Memory (6 page)

Poldarn shook his head. ‘How could you possibly know?' he said. ‘Who in God's name are you, anyway?'

But Aciava only smiled. ‘Now that's interesting,' he said. ‘Anybody else in the world, in your shoes, his first question would've been,
Who in God's name am I?
But you're more concerned with me. Haven't you been listening? I can tell you who you are. Your name.'

Poldarn kicked his chair back and stood up. ‘I asked you a question,' he said.

Aciava scowled. ‘Sit down, for heaven's sake. Eat your dinner before it goes cold. This is going to be hard enough as it is without melodrama.'

So Poldarn sat down. ‘You're lying,' he said. ‘This is what you do for a living. You get talking to people on coaches. They tell you something, like me telling you about losing my memory; then you think up some scam—'

‘Fair assumption,' Aciava replied. ‘And your scepticism does you credit. But it seems to me you're trying suspiciously hard to make excuses for not asking me the sort of thing you should be wanting to know. Who am I? What did I do for a living? Where do I live?'

‘I told you,' Poldarn said hesitantly, ‘I'm not sure I want—'

Aciava put his knife down on his plate. ‘Your real name,' he said, ‘is, of course, Ciartan. Your father's name was Tursten, but he died before you were born. You were brought up by your grandfather, at Haldersness. You had to leave home because of some trouble over someone else's wife, which is why you came to the Empire in the first place.' He frowned. ‘Look, if you're going to hit me with something, please don't let it be the beer jug; that's solid earthenware, you could do me an injury.'

Poldarn sat back and stared at him.

‘That's better. Now,' Aciava went on, ‘I don't actually know if any of that stuff is true, because it's only what you told me, many years ago, in an out-of-bounds wine shop in Deymeson. But it ought to knock the itinerant con artist theory on the head, don't you think?'

Poldarn nodded without speaking.

‘By the way,' Aciava went on, ‘if you think this is easy for me, just because I'm being all laid back and relaxed about it, think again. This is just my defences, like all the wards and guards we learned back in the second year. We had to pretend it was someone else in the ring sparring with sharp blades, not us, or we'd have died of fright. Remember? No, of course you don't. You still don't know me from a hole in the ground, do you? That's – well, that's rather hard for me. But we won't worry about it now. Have some spring cabbage, it's not half bad.'

Poldarn didn't move. There was a precept of religion about why that was advisable, tactically, but he couldn't remember the exact words offhand.

‘Anyhow,' Aciava went on, ‘when you were telling me, in the cart, about not having remembered anything because, basically, you don't want to – I can tell you, that actually makes a whole lot of sense. At any rate, it puts me in a dilemma. If you believe that I'm your friend, at least that I used to be the friend of the man I used to know – you appreciate the distinction, I'm sure – then you'll understand why I'm doing all this faffing about, instead of spitting it straight out and telling you, whether you like it or not. Truth is, I don't know you any more; I don't know who you've become. And I can imagine how some of the stuff I could tell you might do you a lot of damage. Hence– well, I suppose it's a sort of test, or what the government clerks call an assessment. Only way I can find out what you'd really like to know is to ask you; only I can't ask you straight out without risking doing the damage. Like, if I said, “Do you want me to tell you about that time in the Poverty and Prudence, with the violin-maker's daughter and the six goats?” – well, you get the idea, I'm sure.'

While Aciava had been saying all this, Poldarn hadn't moved. For some reason, he was acutely aware of every detail of his surroundings – the hiss of slightly damp logs on the fire, the smell of the onion sauce on the smoked lamb, the pecking of light rain on the chapel slates. He realised that he'd breathed out some time ago and hadn't breathed in again.

‘Who are you?' he said.

Aciava sighed. ‘Now that,' he said, ‘is what Father Tutor used to call a very intelligent question. Well, for a start, my name really is Gain Aciava. I was born in Paraon in eastern Tulice thirty-nine years ago; my father was a retired cavalry officer who got a sinecure in the governor's office when he left the service, and my mother was his CO's younger daughter. When I was twelve they decided that since both my elder brothers had gone into the army, it'd be sensible to diversify a bit and send me into religion; so they packed me off to Deymeson as a junior novice. I did my time there, and eventually I was ordained. As luck would have it, I got a transfer away from Deymeson the year before you and your relations trashed the place; I joined Cleapho's office in Torcea as a junior chaplain. When the order abruptly ceased to exist and Cleapho formally rescinded its charter I found myself out of a job, and since sword-monks were distinctly out of favour by then, I hunted round for someone who'd pay me a wage, with indifferent success, until I sort of stumbled into this false-teeth lark. Amazingly, it's turned out to be a good living, totally undemanding, quite relaxing in fact, and I'm enjoying it rather more than eight hours perched on a high stool in an office followed by six hours' sword-drawing practice and sleeping on a plank bed in a small stone cell. And that, give or take an unimportant detail or two, is basically all there is to know.'

But Poldarn shook his head. ‘That may be the truth,' he said, ‘but it sure as hell isn't the whole truth. How do you know all that stuff about me, and why did you go to all the trouble of finding me?'

Aciava grinned offensively. ‘I could give you an answer, only it's not allowed. If you want to know why you're worth busting my arse to find—'

‘All right,' Poldarn conceded, ‘you've made your point.' He stood up. There wasn't really enough room in the chapel for pacing up and down, at least not without making himself look ridiculous; but he felt uncomfortable staying still. ‘Perhaps it'd be better if I just left.'

‘For you, maybe,' Aciava said. ‘But don't I get a say in the matter? Come on, give me a chance. I've been rattling about in mail-coaches for a week, and that's not taking account of three years of painstaking, dreary investigation. Surely I deserve some consideration.'

‘Why? I never asked you to—'

‘How,' Aciava interrupted calmly, ‘do you know that? I mean,' he went on, ‘for all you know, there was an evening many years ago when you took me on one side, confessed that your biggest fear in all the world was losing your memory, and made me swear on my mother's life that if it ever happened to you, I'd find you and tell you who you are.'

Poldarn looked at him. ‘And did I?'

‘No. But there could be all sorts of reasons. Maybe there are people who need you. Have you ever once considered that?'

‘Yes,' Poldarn said, without much confidence. ‘But – well, I may not remember further back than three years, but I learned a few things about myself back in the old country – not things I did, things I am. I reckon anybody who knew me before is probably better off without me.'

‘Oh, sure,' Aciava said, pulling a face. ‘You're a sadistic wife-beater and you carry thirteen infectious diseases. While sleepwalking, you set fire to hospitals and orphanages. You are, in fact, the god who brings the end of the world. But apart from that—'

‘Fine.' Poldarn sat down. ‘Just tell me, why was finding me so important?'

Aciava hesitated, then grinned sheepishly. ‘I missed you,' he said.

Poldarn stared. ‘You what?'

‘Straight up. I'd better explain. At Deymeson – you do know, don't you, you were at Deymeson?'

Poldarn nodded.

‘Well, that's something. You were a novice there. You joined in second year of the third grade; you were eighteen months older than the rest of us, but Father Tutor reckoned you had to stay down, because you were so far behind. Anyhow, that's beside the point. There were six of us. No, that's misleading, because there were twenty of us in the class; but there were six of us who always went round together. Bestest friends, that sort of thing. There was you, and me; and Elaos Tanwar – he's dead now – and the only girl in our year, Xipho Dorunoxy—'

Poldarn felt as if he'd just been slammed back in his chair by a kick in the stomach. ‘Copis.'

‘That's right, Copis. That makes five. And one more. Cordomine was what we knew him as, but he's better known these days as Chaplain Cleapho.'

There was a long silence. ‘I don't believe you,' Poldarn said eventually.

‘Oh.' Aciava frowned. ‘What a shame, because it's true. I can prove it, you know.'

‘I don't want you to prove it,' Poldarn shouted; then he took a deep breath. ‘No matter what you say,' he said, ‘I'm not going to believe you. See, I've been through this before; I was at Deymeson – before the raiders burned it down – and they told me all sorts of stuff, all perfectly plausible, about who I was. And I believed them; but then I found out they were lying, using me, it was something to do with the war and some general called Cronan—'

Aciava nodded. ‘I know about that,' he said. ‘Hardly surprising, you weren't very popular with the sword-monks after you left. Anyway, that was when Copis told you she'd been – well, looking after you, bad choice of words, on their instructions, and then she pulled a sword on you. No wonder you're suspicious when I tell you I used to be a monk too. And you don't believe she was one of them, because you were in love with her at the time. Sort of.'

‘No,' Poldarn said.

Aciava shook his head. ‘Trust me,' he said, ‘you were. You were in love with her back in fifth grade – sorry, I'm not allowed to tell you that, am I? But she wouldn't have anything to do with you, so it's probably all right.' He smiled. ‘Actually, it's bitterly unfair, because when you did finally get her in the sack, you weren't to know that you were finally achieving a lifetime ambition.' He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. As he did so, a fold of his coat fell away, revealing the hilt of a short sword tucked into his sash. Poldarn wondered if it was deliberate. ‘Now do you want me to piss off and leave you in peace? If you do, I will.'

Poldarn closed his eyes. ‘No,' he said.

Then the door opened, and the sutler came in with a big jug of beer. ‘Here you go,' he said. ‘You haven't finished the first one.'

‘Leave it,' Aciava said, ‘we've got a use for it.'

The sutler went away again. ‘Sorry,' Aciava said, ‘I've lost my thread. Did you just agree that you do want me to tell you?'

Poldarn sighed. ‘I'm not sure,' he said.

‘Progress,' Aciava said brightly. ‘A few moments ago, you were absolutely dead set against it.'

‘That was before—'

‘Would you rather I hadn't told you? About Xipho – sorry, Copis?'

‘That's academic, isn't it? You've told me now.' He slumped forward onto his elbows. ‘I guess you'd better tell me the rest.'

But Aciava shook his head. ‘Not so fast,' he said. ‘I've still got your best interests at heart, remember. I'll tell you some things, but only what's good for you. All right?'

‘I'm not in the mood for games.'

‘Ah.' Aciava grinned. ‘I've heard you say
that
before. You always were an impatient sort – you know, always reading ahead, wanting to learn lesson five before you'd properly got the hang of lesson three. I can still just get up and leave, and I will if you don't behave. Understood?'

‘Fuck you,' Poldarn said. But he stayed where he was. ‘Go on, then.'

‘Thank you so much.' Aciava settled himself in his chair and picked up a slice of smoked lamb in his fingers. ‘Now,' he said, ‘one step at a time. Do you want me to tell you your name – not Ciartan, the name you had in the order? Or not; it's up to you.'

‘Yes.'

‘Splendid. You were called Poldarn.' Aciava smiled. ‘No, I'm not kidding you, it was the name Father Tutor chose for you, since he refused to call you Ciartan, he said there was no such name; and it's quite usual for novices to take a name-in-religion. Signifies a complete severance of ties with the outside world, or some such shit. Anyhow, that's what we all knew you as.' He breathed in deeply, like a man of sensibility smelling a rare flower. ‘My guess is, Xipho was playing a game with you. Probably, being told to look after you put the idea of the god-in-the-cart stunt into her mind. Also, it'd be easier for her, so there wouldn't be any risk that she'd suddenly call you Poldarn by mistake, out of habit, and then you'd get suspicious. Either that, or it was just her idea of a joke. You see, it was always a source of extreme merriment and wit in our gang, Father Tutor giving you such a wonderfully apt name.' He paused. ‘You do know why it's apt, don't you?'

‘Enlighten me.'

Aciava sighed. ‘Well, Poldarn's the god of fire and the forge, and before you joined up, you were working in a blacksmith's shop. You learned the trade back in Haldersness, and when you wound up over here and needed to start earning a living, it was the only useful thing you knew how to do.'

‘I see,' Poldarn said. ‘That explains – no, forget it. None of your business.'

‘Suit yourself.' Aciava shrugged. ‘So that's your name,' he said. ‘I reckoned there couldn't be any harm in telling you, since that's what you've been calling yourself anyway. And of course, it's not your
actual
name, because really you're Ciartan. Bit of a non-issue, really.'

‘I've had enough of this,' Poldarn said, jumping up again. ‘I think I was right to start with. I don't want to know any more, it's just making me angry—'