Shadow s-1

by K. J. Parker

'Tell me anyway,' Poldarn said.

  The little girl pulled a face. 'Well, they say he doesn't actually know he's a god, he just thinks he's one of us, a person. And he starts off by climbing up out of a river, and he keeps on going till he meets himself coming in the opposite direction. And then that's the end of the world. Like I said,' she added disdainfully, 'it's really silly, and I don't think anybody really believes it. Now do I get my buttons? You did promise.'

  Poldarn found the right jar and counted out a dozen buttons. 'Thanks,' he said. 'You won your bet after all. You're clever.'

  'I know,' the girl jeered, and skipped away.

  By the time Copis woke up he'd got the awning down and folded up the trestles. 'You were right,' he said, 'absolutely no point staying here. We'll make a start towards Deymeson and sleep out; with luck, that'll get us to Forial good and early. Assuming,' he added, 'it's still there when we arrive.'

  Forial was still there, and it was well and truly open for business. They did a very brisk trade all day, and in the rare intervals when he wasn't taking money Poldarn tried to find out about what had happened in the other village. Yes, it was true what the girl had told him; in fact the place had had a fairly dreadful time of it over the last twenty years or so. First it had been completely erased by the raiders, or by somebody-a lot of people reckoned it was the Amathy house, since they'd been in the district at the time on their way back from a war that got cancelled at the last moment, but of course there wasn't any proof; then the emperor himself had sent money and builders to restore it, by way of showing how much he cared about the northern provinces, not that anybody believed him. But it had been a good job, and quite soon they were doing a wonderful business in fruit and vegetables with Sansory and everybody was starting to get annoyingly prosperous. Then the Amathy house had shown up-definitely them this time, they were fighting for General Allectus against General Cronan, and they needed a couple of hundred labourers to build a wall or dig a trench or raise a siege mound or something of the sort, so they rounded up all the men and quite a few of the women and the older children-they had the authority; some kind of general warrant issued by the prefect of Sansory-and marched them off to do whatever it was that needed doing, but it all went wrong; the thing they were building fell down or caved in, or the enemy attacked it suddenly, and they were all killed. It was a terrible shame, the people of Forial told him, and a bloody good job Feron Amathy had gone there instead of here for his work detail. Feron Amathy was a menace, no two ways about it, though this new man, Cronan, he was probably just as bad, because when you came right down to it, they all were; them and the raiders and the government soldiers too. Still, at least it wasn't as bad as what happened to Vistock.

  What happened to Vistock, Poldarn asked; and where was Vistock, anyway?

  Ah, they told him, good question. Well, if he carried on up the road another half a day and he kept his eyes open and it was a time of year when the grass was short, he might just be able to make out some scorched patches on the ground, even now. That was Vistock. And that really was the raiders, they added. It all happened a long time ago, mind, over forty years ago, and though the land around there wasn't bad and it was all up for grabs, what with everybody being dead, nobody'd ever shown any interest at all in going out there and staking a claim. Well, apart from one old woman who still lived there, in some kind of mouldy old hut, but she was crazy, so that didn't count.

  Poldarn supposed you'd have to be crazy to live all alone out in the wilds like that.

  Ah yes, but she was a lot crazier than that. She figured she was the mother of the god in the cart; you know, the one who's going to turn up at the end of the world. Now that had to be a special kind of crazy, didn't it?

  By nightfall they'd sold the best part of eight hundred buttons. When they'd packed up the stall, Copis asked where the inn was. There wasn't an inn. But the blacksmith might be prepared to let them sleep over in his barn for a few quarters. A few turned out to be six, rather more than they'd have spent in a reasonably good inn; the barn was cold, with a damp floor (like the Potto house) and a thoroughly objectionable goose, which brayed at them all night and managed to get out of the way of everything they threw at it.

  They were ready to leave as soon as the sun rose. 'Deymeson,' Copis said. 'There's nothing to stop for between here and there, so we should be able to get there in a day if we don't hang about.'

  Poldarn shook his head. 'Actually,' he said, 'I want to stop off on the way.'

  Vistock wasn't hard to find. It was where a village should have been, where the road forded a small, inoffensive river. The first thing they could make out was the shell of a mill-house, with a wrecked and moss-grown wheel sunk in the water. Inside the building they found a lump of rust that had once been an anvil and the charred stump of a trip-hammer. There was only one other structure still standing: half a barn (the other half had fallen in a long time ago, there were still signs of fire on the rounded ends of the rafters) surrounded on two sides by an overgrown wall.

  'Over there, I suppose,' Poldarn said.

  'What the hell could there possibly be in there worth stopping for?' Copis asked.

  'No idea,' Poldarn replied. 'Come on.'

  Someone had made a half-hearted attempt at boarding in the remaining half of the barn. There was even a door, hanging out of the fence of rotten timbers on two straps of mouldy rope. There really didn't seem to be much point in knocking, since you could get through the gap between the door and the fence if you went sideways and held your breath, but Poldarn knocked anyway.

  'Go away,' said a voice from inside.

  'Good God,' Copis whispered. 'There's someone in there.'

  'I know,' Poldarn replied. 'That's why we're here.'

  He opened the door into darkness. An egg hit him in the face.

  Luckily it caught him on the chin, so he didn't have to worry about razor-sharp splinters of shell in his eyes. He wiped it away with the back of his left hand and called out, 'Hello?'

  'Piss off. I got a knife.'

  Poldarn peered round, but it was very dark indeed inside and he couldn't see anything. 'Can I come in?' he asked.

  'No. Get lost, before I stick this knife in you.'

  'There's no call to be like that,' Poldarn said.

  'Yes there is. Get out, or I'll kill you.'

  Poldarn was using the voice to find whoever it was. It was low for a woman's voice, rather breathy in a way that suggested some kind of chronic lung trouble. 'We don't mean you any harm,' he said. 'I'd just like to ask you a few questions.'

  'Get out. Go away, before I set the dogs on you.'

  It was fairly obvious that there weren't any dogs. 'Really,' he said, listening hard, 'we aren't going to hurt you or steal your stuff. We've come a long way.'

  'I don't give a damn if you've come all the way from bloody Morevich, you're not-' That was enough for Poldarn to get a fix; he reached out quickly into the dark and grabbed, and connected with a thin, tight arm. He could feel small muscles, as hard as rope, under old skin.

  'Sorry,' he said, dragging on the arm, 'but I do need to ask you some things. Won't take long.'

  She may have been lying about the dogs, but not the knife, but Poldarn knew the moment her hand violated his circle, and he caught her wrist easily. A quick twist, enough to hurt without damaging, was enough to make her drop the knife. He pulled firmly, overcoming rather more resistance than he'd expected, and led her out into the light.

  Not a pretty sight. It was fairly evident that she didn't feel the cold, since she wasn't wearing any clothes; as a result, it was hard to miss the shiny white scar that ran from her left hip almost to her navel. She had a fuzz of tangled grey hair, with things in it, and a jaw that had set badly after being broken a long time ago. She stopped struggling when Poldarn let go of her, and sat down on a log that looked as if it had done long service as a chopping-block.

  'Who the bloody hell are you, then?' she asked, and sneezed.

  Poldarn grinned.
'You know,' he said, 'that's a very good question. But if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a question of my own first. Is it true you've got a son?'

  She scowled at him, and wiped her nose on the back of her wrist. 'Come to make fun, have you?' she said. 'I know your sort. You'll be old too one day, and then you'll be sorry.'

  Poldarn shook his head. 'I'd really like to know,' he said.

  'All right.' She reached down behind the log and produced a small axe-Poldarn could have sworn it hadn't been there a moment ago. 'But you lay off me, or so help me I'll smack your head in. You got that?'

  'Sure,' Poldarn replied. 'So, is it true?'

  She nodded. 'I did have a son once, yes. Had him for all of ten days, before they came over from Vistock; said they reckoned it was about time for the kid to be born, and it wasn't right, trying to bring up a kid out here. They told me I had to go with them, I said I wasn't going. One of them grabbed him, my baby, so I cut his throat.' She paused to pinch something out of her eye; she was very delicate and precise about it, nipping whatever it was off her eyeball with the ends of her jagged nails and flicking it away. 'Well, that was him dealt with, and they went away. But they took the boy, and I've never seen or heard of him since. That was a long time ago.'

  Poldarn, who was kneeling down beside her, nodded. 'What about this story I heard in Forial,' he asked, 'about the god in the cart? How did that start?'

  She turned her head and looked at him. 'Oh, that's who he was, all right,' she said. 'He told me so himself.'

  'I see,' Poldarn said, without emphasis. 'When he was ten days old.'

  'No, of course not,' she replied, frowning. 'Don't talk so stupid. No, it was in a dream. I saw him.'

  'You saw him,' Poldarn repeated. 'As a baby, or was he grownup?'

  'Oh, he was all grown up,' she replied. 'But I knew it was him. And he knew who I was, too. He stopped the cart and got out-he was standing about where that stone is.' She pointed with her left hand, but Poldarn didn't turn to look; the axe was still in her right hand, and he didn't want to take his eye off it just yet. 'Anyway, he smiled at me-always did have a nice smile, of course-and then he got back in and rode away. The smile's from my mother's side, though he had his father's nose.'

  'His father.'

  'Yes, him.' She frowned. 'One of Feron Amathy's men, he was,' she went on, looking down at her feet. 'It was them burned the village, you know, and killed everybody. Never knew why; I suppose we were in the way or something.'

  'Oh,' Poldarn said. 'I'd heard it was the raiders.'

  'That's right. Feron Amathy's men. From across the sea.' She found a stub of twig and started whittling at it with the hatchet blade. 'When he was finished with me he was going to kill me, but I was too quick for him. Always was quick with my hands,' she added with a smile. 'That's how I got my knife. Been a good knife over the years, I'd be lost without it. It was lying there on the ground, he was reaching for it, but I got it first and stuck it in his ear. Just there,' she added, 'where you're kneeling, that's where he fell. Landed on his face, and I pulled the knife out and ran. One of his mates was just by the door, he took a swing at me with one of those big inside-out swords of theirs-that's how I got this, in case you were wondering.' She drew a fingertip down the line of the long scar, tracing it by feel, almost affectionately. 'And this was later,' she added, touching her jaw, 'when the government soldiers came through. Was that what you wanted to ask about?'

  Poldarn nodded slowly. 'So your son, the god in the cart-his father was a raider, and you killed him.'

  'That's right.'

  'But he's the god in the cart.'

  'I just told you that. You think I'm mental, don't you?'

  Poldarn shook his head. 'I can't see any reason not to believe you,' he said. 'Do you think you'd know him again if you saw him, after all these years?'

  She scowled. 'My own kid? Of course I would. He's got my mother's chin and his father's nose. I'd know him anywhere.'

  Poldarn stood up. 'And you've been here ever since,' he said. It wasn't meant as a question. 'How do you manage? What do you live on?'

  She smiled. Once upon a time, it would probably have been a very nice smile. 'I trade,' she said.

  'I see,' Poldarn said. 'What do you trade?'

  'None of your business.'

  'I agree,' Poldarn replied. 'There's no reason why you should tell me if you don't want to, I'm just interested.'

  With a turn of her wrist that was too fast for Poldarn's eye to follow, she flicked the hatchet into the log, right between her knees. 'I trade with Master Potto Ilec of Sansory,' she said proudly. 'He sends a wagon up here four times a year, with jars of flour and some cheese and bacon. He needs me,' she added, 'he can't get the good stuff anywhere else, for fear of people knowing. He sends his own son and his two brothers and his uncle, because he won't trust anybody else not to tell.'

  Poldarn was holding his breath without knowing it. 'Would you like to tell me what you give him in return for the food?'

  She reached down, pulled up the sole of her foot, like a farrier shoeing a horse, and examined it. 'Master Potto Ilec makes buttons,' she said. 'For the really special buttons he likes to use a special kind of bone, with a fine, straight grain and a good feather. It's got to be properly dried and seasoned, and it's got to be the right colour, dark brown. It's the colour that makes it so hard to find.'

  'I think I see,' Poldarn said.

  'You can't stain it,' she went on, 'it only goes that colour when it's charred in a fire-that dries it up, see, gets all the grease out-and then left to weather, out in the wind and the rain. Takes a long time to cure, according to Master Potto Ilec, you can't rush it. Very hard to find these days.'

  'Thank you,' Poldarn said, 'you've been very helpful. Can I ask you one last question?'

  She looked up at the sky. 'Don't see why not,' she said.

  He took a step closer. 'Your son,' he said, 'did you give him a name, by any chance?'

  She shook her head. 'Didn't get round to it. I had other things on my mind, really.'

  'Right. Does the name Poldarn mean anything to you?'

  'Poldarn.' She thought for a moment. 'No,' she said, 'doesn't ring any bells.'

  Poldarn felt in the pocket of his coat. 'Those special buttons,' he said. 'Are they anything like these?'

  She glanced at the buttons he'd taken from his pocket and shook her head. 'Too pale,' she said. 'And they're not quite as big as that. They showed me one once, so I could be sure to match the colour.'

  Poldarn stepped back towards the cart, still facing her every step of the way. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Is there anything you'd like us to bring you? We'll be passing here again on our way back in a few days.'

  She shook her head. 'I got everything I need right here,' she said, 'thanks to Master Potto Ilec, and Feron Amathy.'

  Poldarn looked at her. 'You didn't need the kid, then.'

  'No.'

  'Ah. Well, thank you for talking to us.'

  'You're welcome. And now you can piss off and leave me in peace.'

  Copis didn't say anything for a long time, not until the ruins of Vistock were out of sight behind the horizon. It was as if she was afraid the mad woman would hear her. 'You didn't ask her name,' she said.

  'You're right,' Poldarn replied, 'I didn't.'

  'Oh. Why not?'

  He shrugged. 'I forgot. I suppose I figured it wasn't important. Talking of which, is Copis your real name?'

  She laughed. 'No,' she replied.

  He didn't make any comment about that, which annoyed her. 'Aren't you going to ask me what my real name is?' she said.

  'No,' Poldarn replied. 'You can tell me if you want to.'

  She scowled. 'If you must know, it's Xipho Dorunoxy. And I'm not really from Torcea, though I did live there for years, when I was a kid. I'm from Exo.'

  'I see,' Poldarn said. 'Where's that?'

  'Oh, a long way away, inland to the east. It isn't even a province of the empire any more. I think it broke
away about sixty years ago, though our people still come and go quite freely across the border. You aren't interested, are you?'

  He shook his head. 'One thing I've learned lately,' he said, 'is how little it matters what people call themselves or where they come from. They seem to have an idea that without things like that they'll lose their shape and collapse, like a bowl of water if you suddenly take the bowl away. Well, I'm here to prove it isn't true.'

  She looked at him in silence for a while. 'You're really trying hard to believe that, aren't you?' she said.

  'Yes.'

  'Any luck?'

  'Not really, no.'

  She laughed again. 'Did I ever tell you what the iron-master told me?'

  'What iron-master.'

  'Ah.' She took off her shoe and shook something out of it, then put it back on. 'Well, I've told you that some of the customers where I used to work liked to talk sometimes, tell me things. I haven't a clue why; I suppose I had a knack of looking like I was interested, and men who're important in business like to talk about what they're doing, stuff they're pleased or proud about, but of course it's usually technical, so nobody outside the shop can understand what they're talking about. Anyway, they used to explain things to me-how things work, how they're made, that sort of stuff.'

  'And you listened.'

  'It was better than work, that's for sure.' She pushed her hair back behind her ears. 'One of them was an iron-master, like I said. He had a big foundry for brass and copper, and an enormous furnace and great big trip-hammers for the iron and steel-apparently you can't melt iron, the fire's not hot enough, you can only make it soft and squeeze it out of the ore into big lumps, what they call blooms. Then if you want to make plates or bars or whatever, you've got to get it hot till it's soft and beat it into shape.'

  'I see,' Poldarn said. 'How fascinating.'

  'Shut up, I'm getting there. With scrap, you see, it's different. You sort it all out into piles-soft iron in one pile, hard steel in another, and the soft iron that gets turned into steel, like old horseshoes and wheel tyres and stuff, in a third; and then what you do is you get them all hot and you hammer them and hammer them until they're all welded together into the shapes your customers want-bars and plates and rods. Ever such a lot of work, he told me.'