by K. J. Parker
‘She’s one of the grander farmers’ wives?’
‘Nearest thing Cric has to royalty,’ the voice replied. ‘I’ve heard it said she’s got a pair of shoes she’s never even worn once.’
Once it got around the village that he’d spent an hour talking to the old man, Monach found it much easier to get people to talk to him, and he spent the evening trudging from house to house, asking the same questions and getting roughly the same answers. He found Pons Quevi, who confirmed that he’d been dead but couldn’t remember anything about it that was worth listening to, and Seuro Eliman’s boy, who’d watched Poldarn from the roof, and various others who’d been sick or thought they’d been sick, or who remembered thinking they saw strange blue glowing lights hovering over the god’s head, or snakes that slithered under the cart while the priestess was meditating. It was good corroborative evidence, but since he hadn’t really doubted the accuracy of what the old man had told him, he felt he needn’t really have bothered. When it was dark he went back to the Lefit house and was shown a pile of old rugs he was to be allowed to sleep on, in the corner near the economical fire. He lay for a while, listening, trying to match the various snores to the members of the household, wondering if the old man really was General Allectus (who’d died, no question about that; but so had Pons Quevi, and he’d talked to him for half an hour), until his eyes closed, and—
—And opened again, and he saw a crow sitting on his chest, its round black eyes filled with disgust and contempt. In its beak was the gold ring he wore round his neck on a chain (since when did I wear a gold ring round my neck on a chain? Since this dream started, presumably) and it jerked its neck, trying to pull it free. He felt the chain tweak the back of his neck and tried to lift his hand to shoo the bird away; it took an unexpected amount of effort. The crow let go of the ring and pulled itself into the air with its broad heavy wings, squawking bitterly.
He was out in the open somewhere, lying on his back in deep, sticky mud. Next to him there was a dead body; lots of dead bodies, soldiers. He sat up, pushing away the surge of panic, and looked round to see where he was.
He found that he was looking at the bottom of a combe, with a rain-swollen river running down the middle. The water had slopped out on to the grass on either side, and where he was lying was churned up into a filthy mess of mud and brown standing pools. In the mud lay the dead bodies, some on their backs, some face down and almost submerged. He was filthy himself, with a tidemark of black mud a hand’s span above both knees, and he was missing one boot, presumably sucked off when he’d stumbled into a boggy patch.
I can’t remember anything, he realised. What a horrible feeling, thank God this is only a dream. He forced himself to stand up, in spite of violent protests from his head and knees. That gave him a better view, a broader perspective, but still none of it made any sense.
He looked down at the dead man lying next to where he’d been, trying to read him through the mud. A soldier, because he was wearing armour (boiled leather cuirass and pauldrons, cheap and cheerful and fairly efficient so long as you fight in the dry; over that a rough wool cloak so sodden with blood and dirty water that it could’ve been any colour; trousers the same, the toes of the boots just sticking up out of the mud); cause of death was either the big puncture wound in the pit of the stomach or the deep slash that started under the right ear and carried on an inch or so into the leather of the cuirass, just above the collarbone. His face was just an open mouth and two open eyes, with drying mud slopped incongruously on the eyeballs, but whether it was a friend or an enemy he couldn’t say.
Yes, it’s only a dream; but if I’ve lost my memory and forgotten who I am, maybe I won’t be able to get back out of it when it’s supposed to be over. How will I know how to find my body again when it wakes up? I could be stranded here for ever.
He was about to yell, ‘Hello, is anybody there,’ as loud as he could when he stopped and realised there had been a battle here; what if someone did hear him and turned out to be the enemy? Hopeless, he stood staring at the mud and the bodies, horribly aware that he hadn’t the faintest idea what he should do. Then the crow, which had been circling patiently, glided down towards him on the slight breeze, turned into it to brake and pitched on the face of one of the soldiers, and (because it was a dream) melted away into the wound as the soldier sat up and wiped his own brains out of his eyes.
‘Hello,’ the soldier said.
‘You’re dead,’ Monach replied.
The soldier nodded. ‘Though a tactful person would’ve found a more roundabout way of telling me. Still, you’ve just had a very nasty bump on the head, bad enough to make you start seeing things, so I suppose I can make allowances. Yes, I’m dead, but so was Pons Quevi. Allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Poldarn.’
‘Oh,’ Monach said.
‘Just “Oh”. Not “Pleased to meet you, I’ve come a long way”. And I suppose a little respect, or just a tiny bit of worship – no, apparently not.’ He grinned lopsidedly, the stretching of the muscles of his face further widening the deep cut that ran from eyesocket to chin. ‘It’s all right, I can make allowances for mortal frailty. You were looking for me. What can I do for you?’
Monach took a step backwards. ‘With – respect,’ he mumbled, ‘I wasn’t actually looking for you – not the real you, I mean. I was sent to find out about someone going round in a cart saying they’re you. That’s all.’
‘But the someone in the cart is me,’ Poldarn replied. ‘Will I do? Or are you going to insist that I produce the cart and show you the patch on the tyre? I can do that if you like, but it’d be a lot of extra work, and I’m rather pushed for time as it is. I can be in two places at the same time but my mortal counterparts can’t. So we can skip the cart then, can we?’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course.’
‘Thank you. So, let’s get down to cases. What do you want to know?’
Monach took another step backwards, and felt something solid under his heel. He didn’t want to think about what it might be. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t have explained terribly well. It’s not you I need to find out about; we know all about you, back at the order.’
Poldarn looked intrigued. ‘All about me?’
Monach nodded. ‘Yes. I looked you up before I left.’
‘So you know all about me too?’
‘Yes. Well, not all, obviously. But everything I needed to know—’
Poldarn smiled. ‘Oh, I agree, we can skip all the irrelevant detail. Go on, then. I can’t wait to hear all the things I need to know about myself.’
Monach took a deep breath, and resisted the urge to back away further. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I really am expressing myself very badly indeed. My mission – I was sent to find out about two people in a cart, who passed through a village called Cric—’
‘Cric.’ Poldarn dipped his head. ‘Thanks, I’ll make a note of it. Is that far from here?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know where this is.’
‘Neither do I,’ Poldarn replied. ‘Please bear in mind,’ he added, pulling blood-matted hair out of the hole in his temple, ‘you aren’t the only one who’s had a nasty bump on the head. Still, now at least I’ve got somewhere to head for. Any idea where I go from there?’
‘Josequin,’ Monach answered without thinking.
‘Ah, got you. So Josequin’s next, after Cric. I have an idea what I’ve got to do, you see, it’s just the order I’m supposed to do it in that’s a little vague.’
Monach felt as if he’d just done something seriously wrong, though he wasn’t sure what it could be. ‘Josequin was burned down,’ he said, ‘a week or so ago. Everybody was killed, there were no survivors. The god in the cart predicted it; that’s why I was sent to find out—’ He hesitated. The god was looking at him.
‘News to me,’ Poldarn said. ‘If a city the size of Josequin was burned down, I’m pretty sure I’d have heard about it. But anyway, thank you. It’s just as wel
l someone’s seen fit to tell me what I’m supposed to be doing, and where.’
Then Monach realised what he’d done wrong. Josequin hadn’t been destroyed yet; the god in the cart hadn’t yet been to Cric. ‘Just a moment,’ he said.
‘Let’s get this straight,’ Poldan went on, bending down and picking a sword up out of the mud. It was a backsabre, like the one Cronan found in the wood, or the ones hidden in the trunk in the Falx house. ‘From here I go to Cric. In Cric I predict the fall of Josequin; then I go to Josequin. What happens after that?’
‘No,’ Monach said (and he remembered who he was, and that he had family in Josequin). ‘It doesn’t have to happen like that. If you don’t go to Cric, maybe Josequin won’t get burned down.’
Poldarn nodded. ‘And we couldn’t have that, could we? Thank you, you’ve been incredibly helpful. Someone like me needs someone like you to keep things on track. If ever I need another priest, I’ll definitely bear you in mind.’ He wiped the mud off the sabre and hung it from his belt by the pommel-hook. ‘Where do I go after Josequin?’ he asked. ‘Let’s see, Sansory would be the logical choice, it’s nearer than Mael. Or better still, Deymeson, for a wide variety of excellent reasons. I assume you know, since you did all that background reading.’
The weight of what he’d done made Monach stagger, and his hand dropped instinctively to his sword hilt. ‘You mustn’t go to Josequin,’ he said. ‘Thousands of people live there.’
Poldarn was smiling. ‘Not for much longer. You do know who I am, don’t you? Or didn’t the books mention it?’
Grip the mouth of the scabbard with the left hand and turn it ninety degrees to the left. Place the side of the left thumb against the hilt and press it gently forward to free the sword in the scabbard. Lay the back of the right hand on the grip. ‘I can’t let you go to Josequin,’ Monach said. ‘My family lives there.’
‘You don’t know who I am,’ Poldarn said sadly. ‘What a pity, I was hoping you could tell me. But everybody I meet who knows me seems to die. Mostly I kill them. You’ve no idea how frustrating that is; and I’m only doing my job. It’s not as if I have any choice in the matter.’ He took a step forward; the middle finger of his right hand touched the pommel-hook of the backsabre. ‘I go where people ask for me,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if I’m not invited. Now get out of my way.’
‘No.’
Another step forward. One more after that would bring him inside Monach’s circle, the distance around him that he could reach with his sword from the draw. He’d been trained for twenty years to draw and strike as soon as the enemy came into his circle, to the point where the action became automatic, involuntary. It wasn’t as if he’d have any choice in the matter.
‘You were the one who came looking for me,’ Poldarn pointed out gently. ‘You asked for me.’
Poldarn lifted his foot, crossed the circumference of the invisible circle. Flip the right hand over and take a firm hold on the grip. Draw; right hand and right foot together, step into the enemy’s circle as you cut. A brother of the order who’s been trained in the draw need fear nothing on earth, there’s nothing, not even a god, he can’t kill.
Poldarn stepped backwards and dropped the backsabre, as Monach flicked the blood off the blade; the dead god was still standing when the ricasso clicked back into the mouth of the scabbard. Then he slumped and fell, splashing Monach’s face with mud. The crow spread its wings and flew slowly away, as somewhere behind him Father Tutor shook his head and sighed. ‘You’ve got to stop doing things like that,’ he said. ‘You’re becoming a liability to the order. I told you to find him, not—’
Monach opened his eyes; and the dream spread its wings and flapped away back into the darkness, carrying the memory of what he’d seen gripped in its beak. The old woman was standing over him, prodding him with her toe.
‘Breakfast,’ she said. ‘Fried oatmeal and cheese. Two quarters. ’
Monach nodded. He hated fried oatmeal. He was in Cric, so Josequin must have fallen in spite of him. He recalled that thought and wondered what the hell it meant.
Chapter Ten
Poldarn woke up out of a bad dream. There were crows in it, and a god who’d talked to him, and a lot of fright ening stuff he was glad to see the back of. He opened his eyes and saw something familiar: the back wheel of a cart, turning steadily.
‘You’re awake, then,’ muttered the carter. ‘That’s good. You know, for a top-of-the-line security guard, you spend a lot of time sleeping. Maybe the gods send you warnings in dreams.’
Poldarn sighed. It was a pity that the carter had taken against him so early, given that they were going to be spending the next four days together. The resentment was understandable, he supposed; he was being paid three times as much as the carter, and the carter was doing all the work (he’d offered to do a share of the driving, but the carter had just scowled suspiciously at him and not replied).
‘I’m sorry,’ he said mildly. ‘It’s very boring, sitting here with nothing to do. Sleeping helps pass the time.’
The carter flicked away a wasp with his left hand. ‘You snore,’ he said. ‘And you talk in your sleep. Never knew anybody like it for rabbiting on. Crazy stuff, a lot of it.’
‘Really?’ Poldarn sat up a little. ‘What sort of thing?’
‘Don’t ask me. I got better things to do than listen.’
Tactical error, Poldarn realised; by expressing an interest, he’d made the carter unwilling to tell him. Still, it wasn’t too late to change tack.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘I’ve never noticed that I talk in my sleep.’
‘Well of course you haven’t,’ the carter said. ‘Think about it.’
Poldarn shook his head. ‘Somebody would have mentioned it by now,’ he maintained. ‘Especially if I really said lots of crazy stuff.’
‘Oh, it was crazy all right,’ the carter replied. ‘Bloody weird, sometimes. All about wars and battles and dead bodies lying around the place; that’s when you aren’t talking to the gods. What you need is a double dose of rhubarb, clean you out a bit.’
‘I thought you said you weren’t listening.’
‘I wasn’t. But you talk so loud I couldn’t help hearing bits of it. No choice of mine, I promise you.’
‘Give me an example,’ Poldarn said. ‘Otherwise I’ll know you’re just bullshitting me.’
The carter laughed. ‘You asked for it,’ he said. ‘What about just now, when you were jabbering away; first it was somebody called Ciartan, next it was General Cronan, then it was the bloody emperor, if you please – I got an idea that’s probably treason, dreaming nutty dreams about the emperor – and then, like that wasn’t bad enough, you started talking to the gods. “No, I won’t do it,” you were saying – yelling, more like it, I didn’t know where to look. Kept on saying the same thing over and over again, “I won’t do it, I won’t do it.” I’d have woken you up, only they say if you wake someone up when they’re having nutty dreams, sometimes they stick like it. I’m telling you, it was better fun than the pantomime.’
Poldarn nodded. ‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ he said. ‘I really wish I could remember some of it. After all, why should you have all the fun?’
The carter shook his head. ‘And before that,’ he said, ‘when you were being Feron Amathy – though why you’d want to be a vicious little creep like that, God only knows. There you were, giving orders – “Burn the houses,” you were shouting, “burn the houses, don’t let any of them escape.” Turned me up just listening to you.’
‘Who’s Fern Amathy?’
The carter scowled again. ‘That’s not funny,’ he said. ‘There’s some things you shouldn’t make jokes about. People can get offended.’
Poldarn sighed. It was just starting to get dark, and a big flock of rooks were streaming by high overhead, making for a stand of thin larches. ‘I wasn’t trying to be funny,’ he said. ‘Seriously, I’m not from around here. Not even from this side of the bay. And I don’t recogn
ise the name.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ The carter looked at him sideways, as if checking to see if he had an extra finger on either hand now that he knew he was an offcomer. ‘Should’ve known, I suppose, by your voice.’
‘My voice?’
‘Yeah, your voice. You talk funny. Well, maybe not funny where you come from, but you know what I mean. You don’t talk right.’
Poldarn shrugged. He’d made a resolution, he reminded himself; not interested any more. ‘Be that as it may,’ he said. ‘Who’s Fern Amathy?’
‘Not Fern,’ the carter said. ‘Feron. Feron Amathy. Runs the biggest free company this side of the bay. Real bastard.’
Free company; ah yes, a euphemism for a band of mercenaries. He’d already gathered that they weren’t popular. ‘In what way?’ he asked.
‘Any way you care to name, really. Like, there’s a lot of people who reckon it’s not the raiders who go around burning down towns and cities, it’s the Amathy house, and they kill all the people to make sure there’s no witnesses to give the game away. Not all the towns and cities,’ the carter added, after a moment’s reflection. ‘It’s when they’re between jobs with nothing to do, they go around doing that sort of stuff and blaming it on the raiders. Real bastards, like I said.’
‘I agree with you,’ Poldarn said, ‘if it’s really them.’
‘Stands to reason,’ the carter replied, though he didn’t enlarge on it. ‘And then there’s how he treated General Allectus. There’s a lot of people had time for General Allectus, he wasn’t half as bad as he’s been made out. And even if he was no better than the others, there wasn’t any call for Feron Amathy to go changing sides like he did, right in the middle of the battle. That’s unprofessional, that is. I mean, before that, if you hired a free company, all right, it’s usually a bad move regardless of how things go in the war, but at least you could be pretty sure they wouldn’t stab you in the back. Now, though, they’re all doing it, and the upshot is, instead of being over nice and quick and clean, these bloody little wars keep dragging on and on, with one lot changing sides, then another lot going over to the other side, backwards and forwards like two mules ploughing. Chaos.’
