Memory

Chapter Four

'What the hell sort of a sword do you call that, then?' the wheelwright said, with a mixture of apprehension and scorn in his voice. 'Looks more like an overgrown beanhook to me.'

Several of the men behind him laughed, but mostly out of loyalty. Ciartan grinned.

'You never seen one of these before?' he asked.

The wheelwright shook his head. Ciartan shrugged, as he surreptitiously looked round for something he knew was missing. Clear skies behind the bleak, bare winter branches of the trees, not a crow to be seen anywhere. Just as he was starting to worry, he caught sight of the inn sign, and nearly laughed out loud: a single crow on a light blue background, though it looked rather more like a sooty chicken with a broken neck. Anyhow, that was all right.

'Seen plenty of swords,' the wheelwright was saying. 'My dad was in the free companies all his life, got his old sword up in the rafters somewhere. Never seen anything like that.'

The inn was called the Redemption amp; Retribution; it was the first inn Ciartan had ever seen, though he'd learned all about them, naturally. Inns, they'd told him were where members of the local community gathered to relax, exchange news and discuss current events while drinking beer and playing games of skill and chance: ideal places to gather intelligence unobtrusively and assess the mood of the country. He could see what they'd been getting at, but he reckoned they hadn't expressed themselves very well..

'Here,' Ciartan said, backflipping the sword a couple of times (this impressed the crowd no end) and presenting it to the wheelwright hilt first, horns upwards. 'See what you make of it.'

The wheelwright took it as if he was shaking hands with his dead grandmother. 'Not bad,' he admitted. 'Lighter than it looks, too. Where did you say it comes from?'

They really should have warned him about the beer. Sure, it tasted like last month's rainwater, but apparently it was quite strong, enough to get you into conversations you'd have preferred to avoid. 'That I don't know,' Ciartan said. 'I bought it off a bloke in an inn; he said it was from up north somewhere. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.'

Maybe he'd said that in time, maybe not; at least one of the other men seemed to be able to recognise a raider backsabre when he saw one. As for his explanation, his advisers had made a point of telling him that 'bought it off a bloke in an inn' was a credible provenance for nearly anything, no matter how sinister its associations. With luck, the men in the crowd would assume it was a battlefield pick-up, or something of the sort. If not well, he'd just have to kill them all, that was all. Serve him right for being indiscreet.

'Nice,' the wheelwright grunted, handing the sword back to him. 'But I wouldn't reckon it for actually using, not with that weird shape. I mean, you couldn't get that out the scabbard in a hurry, for a start. Not without slicing off your own fingers.'

'Really?' Even as he said the word, Ciartan was begging himself not to show off. Unfortunately, he couldn't have been listening. He sheathed the backsabre and let his hands fall down by his sides; then, without any conscious decision, he drew. Logic dictated that there had to have been a moment between sheathed and drawn, but if there was one, Ciartan wasn't aware of it. The point, he realised, was resting on the side of the wheelwright's neck, with precisely the amount of pressure that wouldn't quite cut the skin. He grinned, double-backflipped and slid the sword back into its scabbard.

'Fucking hell,' someone said. The wheelwright just stared at him.

'It's a knack, really,' Ciartan heard himself say, but all his attention was on plotting the best way out of the situation, the most direct route to the tethering post where his horse was waiting, without turning his back on them or breaking eye contact. 'You've got to do a sort of wiggle to get the curved bit past the bend in the scabbard. Once you've mastered that, it's a doddle.'

Nobody said anything. Gather intelligence unobtrusively, they'd said. Well, unobtrusive was a joke, and by the looks of it he still needed to get a whole bunch of intelligence from somewhere if he was planning to be alive come summer. Laying off the beer wouldn't hurt, either.

'Well,' he said, 'I'd better be getting along. Thanks for the drinks and all.'

He made it to his horse, jumped up and didn't look back to see if he was being followed. Chances were that he wasn't; they were farmers and craftsmen, not soldiers, so they were under no obligation to go picking a fight with a retreating hostile. They'd undoubtedly mention his performance to the first patrol or convoy they met, however, so he was a very long way from being clear. Best thing would be to put as much road between the Redemption amp; Retribution and himself as he could manage in the time available.

Three miles later, Ciartan stopped and looked down the valley, back towards the village. On the positive side, he couldn't see any dust clouds betokening squadrons of pursuing cavalry. On the other hand, here he was, miles out in the bush, no food, no blanket, and the only inn for miles around definitely out of bounds for the foreseeable future. Also, the beer was catching up with him. Things to do: throw up, lie down, find a cave or something before it started pissing down with rain.

He slid off his horse, knelt down and waited. Up there on the horse, he'd been certain he was about to be sick; down here, it was no more than a distinct possibility. He swallowed a couple of times and closed his eyes. All in all, he wished he'd never left Haldersness 'You,' said a voice behind him.

Instinct took over, but various things got in the way; his balance was shot and his physical control was way below par, so that when he tried to draw, he forgot or overdid the scabbard-clearing wiggle and tried to pull the sword out through the neck of its scabbard. The blade was as sharp as a good blade ought to be and did its best; it sliced through the wood and leather and bit into the fingers of his left hand. He winced, swore and let go. The voice behind him (he'd forgotten all about him, just for the moment) was laughing.

Try again. He made himself relax; draw the sword slowly, he ordered himself, there's no need to rush it. This time he managed it and stood up, trying hard not to stagger. He'd screwed up badly but he was still alive, so things weren't too bad, after all.

The voice belonged to a young man about his own age, who was sitting on a small-looking mule ten yards or so away. Black hooded cloak, good quality, but you'd expect someone who could afford fine cloth to go for something rather less plain and drab. A uniform, maybe; or, more likely, religious garb of some kind. The man's face was bright and pink, and his hair was short, standing on end as if he'd just taken off his hat. Ciartan had seen more menacing objects floating in his milk; but then the kid drew back the hem of his cloak-a rather melodramatic gesture-to reveal the hilt of a sword.

Ah, Ciartan thought, I'm supposed to be scared. Well, why not? I'm not bothered either way, and it doesn't look like anybody wants a fight. 'Hello,' he said.

'You cut your hand.'

'Yes,' Ciartan replied. 'Clumsy. You startled me,' he added, as an afterthought.

'I was watching you,' the kid said, 'back at the inn there. I was wondering what the hell you thought you were playing at.'

'Me too,' Ciartan admitted. 'It was that filthy disgusting beer. Back on the farm, we stuck to water and ewes' milk.'

'Ah,' the kid said, nodding gravely. 'You're not from round here, then.'

'No.' Always tell the truth if it's not absolutely inconvenient. 'Passing through.'

'Thought so. On your way to Deymeson.'

'Where?'

The kid didn't believe him. 'Deymeson,' he repeated. 'On your way to join the order. Start of the new academic year. You're obviously new, because I haven't seen you there and believe me,' he added with a grin, 'I'd remember you if I had. My name's Gain, by the way. Gain Aciava.' Ciartan nodded politely. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said. 'Just a moment,' he added, and threw up, only just missing the toes of his boots. 'Sorry, yes. I'm Ciartan Torstenson.'

'Honoured,' the kid replied, with just the right degree of well-bred disdain. 'What's the matter?' he went on. 'Something you ate?'

'Yes,' Ciartan said.

'Ah. So you can draw that weird gadget pretty good, and yet you're not on your-way to Deymeson. Curious.'

'Never heard of it till you mentioned it just now,' Ciartan said truthfully. 'What happens there, then?'

'It's a house of religion,' Aciava told him. 'Correction; it's the house of religion. Holiest place in the Empire. Headquarters of the order.'

'Fine,' Ciartan said. 'I'm not religious.'

That seemed to puzzle the kid. 'You think so?'

'Well, yes.'

The kid shrugged. 'Well, it's your business. You looked pretty damned good at it back there at the inn, but what the hell, I'm no expert. Maybe it was just a trick of the light or something.'

Not for the first time, Ciartan wished his head was just a little bit clearer. 'What's what happened back at the inn got to do with religion?' he asked.

'When you drew your sword-' The kid frowned. 'Hang on,' he said. 'You don't know, do you?'

This was starting to get on Ciartan's nerves. 'Don't know what?'

'Religion,' Aciava said patiently. 'The sacrament of the sword. It's only the most profound concept in the whole of orthodox doctrine.' He was hesitating, Ciartan could tell; something had struck him as not quite right, but he couldn't figure out what it was. 'You don't know about-'

'What you said, yes. Never heard of it.' True, it was a risk; it made him seem odd, conspicuous. On the other hand, pretending he knew would be an even bigger risk, liable to betray him as a spy or impostor, which of course he was. 'So, what's it all about, then?'

The kid's eyebrows shot up. 'Well,' he said, 'it's hard to explain, really. The idea is that-oh shit, I never was any good at this stuff, I'm more the practical sort myself. Faith through works, all that kind of nonsense. Anyhow, the deal is, religion-or let's call it the presence of the divine, all right? Wherever you have an instance of perfection, the divine is present. I mean, that much stands to reason, surely, because if the divine wasn't present, it couldn't be perfect, could it? Anyway, that's by the way. Religion-and now I'm talking about your formal, organised religion, the stuff that people do in order to sort of cultivate the presence of the divine within themselves-religion is trying to create instances of perfection by, well, doing things perfectly. You know; light in me the fire that makes all things fine, and all that crap.'

Ciartan assumed that that was a quotation, something so well known that even he ought to be able to recognise it.

'Well, anyhow,' Aciava went on, 'you know what it's like, there just aren't that many things in life that can be done perfectly; not perfectly, like in you simply can't imagine them being better. Most stuff in life just isn't like that. So the monks-they're the people who do religion all the time-they looked around for something that they could learn to do perfectly, and that's how they came to study swordsmanship; to be precise, the art of drawing your sword and chopping the other bloke so quick, it's all over before he can even move. It's perfection, see? You eliminate the moment between the sword being in the belt and the sword being wedged in the other poor bugger's head, and that's perfect. It's an act of the gods, quite literally; because an ordinary man could never manage to do it, he can draw a sword pretty bloody quick but there'll always be a moment in between. But the gods, the divine, they can sort of snip out that moment so it's just not there, and that's perfection. Religion, in fact. And that's what they do at Deymeson.'

Ciartan wasn't sure he quite followed. 'They kill each other?'

'No, no, they practise with wooden swords, it's all perfectly civilised. They practise, and they train, and there're these old, really holy monks who've been training since before they could walk, practically, who teach you all about it. Plus you do a lot of meditating, and you've got to learn the theory, of course, and a whole lot of mysticism and stuff which apparently you've got to know or else you're wasting your time. And in the end, if you work really hard at it and you understand all the theory and you're very lucky, you get to achieve religion and get a piece of the divine actually inside you-'

'Like a tapeworm?'

The kid scowled. 'Yes, I know, it all sounds a bit dumb. But that's just because I'm not explaining it right-you need one of them to explain it. And the point is, if you can do the sword-drawing stuff that well without being trained at all, then it sort of stands to reason that you're halfway there already; maybe you've even got a little tiny bit of the divine in you that's been there ever since you were born. I mean, that'd practically make you a god, even though you don't seem to be aware of it.'

Ciartan thought for a moment. 'So you're saying you think I should go to this Deymeson place and join up. It can't be as simple as that, though. I mean, presumably there's a test before they'll let you join up. And what about board and lodging, and paying for the teaching, and things like that? I haven't got any money-'

'They have,' Aciava said. 'They're incredibly rich. You see, people give them money, and leave them money and land and stuff when they die, so the monks will pray for their souls. And they get money from tithes and local taxes and customs and tolls and all sorts of things. They're major landowners, particularly up north-which is why some people send their sons to join, so they'll work their way up the ladder and become abbots and whatever, as an alternative to going in the army or to Court. The point being, if they want you, they'll pay for your keep and all your tuition and everything, for the rest of your life. I mean, for poor families it's a wonderful deal.'

'I can see that,' Ciartan said. 'So, what do you have to do to get in? Do you just have to draw a sword very quickly, or is there other stuff as well?'

The kid shook his head. 'It's not like that,' he said. 'When I joined, I was shown into this long, dark room, and half a dozen of the senior tutors and so on looked at me for a while, and they asked me a question or two, which didn't seem to make much sense but I'd been expecting that so it didn't bother me; then I had to show them a few draws; and then the Father Tutor, that's the senior monk in charge of training, told me I'd passed and where to go to get my clothes and stuff, and that was it, I started straight away; in classes the next day. Mind you, our family's been sending its younger sons to Deymeson for six hundred years. But what I'm trying to say is, if they think you've got what it takes, they'll take you in and train you, even if you're-well, nobody. It's like they say: it's not who you are or who you used to be, it's who you're going to be that's important.'

Ciartan thought about it for a moment or so. The whole thing sounded pretty bizarre to him, especially the vague bits about perfection. On the other hand he had to face facts; when his people had brought him here, obviously they'd only had a very sketchy idea about how the Empire worked. They'd imagined it was more like back home, where there was a place for everyone and everyone found his place. Instead, it had turned out to be all loose and ragged and disorganised; everyone telling everyone else what to do, nobody actually doing anything. In consequence, he'd had to think about all sorts of things that really ought to have taken care of themselves, such as food and clothes and places to sleep. What was more, providing for even such basic things as these was hardly easy or straightforward. In fact, it was absurdly hard to make a living here, unless you owned land (now there was a strange notion; it was like the ox owning the plough) or your family had taught you a trade, or there was some other pre-existing pattern you could fit into. In a way it was like being an off comer back home, except that here everybody was an offcomer, and nobody knew where they ought to be. By comparison, the order sounded almost normal. And further, Ciartan considered, if the order was rich and powerful like the kid said, what better way to gather useful intelligence and so on than to get in with the upper crust? Put like that 'You really think I'd be able to get in?'

'Of course.' Aciava smiled. He seemed pleased, as though he'd just found a big clump of mushrooms. 'Trust me. Come along with me, and everything'll be just fine.'

Ciartan took a step back. 'I know it's silly,' he said, 'but every time someone says Trust me, I get suspicious. What's it to you whether I join this order of yours or not?'

'What on earth do you mean?' The kid looked suddenly hurt and angry, as if Ciartan had just spat in his face. 'I'm just trying to be helpful, that's all. And doing my bit for religion, like we're supposed to. Why? What other reason could there be?'

Offhand, Ciartan couldn't think of one; nor could he figure out why the two crows that were circling overhead were in any way relevant. But they were, because (Because he remembered: he'd had a dream once, when he'd been just a child, back at Haldersness. He could remember the dream, because it had had crows in it, and that meant the dream didn't just evaporate as soon as he woke up. In that dream he'd been here, exactly this place, talking to this rather annoying young man. In fact, he'd had this same dream several times and, on each occasion, as soon as the kid asked him What other reason could there be? he'd woken up.)

Aciava was staring at him. He didn't look happy. 'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Well, have you come up with a reason why I should want you to come to Deymeson, apart from trying to help you and help the order? I think you'd better think of one, because otherwise I'm going to have to take that as an insult.'

(Every time, Ciartan remembered, except once; and on that occasion, the dream had been slightly different, because part of the way through-at this exact point, in fact-everything had changed suddenly. Both he and the kid were somehow much older, and the kid wasn't asking him to come to Deymeson. He was asking him to join up with some other venture, which apparently involved people they both knew, old classmates, something like that. For some reason, he'd told the kid no, and things had started going wrong after that; cracks in the clay, lies, mistaken identities, (Clay? What clay?) deception and murder and coincidences and just plain rotten luck. And for some reason, it had been very important-he'd made a point of telling himself he had to remember this when he woke up-that the pattern that recreates the lost shape (where the tallow is burnt out in the middle) is in fact an empty hole, a gap waiting to be filled, like a blank memory.)

Deep breath. 'I'm sorry,' Ciartan said, and Aciava relaxed-it occurred to Ciartan that if he hadn't apologised the kid would've felt obliged to fight him or something like that, and the thought of fighting him was scaring the kid half to death. 'I didn't mean to insult you,' Ciartan went on. 'It was just me thinking aloud. I guess I'm not used to people being nice for no reason.'

'Well,' the kid replied, 'I guess that's fair enough. Only, it's not for no reason. Religion's a reason, and after all, I'm training to be a monk, hopefully an ordained priest further along the line. Got to start somewhere, you know. And it'll do me no harm at all with Father Tutor if I bring along a good new recruit for the start of the new term.'

Was that just a little bit glib, a tad too reasonable? No, Ciartan decided, it could have been, but this time it wasn't. 'That's all right, then,' he said. 'I guess that makes it mutual benefit.'

'Exactly.' Aciava smiled. 'The only way to receive is to give,' he added portentously, 'and that's a genuine five-quarter precept of religion.'

A what? Ciartan wanted to ask; but instead he woke up, because some bastard was prodding him in the shoulder with a stick.

'Piss off,' Poldarn muttered.

'I said, wake up,' Banspati replied. 'Bloody hell, you're harder to wake up than a dead tree.'

Poldarn opened his eyes. 'What do you want?' he grumbled.

'You missed the meeting.'

'What meeting?'

'The one you missed. It was important. We had a vote and everything.'

Poldarn remembered. That meeting. To decide whether, in view of the fact that they'd spent the last four weeks trying to cast the Falcata guild bell and every time the mould had failed, they should close the works down or keep trying. And he'd missed it. Buggery.

'Oh, right,' he said, sitting up. 'So, what was the result?'

Banspati sighed. 'Bloody disaster,' he said mournfully. 'You know, there's times when I wonder why the hell I bother. I mean, it's an uphill struggle every bloody step of the way, and at my time of life I just don't need this kind of-'

'The vote,' Poldarn interrupted. 'Yes or no?'

Banspati pulled a face. 'Yes and no,' he said. 'What they all reckoned was-and since when does voting for something make it true even if it isn't? Supposed to be craftsmen, but I didn't see any bloody sign of it. Anyhow, what they reckon is, the only way we're going to get this fucking bell made is if we let the core dry out thoroughly-I mean, really dry out, like three weeks before we even put on the tallow. What difference that's supposed to make I really don't know, but hey, I'm just the bloody foreman.'

'Three weeks,' Poldarn repeated.

'That's right. We make a core, leave it three weeks, then we carry on. In the meantime, I'm afraid I'm having to lay the lot of you off. Don't want to, can't afford not to. We've got this fucking penalty clause hanging over us, and there just isn't the money for wages until we know how much we're going to be made to pay.'

Poldarn scowled at him. 'Wonderful,' he said. 'And what're we supposed to live on in the meantime?'

Banspati shrugged. 'That's your business,' he said. 'If I was you, I'd start looking round for a job somewhere, just to tide you over. After all, you've got to eat, and we can't pay you.'

Poldarn stood up. 'What do you mean, get a job? A job doing what? This isn't the city, you know, I can't just go to the hiring fair or stand about outside the corn exchange till somebody hires me. We're in the middle of nowhere-'

'Well, the others are in the same boat too,' Banspati replied. 'It's not just you, you know. And don't pull faces at me like it's all my fault. I didn't vote for this bloody stupid idea, so you can't go blaming me.'

Poldarn never did find out for certain whose idea it had been or whose fault it was. Nobody at all seemed happy about it, even though the vote in support of the motion had apparently been unanimous (though everybody he asked said they'd voted against, which was odd). More important, nobody seemed to have given any thought as to how they were going to earn a living while the works were shut down.

Poldarn had been exaggerating slightly when he'd said they were in the middle of nowhere. Falcata was only a few days away, and there were half a dozen small villages that could be reached in a day or so of hard walking. But the chances of finding any work at that time of year were slim to non-existent. Any day now, the rains would start; the flat plain that began at lino and stretched over as far as the lower slopes of the Sourwater Hills would soon be flooded, with only the villages and the embanked roads above water. Good for the reed-beds and the osier gardens; good for the market gardeners in the fat strip between Falcata and the Green River, since the alluvial silt that the flood water washed down off Sourhead was just the job for beans and cabbages. For everyone else on the levels, it was simply a fact of life; six weeks every year when you stayed home and found something to do indoors. It had never been a fact of life that bothered the foundry crew, since the flood water had never come far enough up the vale to affect them, and if they had finished work to deliver, there were always barges and rafts-easier, in fact, to float a bell than lug it about on a cart. So long as everybody stayed where they were meant to be, in fact, the wet season was nothing to worry about, and who'd be stupid enough to go wandering about in those conditions?

Someone or other, possibly Malla Ancola but probably not, made vague noises about sticking together and taking the road up the vale into the hills, through the big woods and out the other side, heading for Balehut or even the coast. That idea was so impractical that nobody could be bothered to point out the problems; but someone else suggested spending the forced holiday in the woods, burning their own supply of charcoal, which (if they got it right) could save them enough money to cover what they stood to lose on the penalty clause, in the long term; and as for the short term, everybody knew how easy it was to live off the land in a forest, hunting and gathering all those deer and birds and wild pigs and nuts and roots and berries, not to mention wild mushrooms and truffles. In fact, the argument ran, the only real danger was that they'd get so used to the carefree life of the forester and the collier that they'd never want to go back to rotten old foundry work.

This proposal went the rounds all the next day and halfway through the night, and then died, as quickly and suddenly as it had arisen; at which point people started to drift away, most of them aiming without much hope to reach Falcata before the rain started. The group Poldarn joined up with, however, declared that they were headed the other way. Burning their own coals, they acknowledged, was obviously not a realistic proposition (why this was so, nobody bothered to say; presumably because it was obvious and they didn't want to look ignorant); but hadn't Poldarn said they were always on the lookout for casual labour at the burning camps, to replace the ones who suddenly took it into their heads to drift away and do something else? It was worth a try; and even if there wasn't any food, from what Poldarn had told them there was no shortage of free beer for anybody who was too slow to get out of the way in time.

Poldarn wasn't entirely sure that that was what he'd said; but it couldn't be denied that his memory wasn't the best in the world, so maybe they were right, at that. At any rate, since this expedition appeared in some way to have been his idea, he felt more or less obliged to tag along with it; also, he could see the sense in setting off up the hill if the plains were about to flood. As far as his companions in the venture were concerned, they all seemed like honest, decent, good-natured people, and it'd only be for a few weeks, until the core dried out.

'There's been a change of plan,' Chiruwa said casually, as they reached the edge of the forest.

'Oh?' Poldarn shrugged. The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, and his mind had been elsewhere. He hadn't actually been paying much attention to what the others had been saying; least of all Chiruwa, who had a tendency to chatter away as though he was trying to use up a stockpile of words before they went stale. 'Fair enough. What's changed?'

Chiruwa avoided his gaze. 'We talked it over, the rest of the guys and me, and we reckoned looking for work round the charcoal camps probably wasn't such a good idea after all. Like, it's the wet season coming on, they won't be shipping much charcoal till the roads are clear again, most like they'll be slowing down production, having a rest, that sort of thing. Probably not much work going.'

That seemed reasonable, now that Chiruwa mentioned it. Pity nobody had thought of it before. If they couldn't get casual jobs around the burning camps, the prospects weren't wonderful. Apart from the colliers, nobody much lived in the big woods; apart from the two or three inns along the road that catered to travellers, there weren't any houses or settlements till you reached the Stonebick river. 'So what did you have in mind?' Poldarn asked. 'Do we turn round and go back, or what?'

Chiruwa pulled a face. 'We did consider that,' he said. 'Only we probably don't have enough in the way of supplies to get as far as Falcata; and the smaller places might not have anything to spare. So we thought we'd carry on along the road for a bit.'

Poldarn looked at him. 'Why?'

'Well.' Chiruwa, the foundry's chief polisher, was a short man, very broad and wide, with an honest face partly shrouded by a big black moustache. You'd have felt fairly confident about paying him in advance for a large order of dried beans. 'What we thought we'd do, we thought we could make a quarter or two in these parts. Not right here, of course. More where the road goes through the edge of the wood.'

'Doing what?'

'Well.' Chiruwa said again and breathed in through his nose. 'There's quite a bit of traffic on the road this time of year, people coming up from the plains before the rain starts. Also merchants and freight on the way to Ridgetop and Spadea-there's big fairs there in a couple of weeks.'

Poldarn didn't say anything, but that contradicted what Chiruwa had implied a moment or so before, about the colliers not being able to ship any charcoal because of the roads being impassable. Or maybe he'd just misunderstood, or didn't know enough about the local geography. 'Right,' he said. 'So, what about it? Are you planning on setting up an inn or something, because-'

'Not really,' Chiruwa replied. 'What we had in mind was more like robbing them. Happens a lot around here,' he went on quickly, in an it's-all-right-really tone of voice. 'And the weather'd be on our side, because we wouldn't have to worry about the soldiers-once the rain starts they won't be able to get up the road from Falcata. By the time the roads south are open again, we'll have finished and be long gone. It'd be safe as houses, really.'

'Robbing them?' Poldarn reckoned he must have heard him wrong, or misunderstood what he'd been trying to say. 'You mean, like-well, highwaymen, bandits, that sort of thing?'

'Sort of,' Chiruwa replied.

'Sort of?'

But Chiruwa didn't seem inclined to explain any further. 'So,' he said, 'are you in with us, or aren't you?'

Didn't look like he had very much choice in the matter. 'Yes, all right, then,' Poldarn said; then he hesitated. 'I'm not killing anybody, mind. That's-'

'Oh, don't worry about that,' Chiruwa assured him quickly. 'You don't get big escorts, or soldiers or anything, it'll just be one or two people on their own. It's not like we'll be ambushing supply columns or anything like that. Besides, if they look like they'd be trouble, we just stay back and let them go on through. Goes without saying, really.'

For a moment, Poldarn wondered if he ought to be keeping an eye out for crows, in case this was a bad dream or a memory. (And what ought he to think if he did see one? Just the place for them, after all, this close to the edge of the big wood; in fact, he was surprised there weren't any. Or was it the case that crows really only existed in dreams? He doubted that.) 'You know,' he said, 'I'm not sure. Maybe we really ought to at least try the charcoal outfits, just in case they're hiring. After all, it couldn't do any harm just asking, could it?'

'Well, actually,' Chiruwa replied awkwardly, 'the others've more or less made their minds up about it, so I don't suppose there'd be any point. I mean, you can suggest it if you like, but I don't imagine they'll listen to you.'

Poldarn figured he knew why. They'd never had any intention of going to the colliers' camps looking for work. This had been the plan all along. Odd that he hadn't figured it out for himself. 'Is this what you usually do, then?' he asked. 'Whenever there's a lay-off at the foundry, or when you feel like a change of pace?'

'Oh no. Well, not me personally; this'll be, what, my third or fourth time. Some of the guys come up this way quite often, that's how they know there won't be any soldiers or armed escorts. We know what we're doing, if that's what's bothering you.'

It'd be a good idea, Poldarn decided, to pretend that it was. 'Well, if you're sure,' he said.

'Quite sure,' said Chiruwa. 'It'll be like hop-picking, you take my word for it.' (Well, Poldarn thought, Chiruwa did have an honest face.) 'We'll get all the food and supplies we need, and a bit of spending money as well; and long before they can send anybody out after us we'll be back home down on the plain, with no one any the wiser. I mean, if you're wandering about in a godforsaken place like this, you're practically asking to be robbed, people expect it. Far as they're concerned, it's just bad luck, like breaking an axle.'

At that, Poldarn nodded and changed the subject. He was wondering whether it'd be possible to slip away before they reached the woods and maybe head for the charcoal camps. The man he'd stayed with, Basano, would probably find him a job, or maybe just let him hang about for a few weeks-he hadn't seemed to mind the prospect of Poldarn waiting there until the wagons left, time didn't seem to matter much to the colliers. Come to that, maybe he'd be better off staying there for good; if he sloped off from the robbing party, it was possible they wouldn't be too pleased to see him when he got back to the foundry when work resumed there, particularly if something went wrong with their plans, such as an unexpected column of soldiers-they'd assume he'd betrayed them or something. Or maybe it'd be better to stay with the party and keep his head down. He didn't like the prospect of cold-blooded robbery, but there were worse things, and he had a bad feeling he'd done most of them. It was, after all, a matter of survival in a hard country in a bad season. And the world was full of predators: eagles and lions and bears, all of them doing nothing worse than making a living.

(He couldn't believe he'd thought that; hearing himself suggest such a line of argument was the most worrying aspect of the whole business. It had come quite naturally, like reaching out in the dark for something he knew was there. Even so; even so. If he went to the colliers' camp and told them he needed work or a place to hang out while the foundry was closed down, it'd be as good as betraying the others; because the colliers would know that men from the foundry had been in those parts, and when news of the robberies filtered through to them, they'd have to be stupid not to draw the obvious conclusions. It would be betrayal; and which was worse-to betray his friends and colleagues, or to persuade a few wealthy merchants to share their good fortune with others less favoured than themselves? And of course the people they'd be robbing would be the rich, because the poor don't have anything to steal… Even so. Even so.)

'I guess you're right,' Poldarn said. 'And we'd only be taking what we need, wouldn't we?'

Chiruwa nodded enthusiastically. 'It's a way of life in these parts, really,' he said. 'I mean, if this was a civilised place, with towns and places where you could find work, there wouldn't be any need. But we've all got a right to live, is what I say. Isn't that right? I mean, one man's as good as another, there's no reason we should starve when there's people who've got more than they need. You'll see, usually they're quite good-natured about the whole thing.'

He'll be telling me they enjoy the thrill of the chase next. 'It's all right,' Poldarn said, 'I'm not bothered about it, so long as nobody gets hurt. That's the main thing, isn't it?'

(And he thought: it is all right, because I know what I'm doing; and besides, I've done worse. I was happy enough swindling peasants, when I was being the god in the cart. I've killed soldiers for getting in my way, I've killed sword-monks just to please my distant cousins, I killed my best friend for stealing back his own horses. Compared to what I've done when I was sure I was doing the right thing, stealing a few quarters beside the road is practically an act of charity and conscience. I have nothing to prove to anybody. I am who I am, and that's fine.)

Two days in the highway-robbery business were enough to convince Poldarn that he'd been worrying unnecessarily.

Their first victims looked a likely enough prospect; a man and a woman, elderly and mildly shrivelled, driving a large covered cart slowly along one of the main droves leading up to the forest roadways. Anybody with eyes in his head could see they were farmers, and since they were going up the hill, it stood to reason that they were taking their surplus produce to the colliers' camps, undoubtedly (this was Poldarn's private assumption) to sell them to a captive market at grossly inflated prices.

Once they'd stopped the cart, however, and managed to get across to the old man (who was deaf) and the old woman (who appeared to speak no known language and at least three unknown ones) that this was a robbery, not a request for directions, they were surprised and extremely annoyed to find nothing in the back of the cart except empty sacks. Eventually, the old woman contrived to explain that they were on their way to pick up their village's quarter-year supply of charcoal, which had already been paid for. Since vigorous searching failed to produce a single coin, Chiruwa had no choice but to take their word for it and send them on their way, with a rather sad request that they shouldn't tell anybody about the incident.

The next cart they stopped wasn't empty. On the contrary; once they'd peeled back the thick covering of hides tied down tight with about a mile of best jute rope, they found it was piled high with exceptionally rich and pungent goat manure. For some reason the carter didn't mention this until it was too late; then he explained that he was taking the stuff to the government supply depot at Tin Chirra, where the superintendent was reportedly stockpiling dung of every type and description for eventual onward shipment to the foundry at Dui Chirra…

Before anybody could stop him, Chiruwa pointed out that he and his party had just come from the Dui Chirra foundry, which was deep enough in shit already without needing any more. It was only later, when the cart had continued on its way and Chiruwa was asking why everybody was scowling at him like that, that someone explained to him exactly why telling their victims where they'd just come from was a bad idea. The point wasn't wasted on Chiruwa, who was all in favour of chasing after the dung-wagon and killing the carter to keep his mouth shut. Nobody else seemed to think that way, however, and the matter was eventually allowed to drop.

('Though what they want with all that stuff over to Tin, God only knows,' someone pointed out. 'It's not like they grow any crops there, and what in buggery else can you use it for?')'

Somewhat disillusioned and extremely hungry, the robber band was just trying to make up its group mind whether to stop where they were and try and snare a rabbit or two, or whether to carry on down the road for an hour or so to the trout-haunted Star river, when a horseman galloped up the drove and right through the middle of them. There was no way they could have stopped him, but fortuitously his horse caught sight of Rusty Dancuta's nasty little dog, which he'd insisted on bringing with him. Why a large horse was so mortally afraid of such a small, ratlike dog nobody knew; but it bucked, reared and hurled its rider off into a clump of wild honeysuckle before leaving the road and darting off among the trees, where it was quickly lost to sight.

On examining the rider, who'd clumped his head and fallen fast asleep, Chiruwa and his desperadoes discovered that he was carrying a large, fat linen bag, stuffed full to bursting with coins. That was more like it, even though the coins proved to be small green coppers rather than the smart Imperial gold grossquarters they'd been hoping for.

'What do you think you're doing?' the rider asked, sitting up and staring at them while they counted the take.

Chiruwa laughed theatrically and told him they'd stolen his money and were counting it. Fine, the rider said, you crack on and help yourselves; because even if the money was still legal tender, instead of obsolete issues now being called in to be taken to Tin Chirra and melted down, there'd be maybe just enough to buy each member of the robbing party half a small loaf each for a day. Alternatively, he went on, if they cared to catch up with his horse and fetch it back, in the saddlebags they'd find a good heavy stash of government biscuits, the sort the soldiers took with them on long route marches. He'd packed them for his own use just in case the Hope amp; Endurance had shut down for the wet season before he reached it; but as things had turned out, the inn (famous for its smoked lamb and pickled black cabbage) had still been open, and he'd pigged out to such an extent while he'd been there that he wouldn't be able to face another mouthful till he reached Tin Chirra.

'Tin Chirra?' someone asked. 'What's there?'

'Government supply depot,' the rider said. 'I'm the new supply and requisitions clerk. Who're you, then?'

They found the horse eventually; and government biscuit turned out to be just about edible, smashed and ground into dust and mixed with water to make porridge. After they'd parted from the clerk it started to rain.

Next day was no better. First catch of the day was someone Poldarn had met before 'Hello,' she said, peering down at him through the mail-coach window. 'I know you, I'm sure I do. You were going to Scieza-'

She was still dressed in a man's shabby coat several sizes too big for her, and the same cracked old leather travelling hat. She was also still nursing the wicker basket. The smell hadn't got any better, either.

'Hello yourself,' Poldarn muttered. 'You said you were on your way to Falcata. To see your son,' he remembered, God only knew why.

'I was,' she replied solemnly. 'But unfortunately there was some dreadful mistake about money-they said I hadn't paid my fare, and I had, I remember it distinctly; and they made it sound like I was deliberately trying to deceive them, and I couldn't do something like that, really I couldn't, and they put me off the mail at Cardea, and there I was, stuck, because of course I'd spent all my money on the fare, because of course my son will be meeting me at Falcata, so I didn't need any for the journey. Anyway, it was quite dreadful, and I don't know what I'd have done if a kind gentleman hadn't given me nine quarters at Cardea lodge, which meant I could catch this coach, but it's only going as far as Chacquemar, and what I'll do then I have no idea-'

Poldarn could only think of two ways of shutting her up; and, since he'd resolved that he wasn't going to kill anybody, no matter how annoying they were, he had no option but to go with the other alternative. He stuck his hand in his pocket and brought out two of his four remaining gross-quarters. 'Here,' he said, 'this ought to get you from Chacquemar to the city.'

'Oh.' The old bat looked quite startled, even shocked. 'But no, that's far too generous, I couldn't possibly. And besides, I'd worry so much till I'd paid you back. Of course,' she added quickly, 'my son will be delighted to send you the money as soon as I reach Falcata, if you'll give me your address.'

Clearly she hadn't quite grasped the fact that Poldarn and his friends were highway robbers. True, there wasn't much about the way they'd gone about handling this holdup to suggest it. 'Forget about it, please,' Poldarn said. 'In fact, here's another,' he added, sticking a third coin in her hand. 'You'll need to get something to eat-it's a long road.'

She smiled at him. 'Oh, I hardly eat anything any more,' she replied. 'It's one of the best things about getting old, if you ask me. But thank you ever so much, and would you mind awfully if I bought some millet and corn and seed for Slowly and Surely-my little darlings,' she added, pointing to the wicker basket. 'They're fast asleep at the moment, bless them, or I'd open their basket and you could say hello to them. They haven't had anything but horrid old crusts and breadcrumbs since we left Aleomacta.'

Poldarn closed his eyes just for a moment. 'Fine,' he said. 'As far as I'm concerned you can treat them to haddock roe and smoked eels, just so long-'

'Oh, they wouldn't like that. They don't eat fish.'

'Really. Well, have a safe trip.'

'Are you sure you don't want my son to send you the money? I really do feel-'

'Goodbye,' Poldarn said, and he stepped back, slapping the lead horse hard on the rump. It started and broke into a trot. Poldarn turned, pulled his axe out of his belt and faced the rest of the desperadoes.

'Not one word,' he said.

After that it rained heavily for the rest of the morning and all afternoon. A lumber cart and a small chaise went by, but the desperadoes couldn't be bothered to leave the shelter of the trees. Besides, as Chiruwa pointed out to nobody in particular, where was the point, it'd only end up costing them money…

Just before sunset the rain stopped, and the robbers debated what they should do next. A significant faction were in favour of calling it quits and making for the colliers' camp, where at least they'd be sure of finding a nice warm fire, even if they struck out where food and beer were concerned. A slender majority, however, held out for staying put and waiting to see what the morning would bring; Poldarn's being the deciding vote. Mostly, he guessed, it was the shame of having been seen in the act of gratuitous charity; partly, though, he was concerned that the colliers might have heard rumours about the spate of robberies on the road. Grimes were still crimes, and ludicrous ineptitude was no defence. Besides, it was quite possible that one or other of their victims, in telling the tale of his adventures, might have altered the facts slightly, preferring to attribute his escape to cunning or valour rather than the fecklessness of his assailants. Accordingly, the gang held their position and huddled down in what little shelter they could find. It rained hard all night, needless to say.

Poldarn was sure he'd only just closed his eyes after many hours of wet, sleepless misery when someone grabbed him by the shoulder and hissed at him to wake up.

'Coach,' Chiruwa was whispering. 'Come on, get up.'

Poldarn yawned and stumbled to his feet. The coach, which he could see quite clearly through the dripping branches, had slowed down to ford a shallow stream that crossed the road. It was rather a splendid affair; painted blue and yellow, with a fine canopy of waxed brown leather, and drawn by four good-looking horses. The driver perched on the box was wearing a fine grey cloak and a new-looking black felt hat.

'Money,' someone murmured. 'I mean, just look at the buggers.'

Poldarn could see his point; after all, how could it be fair for rich bastards to bounce happily up and down the roads in well-fed, dry comfort, while poor starving thieves had to sleep out in sodden rags? They'd see about that.

It wasn't till the coach was right up close that it occurred to the gang that this was their first serious attempt at practising their craft. Nobody really knew what to do. Even if they all jumped out in front of the coach there was no guarantee it'd stop, and they could get hurt that way. What they should've done, Poldarn realised, was block the road ahead with a fallen tree, then take the coach from the rear as soon as it stopped. No time for that now. It was jumping out in front, or nothing.

'On three,' Chiruwa said, but nobody heard him; they were already on their feet and scampering out onto the road, waving their arms and shouting. It turned out to be a good manoeuvre; the driver must have assumed they were warning him about some hazard ahead on the road, because he pulled up as they approached, and asked them what the matter was. Then Chiruwa yelled out, 'Shut your face, this is a hold-up,' and things started to go rather badly.

The driver was pushed abruptly aside and men started crawling out from under the canopy onto the box, and jumping down. There proved to be eight of them, big men with swords and matching helmets. It was at this point that the desperadoes began to wonder whether they were adequately equipped for the job in hand.

True, they all had something that'd pass for a weapon: some had hammers, Chiruwa had a knife with a blade a foot long, and Poldarn had his short axe, the one he'd found in the ditch where he'd killed the crows. They also outnumbered the coach escort, eleven to eight. In theory, they had the advantage. It just didn't feel that way at the time.

The hell with it, Poldarn told himself; suddenly, the picture was starting to look depressingly familiar, the pattern emerging. He should, of course, never have tagged along in the first place. Now it was time to leave, as quickly as possible, before he got hurt or killed anybody. He turned and ran back into the wood, as fast as he could go without crashing into a tree or tripping on a fallen branch.

After a while, he stopped, leaning forward, hands on knees, catching his breath and listening. Nothing to suggest he'd been followed (and why should they go haring off into the trees when they were already outnumbered?) He'd got away, free and clear. No harm done.

Even so.

Even so, it hadn't been the right thing to do. Chiruwa and the rest were criminal idiots, but unfortunately he was on their side. The coach guards had looked as though they'd make short work of the foundrymen, assuming they hadn't done so already. But there could be survivors-or prisoners, which was worse still. With a sigh Poldarn turned round and headed back toward the road.

It hadn't gone well, for his side at least. As he approached the edge of the wood, he could see two of them quite clearly. One was lying on his face, his arms under him, both feet pointing to the left. The other one lay on his back, and he'd been cut almost in two. One of the guards was sitting with his back against a tree, unarmed and helmetless; the dark pool surrounding him implied that he'd bled to death. There didn't seem to be anybody else about.

Shouldn't have come back, Poldarn decided; there was nothing he could do for the two dead foundrymen and his sense of duty stopped short of searching for the others with an unspecified number of enemies close at hand. Everything had changed, of course. The highway-robbery project was over now, for good. Assuming he managed to get clear of the scene, he had grave reservations about going back to the foundry when it started up again after the lay-off, since some of the others might have made it back, and he'd been the first to run. The colliers' camp was probably out, too. In spite of everything he couldn't help grinning; here he was again, alone except for dead bodies at the scene of a fight he'd missed out on. The pattern emerging, as the tallow burns out, leaving a gap-but this time he had a memory of sorts; and this time, no options at all that he could think of.

'You,' someone yelled behind him. 'Turn and fight, you thieving bastard.'

Not the sort of voice he'd have expected: high, slightly shrill, a deep-voiced woman or a boy. No point speculating in ignorance; he turned round and saw a boy, maybe fourteen years old and tall for his age. He was wearing a mail shirt-fine quality, junior size, what the well-dressed nobleman's son was wearing to the wars these days-and a gilded helmet with enamel and niello decoration, all in excellent taste. And he was holding a sword-short-bladed, regulation length for concealed carry for a sword-monk, just the right size for a kid's two-hander. The boy was standing in a second-position upper-back guard straight out of the coaching manual, and scowling at him horribly.

Poldarn relaxed. 'Piss off,' he said.

The boy seemed shocked by the bad language, but not deterred from his grim purpose. 'I said stand and fight,' he piped, 'or I'll cut you down like a dog.'

It was the first good laugh Poldarn had had in a while, and he indulged himself. That didn't please the boy at all. 'Right,' he said, 'I warned you'. He took a big stride forward, sweeping the sword up and round his head in the approved circular movement.

It was at this point that Poldarn thought about something Gain Aciava had said; about being young sword-monks, and training at fencing since they were kids. The boy, he suddenly realised, seemed to know exactly what he was doing; and there Poldarn was, a nice large target for cutting practice, armed with nothing but a hatchet.

He jumped sideways in time, but only just; the sword blade sliced the air where he'd been just a moment ago, and if he'd still been there, it would have severed his leg artery. I wonder, Poldarn thought, as he danced out of the way of another pretty respectable cut, I wonder if I was this good when I was his age? No, because I was still at Haldersness. Aciava, maybe? Assuming he was telling the truth An inch-and-degree-perfect sixth-grade rising cut next, and Poldarn made a mess of the avoid. There was just time to block it with the handle of the axe (but clumsy and shameful; the block is the last resort, the admission of failure) and take a standing jump backwards without time to see what he was likely to be landing on. Unfortunate, since he pitched on a large chunk of flint, jarring his ankle and losing his balance; the boy was at him with a good clean middle cut and he had to block again, this time with the poll of the hatchet. He could feel the sword's edge cut the soft iron of the poll, and recognised that he'd been lucky not to have the axe knocked out of his hand.

Bastard, he thought. Go pick on someone your own size.

He could see the boy earnestly concentrating, as if the youngster was playing a difficult new flute piece for his proud mother and father. As Poldarn stumbled backwards, feeling his crocked ankle unreliable under his weight, he tried to remember; if he'd been a sword-monk he must have taken the same classes, learned the same drills, memorised the same precepts of religion, which set down in firm, definitive terms the infallible techniques for dealing with such a situation without killing or being killed. Defence is no defence; strength is weakness; resistance is surrender. He could almost hear the words, though where they were coming from was another matter entirely. Thought is confusion; the winning fight is no fight; wisdom is an empty mind. Wonderful stuff, but what the hell did it all mean?

The boy swung at him again, and Poldarn could see two circles in the air, his own and the boy's, about to collide. He scrambled backwards but his ankle gave way; as he slumped to the ground he instinctively put out his right hand to steady himself, and as his wrist took his weight he felt something give in his forearm, just above the elbow. At some point he must have shifted the axe into his left hand, because there it was; and there was a fine killing shot, a peck to the right temple, avoiding the space that the sword blade would be occupying, blocking the boy's right arm with his left elbow, he could see it as plain as a sketch in the manual of arms; but he couldn't do that, kill a thirteen-year-old kid just because of his own clumsiness in ricking his ankle on a stone. There had to be a non-lethal defence, he knew there was one but he couldn't, at that precise moment, recall what it was. I wish, he thought, I wish I had my memory back The boy cut him. For a thin sliver of time Poldarn panicked, but the moment didn't last. It was just a nick, the very tip of the blade tracing the skin over his cheekbone, a trivial scratch. Another hop-and-skip backwards, disentangling the circles; step back into safety, keep away, keep the danger out of his circle-and he could hear that same voice in his mind: safety is danger, danger is safety; if he can reach you, you can reach him. Let live and die; kill and live. Precepts of religion. There was an empty space in his mind, where the tallow had been melted out, but its shape defined all the other shapes around him, just as the past shapes the present and the present shapes the future.

The past shapes the future; action is self-betrayal. Poldarn stepped back once more, feeling the slimy mud of the stream under his heel, and at that moment he saw the boy shuffle forwards and sideways, toe leading, heel dragging; and at the same moment that he saw the lad lift his arms, he saw the cut as well, as though it had already happened; he saw the answer to the question at the same moment as the question itself, as if he'd broken into Father Tutor's study and peeked at the next day's test paper. The answer was one step forward, right into the middle of the opposing circle-safe as safe could be, because he could see the boy's sword coming down even as he was lifting it, and all he needed to do was edge out of its way, and In religion there is no in between; only the sword before and the sword after.

Poldarn hadn't known the answer, because the question and the answer were simultaneous; he made the move before he knew what it was, because in religion there is no moment in between knowledge and action. As the axe blade, sliding through the gap in the boy's guard, sliced through the youth's jugular vein on the push-stroke, the answer became apparent. Strength is weakness-Poldarn hadn't fought back, because he was older and stronger than the boy. Let live and die; kill and live.

It was a messy answer. Poldarn felt the heat of the blood as it splashed across his face like a duellist's glove. The light went out in the boy's eyes, and he stopped, like a mistake abruptly corrected; then he dropped straight down into the mud beside the stream, an untidy pile of joined-together limbs.

Shit, Poldarn thought. Made a right hash of that.

Not the first time, either.

He stepped back, felt his ankle fade and give way, and ended up sprawled on his backside, spine painfully jarred, a mess. Not the first time; I've done this before. Years ago, I killed a kid the same age as this one, in the same way exactly. That's how I knew what he was about to do before he did it; because I was remembering the last time. Precisely the same: the absolute precision of the drill hall (a floor divided into a grid by scored lines deeply engraved in the slate flagstones, each square and each junction lettered and numbered; Father Tutor calling out coordinates and the designation of each stance, ward, cut, move, his eyes shut, the whole duel worked out beforehand for both sides, so that in effect it had already happened before it began-)

(Suppose there's no such thing as learning, or intuition, or skill, or thought. Suppose instead that it's all just memory; suppose that every cut and counter-cut and parry and block is just recollection of the same fight fought out a lifetime ago. Suppose the draw is religion, the sword before and the sword after, because when the hand closes around the hilt, the sword has already been drawn and swung, and the skin cut open. Suppose that nothing is learned-languages, names, skills, facts-only remembered from the last time round, which was nothing more than a memory of the time before that, the same sequence of moves repeated over and over at the instructor's word of command until they're perfect, and that's religion.)

'Bloody hell.' Chiruwa's voice came from directly behind him. 'What did you want to go and do that for?'

Poldarn stood up, pulled his heel out of the squelching mud, and wobbled as though he was drunk.

'Fuck off,' he said. 'He nearly killed me.'

'Nearly killed you? For God's sake, he's just a kid. We're going to be in so much shit-'

'He nearly killed me,' Poldarn repeated. 'Stupid bloody rich bastard, he'd been trained, knew all the moves, straight out of the book. And I did my ankle.'

'You did your ankle? So bloody what? You're a grownup.'

Poldarn shook his head. He couldn't care less what Chiruwa thought, anyway. 'Sword-monk training,' he said. 'You have heard of the sword-monks, haven't you? If it'd been you instead of me, he'd have paunched you like a rabbit.'

'Listen.' Chiruwa was shouting, the clown. 'You don't go killing bloody kids. Not noblemen's sons, anyhow. They'll send soldiers and start burning down villages till they find out who did it. You know how bad this is? We're dead already, that's how bad. Well, don't just stand there, let's get out of here-'

'Just a moment,' Poldarn said. 'The others. Where'd they get to?'

Chiruwa didn't answer; he just shook his head. For a moment Poldarn didn't understand; then he said, 'What, all of them?'

'Except you and me. You ran, you bastard.' Chiruwa suddenly remembered. 'You fucked off and left us, and now they're all dead except you and me.'

Poldarn shrugged. 'I came back, though, didn't I? So what about the soldiers? Where'd they go?'

'Same place as the lads. Fucking hell, this is a shambles. Doing the soldiers was bad enough-you wait till they find out we killed a nobleman's kid. Trust me, you'll wish you'd let the little shit kill you.'

'Maybe I do already,' Poldarn replied. 'But that won't change anything. Do you have any idea who this lot are?'

Chiruwa shook his head. 'Don't want to know, either. The less we know, the less chance there is of giving something away. Not that it matters worth shit; they'll figure out it was us and then they'll hunt us down and kill us slowly. You ever see a man vivisected to death?'

All this negativity was starting to get on Poldarn's nerves. 'Be quiet,' he said, 'and let me think. Now then; if it wasn't us, who was it?'

'But it was us. It was you, you bloodthirsty northern bastard.'

Poldarn managed a smile. 'No, it wasn't,' he said. 'We were never here. But of course they won't believe that, so it'd better have been someone else. Do you understand that?'

Chiruwa nodded sullenly.

'Fine. So who'd do a thing like this? Massacre a whole half-platoon of soldiers, and a dozen harmless foundrymen who just happened to blunder across them at the wrong moment? Suggestions?'

'Well.' Chiruwa was frowning. 'It'd have to be someone really sick and vicious. Feron Amathy?'

Poldarn grinned. 'What about the raiders?' he said. 'Think about it. For all we know, Feron Amathy spent all day today playing pegball with the Emperor-we can't pin it on him unless we know for sure he could've done it. No,' he went on, 'we'll make it the raiders. Everybody knows, they appear out of nowhere and just vanish when they've done. And it's completely their style, killing without reason.'

'Right. So you're an expert on the raiders now, are you?'

Poldarn shook his head. 'I never could understand them, not one little bit. Fortunately, neither does anybody else. All right, how about this? We got separated from our mates here, and when we caught up to them, this is what we found. Dead bodies everywhere, including the kid.' He frowned, then glanced round. 'Tell me something,' he said. 'What does your average raider look like?'

Chiruwa stared at him. 'God knows. Nobody's ever seen one and lived, remember?'

Not entirely true; but that was what people believed, so close enough. 'Precisely,' Poldarn said. 'Now, who around here don't we care about?'

After a short interlude of indecision, Poldarn chose a dead foundryman by the name of Dancuta, mostly because he'd never liked him much. He dragged the body across to the coach and found the cause of death: a simple stab wound, entering under the left armpit, straight to the heart. Fine. Chiruwa held the body still, propped up against the coach wheel, while Poldarn took careful aim and, using the dead kid's very fine and fancy sword, slashed down the dead man's face, slicing off the nose and cutting away the lips and the point of the chin. Nice job, no denying it; the mutilation could easily have been the result of a wild or lucky cut, and those parts of Dancuta's face that had made it possible to tell him apart from a million other tall, fat men were lying in the leaf mould. Next step was to strip off his coat, which was too obviously a cheapie from Falcata market, and his boots. (Ex-army; old, but well looked after. Luckily, they were just Poldarn's size.) The last and most important touch was the best part of all-because Chiruwa was wrong: some things were known about the raiders in the Empire. Shortly before Poldarn had left and gone across the sea to the islands where the raiders lived, the late General Cronan had inflicted on them the only defeat they'd ever suffered. It went without saying that government officers had been over the dead bodies left behind after the disaster, searching them diligently for any sort of clue that might cast light on the mystery of who they were and where they came from; and it was virtually certain, Poldarn was sure, that at least half of those dead bodies would've been wearing the distinctive thick-soled ankle-length horse-hide boots that the raiders brought from home, though Imperial footwear was better, no doubt about it-so much better, in fact, that Poldarn had often thought about getting himself a pair of decent Tulice shoes to replace the boots he'd made for himself at Polden's Forge, back in the old country, and worn ever since.

Trading shoes with a dead man wasn't easy, and it took Poldarn an age to get his old boots onto Dancuta's feet. He managed it in the end, however, and dumped the body face down in the stream. He wiped his hands on a clump of grass before standing up.

'What the fuck do you think you're playing at?' Chiruwa said.

'Needed a new pair of shoes,' Poldarn replied. 'Waste not, want not, after all. Right, that's that. Time to go.'

Chiruwa was delighted to leave, and they walked quickly in silence until they were deep in the wood, well clear of the road. On the way, Poldarn checked the details in his mind. Because of the kid, it wouldn't be just the local garrison commander investigating. They'd send to the fort at Falcata, or maybe even to Tarwar, and the colonel would send his own men to figure out what had happened; they'd be smart enough and well enough informed to notice that one tiny elusive clue-raider boots on one of the dead men-and they'd report back with smug grins on their faces, having been clever enough to solve the mystery. The raiders would be blamed; and, since they were effectively an act of the gods, the whole affair would in real terms be nobody's fault, which meant it could be dropped and forgotten about. And not only that; Poldarn was better off by a pair of good-quality army boots, on which he could walk back to Dui Chirra as soon as the foundry started up again. No real harm done, and nearly everybody off the hook and happy (A dead body with no face, no identity, lying in the mud beside a shallow stream, surrounded by dead bodies. No face, no identity, all the memory leached out of it, except for a pair of horse-hide boots representing an elaborate deception. Had Aciava been lying too, or had he been telling the truth?)

– And behind them, two fat, scraggy old crows, floating down through the trees. A better class of scavenger, more efficient; not concerned with boots, only the very essence of the waste they feed on.