Memory

Chapter Seven

Monach woke up out of a strange dream to find that someone was touching him. Immediately, he pushed back the instinctive response. Curious: he'd spent so many years training himself to react instantly to any intrusion into his circle, and now he was having to learn not to.

'You were shouting,' she said.

'Was I?' He grinned feebly. 'Sorry about that.'

She shrugged. 'That's all right,' she said. 'It's nearly dawn, anyhow. Was it the same dream, or a different one?'

'Different,' he replied. 'And, I don't know, more sort of odd than horrible, if you see what I mean. Did I wake up Ciartan?'

She shook her head. 'He's dead to the world,' she told him. 'Just as well,' she added. 'You know it upsets him when you get bad dreams. Also, he's teething.'

'Again?' He grinned. 'That kid's going to have more teeth than a polecat, the way he's going on.'

'He can't help it,' she said defensively. 'And he hates it when they hurt.'

'You fuss too much,' he replied, knowing it'd annoy her. 'Suppose I'd better be getting up now. We're supposed to be making an early start, aren't we?'

She shook her head. 'It's pissing it down,' she said. 'There's no point, we'd only get the wagons stuck.'

'That's all right, then.' He lay back, staring at the barn rafters. 'We'll wait for it to stop and try and make up time when we hit the military road. Does it always rain like this in this horrible country?'

'Yes,' she said. 'This time of year, anyway.'

'Bloody hell. It's a miracle anybody manages to live here.'

'They're used to it.' She pulled a blanket round her shoulders and looked at him. 'You'd better tell me about it,' she said.

'Tell you about what?'

'The dream,' she said. 'It's making you act all nasty, so it must be bothering you.'

He nodded. 'Like I said, 'he told her, 'it wasn't so much bad as strange. Bad dreams I can handle,' he added with a faint smile.

'Go on,' she said.

'Well.' He thought for a moment. 'We were back at Deymeson, all of us-you, me, Gain, Elaos, Cordo, Ciartan-and it was just after first lesson. We were in third grade, I think, but you know how you can never tell how old you are in dreams. Anyway, the lesson had been metalwork, we'd been doing casting in bronze-'

'That's odd,' she interrupted.

'Well, of course it is, that's the point. We never did that, any of us.'

She frowned. 'Hold on,' she said. 'Didn't Gain take foundry as an option in fifth grade?'

He thought about that. 'You know,' he said, 'I think you're right. Ciartan and Cordo took forgework, you and I did precious metals, Elaos-what did Elaos do? I can't remember.'

'Engraving.'

'So he did, you're right. God only knows how you remember all this stuff.'

'Practice,' she said. 'So, we were all coming out of class. Then what?'

'We were moaning,' he continued, 'about the assignment we'd just been set. We had to cast a flute-'

'You don't cast flutes. You-'

'I know that, thank you. But in the dream, we had to cast a flute, in bronze, and we weren't allowed to use a core.'

She looked blank. 'Is that good or bad?' she asked. 'I don't know anything about casting.'

'Well, I don't know a hell of a lot,' he admitted. 'But in the dream it was pretty serious, because we were all arguing like mad about it. And then Ciartan lost his temper-'

'What's odd about that?' she interrupted, smiling. 'Sounds just like real life to me.'

'Ciartan lost his temper,' he repeated, 'and one of the other kids-I'm blowed if I can remember his name, but he had straight black hair, small nose, played the flute-'

'Torcuat.'

'That's right,' he said, surprised. 'Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while. Torcuat. Anyhow, they got into a fight; and you remember how Ciartan went through that phase of carrying a knife all the time. Stuffed down inside the leg of his boot, the stupid clown, I'm amazed he never cut his shin open. Anyway, he got this knife out and he was waving it around, and Torcuat was yelling bloody murder at him, and we were all worried Father Tutor'd hear the racket and come and see what was going on. So you jumped in and took the knife off him-only for some reason it wasn't a knife any more, it was a little axe, sort of a hatchet. But you got it away from him, and he'd gone all dumb and ashamed, because you'd told him he was an arsehole. Then the door opened and Father Tutor came in, but he didn't seem to have heard the noise, or maybe he was preoccupied and wasn't bothered about it; he had this really serious look on his face, and we all knew there was something badly wrong. And here's where it gets a bit surreal, because suddenly we were all sitting in his study-'

'All of us? There wouldn't be room.'

'All of us,' he repeated. 'And in front of him, right in the middle of his desk, was this sort of stump thing, and on it there was this statue of a crow; only it wasn't a statue, because suddenly it spread its wings and said "Caw" or whatever crows say-'

'A crow,' she said. 'Interesting.'

'Well, quite. Sort of like what my old mother used to tell me: don't play with that, dear, you don't know where it's been.'

She frowned. 'Well,' she said, 'we've both known him a very long time, and remember what he told us, about the people where he came from, so maybe it's not so surprising after all. Go on.'

'It gets weirder,' he said. 'Father Tutor calls Ciartan up to the front, tells him there's this really bad news from home; his grandfather's died, and left him the farm-so, I was thinking, not such bad news after all; and his best friend's been burned to death in a fire, and his daughter's expecting a baby.' He paused, and she got the impression he'd missed something out at this point; nothing he felt was important, but something that she wouldn't like. 'And then he went on, Father Tutor, that is; he said that the volcano had erupted and buried his house and all the farmland under molten lava, so he couldn't ever go back home again-and I was thinking, bloody hell, even though it's him, you can't help feeling a bit sorry for the bastard, all that dreadful stuff happening all at once.'

'How very sweet,' she said.

'Well,' he replied, 'you were sobbing your little heart out, so you can't talk. And he was just stood there, grinning like an idiot; and the crow was cackling away like it was laughing, and then he sort of reached out-I tell you, he never moved that fast in real life-and he grabbed the crow round the neck and squashed it, literally squashed it down into the fireplace and held it there till it was all burned up. And Father Tutor just sat there, like he didn't mind a bit; and then he said to Ciartan to cheer up, because as a sort of consolation prize he was being given the hand of the Emperor's daughter in marriage, and if that all went all right-like it was a test or probation or something-if that all went all right, he'd be allowed to kill his son, make the flute and take his rightful place as king of the gods once term was finished. And I was sitting there thinking, that's a bit rich, this is bloody Ciartan we're talking about; then he leans across to me and says, yes, fine, but-' He paused, an embarrassed look on his face.

'But,' she said. 'Go on. It's about me, isn't it?'

'Well, yes. Basically, he was saying it was all very well getting all that nice stuff Father Tutor had just said, but it didn't count worth spit because I'd-well, you and me…'

She was grinning. 'You've gone all pink,' she said.

'Yes, well. I used to be a monk, remember? Anyway, the gist of it was that all the goodies didn't matter if, well, if it was going to be me getting the girl and not him; only that wasn't going to happen, since he'd kill me first, and all sorts of charming stuff like that.'

'Sounds pretty much like Ciartan to me.'

'Quite. Anyway, then he got his hands round my throat, and I was struggling and yelling, "No, stop-"'

'I know. I heard you.'

'And then,' he concluded, 'I woke up.' He shook his head sadly. 'Bloody hell, Xipho, I've got to admit, I've had about as much of him as I can take.'

'You have.'

'Well,' he said, embarrassed, 'anyhow. But it's getting beyond a joke.' He looked at her. 'You don't-well, you don't actually think there really is anything to it, do you? Seriously, I mean.'

It took her a moment to figure out what he was talking about. 'What, you mean about him? Being the god in-Being Poldarn?' She stared, then giggled. 'You idiot,' she said.

'Yes, all right. But I can't help it, really, wondering sometimes. Like when I found out you'd been doing that bloody stupid scam thing, with him pretending to be-And there I was, stupid bloody clown, galloping all round the countryside following you two about, and all the time it was you. And him,' he added. 'Which Father fucking Tutor never saw fit to mention-'

She shook her head, as if forbidding him to take the subject further. 'He must've had a good reason,' she said. 'He always had a good reason.'

'Yes, but then he went and died, thoughtless bloody bastard; and here's me left behind trying to figure out what in any God's name his ever-such-a-good bloody reason might've been.' He stood up and shivered in the cold. 'I mean, I ask you; he sends you trailing after him. Then he loses his mind, or his memory, whatever; so Father Tutor sends me off to trail after the two of you, but for some fucking reason neglects to mention to me that the god in the cart and his beautiful lady assistant are two of my old classmates. Yes, I know Father Tutor could be pretty bloody deep sometimes, but that's just-'

'Just bad luck that he died when he did,' she said calmly. 'Or maybe even good luck, I really don't know.'

'Good luck?' He sounded shocked. 'Like, you think the old fool somehow decided to die at that precise moment? You mean, as part of the grand design? Come off it, Xipho, that's just silly.'

But she shrugged. 'All I'm saying is,' she said, 'I don't know what he had in mind. But I trusted him and I still do. I have-' She smiled. 'I have faith. You remember faith, don't you? We did it in first grade; or were you away that week?'

He wasn't happy, though. 'And now all this stuff,' he said. 'General Muno Silsny. I mean to say, we hadn't even heard of him back when the old man died, so how could he possibly have intended that as part of his grand and wonderful plan?'

'It was logical,' she said. 'General Cronan, General Muno. General Allectus before that. Tazencius becoming Emperor. That was right at the heart of it-'

'It was?' He stared at her. 'Tazencius? That moron?' He looked as though he was in physical pain. 'You mean Father Tutor wanted me to scrag Cronan-General Cronan who was the only man ever who beat the raiders-just so all-dick-and-no-brains Tazencius could get to be Emperor? Oh for crying out loud, Xipho. It doesn't want faith, it wants brain damage.'

She was starting to get annoyed with him, but he couldn't help that. 'You don't know,' she repeated. 'You haven't got the faintest idea, really, what his plan was.' She drew in a deep breath. They'd been taught to do that, in second grade, as a way of keeping their tempers, but it'd never worked for him. 'Look at it this way. Suppose you came from a place where they didn't have doctors, all right? And suppose you saw a surgeon, a real top-notch Guild surgeon from Boc or some place like that; and he's got his patient on his back on the table, and they've stuffed rag in his mouth and they're holding him down with ropes while the doctor grabs a scalpel and starts cutting him open. And you're thinking to yourself, they must be crazy. This guy's sick enough already, and sticking a knife in his guts is supposed to make him better?' He was pulling a face. 'All right,' she said, 'it's a corny example. But for all we know, he wanted Tazencius to get the throne so's the provinces would rebel and overthrow the Empire and restore the Republic. It could be as big as that. We just don't know. The thing is, if we don't do exactly what we're told, we're liable to screw it all up and everything'll go wrong. You do see that, don't you?'

He yawned and shook his head. There was a leak in the roof, he noticed; every so often, a big fat drop of water would fall from the thatch and land, plop, on the rotten place in the fifth floorboard in from the wall. 'Yes, I guess so,' he said. 'Only, Father Tutor's dead, we don't know what the rest of the plan was going to be; so it's probably pretty safe to say that the plan's gone wrong already. To take your example,' he added (she was beginning to fidget; extended discussions and debates weren't her style), 'suppose I'm this guy from far away who's never seen a doctor; and I see this surgeon of yours, and I think, great; all I've got to do to cure someone if he's sick is take a damn great knife and carve him open. You and I may think we know what the old fool had in mind, or we can guess, or maybe reconstruct, whatever; but, like you keep saying, we don't know. So maybe we should just leave well alone, right?'

'Oh yes?' Now she was starting to get angry. 'Fine. The patient's lying on the table with his guts hanging out, you're saying, we don't know what to do, let's just walk away and leave him there. That's so intelligent, Mon.'

He could see the fallacies in her reasoning, but even he had the common sense not to point them out. 'Screw it, Xipho, it's got me so messed up I don't know anything any more.' Suddenly he laughed. 'You know what?' he said. 'You and me, we're in pretty much the same god-awful fix as Ciartan. He's lost his memory, we've lost Father Tutor and the rest of the plan; we're stuck midway across the river, with the current dragging us away, and we don't know what the fuck's going on or what we're supposed to do. Only,' he added with a scowl, 'Ciartan might get his memory back. Gods forbid, but he might. Father bloody Tutor's going to stay dead, no matter what.'

She was smiling; bad temper averted, apparently. Wise tactic on his part, to show a little weakness to defuse the situation. And he'd worked it all out for himself, too; they hadn't offered Understanding Women at Deymeson. 'You never know,' she was saying. 'Maybe he wrote it all down somewhere, and tomorrow or the next day someone'll find the bit of paper and suddenly we'll all know. Yes,' she said, forestalling him, 'I know, totally unlikely. But it might happen.'

He grinned. 'Faith.'

She grinned back. 'Moves mountains.'

'I thought that was extreme volcanic activity.'

'That too. But faith doesn't spit them up in the air and dump them on your head.'

Thinking about that, he wasn't so sure; but it was a good place to leave the argument. They had a long way to go today in terrible conditions; it'd probably be as well if the joint commanders of the enterprise were on speaking terms. He pulled on his boots (sad excuses for boots; and not so many years ago, footwear was like the rising of the sun, he never had to worry about it, it was simply there…) and squelched outside to see to rescheduling their departure.

Being a warlord, Monach had learned the hard way, was about three per cent fire and the sword, the rest incessant pettifogging administration. Regular armies, he supposed, were like rich men's sons, never having to worry about where the next supply train or six hundred pairs of thick leather gaiters were coming from; they had indulgent parents at the capital who sent them what they needed, and were always there to fall back on when weevils got in the cornmeal or twelve wagonloads of tents got swept away crossing a flooded river. Warlords, by contrast, are the sturdy peasant farmers of warfare, forced to rely on their own sweat and initiative or else do without. Right now he needed fifty sets of chains for cartwheels, if he was to have any hope of getting his sad convoy up the river of mud that passed for a highway as far as the luxuriously metalled military road. No wheel chains to be had for love, money or the fear of death this side of the Bay, so they were going to have to think of something else. Relays of men carrying armfuls of brush to lay down in front of the wheels-no, that'd be ridiculous, all that'd happen would be that half his army would get filthy dirty and bad-tempered, and they'd maybe cover two miles a day before getting hopelessly and irreversibly stuck in some bog. A regular general could simply write a friendly letter to Divisional HQ. and be sent sappers, engineers, cartloads of fascines and portable roadway, those great big rolled-up carpets of birch twigs tied together with cord. Spoiled rotten; and could they hold together five minutes against the raiders? Could they hell.

The only other option was to dump the carts, load the supplies onto the men's backs, and porter the whole lot as far as the hard surface; the carts could then follow on as and when the roads were passable again. Or mules; mules were the ideal solution, except that he hadn't got any. Any fuzzy-chinned clown of a hereditary colonel could have all the mules he wanted just by handing a note to his junior equerry, but a hard-working warlord was going to have to break it to the lads that each of them would be lugging a hundredweight of junk on his back all the way to Falcata -Unless there was a river. Boats, barges, rafts. All this disgusting water everywhere-there had to be a river going in vaguely the right direction. Then he remembered: they were going up the hill to the military road. Even if there was a navigable river, it'd be bugger-all use to him.

(And she wasn't helping, he thought, unfairly. Why the hell didn't she ever stir herself and deal with something; something important, like bacon or socks or duty rosters, instead of all that religious garbage? He knew perfectly well why; because he was in command, and the men wouldn't take orders from her. But he carried on resenting for a minute or so anyway.)

On his way to the staff meeting in the derelict linhay, he shared his concerns with one of the line captains, an ex-monk by the name of Trecian. 'It's only a dozen miles to the military road,' he said wretchedly, 'and it might as well be in Morevich for all the good-'

'Why don't you take the short cut?' Trecian interrupted.

Monach stopped and looked at him. 'What short cut?'

Trecian grinned foolishly. 'Actually,' he said, 'it's not a short cut, because it's actually six miles further; but we call it the short cut, because this time of year it cuts half a day off the trip.'

Monach understood. 'You're from round here, then.'

'That's right. Born just down the road, in fact, place called Ang Chirra. Poxy little village, really, haven't been back there since I was fifteen. But I expect the short cut's still there. Don't suppose they could manage without it, this time of year.'

'What's so good about this short cut of yours?' Monach demanded. 'We'll just get the carts stuck, same as if we went the other way.'

Trecian shook his head. 'No fear,' he said. 'Good hard going all the way. People hereabouts reckon it must've been a government road once, years ago; probably from before Tulice was part of the Empire. True, you'll find about half the paving slabs mortared into farmhouse walls and gateposts from here to Danchout. But the other half are still there, and there's a good eighteen inches of compacted rubble and gravel under that. Whoever built it sure knew how to lay a good road.'

'Wonderful,' Monach said, rather bewildered at this amazing slice of luck. 'So how come it's not on any of the maps?'

Trecian laughed. 'People round here've always had a funny attitude toward telling the government about things. I think the argument was, if the government knew about the road, they'd decide it was worth fixing it up, and we'd be stuck with the bill. Or maybe when the surveyors came out here they pissed off the locals, so they kept quiet about it just for spite. That's Tulice for you. We may look to the outside world like a bunch of inbred hillbillies, but there's less to us than meets the eye.'

It occurred to Monach to ask why nobody'd seen fit to mention this secret road to him earlier. But he reflected on what Trecian had told him about the Tulice mentality, and concluded that he'd be happier not knowing.

The Sticklepath (as the short cut was apparently known) obviously wasn't used much, even in the wet season. In fact, if Trecian hadn't told him where it was Monach could easily have gone past it without realising. A deep carpet of pale yellow flowers covered it; Trecian told him what they were called, something really uninspiring, like gravelwort. But it suited the carts just fine, and when they camped for the night on a spur overlooking the dense, sprawling Cherva forest, they'd already covered just over half the distance to the military road. Monach gave orders for setting watches, organised the duty rosters for the morning, the sort of things he now did without having to think or remember; they came as naturally as drawing a sword.

He was thinking hopefully of getting to bed before midnight for a change when someone behind him called out his name-not Monach; his old name, the one he hadn't heard or thought about for over twenty years.

He turned round slowly. It was fully dark now, and he wasn't even sure of the direction the voice had come from. Instinctively, he lifted his right hand to his sash, until the knuckles brushed the hilt of his sword. 'Hello?' he said.

'Over here.' The voice was familiar, sort of; something like a voice he'd once known, except that it had changed, as voices will over time. 'Keep quiet-pretend you're taking a leak or something.'

At least religion trained a man to do what he was told. Monach advanced on where he thought the voice was coming from, stopped in front of a large oak tree, planted his feet a shoulder's width apart and pretended to loosen his trousers. Bloody ridiculous, he thought; but who on earth who's still alive knows me by that name?

'Hello,' the voice said, this time so close that Monach jumped and took a step back. As his heel touched the ground, he remembered whose voice it was. Absolutely no doubt in his mind at all, in spite of the fact that its owner had been dead at least twenty years.

'Hello, Cordo,' he replied slowly. 'Why aren't you dead?'

A hand closed around his right wrist, twisting it behind his back. It never occurred to him to resist. 'Cordo?' he asked. 'What're you doing? What's the matter?'

'Sorry.' The apology was sincere enough; as if Cordo had just trodden on his foot or spilt his beer. 'You haven't seen Gain lately, have you?'

For a moment, it was as though they were back at Deymeson. It took a conscious effort for Monach to remember where, and when, he was. 'No,' he answered, 'not for years-well, not since we left. I don't even know if he's still alive. Why?'

The voice-it was Cordo-tutted, as if to say it was a nuisance he'd missed him, but not to worry, he'd be bound to run into him later, after lunch. 'What about Ciartan? Seen anything of him recently?'

'No. Look-' Monach was cut short by the extreme pain in his arm, as Cordo twisted it savagely.

'Sorry,' Cordo repeated, same tone of voice. 'You wouldn't happen to know where either of them are, do you?'

'Yes. Look, Cordo, would you mind fucking well letting go of my arm? There's no need, I'm not going to attack you or anything. And you're hurting me,' he added, hearing the surprise in his own voice.

'Sorry,' Cordo said again, and the pressure relaxed, slightly. 'Where? And which one?'

'Ciartan,' Monach said. 'He's not far from here, in fact. Dui Chirra, the foundry. He's working there.'

'The Poldarn's Flute project?'

'That's right. Cordo, will you please tell me what's going on? I saw you, you were dead. Bloody hell, I cried-'

'Did you?' Genuine surprise. 'You soft bugger. No, I'm still alive, more or less. How long's he been there, do you know?'

'A fair while; a year, eighteen months.'

'Only,' Cordo went on, 'I heard he'd gone away. Back to where he came from; you know, originally.'

'That's right,' Monach said. 'But there was some trouble.'

'That I can believe,' Cordo said. (It was one of his turns of phrase.) 'Any idea what the trouble was? And how do you know this?'

'No idea,' Monach said. 'No idea on both counts, come to think of it,' he realised.

'What d'you mean?'

'I mean I know he's back,' Monach said, 'but the bit about the trouble, over there-offhand, can't say where I heard that. Actually,' he admitted, 'I can: it was in a dream. So it may not be true at all.'

'It's true,' Cordo said. 'Funny you mentioning dreams, though. Where's Xipho?'

'In the lead cart, probably, she was dog tired last time I saw her.'

'Fine. Listen, I'd rather you didn't mention anything to her about me being-well, back. So you'll keep it to yourself, right? For old time's sake?'

'Will I hell as like,' Monach replied angrily. 'She's got a right to know. We were friends, damn it.'

A chuckle. 'Did she cry too?'

'Yes.'

'No kidding? That's-well, there you go. Now, you're sure you haven't seen Gain, or heard anything about him, where he might be or what he might be up to? Sure?'

'Bloody positive. For God's sake, Cordo, you can tell me. What's going on?'

'Tell you later. Sorry,' Cordo said a fourth time; and then Monach's senses overloaded in a very brief instant of extreme pain, centred around the back of his head.

He couldn't have been out of it for long. When he came to, the darkness was still full and thick, no diluting strains of light to suggest the closeness of dawn. He was lying on his back, looking up into the face of Runting the quartermaster-sergeant, backlit by torchlight. 'Can you hear me?' he was saying, and the worried frown on his face was almost comical.

'Cordo,' Monach said; then, 'Yes, I can hear you just fine, stop yelling in my face.' He stopped, and winced; his head was splitting.

There were other faces looking down at him beside Runting's. 'What happened to you, then?' the quartermaster was saying.

'Don't know,' Monach replied. 'I guess I must've slipped and bashed my head or something.' He remembered Cordo's question: where was Xipho? He repeated it.

'I sent one of my lads to fetch her,' Runting said. Then he frowned. 'That was a while back,' he added. 'She should be here by now. Here, you.' He turned to the man beside him. 'Go and find out what's keeping her.'

A face withdrew from the circle. Monach tried to sit up, but that made him feel horribly dizzy. He could feel panic, very close: Xipho not there, and his body not working properly. 'Find her, quick,' he heard himself say; he sounded worried, frightened. But that was silly; Cordo wouldn't hurt Xipho, they were friends.

Cordo wouldn't hurt him either, for the same reason.

He made another attempt at sitting up; this time, it was like he'd always imagined drowning must feel, a total failure of the most basic systems. There was nothing he could do, about anything.

When Monach came round again, he was lying in one of the carts. Runting was there, and Trecian, and all the other necessary officers. They looked unhappy about something. 'How are you feeling now?' one of them asked.

He found it very hard indeed to speak. 'Xipho?' he said.

The man, whoever he was, Monach couldn't remember his name, looked at someone else before answering. 'We can't find her,' he said. 'We've looked all over.'

Monach opened his mouth, but words had failed too.

'There don't seem to be any signs of a struggle or a fight,' someone was saying. 'No blood or anything like that. And some of her stuff's gone, clothes. Not her sword, though.'

At that moment, Monach hated his body for failing him when he needed it. He made a tremendous effort; he could feel the harm it was doing him, as if it was tearing flesh. 'Someone was here,' he said. 'He knocked me down. He may have been-' He could feel the words draining away, as if there was a leak in his head and they were gushing out, going to waste. It occurred to him to wonder if he was dying, or just very badly concussed; but that was a side issue, and he couldn't afford to let his attention wander. 'Look for signs,' he said, 'footprints, whatever. He may have taken her-' And then he knew he couldn't say any more, not now or not ever, unclear which. He hoped he wasn't dying; it'd be pathetic to die at a time like this.

He could see, but couldn't remember opening his eyes. It was logical to suppose, therefore, that he was dreaming.

(Funny you mentioning dreams, Cordo had said.)

In fact, it was fairly certain he was dreaming, because he was standing up and his head wasn't hurting; also, in real life you can't understand what crows are saying.

This crow was perched on a stone window ledge, the only window in the small round room; and it was telling him something. 'They're coming,' it said. Fat lot of use that was; so he waved his arms and said, 'Shoo, get out of it,' and the crow spread its wings and flapped reproachfully away. Crows, he thought. Marvellous. Then he turned round. He hadn't noticed that there were people in the room; people he knew.

Ciartan: older, naturally, and gaunt-looking, scruffy (and him always so picky about his appearance, like a girl). And a big, broad man, short black beard, stub nose, huge round brown eyes. Someone Monach had known years ago, but he'd changed a lot since then. That was how it went. Some people kept on looking the same, others you'd hardly recognise.

'You're a bloody fool,' the big man was saying, to Ciartan. 'What the hell was all that about?'

Ciartan just seemed confused; he opened his mouth but didn't say anything. The other man went on, 'I know it's all part of the mystique, this deliberately walking round in plain sight because you're so cool and daring, but next time please leave me out of it. Dear gods-'

The crow was back. They couldn't see it, because they were facing the other way. Monach went to shoo it away again, but it winked at him.

'He doesn't know,' the crow said. 'Hasn't figured it out yet.'

Monach frowned. 'Who doesn't know what?'

'Him.' Bloody unhelpful bird. 'He doesn't know Poldarn's lost his memory, that's why he's getting so upset. He thinks he's just doing it to be annoying, showing off. Tragic misunderstandings like this shape history, you know.'

It's only a dream. You can't throttle birds in dreams, even when they're really aggravating. 'Like what?'

'Like this. Because of this, thousands of people will die. Cities burned down. Emperors overthrown. War, plague, death. Everything so fragile, so messy.'

Monach shouted: 'Because of what?' But it was as if the crow couldn't hear him. Meanwhile, the man he couldn't recognise was saying, 'Let's get down to brass tacks. This business up the road-'

'What business?' Monach asked imploringly, but the stupid fucking crow had gone again.

'Tazencius and his people aren't ready,' the man was saying. 'He hasn't even started recruiting openly yet-dammit, he hasn't had anything to recruit for, that's my point, there's been no build-up, just this, suddenly, wham-'

Monach felt something tickle his ear. 'Timing,' the crow was saying, 'very unfortunate timing. Disaster for all concerned. He was supposed to bring them there, you see, and then betray them so the prince had a glorious victory. But it all went horribly wrong. Horribly.'

('The supply of large cities in these parts is somewhat limited,' the man was saying. 'We can't go torching one a week till Tazencius gets his act together.')

'Ciartan's not got much to say for himself, has he?' Monach said.

'Ah.' The crow sighed mournfully. 'He doesn't realise. He doesn't know. Ignorance, folly, madness, death. The soldiers are coming.'

'What soldiers?' Monach asked, but the crow didn't answer; it had gone again, or forgotten how to speak, or maybe Ciartan had killed it with a stone. Then the man with the beard and the stub nose swung round to face the door, as a soldier appeared and said something; and the angle of his chin, the way his eyes narrowed before he spoke-I know you, Monach thought.

Cordo? Why aren't you dead?

'Why isn't he dead?' someone was saying. 'Damn well ought to be, bash on the head like that. He must have a skull like a barn wall.'

So I'm not dead, then, Monach thought, looking up at the circle of faces above him. Either that, or I died and I must've been a very bad man indeed, to get sent to an afterlife with this lot in it.

'He's woken up-look.' A face came closer. 'You all right, chief?' it said. 'How're you feeling now?'

'Like a mountain fell on me,' Monach replied. 'Where is she? Have you found her?'

Nobody answered, which in itself was an answer.

'In that case,' Monach said, 'we're going to Dui Chirra.'

And a miserable journey it was, too. The quickest route to Dui Chirra meant leaving the military road at Sarcqui and splashing through runny mud for two days down a miserable sunken lane with high hedges on either side; both boring and nerve-racking at the same time, since there was no way of knowing what was lying in wait for them around every corner. Ideal setting for an ambush; fell a substantial tree across the track, and you'd have the whole army bottled up. If the reports were accurate, Brigadier Muno was in charge at the foundry; a difficult man at the best of times, and it was unlikely that the untimely death of his nephew would have done much to improve his temper. He was just the sort to have a brigade or so of regular heavy infantry on hand to guard his precious compound, and an opportunity like a sunken lane would be something he'd be sure to make the most of. The idea of fighting a desperate defensive action in a cramped space, mud underfoot, against a horribly competent enemy didn't appeal to Monach in the least; and God knew, they wouldn't exactly be difficult to detect. If Muno was doing his job properly, he'd have picked them up already and either be on his way or already in position. Unfortunately, there was no other way of getting to Dui Chirra, apart from a week-long detour that'd take them through every sad excuse for a town between Falcata and the sea. Ignorance, folly, madness and death, just like the crow had warned him. It was a pity he didn't have any choice in the matter.

Even so, it shouldn't have been a problem. He was, after all, a brother of the order of Deymeson, trained to cope with problems of every kind. But in order to deal with the situation, he needed a clear head, the ability to concentrate, and that was proving to be beyond his abilities. Xipho; Xipho missing, Cordo alive and suddenly turned hostile. No matter how hard he tried to concoct some feasible alternative explanation, he had to face the virtual certainty that Cordomine, his old college friend, habitually top of the class in strategy and tactics, diplomacy and the huge variety of antisocial and unethical activities which the Deymeson syllabus lumped together under the heading of Acts of Expediency, was alive, and he'd either taken Xipho with him by force or tricked her into going with him-or she'd gone of her own accord, gladly, or possibly even by previous arrangement. That thought was terrifying, far more so than the prospect of Brigadier Muno's infantry suddenly pouncing on him from some gap in the carelessly-laid hedges of the Sarcqui to Dui Chirra road. Was it possible, he asked himself over and over again, that all this time she'd been playing him along, as she'd been playing Ciartan, not so long ago; following orders, furthering the Grand Plan by every means in her power. The loathsome symmetry of that possibility wasn't lost on him. Suppose that's what was really going on; now why hadn't Father Tutor and the rest of the faculty ever bothered to cover that aspect of the trade in their third grade Expediencies coursework? What to do when you find out your lover is really your enemy; a dozen lectures, six tutorials, a written paper and a practical.

(It's a tragedy, he told himself bitterly, that I can only kill Ciartan once.)

– And Cordo; Cordo alive, even though he'd seen him dead, once in the butchered flesh, and two or three times a week in bad dreams since. Cordo, who'd hit him hard enough to kill (but he'd said he was sorry in advance.) As the carts lurched and wobbled through the mud and jolted over the stones washed out by the rain, he tried to understand exactly what that was supposed to mean.

There had been six of them; the Crow's Head Gang, named after the crumbled, slapdash carved stone corbel that looked down over their stall in the chapter house at Deymeson, where they'd stood patiently shivering and bored through countless assemblies, chapters, lectures, liturgies. Elaos Tanwar, born leader, prime mover, inspiration and guiding spirit, long since incontrovertibly dead, for what little that seemed to be worth nowadays. Xipho Dorunoxy, born second-in-command, always the cleverest, always the most sensible, the most patient, the one who stopped the rest of them fighting among themselves, the one who'd somehow got it into her head that the Gang mattered, that it was about something other than breaking rules and relieving boredom. Ciartan-always had been a nasty piece of work, but he'd had other qualities then: a narrow and rigid loyalty, courage, a reckless disregard for risk and danger, an evil bastard but their evil bastard, even more terrifying to outsiders than he was to the other members of the Gang. Cordomine: always there, never left out, never missed a council of war or a staff meeting, always knew what was going on, what the opposition was up to (the faculty, the groundsmen and domestics, the other gangs; how he knew they never found out, never asked); always thinking long thoughts, cherishing grudges, exploiting little cracks and rifts, always listening, never a wasted word; always top at Expediences, and Doctrine too, for some bizarre reason. Gain Aciava, Cordomine's self-appointed henchman: at times no more than an associate member, and then suddenly he'd be in the thick of it, master of alternatives, the eternal custodian of Plan B; always talking, never saying anything unless he wanted to-and in the end he'd proved to be something rather more than Cordomine's shadow, an extension of his friend's mind; more and worse; and of course, it was Gain who brought Ciartan to Deymeson, having found him wandering in the wilderness, like some prophet in scripture. It'd be nice, Monach thought, if he'd seen the last of Gain Aciava, but he wasn't at all sure about that. Himself the seventh; and of all seven, the one he knew least about and had the most trouble labelling and pigeonholing. At the time he'd have said: always the most reasonable, always the most boringly sincere, the one whose homework the others copied, not because he was the best but because he always did the work. The most stolid, reliable, prosaic; Father Tutor's pet, the one who wanted to do well at lessons, the one who actually cared about religion and stuff. That had been then, of course; and it was notoriously hard to form a clear view of history while it was actually going on. To the above, he could also add, always the most marginal, the least important, the least valued, always the one picked last for the team, always the one they had to remember not to leave out. Since then he'd always believed: the last one left, the only survivor-until Xipho had turned up, popping up out of the ruins of Deymeson and shattering what little peace of mind he had left by announcing that she'd been the priestess of the god in the cart he'd been vainly chasing after, while the world had been getting ready to end all around him. Then, in the same breath, bloody Ciartan; he was still around, and worse still, at some point in the intervening years he'd somehow become the most important (Ciartan, always the least likely to succeed), until suddenly he'd lost it all in the muddy fringes of some river, surrounded by dead bodies and crows (He remembered; it was Ciartan, of course, who'd come up with the gang's name. Who else?)

And now Cordo, materialising out of the darkness like a fairytale goblin, bashing heads and abducting princesses (unless she'd gone willingly; unless she'd been waiting for him; maybe she'd been the one who hit him, not Cordo-); and he'd asked after Gain, implying that he was still out there somewhere, still hovering and listening and cooking up little plots. Still the same old gang, out to cause mischief, insisting that he join in but not bothering to tell him what it was all about-And his one triumph, his late achievement; it had almost made up for the trashing of Deymeson and the death of the order. Finally, at the end, it'd been him, the runt of the litter, who'd scooped the pool (by right of survivorship only, he'd freely admitted that) and got what the other five never managed: he'd got Xipho. Sure, she'd been with Ciartan, she'd had his child, even named the little brat after him, but that had all been in the line of duty, yet another intolerable burden she'd borne for the sake of the order; but (she'd told him, beetroot red with embarrassment and shame) actually, always, it had been him she'd loved, right from the start, only she'd never given in to it for the sake of the gang, knowing that if she did it'd be the end of them, splitting them up, driving them apart (as if that'd have mattered; after all, it was only an informal student's club, a trivial thing…) Until at the end, in the ashes and rubble Had she told Ciartan the same sort of lies? No, of course not, because he'd lost his memory; she'd have had to think up some different lies for him. So, what about Cordo? Had she loved him and him only, all along, too?

As if it mattered, Monach told himself. Far more important issues to be dealt with here-an army to command, lives at stake, all these poor fools depending on him, following him to the ends of the earth, his people. (And you could ask two dozen of them exactly why were they following him, to achieve what ultimate purpose, and get maybe one sensible answer-if you were lucky.)

And then it got worse.

The fact that he'd been expecting it didn't help terribly much. All the way up that terrifying chimney of hedges and high banks he'd been waiting for the moment when armed men would start pouring down on him, like burning lava from a volcano. Of course, it happened only when he'd eventually stopped watching the sides of the road and allowed his attention to wander. Worse still, they attacked when the army was at its most vulnerable, straddled across a deep, fast ford.

It began with rocks and stones; then a fat old chestnut tree yawned and flopped across the track, so closely following Monach's worst-case scenario that for a moment he almost believed he was remembering something that had already happened. The attackers gushed out of the dense cover behind and on both flanks like sea water flooding a holed ship.

No room, Monach acknowledged hopelessly; no room to turn the carts to form defensible redoubts, which was about the only worthwhile trick he and his officers knew. Without that slim advantage, Monach's army quickly resolved itself into what it had really been all along: a loose and unreliable confederation of poorly motivated individuals. As if that wasn't bad enough, he realised that he hadn't got a clue who these predictable but horribly efficient enemies were. Not regular army, not raiders, not rustic levies. Amathy house? Didn't matter. No time to bother with trivia, such as who precisely was killing his people, let alone why.

Clarity; give me clarity, or else let me die quickly and avoid the shame. Training told; he snapped into focus, assessed the situation, calculated the inevitable outcome. Unfortunately it wasn't good. Whoever these people were, they had ambushes and surprise attacks polished up as sharp as a needle. No point looking for mistakes, they wouldn't have made any. Simple as that.

Precepts of religion, Monach thought wildly as the man standing next to him was pulled down off the cart by his ankles. Strength is weakness; and the precepts are never wrong, it's just that occasionally humans are too obtuse to grasp the subtleties. Strength is weakness; their strengths were surprise, speed and efficiency. All right then, bugger precepts of religion. We're just going to have to slog it out and see what happens.

Once he'd reached that conclusion, it was easier for him; he was excused strategy and tactics for the duration of the battle, and was free to indulge himself in the one thing he was actually rather good at. He'd never enjoyed killing, for the same reason he'd never enjoyed breathing-it was too reflexive to be capable of being enjoyed. (How can you relish a moment that doesn't exist?) But at least it gave him something to do and took his mind off the miserable shambles all around him. He jumped down from the cart, identified a target and dealt with it. His sword was shaken free of blood and back in the scabbard before he had time to think about what he was proposing to do; the best way, he'd always found.

Monach wasn't aware of a precept that said: When all else fails, lead by example. But maybe he'd been off sick that day. It proved to be a valid approach; whoever these people were, they didn't seem to be prepared to cope with calm, unruffled-looking men who treated a battle like a stroll through long grass, leaving a trail of sliced tendons and arteries behind them. If Monach had been the only sword-monk in the army, maybe they'd have coped, but he wasn't; simply getting out of his way wasn't enough. Nevertheless, it came as something of a surprise to him when the enemy ran away, as if it hadn't occurred to him that a fight could end without one side wiping out the other. Naturally, mass combat and wholesale slaughter hadn't been on the syllabus at Deymeson; and he'd never actually participated in a regular battle before. But for one party simply to turn round and leave struck him as vaguely unfair, cheating; because they'd have another chance some other day, and they hadn't earned it. He felt a simmering sense of injustice, as if someone had made a fool of him.

'What the hell was all that about?' someone asked him, some captain or other. 'Who were they, anyhow?'

Monach shrugged. He was standing beside the ford, looking down at dead men lying face down in the mud, thinking, So that's what Ciartan would've seen when he woke up with his mind suddenly empty: horrible. He tried to imagine how he'd have reacted under those circumstances, but it was impossible. 'No idea,' he replied. 'Could have been the Amathy house, I suppose, only I don't remember ever doing anything to set them against us. Still, I don't suppose they need a reason.'

'Could be.' The captain crouched down on his heels to turn a dead body on its back. Neck cut to the bone; the mud was bright red all round it. 'They aren't regular army, but they're not different enough to be raiders.'

'Local militia, then,' he suggested, though he'd already dismissed that possibility.

'Too professional for that,' the captain replied. 'Militia would've just run away, for one thing, not retire in good order like this lot did.'

'Amathy house, then,' Monach said. He tried to think of the implications of that: what exactly did the Amathy house want? Hitherto he'd always tended to think of them as little more than a superior class of bandits, descending without warning on remote settlements to rob, burn and kill. But bandits wouldn't pick a fight with an army for no reason. Their actions, specially battles, would have to be cost-effective, a solid and guaranteed financial return for every life lost. Businessmen-the same, he realised with a shudder, as us; and we wouldn't have attacked them without provocation. We haven't got anything worth stealing, so it must have been our lives they were after, rather than property. Taking out a potential rival? Maybe. Perhaps they were planning to raid the Dui Chirra foundry, with its substantial stock of valuable metal (scrap bronze is something tangible and valuable, worth shedding blood for), reckoned we must have the same idea and wanted to forestall us. It still seemed far-fetched. If the wealth of Dui Chirra was the motive, then at the very least it'd have made sense to attack us after we'd looted the foundry. Two crows with one stone-get the bronze and dispose of us, save themselves a job.

It had to be that, though; or else they'd decided to appoint themselves as guardians of the Empire, Tazencius's loyal and trusted supporters -Or maybe there's some reason why they don't want the foundry destroyed; not yet. Poldarn's Flute, for instance. That made a whole lot of sense; basically the same motive as driving the crows off your growing corn until you're ready to cut it. Dear God, Monach thought in high disgust, does everybody in the Empire know about the wretched things? They're supposed to be a deadly secret.

Well; in that case he quite understood, couldn't blame them in the least. It also meant they'd definitely be back, better prepared and organised. Not a cheerful thought, almost as disturbing as the suspicion forming in his mind about the timing of Cordo's visit and Xipho's disappearance.

'So,' the captain was saying, 'now what? I don't know the proper procedure after a battle. Like, are we supposed to bury the bodies, or do we just leave them lying about?'

'Hadn't given it any thought,' Monach answered. 'Though it's academic, really-we haven't got time. I guess we leave them for the crows, right thing to do or not.' A thought struck him. 'Any idea how many of ours didn't make it?' he asked, trying not to sound horribly callous but not making a very good fist of it.

The captain shook his head. 'Could've been worse is probably the most you can say for it,' he replied. 'We got more of them than they got of us, if that's any good to you.'

Monach shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Not really.'

The next day brought them to the military road, where the captain whose name Monach couldn't remember had an answer to his question; at least, they saw an example of how the regular army dealt with the problem.

The crows were visible from a long way off, swirling their sloppy, asymmetrical helix in the middle sky. Why do they do that, Monach asked himself. Waste of time and energy, surely. But birds and animals don't do anything without a very good reason, so presumably there was some advantage to be gained from it-an efficient formation for maximum all-round observation, or something like that. When Monach's column broke the skyline they cleared off, with much resentful shrieking, apart from one or two defiant individuals who refused to leave the banquet until they were walked off, like the last few resilient drunks at closing time.

They looked at the sight in silence for quite some time; then someone or other, some company commander, shook his head and said: 'All in all, not a good week for the Amathy boys.'

Assuming, Monach thought, that's who they were. It'd have been nice if just one of them could have been bothered to stay alive a few hours longer, so he could have asked him who he belonged to. But no, they'd all died and taken the information with them, memories all wiped clean, nothing now but cold meat and scrap metal.

The approved procedure, apparently, was for the regular army to bury its own dead in a single long trench, the sort you dig to plant vines in, and leave the enemy for the scavengers. Judging by the size of the newly made earthwork, the regulars hadn't had it all their own way, but they'd definitely had the better of it. As he picked his way between the flat, dirty bodies, Monach recognised a face, one of the men he'd seen during his own battle. On that occasion, he'd seen this man (memorable for his long, rather concave face: stub nose, recurved chin) looking at him from about five yards away; he remembered watching as the man frowned, pursed his lips slightly (like a doubtful buyer in a market) and then turned his back and walked briskly away. Now he was on his back, both feet pointing left, arms flopped by his sides, head twisted round and back by the force of the cut that had severed his neck into but not through the bone. His eyes were wide open, and the eyeballs were filthy with dust and mud.

'Serves them right,' someone else said. Nobody replied. By the looks of it, all of those who'd withdrawn from the battle in the sunken lane had fallen here; if this was an example of Brigadier Muno's work, he was good at what he did. A professional soldier, of course, would have other agendas beside simply staying alive and holding the field. In this instance, there must have been some advantage to be gained from wiping the enemy out practically to the last man-sending a message to the Amathy house, raising the morale of his own troops, letting off steam after the murder of the brigadier's nephew. Or maybe they'd just needed the boots.

The hell with sightseeing, Monach thought; time we were getting on. He gave the order to fall in. It was reluctantly obeyed (can't blame them, he thought; naturally they don't want to carry on in this direction, with the risk of running into the people who did this-not a nice neighbourhood) and they began the last leg of the journey to Dui Chirra; a pleasant, comfortable stroll down this excellently maintained government road.

An hour or so along the way, they were met by a single man on a rather fine black horse. Soldier; staff rather than front line, judging by his clean boots and crisp riding-cloak. He sat on his horse in the middle of the road like a sheriff's officer, as if Monach had got behind on the payments for the army and he'd come to repossess it. Whoever he was, he either had strong nerves or no imagination. In any event, Monach decided, that sort of confidence deserved a little respect, so he rode out ahead to meet him.

'Hello there,' the man said; calm, slightly cocky even. 'I'm Captain Olens, Imperial staff. Who the hell are you?'

Monach nodded politely. 'Pilgrims,' he said.

Captain Olens thought about that for a moment. 'Rather a lot of you for that,' he said.

'Safety in numbers,' Monach replied. 'I get the impression that the roads around here aren't as safe as they might be, no disrespect intended. Gangs of bandits and the gods know what else roaming around all over the place. After what happened to the prince the other day, it's like nobody's safe any more.'

'Quite so,' Captain Olens said. 'So, if you're pilgrims, where are you headed for? I never knew there was anything particularly holy around here.'

Monach raised his eyebrows. 'You surprise me,' he said. 'You mean, you haven't heard about the miracle?'

'Miracle,' Olens said. 'No, can't say I have.'

'Good heavens,' Monach said. 'Everybody's talking about it back home. Manifestation of the Divine Poldarn; quite possibly the Second Coming and the end of the world. Right here,' he added, 'at Dui Chirra.'

Olens looked at him. 'Are you sure you've got the right place?' he said. 'There's nothing at Dui Chirra except a rather scruffy inn and a run-down old foundry.'

'Poldarn in his aspect of the god of fire and rebirth,' Monach said. 'Where else would you look except a foundry?'

Olens shook his head. 'Sorry,' he said, 'but I think you boys have had a wasted trip. Nothing miraculous going on there, just a bunch of layabouts messing about in a clay pit. If you're looking for miracles, you might try heading south. I did hear they've got a two-headed calf out at Chosiva.'

'Two-headed calves aren't anything special,' Monach said, shifting his reins into his left hand. 'Once you've seen one, you've seen them all.' He nudged his horse with his heels, and as they moved forward he laid the back of his right hand on the hilt of his sword, snuggled in his sash like a baby. Captain Olens must have seen him, or else he was properly aware of his circle; he pulled his horse's head around and kicked savagely. Monach's draw cut the air he'd just left.

No point chasing after him; a fine government horse like that could outrun Monach's old bag of bones any day, and even if he did catch up with him, there was nothing to be gained from killing one staff officer in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if he had a similar conversation with the commander of those poor bastards we left at the crossroads, Monach thought.

'What was all that about?' someone asked him, when he'd rejoined the column.

Monach shrugged. 'Far as I could make out, I think the government doesn't want us to go to Dui Chirra. I get the impression it's not open to the public these days.'

'Fine,' somebody said. 'So what do we do now?'

'What we're told, of course,' Monach replied. 'Unless you like the idea of a meeting with the outfit that did over the Amathy house; in which case, you carry on. Personally, I'm going the other way.'

Silence; but Monach didn't care. He was, of course, going to go to Dui Chirra, because it was the only place he could think of where Xipho might sooner or later turn up. Taking this collection of misfits with him was clearly out of the question, but it had never been anything more than a means to an end, an instrument to be used. If he'd wanted to be a soldier, he'd have joined the army.