Memory (47 page)

‘Never mind, then,' Poldarn said. ‘Just pick a few bits at random.'

This time the burned man caught him on the elbow. Not quite as painful, but enough to be going on with. ‘All right, then,' he said. ‘There was Vail Bohec. Mean anything to you?'

Poldarn shook his head.

‘Twenty thousand people, all killed in a day. Ackery: fifteen thousand. Berenna Priory – boarded up the monks in the chapter house and burned them all to death. Josequin: you weren't there, but you planned it all out, right down to the last detail. General Allectus: stabbed him in the back, eighteen thousand of his men cut down where they stood. You don't remember that, of course.'

‘No, I don't.'

‘Course not. How bloody convenient. Weal Huon: thirteen thousand. Morannel. Deymeson. And whose fault is it we've got that arsehole Tazencius sitting in the palace at Torcea pretending he's the Emperor? Or Caen Daras: the river got so blocked with dead bodies it flooded right up through the Rookwood valley. Who'd want to remember something like that if they didn't have to?'

‘That's all just names, though,' Poldarn said. ‘Why won't you tell me what actually happened? Why it was my fault. I mean, I can't have killed all those people with my own hands.'

Third time lucky, as far as the burned man was concerned; and Poldarn had been wrong, the chin was far worse than the collarbone. ‘You want to know who I am?' the burned man was shouting. ‘Sergeant Illimo Velzen, that's my name. You think you can remember that, you bastard, or do you need something to help remind you?'

‘All right, that's enough,' said a voice that sounded a long way off – the man with the spear who'd been there when Poldarn woke up. ‘It's my arse on the line if he's dead on arrival. Sit down and save your strength, we've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.'

It took the burned man a minute or so to get a grip on himself, with the spearman and various others telling him to calm down, leave it, Poldarn wasn't worth it and so forth; then he turned his back and sat down, leaving Poldarn crumpled up where he'd fallen. It could've been worse, he eventually decided, nothing broken as far as he could tell (though he'd learned one thing about himself: he had exceptionally tough, strong bones). He wriggled about until he was as comfortable as he could make himself, and tried to clear his mind of what he'd heard – which was impossible, of course.

A pity, though. All that information the burned man had given him, and he still didn't know whether they were the Mad Monk or the Amathy house. On balance, he reckoned, probably the latter; but he had to admit he was mostly guessing. He tried closing his eyes, but that just made things worse; without really wanting to, he started on the mental arithmetic: twenty thousand plus fifteen thousand plus eighteen plus thirteen, that made fifty-six thousand, no,
sixty
-six, he'd forgotten to carry the one – ten thousand people, snuffed out of memory by a simple mathematical error. Not that it mattered, because the data was incomplete in any event. And almost certainly the burned man didn't even know about Eyvind, or Egil Colscegson, or the two gods in the cart, or the troopers he'd killed on the way to Cric. He grinned suddenly. A new cure for insomnia: why count sheep when you can count dead people—?

As he stood up, three crows lifted out of a tall tree and beat an undignified retreat, screaming at him as they flew away. The sound alerted them, and they turned round to see who was there.

‘Over here,' he said quietly; and he noticed with amusement that he was speaking his own language with a distinct foreign accent. Been away far too long; but whose fault was that?

A moment of tense silence; then a voice he recognised. ‘Ciartan?'

‘Over here,' he repeated. ‘You're late.'

‘No, you're early.' Scaptey's voice; it was absurd, hearing it here, on the other side of the world, on this alien continent. ‘Where are you, Ciartan? I can't see you.'

He smiled to himself and started to walk towards them. ‘Now can you see me, you blind old fool?'

‘Not so much of the old.' There was Scaptey, the familiar shape of his head and shoulders, a memory coming together out of the dark. ‘Bloody hell, boy, it's good to see you again. How've you been?'

Scaptey's bear-hug crushed most of the breath out of his lungs; still, he managed to say, ‘Don't tell me I've grown, or I'll smash your face in. How's the old man? Is he all right?'

Close enough to see his face. ‘Halder's just fine,' Scaptey said. ‘He sends his love.'

‘And the farm?'

‘Just how you left it,' Scaptey said; then he grinned as he added, ‘Except for the fucking crows. They got in on the winter wheat where it got flattened in the spring rains, hardly worth cutting after they were done with it. We need you back home, I reckon, teach them buggers a lesson.'

‘And there was me thinking I'd killed them all.' He laughed. ‘Who else is with you? Anyone from the valley?'

Scaptey shook his head. ‘Green River folk, mostly,' he said, ‘Halder couldn't spare a crew this year. Fences need doing all up the north side, and we're building three new barns. Just Raffen and me this time; Halder reckoned we weren't no good for anything, so we wouldn't be missed. Rannwey sends her love too,' he added. It was the first time he'd ever heard someone from back home tell a deliberate lie. ‘And you have grown too, you bugger. Must suit you, over here.'

‘Three new barns,' he said. ‘That sounds pretty good. Sounds like you were able to manage without me after all.'

Scaptey grinned. ‘Well, we're getting along somehow,' he said. ‘Except, we need you over at the forge. That kid Asburn, he does his best, but of course he was never bred to it like you were. He's all right for simple things but when it comes to anything a bit clever he hasn't got a clue.'

‘Well.' For some reason, what Scaptey had just said made him want to smirk with pride. And there was something else besides: he was jealous. It wasn't right that Asburn the odd-job boy should be working in
his
forge, using his tools, taking his place. ‘Maybe I'll be back sooner than you think,' he said, though he had no call to be saying anything of the sort. ‘Anyhow, that's enough about home. I think I've got all the information you'll need.' And he launched into his report, like a small child reciting a carefully learned lesson: the location, topography and defences of Caen Daras, the number and disposition of its garrison, the little-known road across the hog's-back ridge that would bring them unseen to within half a mile of the east gate. He explained the plan of campaign, stressing how vital it was that there should be no survivors. He told Scaptey where the carts would be waiting to carry the raiders' share of the plunder back to the ships, and where to leave the gold and silver hidden so that the Prince's men would be able to find it. When he'd been through everything he'd been briefed about, along with all his own observations that were likely to prove useful, and answered questions about various points that Scaptey wasn't sure about, the first red stains were already starting to seep through into the eastern sky. ‘Time I wasn't here,' he said. ‘Remember what I told you, and good luck. Though it ought to be easy as shelling peas.'

Scaptey nodded. ‘With all you've told me,' he said, ‘we should be able to get there and do the job with our eyes shut.'

‘You could,' he agreed, ‘but it'll be easier with 'em open. See you next year, then.'

His horse was where he'd left it, with Sergeant Velzen standing guard, wide awake and obviously terrified. He smiled. As far as Velzen was concerned, the creature he'd just been talking to was as strange and unnatural as a werewolf, and twenty times more dangerous; but Scaptey was just the old dairyman, who'd taught him how to race sticks down the home paddock stream when he was six. ‘All done,' he said. ‘We can go back now.'

The relief in Velzen's face was comical to see. ‘Have to get a move on,' he muttered, ‘if you want to be back in camp by reveille.' He pronounced it
rev'lly
, in the approved manner for old sweats. ‘You said you'd only be an hour.'

‘Time flies when you're having fun,' he replied, and had the pleasure of watching Velzen's skin crawl. They mounted up and made good time, once they were on the post road. As soon as they reached the camp, he went straight to the staff tent and made his report, leaving out a few bits and pieces that weren't important, and some other things that were nobody's business but his own. It was awkward and wearing, always having to be so careful about what he said and didn't say, always needing to remember who he was being at any give time. Still, as Cordo would've said, it was better than drawing swords for a living—

He woke up suddenly, to find that two crows were perched on his knees, taking a professional interest in the raw wounds he'd been left with after his one-sided fight with the burned man, the one who'd called himself Illimo Velzen. He tried to grab them but they were too quick, and drew themselves into the air with their wings like men rowing a boat against the current.

He watched them circle a couple of times before they pitched in a high, spindly ash tree. For some reason, probably the associations of the dream, he found himself thinking about home. No woods and forests like this one there – what wouldn't they give for a few dozen loads of this tall, straight lumber; and how horrified they'd be at the thought of the colliers' camps, where so much precious timber was chopped up into cords and logs and wantonly burned into black cinders. No wonder Asburn had never let him use charcoal to get the forge fire started; it would've been an unspeakable crime, like wasting water in the desert.

He looked across and saw that they were all still asleep: Velzen and the man with the spear, and twenty-six others. Then he noticed something; or rather, a perception that had been troubling his unconscious mind for some time slid into focus, so that he knew what it was. He could smell woodsmoke – not the campfire, because it was cold, must've gone out during the night; so there was another fire nearby, probably a large one if he could smell it further than he could see or hear the men who'd lit it. He cursed impatiently at his rotten sense of direction. They'd just wandered clear of the swamp where the battle had been when he'd been abducted, and after that they'd marched him a whole day, but in which direction he had no idea. Was it possible that the smoke was coming from Basano's charcoal-burning? The wind, what little there was of it, seemed to be drifting in from the north. How far did smoke carry? Probably they taught you useful stuff like that at Deymeson, but of course he couldn't remember. In any event, it wasn't worth thinking about; even if he did manage to sneak away without waking up the soldiers, and even if by some miracle he managed to find his way to Basano's camp, it was idiotic to suppose that the colliers would be prepared to protect him against twenty-eight armed and angry Amathy house men, even if they were capable of it. Besides, he still wasn't sure whether he'd been captured or rescued, though the aches and pains from Velzen's boot inclined him to favour the former. All right, then; from Basano's camp, would he be able to find his way back up to the main road, in time to make a dash for it and get to the safety of Dui Chirra and Brigadier Muno's regulars before the Amathy house caught up with him? Highly unlikely, and it'd depend very much on how far he'd be able to get before Velzen and his lads noticed he'd gone and figured out which way he was headed.

Even so; it was an alternative, an option, and it'd been a while since he'd had the luxury of one of them. And not to forget the adjustment in the odds that stealing a sword or a halberd on his way out would make; it wasn't something he was proud of or liked to dwell on, but he'd confidently back himself against two, three, maybe four of these men at a time, if it came to a running battle in dense cover. Assuming, of course, that he really wanted to go back to Dui Chirra and carry on where he'd left off shovelling wet clay. That was yet another unwarranted assumption. There was the matter of a voice in the darkness, Copis (no, Xipho; Copis had never truly existed). If it really had been her, and she hadn't cut his throat while he slept, as she could so easily have done – another perfectly good option spoiled by indecision and the faint blemish of memory.

Come on, he urged himself, get real: what possible good could come of running into Xipho again? Even if he survived the encounter and it didn't result in a slow and painful death, the best he stood to gain was more slices of his past, maybe confirming what Gain had told him, or the dreams. Dui Chirra, on the other hand, was the only place he knew of where he stood any chance of being safe from further unwanted revelations, at least until the Poldarn's Flute project finished and the gates were opened and the stockade came down. He couldn't help smiling at his own obtuseness; how, when he'd been there, he'd foolishly assumed that the defences and guards were to keep him in, when all the time they'd been put there expressly to keep the other him out— Besides, he told himself, the food's better at Dui Chirra; and if he got into another orgy of reminscences with Sergeant Velzen, one or other of them wasn't going to survive it, so better all round to make sure it didn't happen.

He took another look at the camp and the sleepers. He could see the man who was supposed to be keeping watch; he was sitting apart from the others, on slightly higher ground, with his back to the trunk of an old, fat copper beech. Maybe he wasn't used to marching all day in difficult terrain; he'd fallen asleep at his post, his halberd lying on the ground beside him where it had slipped through his fingers. Getting past him wouldn't be hard, and neither would taking his weapon; but the rest of them'd be waking up any time now – it was well on the way to getting light. If he was going to go, he had to go now.