Memory (51 page)

‘Oh,' Monach said. It occurred to him that a mighty superweapon that wouldn't work in the rain was going to be a fat lot of use to anybody in Tulice, where it never seemed to stop.

‘The volcano dust's got to be dry, see,' Spenno explained. ‘If it gets wet it just turns into a filthy black mess, like mud, and when you stick the match in it, it just sits there.'

Oh well, Monach thought; let's hope Brigadier Muno chooses the one dry day in the whole year to attack. Otherwise we're screwed. ‘If it all goes all right tomorrow,' he said, ‘how soon will the next batch be ready?'

‘Couldn't say,' Spenno replied. ‘We've only got the one lathe working at the moment, but we should have three more up and running in a day or so. Slight technical problems with the drill heads,' he explained. ‘Clown of a blacksmith made 'em too brittle – they're cracking up like glass. But we'll get there.'

Monach went back to his quarters in the drawing office, splashing through the deep muddy pools in the yard on the way. Why hadn't the stupid bastard mentioned before that the idiot bloody things didn't work in the wet? Did they know about this minor drawback in Torcea, where they were counting on the Flutes to save the Empire from the raiders? Maybe if he sneaked out quietly and went and told Brigadier Muno that the Flutes were effectively useless everywhere except in the heart of the Morevich Desert, he'd realise that they weren't worth having and go away; in which case, Monach thought with a grin, I could stay here and learn how to make bells. Nice cheerful things, bells, and they chime even when it's pissing down.

He hadn't realised how tired he was until he lay down, boots still on, wet shirt still clinging to his back and shoulders. He couldn't find the strength to stand up again and take them off – chances were that Brigadier Muno would get him before pneumonia did, so it was all as broad as it was long. He closed his eyes—

Someone was standing over him, just grazing the edge of his circle. He sat up and said, ‘Who's there?'

It was only Runting, the quartermaster. ‘Guess what,' he was saying, in a bemused voice. ‘You've got a letter.'

‘A what?' Monach said, as if Runting had told him there was a dragon waiting for him in the grain store.

‘A letter. Addressed to you. Here.' He was holding out a brass tube the size of a medium leek. ‘Sentry on the north gate found it a minute or so ago, as he was doing his rounds. Swears blind it wasn't there when he went round earlier.'

‘Oh.' Monach was fumbling with the tinderbox; bloody damp, getting into everything. ‘Here,' he said, ‘you do this. I never could start a fire to save my life.'

Runting gave him the tube and fiddled with the tinderbox, until at last he contrived to get a lamp going. ‘Well,' he said, ‘aren't you going to open it?'

Monach thought for a moment. ‘I can't see why not,' he said cautiously. Strange, he thought, very strange; time was, I used to spend an hour every morning just opening and reading letters. Now I'm handling this thing like I'm expecting it to jump out and bite me. ‘All right, thanks.' He hesitated. Runting wasn't showing any signs of going away. ‘I'll give you a shout if I need you.'

‘Oh. Right.' Runting shrugged and went out. With his thumbnail, Monach cracked the small blob of hard red wax and fished out a little scrap of paper. He recognised the shape: the flyleaf, torn out of a flat-bound book. The handwriting was thin, spindly. Familiar.

Earwig
—
You must be wondering what's going on, but don't worry
,
I'll explain everything when I see you. In case you'v
e
been worrying, Xipho's just fine, and so's the kid; he'
s
with me now, in fact, trying to eat one of my shoes. Th
e
woman I've got looking after him reckons he's teething
,
whatever that means
.

I hope I didn't startle you too much the other night. Anyway, as you've probably already figured out for yourself, I'm not nearly as dead as they'd have you believe. Now, to business. If that clown Spenno's finally pulled his finger out, the volcano-bell things should be about ready by now. Whatever happens, I
don't
want Muno or anyone else from the government side getting their sticky paws on them. If the worst comes to the worst, get rid of the bloody things, destroy them. This is
important.
Right?

Can't say any more now; I'll explain everything when I see you.

Take care
,

Cordo

PS Don't you dare let Spenno see this letter, or he'll sulk. Hell of an engineer, but a bloody prima donna, just like Fabricius (remember him from sixth grade? Must be something about working with metal, probably the fumes or whatever). Anyhow, you can keep him sweet, I'm sure. You always were a bloody crawler, Wig.

C.

On balance, Monach thought, I'd have preferred a dragon in the grain sheds. Less disconcerting, less trouble to deal with.

It was Cordo all right; nobody else he'd ever come across could ever achieve that same effortless, cheerful arrogance. Typical. Not content with not being dead after twenty-whatever years, he comes swanning back into the world ordering people about, promising explanations, nonchalantly letting you know he's been running things behind your back for God knows how long . . . Cordo.
Cordo,
for crying out loud. My friend, from the old days, is still alive. And all this time—

All this time, I've hated Ciartan to death for killing him. But he's not killed, he's sitting out there just outside my circle, pulling my strings. With Xipho. With Xipho—

Jealousy?
It was all the Order's fault, come to last; what the hell could they possibly have been thinking of, sticking one girl in with a class of nineteen adolescent boys –
monks
, for the gods' sake. Of all the crazy, thoughtless things to do; Spenno's volcano dust had nothing on it for a disaster waiting to happen. Of course he was jealous, of anybody who spoke to her or looked at her, right through grades one to seven, right through to here and now. (Ciartan; his bloody kid, and she even named it Ciartan after him.) He wanted to get a rock and smash Cordo's skull for that, just for being with her, taking her away from him—

Brings back fond memories, Monach thought; of lectures and classes, when he'd sat in the back row gazing at the back of her head, not hearing a word Father Tutor was saying, his whole mind focused on her – and Xipho, totally, absolutely constant, impregnable as the citadel of Torcea, hard as a file blade, never the slightest encouragement, which only made it worse, turned up the heat in the furnace to where it'd have melted stone into glass. And all this time, this last year when he'd finally had her all to himself – nothing doing, of course, still the unattainable steel goddess, but at least he'd been with her every day, him and nobody else, none of the others; he'd taken her away from Ciartan; finally, after all these years, he'd
won
– And now Cordo was back, inexplicably alive, and she was off with him like a rat up a culvert.

And on top of that, he has the
nerve
—

Monach unrolled the letter again.
If the worst comes to the worst, get rid of the bloody things, destroy them.
Oh, fine. Yes, of course. And how the hell exactly am I supposed to go about destroying a bloody great big bronze tube weighing the best part of a ton, just like that? Eat it?

(Cordo's alive. I suppose I knew, because he talked to me, I heard his voice; but it could just have been a dream. But now he's definitely alive – he's written me a letter, he's coming. My friend, who I thought was dead and lost, and so much of me with him. My past. A refugee from the old days, coming back, coming alive. My
friend
.)

Coming back how, exactly? Monach frowned, furious with himself for not being able to figure it out. Cordo was with Xipho, they were coming to meet him, here; he was minding the store for them, as a good friend should, holding the fort (very funny, Earwig, you should go round the villages with a cart, you could earn a living); they could rely on him, of course, he'd be loyal to the last drop of blood, because friends matter the way countries and causes and religion never possibly could. It was like the arm you had cut off when you were ten years old suddenly growing back in the night.

(I suppose if we were to cram the tube full of the volcano dust stuff and stopper up the hole in the end and then set it off, it'd blow itself to bits; or would it just shoot out the stopper? Or we could saw it in two with the big reciprocating saw they built for trimming off the sprue; but that'd take days, according to Spenno. Ditto melting it down. Cordo, you bastard, why me?)

He went to the door of the office and yelled for Runting, who came scurrying up remarkably quickly, almost as if he'd been lurking about, waiting . . . ‘Well?' Runting said.

‘Listen,' Monach said. ‘At some point in the next few days, some friends of mine are going to arrive. I don't know when, and I don't know how many, and God only knows how they're figuring on getting past Muno's patrols, if they're using the roads. I want you to make sure that the officers of the day are looking out for them, and they're to be let in and brought straight to me. There'll be at least one man, and a woman; probably a young kid as well. Do you understand?'

Runting frowned. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘all right. Was that all?'

Monach nodded. He was overreacting quite appallingly, losing his grip. ‘That's all for now,' he snapped, in his best imitation regular-army voice.

‘Right you are,' Runting said. ‘Are you going to tell me what was in the letter, then?'

‘No.'

Runting's face fell, just a very little. ‘Please yourself, then,' he said; and a moment later, the rain had closed around him like a curtain.

He woke up out of a dream in which he'd been back in the cart with Copis, rattling along horrible bumpy roads between burned-out cities. A jolt had woken him up, a wheel catching in a deeper-than-usual pothole.

‘Mind what you're doing,' Copis snapped. ‘You could've broken the axle.'

‘Sure, whatever.' Gain didn't sound particularly concerned, but he'd always been reckless-stupid, not really bothered about the consequences of his actions . . . How did I know that, Poldarn wondered? Or was that just the way Gain had been in the dream? ‘If you'd rather drive, be my guest.'

‘Just be careful, that's all.' Copis sounded too preoccupied to be properly critical. ‘Oh. You've woken up, have you?'

Poldarn yawned. ‘Apparently,' he said. ‘Are we nearly there yet?'

‘Yes.'

‘How nearly?'

‘Nearly.' She was picking at her fingernails. Had she always done that? And if so, had she always done it when they were students together, or had she only always done it when they'd been together in the cart, when she'd been lying (and therefore nothing she did could be relied on to be the truth?)

‘I'm hungry,' Poldarn said.

‘Tough,' Gain replied. ‘So'm I. But there's nothing to eat. Deal with it.'

Poldarn scowled at him. ‘Will there be anything to eat where we're going?'

‘Yes,' Copis told him. But they were riding together in a cart, so he wasn't sure he could believe her.

He wasn't really hungry at all, just bored, so really it was something of a trick question, to see whether she'd tell the truth or lie to him. Unfortunately, he didn't know what the real answer was, so the experiment was basically a waste of time. Something he had plenty of. He picked at the edge of the box, teasing a splinter out of the grain of the wood.

‘Why won't you tell me who we're going to see?' he asked.

‘Because,' Copis replied.

‘Leave her alone, for pity's sake,' Gain said. ‘If you keep on at her she'll get really snotty, and we've got a long way to go.'

Ah, Poldarn said to himself, absurdly pleased, so she was lying. He felt as though he'd just achieved a victory, as if he'd contrived to fool a crow into coming in to the decoys. But he was deceiving himself, as usual. Just because she was lying about how far they still had to go – all sorts of reasons why she should lie about that; to shut him up, stop him complaining. All parents tell that sort of lie to their children. Or maybe Gain was the one who wasn't telling the truth. Wouldn't be the first time.

‘When we get there,' he said, ‘what have I got to do?'

‘You'll see.'

No, Poldarn wanted to say, that was a genuine question, not a chess move. ‘You must have something in mind for me,' he said mildly. ‘You didn't go to all this trouble just so that we could have a class reunion.'

She looked at him. ‘Really? Don't you think it's just possible that we'd be prepared to put ourselves out a bit to rescue one of our own? You have a very poor opinion of people, Ciartan.'

Rescue? Where did that concept come from, all of a sudden? ‘No,' he said. ‘You need me for something. Come on, give me a clue. You're both so mad keen to tell me all about my past, when I don't want to know. How about giving me a few clues about my future? I
care
about my future,' he added, grinning. ‘Assuming I've got one.'

Copis sighed. ‘I lied to you,' she said.

‘Oh.' Poldarn looked at her.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘There
is
a bit of food left; well, biscuits. Thurm corn-dodgers. The traveller's friend – eat 'em or sharpen knives on 'em. Gain, give him a biscuit. Maybe breaking all his teeth'll shut him up.'

Poldarn shook his head. ‘I'm not hungry any more,' he said.

‘You said—'

‘I was lying.'

Shortly after midday they stopped, for no apparent reason. The road had emerged very briefly from the forest, into a wilderness of tree stumps overgrown with bracken, spindly willow saplings and ground elder – typical charcoal burners' devastation, dating back maybe twenty or twenty-five years. The rain had lapsed into a fine drizzle (Tulice's idea of a sunny day, Poldarn reckoned), which obscured the sharp edges of the sawn-off stumps. Through the wet haze, Poldarn could see a shape that could be a small house, a collier's turf cabin.