Memory (27 page)

‘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 quarter-master-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 quarter-master 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 after-life 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—