just a suggestion, a shape made out of noise, but the more he tried to ignore it the clearer it became, until he recognised it as a tune (music would be overstating it). Where it had come from he didn’t know. Possibly it was a genuine memory, or possibly it was something he’d just made up (in which case, he hoped very much that when his memory came back, he wouldn’t turn out to be a professional musician)—
Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree,
Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree,
Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree,
And along comes the Dodger and he says, ‘That’s me.’
Once it was stuck in his mind, like a stringy scrap of meat lodged between two teeth, there was no escaping it; quite probably he lay there humming it under his breath for an hour, not listening to it, not thinking, just following the shape of the sounds round and round in a dance. It did occur to him that if it was a memory, it was a stupid one to have chosen, like dashing back into a burning house to save one odd sock. Unfortunately there weren’t any more where that came from, so he tried to pass the time by making up another verse, an experiment that had the dubious merit of disproving once and for all the professional songwriter theory.
Perhaps it was because he was listening so closely to the song that he didn’t hear the cart until it was almost too late; or perhaps he’d finally fallen asleep after all, and simply dreamed he was humming the same tune over and over again. In any event, the cart was suddenly there – the sound of creaking axles, iron tyres crushing the heather stalks, the breath of the horses – and if he hadn’t jumped out of the way it would have rolled right over him.
The cart noises stopped, and he heard a man’s voice swearing in the dark, the first words he could remember having heard. He picked himself up and tried to see, but all he could make out was a vague shape.
‘Stupid bloody fool,’ the man was yelling into the rain. ‘Could’ve startled the horses, could’ve bloody well killed me.’ The man sounded like he was drunk, which might explain why he was driving a cart at night without even a lantern. ‘Got a good mind to give you a smack round the head for that, stupid bloody clown.’
Any thoughts of trying to hitch a ride evaporated. Wonderful, he thought. Even drunks driving carts want to attack me. If this sort of thing happens to me all the time, no wonder I’m having trouble getting my memory back. Who’d want to remember a lot of stuff like this?
He heard the sound of boots crushing heather, and a noise that had something to do with metal that his instincts didn’t like at all. ‘Teach you a damn lesson,’ the voice said. ‘Teach you to go jumping out at people in the middle of the night.’
‘For God’s sake, you idiot, leave it alone.’ That was a woman’s voice, coming from where he reckoned the cart was. ‘Get back in and sleep it off, before you do yourself an injury.’
‘You shut up,’ the man’s voice replied. ‘Gotta teach him a lesson, roads aren’t safe otherwise.’ That was useful; it gave him a fix on where the drunk was. Now all he had to do was walk quietly away in the opposite direction, and everything would be fine.
Instead he contrived to put his foot in a pothole and go down hard on his face. A stone found his cheekbone, jarring him painfully enough to make him cry out. What the drunk made of the sound he never found out; best guess was that he took it for a challenge or a battle-cry, because the next sound was that of a sword blade cutting empty air as the drunk drew and slashed at where he thought his enemy ought to be. All wrong, of course, but a drunk waving a sharp object about in the dark can be just as dangerous as a well-trained swordsman – worse, in some cases, since his moves are irrational, therefore impossible to read and predict. Staying still was probably the best policy, except that the drunk was very close now, so close that he could easily blunder into him. More choices, more decisions . . . Just for once, couldn’t something contrive to happen on its own, without him having any say in the matter?
He decided to run; after all, nothing to be gained here . . . He got up as quietly as he could; but the drunk appeared to have taken root, he couldn’t hear his footsteps or breathing any more. That was bad.
‘Got you, you bastard!’ A loud swish and a disturbance in the air told him that the drunk was fencing at shadows again, this time uncomfortably close. He backed away, as quietly as he could (and that was very quietly indeed, apparently), and was just starting to think he’d made it when something hit him in the back. It turned out to be the back wheel of the cart.
‘Is that you?’ the woman’s voice called out nervously.
That didn’t help. The drunk must have assumed that he was trying to get in the cart, to steal it or kill the woman or whatever. He roared angrily and charged, and the chunk of wood on bone announced that he’d run into something, probably the boom. Anyhow, it was a fix of sorts, enough information to let him decide which direction was away. It was just bad luck that the woman chose that moment to start fooling around with a tinderbox.
There would still have been time to run, he decided later; he’d got that wrong, that was all there was to it. In the event, as soon as he heard flint and steel noises he froze, torn between running and some dumb notion of getting underneath the cart and hiding there. While he was still trying to make his mind up, the drunk came blundering in his direction, still swiping with his sword. He felt the slipstream, a cold breeze on his face—
�
�And the rest was pure instinct. He could have sworn he’d forgotten all about the sword he’d taken from the dead man in the river combe, but in the time it took him to figure out what he was doing his hand had found the hilt and started to draw. The first he knew about it was the sound of steel in flesh (no other sound like that in the world, a hissing, sucking, solid, meaty noise) and the shock of impact travelling up his arm to his shoulder.
His first thought was that the drunk had cut him. It was only the heavy thump of a body hitting first the side of the cart then the ground that started him wondering if in fact it had been the other way round. Then he realised there was something in his right hand, and remembered about the dead soldier’s sword, which he hadn’t even looked at all day. What the hell did I do that for? he asked himself, just as the woman’s fourth attempt at lighting the tinderbox succeeded, and the small orange glow caught the corner of his eye.
Light to see by, growing quickly as she applied the tinder to the wick of a lamp. As the lamp opened up the darkness like a folded blanket, he saw first his hand around the hilt of a sword, and beyond that something like a sack or a pile of bedclothes, slumped at the base of the cart’s front wheel.
‘Who the hell are you?’ said the woman’s voice, somewhere above his head.
He’d have answered if he could. Instead he knelt down and turned the body over. Interestingly, the cut started just under the right ear and carried on down to the collarbone. Of course, that may have been pure random chance.
‘He’s dead,’ he announced, superfluously.
‘Fuck,’ the woman said. ‘Oh, that’s bloody marvellous, that is.’
This time he looked round, surprised at her tone of voice, which suggested a lame horse or a broken wheel. She was holding the lamp up in front of her, so all he could see was a vague reflection of light off her face and one white hand. He wondered whether it would be safe to put his sword away, then realised he’d just done it.
‘Bloody marvellous,’ the woman repeated. ‘Now what am I going to do?’
All he could think of to say was, ‘I’m sorry,’ because he was. That didn’t seem to impress the woman very much.
‘You’re sorry,’ she said. ‘Thank you, but that’s a fat lot of good. What the hell did you have to go and do that for?’
He looked at her. ‘He was trying to kill me,’ he said.
‘Was he?’ She didn’t seem surprised, or particularly interested. ‘He always was a bloody fool, and a liability. I should never have let him get his hands on the stuff. God knows, he was dumb enough sober. Oh hell,’ she added. ‘Just my typical rotten luck.’
Maybe if he’d still had his memory, he’d have known how to cope with the situation. Just then the lamp guttered – the rain, presumably, or the wind – and went out. He caught his breath. He’d never have a better chance to make a run for it, and surely it had to be the most, the only sensible thing to do. Instead he waited patiently while she scraped and swore at the tinderbox.
‘Let me try,’ he heard himself suggest.
‘Get lost.’ There was the orange glow again, followed by ivory lamplight. ‘There used to be a glass bell for this lamp, but the bloody fool dropped it. Never knew anybody quite so clumsy. Here, let’s have a look at you.’ She swung the lamp towards him; this time he caught the instinct in plenty of time and suppressed it, letting his hand fall off the sword hilt and back to his side. ‘My God,’ she said, ‘what the hell have you been up to? You look like you just went for a swim in the slurry pit.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Actually, that’s not far off . . .’
‘Whatever.’ She moved the lamp a little closer to his face. He made an effort to keep still. ‘Who did you say you are?’
‘I was asleep,’ he replied. ‘Your cart nearly ran me over.
Then he came after me with a sword. When he got too close, I must have just lashed out. I’m sorry.’
‘You keep saying that.’ He could just make out her eyes, by the reflection of the lamp in them. ‘And that’s not what I asked. Who are you?’
This time he couldn’t resist saying it, because it had been a long day and he was past caring. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that’s a very good question.’
Chapter Two
‘What kind of an answer is that?’ she said. He recognised the tone of voice: disapproval, impatience, stop-being-silly-this-is-serious. ‘Straight answer, I’m afraid,’ he replied, yawning. ‘I haven’t a clue who I am. I got bashed over the head’ – no need for awkward details just now – ‘and I can’t remember anything. I’ve been wandering about all day, and—’
‘Oh,’ the woman said. ‘I see. Still doesn’t give you any right to go killing people in the middle of nowhere.’
He couldn’t help frowning at that; why was the location so important? ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, for a third time. ‘It was him or me. Whoever I am, I’d rather not get killed by some drunk for not lying still and getting run over. Who was he?’ he went on. ‘Your husband?’
The woman laughed. ‘Do me a favour,’ she said. ‘No, he was my god.’
‘Your what?’
‘My god. And a bloody hard time I had finding him, too. Waste of effort that turned out to be.’
Let’s assume there’s a rational explanation. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, as gently as he could manage.
‘What? Oh, I see what you mean. He wasn’t a real god,’ the woman explained. ‘Actually, I don’t believe in gods; well, it’d be rather hard to do that in my line of work.’
‘Really? What’s that?’
‘I’m a priestess.’
He sighed. Maybe if he could remember anything he’d know that the world was usually like this, though in all conscience he found that hard to imagine. ‘You’re a priestess,’ he repeated.
‘Not a real one, you fool. Just like he wasn’t a real god. Come on, use your head. Or did you get all your brains knocked out along with your memories?’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘You’re—’ He couldn’t think of a polite way of saying it: swindlers, conmen, coney-catchers. ‘Impersonators,’ he said.
‘I like that,’ she replied. ‘Divine impersonators. That’s us, or at least it was, till you showed up. He was the god and I was his priestess. We drive round the towns and villages taking the rubes for money. It’s a living.’ She sighed. ‘Or it was. Now what the hell am I going to do?’
He laughed, although he had an idea it wasn’t tactful. ‘You and me both,’ he replied, and as he said the words he thought of something. ‘Where are you going next?’ he asked.
‘What?’ She sounded preoccupied. ‘Oh, there’s a small town half a day to the west, we were headed there. No point going now, of course, except I suppose I could sell the cart, that’d probably be enough to get me to Josequin. Except I just left there, getting out of Josequin was the whole bloody point . . .’
‘What’s the town called?’
‘Cric.’
‘Cric,’ he repeated. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no? Oh, I get you, you wanted to see if it sounded familiar. It doesn’t, I take it.’
‘No, unfortunately.’ He slumped down on to his heels and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Not to worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll get there eventually. I must do, or I’m really in trouble.’
‘If you like—’ That was a different tone of voice; a little sympathy, and there was something she wanted, too. ‘If you like,’ she said, ‘I’ll take you there in the cart. After all, no skin off my nose.’
He looked up. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’d be kind.’
‘No trouble. We’ll stay here till it’s light. I suppose we’d better bury him, too.’ This time there was something else in her voice, the way she said him; a deliberate transfer, from valuable asset lost to nuisance to be dealt with. Nothing if not pragmatic, this woman. ‘I’m going to get under the cart.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s dry under there, you fool. You may be so drenched
it doesn’t matter, but I was nice and snug under the cover before – well, all this. And a fine priestess I’ll sound like with a streaming cold.’
Ah, he thought, so that’s what she wanted. ‘Mind if I get under there too?’ he asked.
‘You’d be an idiot not to,’ she replied. ‘It’s raining.’
They lay side by side in the dark, the underside of the cart a hand’s span from their faces. ‘My name’s Copis,’ she said.
‘Copis,’ he repeated. ‘No, that’s not familiar. Not unfamiliar, either. Not anything, really.’
She laughed. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘Actually, I’d be surprised if it was. It’s not a Bohec name, you see. I’m from Torcea, right on the other side of the bay.’
‘None of that means anything to me,’ he replied.
‘Really? You don’t even know where you are? That’s . . .’ She paused for a moment, presumably marshalling her thoughts. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘it’s like this. Actually, I’m having problems with this, because geography really isn’t my strong point, but we’re just south of the Mahec River – does that mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Right, then. There’s the Mahec, which starts in the eastern mountains and runs west to the sea, I think I’ve got that the right way round. South of the Mahec there’s this big hilly plain – can you have a hilly plain? Well, you know what I mean. Moorland and hills and valleys, mostly too high for growing anything, so the towns and villages are down in the valleys. In the middle of that is Josequin, which is the only city worth a damn north of the Bohec. Still nothing?’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘but it’s very interesting. What’s the Bohec?’
‘That’s another river,’ she replied, ‘more or less parallel with the Mahec, much bigger and more important, because ships can sail right up as far as Mael – Mael Bohec, that’s its full name – and there’s three other big cities: Boc Bohec on the west coast, Weal Bohec about a day inland and Sansory two days upriver from Mael. Got that?’
