Shadow

Chapter Sixteen

Stand with your back straight. (Monach was asleep on a hard plank bed in the only inn in Prodo, a dismal little village two hours west of Laise Bohec; but in his dream he was twelve years old, and a novice in a practice hall at Deymeson.) Stand with your back straight '…Your right foot slightly ahead of your left, your feet apart by the width of your shoulders.' Father Tutor walked up and down the lines, looking for a misplaced foot to smack at with his foil. Late afternoon sunlight soaked through the thin vellum windowpanes, yellow and soft, and the whole world smelt of beeswax, sweat and wet plaster. 'Now, draw your sword and hold it out in front of you, both hands on the hilt, as far as you can reach comfortably without stretching.' A hedge of wooden foils sprouted from each row (Across so much space and time, Monach couldn't recognise himself; they all look the same at that age, particularly in novice's robes and temple haircuts. But he knew he was there, just as he always knew where his sword hilt was, or the extent of his circle.)

– and Father Tutor went back the way he'd just come, inspecting, adjusting the height of a foil-tip up or down, until he was satisfied that he'd achieved as much uniformity as was possible with a group of human beings.

'Very good,' he said. 'Now, please listen very carefully, because I'm about to teach you the most important lesson you'll ever learn.' He waited for a heartbeat or so, just long enough to tantalise the class into paying attention. 'Moving your feet as little as you can, turn round in a circle, keeping your eyes fixed at all times on the tip of your sword.'

Of course, it was something of a shambles. For one thing, he hadn't specified clockwise or anticlockwise, and it was the first time they'd ever done the exercise… Inevitably, one or two novices collided in opposition, their foils meshing like the cogs of a gear-train. There was a certain amount of giggling, and the ludicrous sound of young, pattering feet on a polished wood floor.

'That'll do,' Father Tutor called out, and at once the giggling stopped and the youth in the room evaporated like water sprinkled on the bed of a forge. 'Lower your swords, stand down and listen carefully; this is very difficult, and if you get it wrong you will undoubtedly lose your first live fight and die. Now then.' He took a deep breath and stuck his thumbs into his sash, an unconscious mannerism that he hated because he knew it made him look pompous and fat, but that he had no real control over. The class was staring at him; he felt apprehension and antagonism. That was good.

'Think,' he told him, 'about the circle you've just drawn in the air.' (Was that Father Tutor talking, or the Junior Tutor that Monach had grown into, eighteen years later, the one who copied his former teacher's words and mannerisms now that he was a teacher himself? The sword-point describes a circle-) 'You can't see it now,' Father Tutor went on. 'You'd better learn to see it, because it's the circle of life and death-your life, your death, and the lives and deaths of others, possibly dozens or hundreds of them. So long as you're alone in the circle, you're safe, and so is your enemy. He can't reach you, and you can't reach him. As soon as either of you steps into the other's circle-and of course when you enter his circle, he enters yours-both of you are in terrible danger, both of you are a single moment away from success, from victory. The circle of life and death-there's a grand, magical-sounding name for you, but that's precisely what it is. Alone in your circle, you're safe and you can achieve nothing. Once your circle meshes with someone else's, you carry with you victory and defeat, both at the same time, success and failure, life and death.'

They were gazing at him, spellbound-all it took, he reflected cynically, was a little melodrama. He made them wait for a few more moments, then went on. 'Know your circle,' he said. 'Learn it, so that you can see it-not just when you make an effort and look for it, but all the time, whether you want to see it or not. I know it's imaginary, but you've got to make it more real than anything you can touch or see or hear or smell or taste. You've got to know how far you can reach out into the world, and how close the world can come to you, before you have to draw and cut. Does everybody understand, or shall I go through it again?'

He paused for a while, watching the ranks of novices all earnestly imagining dotted lines in the air around them, panicking because they couldn't quite see them yet. Of course, they were all convinced that they'd just learned something exceptionally profound, like the true secret name of God, when in fact he'd just given them a very useful but entirely basic and mundane lesson in swordsmanship technique. It would be years, probably decades, before they came to realise that the exceptionally profound is always, by definition, basic and mundane.

'Before the next class,' he said, snapping them back into the visible world, 'I want you all to learn your circle so well that you'll know immediately when someone breaks into it-and that includes someone behind you or off to the side, not just in front. We'll learn that until everybody's got it perfectly; then we'll do the same thing with our eyes shut. And then, when we really know our own circles, we'll learn how to see other people's.' He smiled, his most off-putting smile. 'Usually, I find it takes about ten years to get it right. And that's if you're really trying.'

The class broke up. Father Tutor drifted out of the hall, reaching the door long before any of the scampering novices, even though he had further to go, and one novice from the second-from-last row -Sat up in bed, bolt upright, his eyes still closed, making a noise with his mouth that had words in it but wasn't speech. Then, as his eyes opened, the dream broke up like thawing ice on a pond, and he remembered who and when and where he was, and where his circle began and ended. Not long afterwards he found out what had woken him up; there was a leak in the roof (water, not sunlight leaking through scraped lambskin windows) and a fat, wet raindrop had landed in his ear.

He stood up and opened the shutter a little, just enough to see the first stains of sunrise through the wet air. He wasn't as canny about the weather as some, but he could tell from the shape and height of the clouds that it was going to be a long, wet day, miserable for travelling in. He wasn't particularly happy to find that there was another leak in the roof directly above his right boot, which squelched loudly when he put his foot in it.

With his coat pulled round his ears and his hat dragged down over them he scuttled across the courtyard to the stables, woke up the groom by yelling in his ear, and told him to get his horse ready as soon as possible; then he scuttled back to the main building, found the landlord, paid him and demanded bread, cheese, hot milk and cider, in that order. By the time he'd dealt with them, the groom had given his horse a cursory dab with the brush and the curry-comb and slopped on the saddle and bridle (but he was always careful to check his own straps and girths, so that was all right). He left the inn just after full sunrise and followed the road west, towards Laise Bohec.

Find Tazencius, he says. Wonderful. And what if Tazencius doesn't want to be found? To which Father Tutor would have replied that Tazencius' wishes in the matter were so far down the list of priorities that he really didn't need to worry about them. Easy enough to say, in a warm, well-lit upstairs room in the keep of Deymeson.

In the seventh book of the Dialectics, Posuerus wrote, 'If you want to find out where someone is, ask his enemy.' Like so much of Posuerus' wisdom, it was true up to a point; it was fairly likely that Major-General Actis knew where Tazencius was, rather less likely that he'd be prepared to tell a civilian, even an accredited representative of the order with a sealed pass from Father Prior. But it was a place to start, more likely to succeed than combing the side roads looking under bushes. Major-General Actis, of course, probably wasn't in Laise right now, but that was no bad thing, since it wasn't the man himself he was planning to talk to.

Because of the rain and the churned-up roads and a bridge washed away just south of where the Lambo joined the Bohec, it took him five hours instead of two to reach Laise, and by the time he got there he wasn't in the mood for subtly picking bits of information out of junior officers like a man scraping the last bit of meat from a crab's claw. Instead he barged past the sentry in a flurry of sodden coat-tails, calling loudly for the duty officer and trying to look like a spy in a hurry. The duty officer was in the Eastgate tower, playing scuttlejack with the quartermaster and the chief engineer; they jumped up guiltily when he strode in, and tried to stand in front of the board.

Here goes nothing, Monach thought. 'You two,' he snapped at the quartermaster and the engineer, 'take a walk.' They did as they were told, giving Monach grounds to be grateful to the rain; when a man's drenched to the skin and has a suitably hostile attitude, it's very hard to tell whether he's a soldier or a civilian without asking him directly.

'Right,' Monach said, sitting down on the duty officer's stool and laying his wet, dripping hat right on top of the scuttle-jack board, 'I haven't got long-the east road's a disgrace, as I'll be pointing out in my report-so let's get straight to the point, please. Prince Tazencius. Where is he?'

The duty officer looked properly miserable. Monach could sympathise. It was the nightmare of everyone who holds a middle-level rank in a strict hierarchy to be given a direct order that contradicts another direct order by someone whose exact seniority you don't know and daren't ask for fear of sounding insubordinate; which was why he'd chosen the duty officer, of course. (Attack your enemy at his strongest point; when attacking your allies, look for the weakest link in the chain; Posuerus, Dialectics, VI, 32. Very true, up to a point, and beyond that point, lethally misleading. Typical Posuerus.)

'I'm not supposed to say,' the poor man mumbled, thereby giving away the fact that he knew the answer. He probably wasn't a very good scuttlejack player, either. 'I really need to see some authorisation-'

Monach made an ungracious noise. 'Sure,' he said, 'except that like everything else with me or on me it's soaked right through, and even if the ink hasn't run it'd take three hours to dry out enough to be legible. If I had three hours to waste I wouldn't need to be here, I'd have gone straight to Actis Fraim and asked him.'

(It was pure fluke that he happened to know General Actis' first name; not that it mattered very much, since it was a certainty that the duty officer didn't.)

'I'm sorry,' he replied, and Monach couldn't help noticing how young and generally unfinished he looked, like a clay model for a bronze statue. 'But I've got my orders, and-'

'Yes, you've got your orders. From me. Now, if you'd care to obey them, you can get back to your game and I can go and change my clothes before I catch a fever and die.' He leaned back on the stool, taking note of a rather ominous creak. 'When you're ready,' he added.

Determination drained out of the duty officer like grain from a rotten sack. 'We think he's headed north,' he said, 'looking to get across the Mahec and head north-west towards the sea.' He winced and closed his hands tight. 'We've got a very persuasive source telling us that he and Feron Amathy are planning to join forces with a large party of raiders who'll be making landfall somewhere in the northwest in about a month's time. The deal is, the raiders will take care of General Cronan, then transport Tazencius and the Amathy house across the bay for a sneak attack on Torcea; Tazencius will proclaim himself emperor, and in return for their help he'll withdraw all the imperial garrisons north of the bay and let the raiders do what they like with Mael, Weal, Sansory, Boc, all the northern cities. When they've finished and gone home, Feron Amathy will take over what's left and rule it as a kingdom.' The duty officer stopped talking and looked down, apparently studying his hands, which were shaking.

'I see,' Monach said. 'And what's Actis Fraim supposed to be doing about this?'

The duty officer looked up, puzzled, presumably, at how calmly Monach was taking the end of the world. 'There's not a lot he can do,' he replied, 'except try and cut Tazencius off before he crosses the Bohec, though there's not much chance of that. Other than that, it's a matter of staying put and waiting for General Cronan to decide what to do. Actis can't go charging off north on his own, he'd be cut to ribbons.'

Monach stood up. 'You don't have to answer this,' he said, 'but if I'm right about who this very persuasive source is, maybe the shock will make you sneeze. I think your very persuasive source is Chaplain Cleapho.'

The duty officer stared at him, remembered what he'd been told to do, and mimed a rather unconvincing sneeze. 'How did you know that?' he asked.

Monach narrowed his eyes in what he hoped was the correct manner. 'You don't want to ask me things like that,' he said.

'Oh.' The duty officer looked away quickly. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't…'

'It's all right,' Monach told him, erasing the whole conversation with a sweep of his arm. 'Just tell me this. Where, as precisely as you can tell, is Tazencius likely to be now?'

The duty officer thought for a moment, then reached behind him and picked up an old-fashioned brass map from the floor. 'Here,' he said, stabbing at the plate with a stubby finger that left a smudge on the polished metal. 'At least, that's the last place we had a sighting from. Little village called Cric, not far from Josequin.'

'Ah yes,' Monach said in a neutral voice. 'I've been there.'

'We got the report this morning,' the duty officer went on. 'He was headed in that direction, it was the only place he could be making for-well, if you've been there, you'll know that, it's all empty moorland up there. Our man reckoned he must have had barges waiting for him on the Bohec just downstream from Sansory; after we interrupted him north of Liancor, he'll have sent on a message for them to pick him up further down the river; then by barge to Beal Ford, which is due south of Josequin, and up the old cart road headed for Cric. Our man said he didn't seem to be in any great hurry, which Actis reckoned must mean he's got time in hand-for example, he's arranged to meet someone but they won't be there for a day or so. If Cle-if our source is right, that someone's got to be a messenger from the raiders.'

'Quite,' Monach said. 'Thank you.' He walked to the door, stopped and turned back. 'This is just a wild guess,' he said, but if I mentioned the name Poldarn, or two people travelling around in a cart-'

'Ah.' The duty officer actually grinned. 'That's them. Well, her, anyway. I don't think the man knows anything about it.'

Monach kept his face as straight as possible. 'The man,' he repeated.

'That's right. Funny, isn't it,' he went on, 'our man turning out to be a woman. No reason why not, of course, far less likely to make people suspicious; it's just the thought of a female spy, that's all.'

Monach felt lucky enough to gamble. 'That's Cleapho for you,' he said. 'Always willing to give it a try.'

'He's a very clever man,' the duty officer replied. 'I'm just glad he's on our side.'

The more I think about it, Monach told himself as his horse splashed through thick puddles of mud on the northeast road, the harder it gets. What the hell am I going to tell Father Tutor?

First, of course, he was disobeying orders; he'd been told to secure the person of Prince Tazencius, not report news-and most certainly not his interpretation of someone else's misinformation. In this case, though, he was prepared to take the risk and do the penances, if ever he got the time (five thousand draws and eight thousand cuts would be a positive pleasure if only he could stay in Deymeson and not have to ride a horse again for a year); the thought of what Father Tutor would say to him if he didn't disobey orders in this case was far more terrifying.

Cleapho; now there was a difficult man to fathom, if ever there was one. Monach wasn't sure if he was supposed to know that Cleapho was the head of his order-nearly everybody in Deymeson knew, of course, but how they ever found out was a mystery, since you never heard anybody mention it, even in the most private of conversations. It was pretty obvious what Cleapho was doing; his distrust of General Cronan was no secret either, hadn't been for many years now. Cleapho was convinced that sooner or later Cronan would turn on the emperor and make a grab for the throne; he was too much of a patriot and an idealist not to. But Cronan wasn't an idiot, and if this scheme of Cleapho's was so transparent that even a lowly sword-monk could see through it, could Cronan possibly be fooled by it?

He forded the river in blinding rain, just managing to get across (an hour later and the ford would be impassable; another damned complication), and resigned himself to a thoroughly unpleasant night ride up the ridge to Deymeson. As the ground underfoot turned from muddy slush to hard stone, he started thinking about Prince Tazencius. If Cleapho's plot really was as shallow as he was assuming, he and Tazencius had staged Tazencius' disgrace and rebellion in order to lure Cronan north of the Mahec and get rid of him-for all he knew, really with the help of the raiders, though the scary stuff about giving them Mael and Weal and Boc was clearly nonsense. Tazencius, he could safely assume, was simply doing what his cousin Galien told him to (just as he always had done, from the famous knife fight incident all those years ago right up to the present), and Galien in turn was taking his orders direct from Prince Suevio, who was doing what his brother wanted but couldn't do himself, or what Suevio thought he ought to want to do, or what Suevio had decided was good for his brother and the empire, though the emperor himself would have a fit if he ever found out… Monach flushed all that stuff out of his mind. Motivations really weren't important; what mattered was the deployment of forces, the collision and intersection of circles, those of Cronan and his enemies, and whether anything could be done (by, for example, one self-effacing man with a short sword) to stop it.

Far better, he decided, for him to concentrate on the smaller pieces, to keep his eye on the tip of the sword and watch for the moment when it violated the circumference. Two people, for instance, in a cart. He hadn't even considered the possibility that whoever they were-the two inadequates he'd bullied-or thought he'd bullied; perhaps they'd been playing him, rather than the other way round-in Sansory jail, or the other Poldarn, the one he'd been starting to believe really was a god in a cart-they were nothing more mystical or supernatural than a couple of spies and couriers using a confidence trick as a cover for espionage and treason. There was a good reason why he hadn't considered it; it was a bloody stupid idea, to use a dangerous and highly illegal activity as a cover for a dangerous and highly illegal activity. Then again, if the pair he'd spoken to-damn it, had given money to, out of pity-actually were agents for Tazencius or the Amathy house, they'd undoubtedly fooled him completely, which suggested it wasn't such a bad cover after all. And if it wasn't them but the other Poldarn, or the other Poldarn's female companion… He realised he was laughing out loud, though he couldn't hear the laughter over the wind and the clattering of hooves on the stony path. What if both his suspicions were true: that the man was the divine Poldarn and the woman was an Amathy house spy? What if neither of them knew?

That made him laugh so much he nearly fell off his horse, and he was still chuckling when he rode up to the main gate of Deymeson.

'You're in a good mood,' Brother Porter said accusingly as he opened the sally-port. 'What's up? Killed someone famous?'

Monach shook his head. 'Better than that,' he said. 'I've got a valid excuse for getting Father Tutor out of his pit in the early hours of the morning. Do me a favour and-'

'I'm not waking him up,' Brother Porter replied quickly. 'Last time I did that I couldn't taste vinegar for a week after.'

Monach frowned. 'I could give you a direct order,' he said.

'And I could tell you where to stick it. Goodnight.'

He took his horse to the stables, where they weren't particularly pleased to see him, and stopped off at his own quarters to dump his sodden coat and towel his hair dry. He kept his wet boots on, though; the squelching was loud enough to wake up all but the heaviest sleepers, and he'd have to walk past the quarters of several high-ranking members of the order to get to Father Tutor's rooms. He thought about the god in the cart and grinned. Then he remembered Cric, and the old man who was probably General Allectus, and the grin faded. The more I think about it, he muttered to himself, the harder it gets.

There was Father Tutor's door; dark, grubby oak, and a plain blacked latch. He balled his fist, thumped twice, lifted a lamp down from the nearest wall-sconce and pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

There were some senior members of the order who you'd expect to find absent from their beds in the middle of the night. Father Tutor wasn't one of them. Even if he had occasion to work late, he'd do it in his rooms, requiring anybody who needed to see him to come here and sit in the straight-backed uncomfortable chair while he perched at ease on the edge of the bed. Monach stood still in the doorway without a clue as to what he should do next.

'Was that you?' said a voice behind him. It turned out to belong to the Father Bursar, the particular terror of Monach's youth; he was standing in the corridor wearing nothing but a thick wool cap and holding a distinctly pornographic candlestick.

'I'm sorry,' Monach stammered. 'I-'

'Making that bloody horrible noise,' Father Bursar explained. 'Was it you?'

'Yes.' Monach kept his eyes fixed on the wall six inches left of Father Bursar's ear. 'I need to see Father Tutor, it's-'

'You don't know? Dear God, where have you been the last two days?'

'I-' Monach forced out the words. 'Father Tutor sent me on a mission,' he said, clinging to the authorisation like a drowning man holding on to a tiny piece of driftwood. 'To Laise Bohec, and-'

Father Bursar frowned, but it wasn't anger. 'Father Coiroven died the night before last,' he said quietly. 'His heart, we think. What did you say your name was?'

Father Coiroven, Monach thought; never heard of him. He'd already told Father Bursar his name and date of orders by the time he made the connection. 'Father Tutor?' he said, his mouth suddenly dry. 'Dead?'

'That's right. I just told you.' Father Bursar fitted a sympathetic stare to his face, like someone buckling on a piece of armour. 'My condolences,' he said. 'I take it you were a pupil of his?'

'Since I was ten,' Monach replied automatically, though he knew Father Bursar didn't really want to know that. 'Was that his name, Coiroven? I never knew.'

'No reason why you should,' Father Bursar replied, in a tone of voice that suggested that this was meant to be a comfort. 'Did you say you have something important to report?'

'Yes,' Monach replied, as a terrible thought struck him. 'But who should I report to? Nobody else knew what Father Tutor was working on, not even me.'

Father Bursar smiled. 'I promise you,' he said, 'anything of importance will be known to at least one other member of senior chapter, or else recorded in his files and logs. We're a society governed by old men, we're used to taking precautions.'

Monach took a deep breath. 'I see,' he said. 'In that case, can you tell me who I should report to? It's fairly urgent.'

Father Bursar rubbed his chin. 'Not to me, at any rate,' he said. 'In the circumstances, I suggest the only person you can responsibly give this information to, whatever it is, would be Father Abbot.'

Monach's jaw fell open like a loose tailgate on a bumpy road. 'Oh,' he said. He'd seen Father Abbot nearly every day of his life but never been close enough to him to hit him with a slingshot. The thought of talking to him was terrifying. The thought of waking him up in the early hours of the morning-'I'm sure it can wait,' he gabbled. 'Really.'

Father Bursar gave him a thoughtful stare. 'I'm not sure that's your decision to make,' he said. 'You should consider the possibility that your news is far more important than you realise-unless, of course, you were fully apprised of everything Coiroven was dealing with at the time of his death, and all their implications for other areas of policy.'

It was tacitly acknowledged that sword-monks had no need to be afraid of any living thing on Earth; if it could be killed, they could kill it, so fear was irrelevant. It was generally implied that a sword-monk who'd attained orders could probably hold his own against most minor gods, given a fair fight and choice of weapons. With all his experience outside Deymeson, Monach had better grounds than most for believing in this principle, and genuine fear, as against worry or concern or apprehension, was something he'd tasted about as often as he'd drunk vintage sweet white wine at thirty quarters a bottle. But he was definitely afraid of Father Abbot.

'Right,' he said, very quietly. 'I don't suppose you could tell me where I might find him?'

Father Bursar looked at him. 'In the abbot's lodgings, of course,' he said. 'You do know where they are, don't you?'

'Sorry.' He'd been seven when the prior of novices had first pointed out to him the small grey stone box where the abbot lived; he'd been made to promise not to run or shout or do anything naughty within two hundred yards of it, on pain of vivisection. 'I forgot.'

Father Bursar didn't say anything, but he nodded slowly. He turned to go back to his rooms, then stopped and looked back. 'For what it's worth,' he said, 'I always liked Coiroven. We were novices together sixty-five years ago. If he'd lived another ten years, I might have started to get to know him, but there it is.'

Naturally, there were guards outside Father Abbot's door, two of them, lay brothers, both of whom Monach had taught, six or seven years ago. As soon as he was close enough to the door for his shadow to touch it they snapped to attention and blocked his way by crossing their pikes in front of his face. They didn't say anything, of course. That would have made it too easy.

Monach cleared his throat. 'I need to see the abbot,' he said.

The guards looked at him.

'I have a report,' he said, feeling as if he was drowning in hot sand. 'Originally it was for Father Tutor, but since he's dead-' (Did they know that? Were they authorised to know that?)'-since he's unavailable, I thought I'd better take it to Father Abbot. To be on the safe side.'

The guards continued to stare at him for three very long seconds; then one of them (Cormista, Monach remembered; good with the pike and staff, competent swordsman, hopeless at theory and protocols) reached behind him and shoved open the door. Monach, who'd been hoping that one of the guards would do the actual waking-up, felt his shoulders slump forward as he went past and into the lodgings.

From the outside, the abbot's quarters looked small and bleak. Inside they were smaller and bleaker. The room Monach found himself in was the office. Because there was only one small pottery lamp, resting on a bare board table, he couldn't make out much in the way of detail, but he could see that the walls were lined with pigeonholes, with rolls of parchment or paper shoved into them, and in the middle of the room there was a single table and a single chair. The floor was covered in neat piles of documents, arranged in arrow-straight rows. The place was as cheerful as an abandoned graveyard.

He took three steps forward, taking pains to avoid the document piles, until he was able to locate the inner door, which led to the abbot's bedroom. Then he stopped, as if he'd just bumped into an invisible wall. He could feel the abbot's circle pressing against his kneecaps, and more than anything else in his whole life he didn't want to break into it.

He'd been standing there for ten, possibly twelve seconds, when he heard a giggle.

At first he assumed it had come from outside: one of the very young novices, perhaps, who'd broken out of his dormitory and was trying to climb in through a window or the chimney. But Father Abbot's lodgings didn't have windows or chimneys, he'd spotted that by the time he was ten. Furthermore, although the giggle was as high-pitched as a child's voice, it was quite definitely female. He'd heard giggles like that many times before, while staying at inns. It was one of those sounds that you immediately recognise, like a sword being drawn behind you, or rain in a gutter.

No, he thought. Definitely not. Must've been something else.

There it was again; no shadow of doubt about it, particularly since it was followed by the sort of soft male chuckle you always hear a fraction of a second after that sort of female giggle. One of the guards, he thought; one of the guards has been stupid enough to bring his girlfriend in here-probably the abbot's a really heavy sleeper, nothing wakes him up short of the roof falling in, so it's perfectly safe, though horrendously sacrilegious and blasphemous. Somewhere in this room, unaware that he was standing there just inside the door, was a sentry and The giggle, again, and unmistakably coming from the other side of the inner door. There was no way past it, the conclusion was that obvious. The abbot The abbot was busy and not to be woken. The news would wait till morning-which couldn't be far off now in any case, and what possible difference could an hour or so make? After all, even if the news was so vital that the abbot mobilised the entire order in marching kit with three days' rations, a couple of hours would be neither here nor there. It could wait; and it was high time he got out of his sopping wet clothes and had something to eat. After all, he couldn't go in front of the abbot looking like a terrier who's just crawled out of a drain, now could he?

Very slowly and carefully, petrified in case his boots squelched or he knocked something over, Monach crept back the way he'd come in, gently eased the door open to give the guards notice he was coming out, and fled across the yard to the gate into the middle quadrangle, across it into the west cloister, and up three flights of spiral stone steps to his own door. Once it was safely behind him he let out the breath he'd taken in the abbot's office somewhere between a minute and forty years ago, and slumped on to his bed as if all his bones had suddenly melted.

When he woke up it was light, and he could tell from the angle of the shaft of light spearing through his cell's small, high window that the sun had been up for several hours. Then he realised that he'd fallen asleep in his wet, clammy travelling clothes, and that he had pins and needles in both feet.

It's difficult to hurry when you can't bear to let either foot touch the floor, but he didn't have any choice in the matter; he was washed, shaved, tonsured, respectably dressed and outside the abbot's lodgings in less time than it'd take to milk a cow. His speed and efficiency didn't alter the fact that he was sinfully, dangerously late, or that he had no idea how he was going to face the abbot after what he'd heard the previous night. At least the night watch had been relieved, and he didn't have to face the same guard who'd let him go in and experience that.

Somehow he found the words to explain his business to the guard, who stared at him in silence for a very long time before telling his colleague to watch Monach like a hawk until he got back from consulting the duty sergeant. The guard was gone a very long time, during which the other guard drilled fretwork patterns in Monach's face with his eyes. The duty sergeant eventually appeared looking absolutely furious (what had he been doing when the guard interrupted him? God alone knew) and forcing himself to be polite. Monach recited his speech once more, a little less coherently this time. The sergeant scowled at him and stumped off to find the duty officer. Fortunately, the duty officer turned out to be Lammis, a sparring partner from a dozen or so years ago, who vouched for him (though even he had to think about it first). At last the guard pushed the door open, and Monach went in.

Father Abbot was sitting behind his desk, sharpening a pen. Monach's first impression was that he'd somehow both aged and shrunk since the last time he'd been in chapter; he looked thinner and bonier, but there were folds of drooping, empty skin under his chin and at the corners of his mouth that suggested that he'd recently lost weight faster than his skin could take up the slack. He was genuinely bald rather than tonsured-there were a few white bristles on either side of his ears, but not enough to make a clothes-brush from-and his hands were small and plump.

'Yes?' he said.

Beyond question it was the same voice that had chuckled the night before. Monach felt his throat freeze; he could hardly breathe, let alone say anything. He knew he was staring, but couldn't do anything about it.

'Yes?' the abbot repeated.

Monach tried to remember his name, but couldn't. He could remember that he had important news to deliver, but not what it was. The abbot was frowning at him. He needed a miracle, and he needed it right away, which meant praying to the appropriate god. The only god he could think of offhand was Poldarn, so he prayed to him; and Poldarn must have heard, because quite suddenly his memory came back with a snap. He told Father Abbot his name and business without stuttering once.

And Father Abbot seemed inclined to take him seriously. 'I see,' he said. 'So, tell me what you've found out.'

Take it slowly, said a voice inside Monach's head, you'll be all right. Don't rush the draw or you'll get your sword jammed in the scabbard mouth. It was good advice, and he followed it. When he'd finished Father Abbot folded his hands and looked down at them, giving Monach a fine view of the liver spots on the top of his head.

'I wish you'd told me this earlier,' he said. 'I've just sent out most of the available sword-brothers; now I'll have to call them back, it'll be late afternoon before they'll be ready to go. Still,' he went on, with a remarkably human-sounding sigh, 'that can't be helped now. You'll have to go with them, of course.'

Monach shuddered, as if he'd just swallowed something unexpected and nasty. 'Me?'

Father Abbot frowned. 'Yes, you,' he said. 'I'm putting you in charge of the whole operation. Most people would be pleased.'

In charge? Me? Absolutely not. 'Thank you,' he said, with a total lack of sincerity. 'But I've never commanded a field unit before, I don't know how-'

Father Abbot smiled up at him. 'You've got four hours,' he said. 'Learn.' He rubbed his ear with the palm of his hand. 'First, though, it'd probably be just as well if I told you what you're actually going to do.'

Monach nodded. 'Thank you,' he said.

'It's quite simple,' the abbot went on. 'Find General Cronan, get him away from his men, and kill him. Try and keep a low profile if you can,' he went on, writing something as he spoke. 'A direct attack's not out of the question, of course, if there's absolutely no other way. It'd probably be the order's death warrant, we'll be disbanded, arrested and sent in chains to Datmia once the emperor finds out we've killed one of his generals, but in the circumstances, you can regard the order as expendable. Do you understand what that means?'

Yes, it means you've gone mad and we'll have to murder you discreetly and hide your body in a culvert. 'Yes,' Monach said. 'At least, I think so. This is very important.'

'That's right,' the abbot said. 'Do you know why?'

'No.'

The abbot looked annoyed. 'Coiroven was a great man and a fine strategist, but a little too fond of secrecy for his or anybody's good. Very well, listen carefully. You know, I assume, about the long-standing enmity between Cronan and Prince Tazencius. Yes?'

Monach nodded.

'Good, that's something. And you know that many years ago, Tazencius provoked-or at least tried to provoke-a duel between Cronan and himself, that Cronan humiliated Tazencius on that occasion and there's been bad blood between them ever since?'

'Yes. Yes indeed,' Monach said.

'Splendid. You probably also know that the emperor, quite reasonably, favours Cronan-he's our best general and, I believe, genuinely loyal to the emperor and the empire (not always the same thing, as you'll appreciate)-and has ignored all his brother's warnings about the danger of Cronan going to the bad and staging a coup-perfectly legitimate concerns, given the history of the last hundred and fifty years, I'm sure you'll agree.' The abbot leaned back as far as the chair's straight back would allow, and gazed for a moment over Monach's shoulder. 'The sad fact is,' he went on, 'that we have the first good emperor for at least a century, the first reliably loyal general for about as long, who also happens to be the only man in the empire who might conceivably be capable of beating the raiders, and a crown prince whose only concerns are the welfare of his brother and the well-being of the empire; and we're on the verge of probably the worst civil war in the empire's history. What's worst of all, I think, is that our only hope of averting it rests with a disgracefully conniving and devious priest who's also the head of our order, and an unscrupulous thug with a private army.'

Monach raised both eyebrows. 'Feron Amathy?'

'Feron Amathy.' The abbot sighed. 'Perhaps the anonymous god in the cart really has come again, and this is his way of bringing about the end of the world. If so, he's a rather more formidable opponent than I'd originally assumed. The point,' he went on, 'is this. I believe that Feron Amathy is planning to use Tazencius and his extremely unfortunate attempt at a coup as a means of forcing Cronan to declare war on the emperor and seize the throne.' The abbot paused. 'Why are you making faces at me?' he asked.

Monach pulled himself together. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'But hasn't the Amathy house definitely sided with Tazencius?'

The abbot smiled. 'For the moment, yes. In fact, I'm prepared to wager that it was Feron Amathy who engineered Tazencius' coup. No doubt he filled the poor fool's mind with awful stories of how Cronan was plotting to usurp the throne and kill him for old times' sake, and goaded him into an obviously disastrous course of action he'd otherwise never have dreamed of.' He sighed. 'But Feron Amathy knows perfectly well that, with the resources available to him, Tazencius could never hope to beat Cronan. By appearing to put the forces of the Amathy house at Tazencius' disposal, Feron Amathy's persuaded the prince that he might stand a chance. He'll hustle Tazencius into an early pitched battle, during which he'll change sides and hand his supposed ally over to Cronan, who'll have no choice but to kill him. Once he's done that, the emperor won't be able to protect Cronan any longer, and he'll be forced into doing the one thing he's never wanted to do, and which Suevio and Cleapho are convinced he'll do sooner or later-attack Torcea and seize the throne. The result: the emperor will be killed, Cronan will take his place and owe his crown to Feron Amathy. Now you see why Cronan has to be assassinated, and why we're the only people in the empire who can do it.'

Monach tried to think, but it was like trying to walk through a peat bog; as soon as he tried to put his weight on some reliable known fact, it gave way and started to suck him down. 'But what about the raiders?' he asked in desperation. 'If Tazencius and Feron Amathy have really made a deal with them, they'd be strong enough to beat Cronan.'

'There's no deal,' the abbot said, smiling, as if telling a small child there wasn't really a tooth fairy. 'We know that. Unfortunately, Cronan doesn't. Oh, he's well aware how desperately unlikely a deal would be, but he doesn't know it for a fact. Which is why he has no choice but to take the bait and give battle to Tazencius, just in case the story's true; and that's why Feron Amathy started the rumour that he's implicated in the raider attacks on the cities deliberately to give the impression that he's on some kind of terms with the raiders, so that Cronan will have to take this new rumour about a deal seriously. Indeed, I wouldn't put something like that past Feron Amathy. Whatever else he maybe, he's imaginative.'

Although it was a terrible breach of protocol, Monach leaned against the abbot's desk to steady himself. 'Why can't we just tell the emperor?' he said. 'If he recalled Cronan and sent someone else to fight Tazencius-'

'Then Tazencius would win,' the abbot replied. 'And Cronan would still end up fighting him, but with the added incentive of having to do so on the south side of the bay, within a few miles of Torcea.' He signed the letter he'd been writing, sprinkled it with sand, and pushed the end of a stick of wax into the flame of the lamp on his desk. 'This is a general warrant,' he said. 'It'll authorise you to take any steps and appropriate any resources you need to carry out your mission. In theory it's restricted to ecclesiastical manpower and property only, but I think you'll find that most civilian and military authorities don't know that, so this letter and a little bluster ought to get you anything you need. You can bluster, can't you?'

'Yes,' Monach replied.

'Really? You sound like a choir novice admitting he's been stealing apples.' He poured a deep pool of wax on to the bottom of the page, then took his seal from a small wooden box on the desk and rested it gently on the meniscus. Monach had seen the print of the abbot's seal on decrees and title deeds-two ravens on either side of a drawn sword, surrounded by a circle-but not the seal itself. It was reckoned to be a thousand years old. 'Now then,' he said, 'any questions? No? That's good. I'll see to recalling the sword-monks. You go and get ready. Four hours, remember, you haven't got much time.'

'No,' Monach said, more to himself than the abbot. 'Thank you,' he added, taking the letter as if he expected it to climb up his arm and bite out his throat. He tried to think of something appropriate to say, but all he could think of was, 'I'll do my best.'

The abbot frowned. 'Your best had bloody well better be good enough,' he said. 'You do realise that you're about to take the life of the cleverest, most skilful tactician the empire's produced in two centuries. This isn't going to be an easy job, and to be brutally honest with you, if anybody else could do it, I wouldn't be sending you.' He sighed. 'I read your report about the Poldarn impersonators,' he went on. 'I'd have rather more confidence in your abilities if you hadn't got that completely the wrong way round.'

Monach's breath caught in his throat and for a moment he couldn't breathe. 'Oh,' he said. 'I mean, I'm very sorry. What did I…?'

'Your research,' the abbot replied. 'Sloppy. Obviously, all you did was look up Poldarn in the Concordance; you didn't go back to the primary sources and see what the Concordance left out. Bad scholarship,' he said. 'I take the view that a man who can't be bothered to look up a reference when he's sitting comfortably on his backside in a nice warm library is hardly likely to pay proper attention to detail when he's out in the field.' He shook his head. 'For your information, if you'd taken the trouble to go back to the Morevish texts, you'd have known that one of the most important things about the second coming of Poldarn is that when he arrives, he won't actually know who he is, or that he's a god at all, until most of his work's been done. It's actually the key to the whole allegory, which is why it appealed so much to the later Mannerists.' The abbot picked up a ruler, flicked it over with his fingertips. 'You were going around looking for someone in a cart calling himself Poldarn. Anybody using the name Poldarn couldn't possibly be Poldarn, because Poldarn doesn't know that's who he is. A valiant effort on your part, but completely worthless.'