Pattern (33 page)

I'm staring, Poldarn thought, that's got to be the wrong thing to do. Try to look properly solemn, or, failing that, stuffed. No sudden movements, and for pity's sake, let's see if we can get through this without killing anybody.

Egil stood up. He had some slight difficulty with the bench, it was too close to the table, and he had to slide and wriggle past it to get to his feet. Once he was there (he had to grab the table with his left hand to steady himself) he took a deep breath and looked Poldarn straight in the eyes.

‘Ciartan,' he said – it took Poldarn just a fraction of a second to remember that Ciartan was him – ‘do you accept this woman as your wife?'

Which woman? Oh, that woman, the one you're standing in front of so I can't actually see her. But there weren't any other females sitting at the table, apart from Rannwey, and he assumed that the chances of marrying her by accident were acceptably slim. ‘Yes,' he replied, and hoped that would do.

Egil turned his head. ‘Elja, do you accept this man as your husband?' There was a muted squeak from the shadows that might have been a yes, or a rodent narrowly avoiding a cat. Egil seemed inclined to accept it as consent, or else he was too busy rehearsing his own lines in his head to listen; he grunted, and went on: ‘Who is prepared to guarantee this marriage?', as if he were a general ordering brave men to their deaths. Eyvind stood up with the speed of a sword-monk's best draw; then nothing happened. Several heartbeats passed, and Poldarn finally sneezed.

‘Here,' someone said in the darkness outside the yellow circle, and Boarci threaded his way through the crowd, somehow managing not to knock anybody over or cause any injuries with the axe in his right hand. Poldarn winced; if I'd only known, he thought, I'd have made more of an effort with the polishing. It made sense, of course; they'd never have allowed Boarci on the top table. For some reason, Poldarn had a picture of him being given his portion of the wedding breakfast in a bowl on the floor, with the other domestic animals.

‘It's all right,' Boarci muttered in Poldarn's ear as he took his post directly behind him. ‘Cheer up, nobody's going to eat you.' Eyvind scowled at him for that; nobody else appeared to have noticed.

‘Guarantors,' Egil said crisply, whereupon Eyvind stooped and came up holding a backsabre, which he'd left on the floor where nobody could trip over it; he put it on the table as if he was waiting on a grand banquet and the sword was a tray of cinnamon cakes. Boarci leaned over, shoving Poldarn's head slightly to one side with his arm, and dumped his axe next to it; the two weapons clattered together noisily. ‘All right,' Egil said. His sister stood up, reached across and laid the flat of her hand on the blade of the sword, nodding very slightly at Poldarn. He interpreted that as meaning that he was supposed to do the same thing, and rested his fingertips on the axe head. It was cold and very smooth, like steel skin. Poldarn felt ashamed at the sight of the file marks around the eye.

‘Bear witness,' Egil said, in a rather wobbly, high-pitched voice, ‘these weapons, and if these vows are broken, avenge them.' He finished the speech with a stifled cough – he was standing over one of the lamps, and the smoke was tickling his throat. Poldarn managed not to laugh, though it was one of the funniest things he could remember having seen. ‘Bear witness,' he repeated, coughing himself, and he picked up the sword and the axe and waggled them half-heartedly in the air.

At that point, he must have swallowed a mouthful of lamp smoke the wrong way, because instead of just coughing he choked, and the spasm must have messed up his coordination; in any event, he lost his grip on the axe, made a desperate attempt to recapture it, and dropped it right on top of the lamp, which shattered and flooded the table with oil, which immediately caught fire. At first, nobody seemed to realise what was happening. Then the burning oil set light to their cuffs and sleeves; they jumped up, swearing and flapping their arms like so many crippled birds, prancing round in circles, bumping into each other – under other circumstances it would have made a very pretty burlesque dance, appropriate for a country wedding, except for the presence of the uninvited guest and master of ceremonies, the spirit of fire. Poldarn immediately looked to see if Elja was all right; but she didn't have any sleeves, and she'd got her hand out of the way in time. Then he looked down at his own hands, and saw that although the cloth at his wrists was dark and shiny with oil, for some reason the fire hadn't taken to him. Egil was staggering backwards, pawing at his face; Eyvind was on fire from his wrists to his chin, contriving to set light to his whole body as he tried to slap out the flames. Apparently Colsceg had more imagination than the rest of them; he'd doused his sleeve with a jug of beer, but the oil refused to stop burning. Another lamp, a little further down, burst in the heat and showered the table with burning oil and sharp potsherds, like a miniature volcano.

Oh for pity's sake, Poldarn thought, because this was all so unnecessary; it was just a little fire to start with, and there was no earthly reason why it should be spreading so dramatically. He knew he ought to be doing something – head of the household, hero of the mudslides, a little domestic fire ought to be child's play to him – but for the moment all he could do was stand and stare. Nobody in the mob behind him seemed to be moving, so perhaps they all thought it was part of the ceremony.

‘Hold still,' someone was shouting; it was Boarci, wrapping his coat round his left arm. ‘For God's sake hold still, before you set the house on fire.' But nobody seemed prepared to listen to him, or else they simply couldn't understand a direct order; so he pushed past Poldarn, scrambled over the table, kneeling in the burning oil as he did so, and shoved Eyvind over onto the ground. Somebody was yelling at him, but he was too busy to notice; he was clubbing out the flames that Eyvind was wearing like a suit of clothes, as he did so choosing to disregard the fire that was clinging to his own legs and body. Egil had pulled off his coat by now, and was whacking at his father's arms and chest with it, while Colsceg stood perfectly still and stared at him as if he'd just gone mad. Another lamp exploded—

‘Well,' said a voice by Poldarn's side, ‘here we are again. Trouble really does seem to follow you around, doesn't it?'

He recognised the face, which hadn't been there a heartbeat ago; and the voice was even more familiar, though God alone knew where from. ‘Who the hell are you?' he asked.

‘Oh, don't mind me, I'm not really here.' The man laughed. ‘I
was
here, many years ago, and of course I'll be here again. Right now, I'm somewhere else, but don't worry about it. You think I'd let a piddling little thing like geography keep me from my best friend's wedding?'

‘Who are you?' Poldarn repeated.

‘Good question,' the man replied. He was wearing the robes of a sword-monk in full academic dress, with a broad crimson sash to hold his sword in, and a white fur trim to his hood. ‘You know, I call myself so many names, it's a pain sometimes remembering who I'm meant to be. When in doubt, I just say Monach, which is the word for
monk
in some language or other that nobody knows any more. In case you're wondering,' he went on, ‘this is actually some time later.'

Poldarn wanted to move, at least to get close enough to smash this idiot's face in, but found he couldn't. ‘What've you done to me?' he shouted.

‘Me? Nothing. How could I, when I'm not even here? Now pay attention, I'm trying to explain. You think you're still at the wedding, in the middle of the fire. Not so. Right now you're lying on a heap of straw in a deep sleep, with your devoted subjects and newly minted in-laws taking bets on whether you'll ever wake up out of it. Didn't I mention, you're one very sick man?'

‘No,' Poldarn replied. In front of his eyes, Boarci and Egil were still flapping away with their coats; everything was moving, but nothing was changing. ‘What happened?'

Monach laughed. ‘Oh, it hasn't happened yet – in the time-frame you're looking at, I mean. In this time-frame, we're about twenty seconds away from the fire spreading to the thatch, which is where the trouble starts. In about five seconds, though, you'll fall over backwards and hit your head, so I'd better get a move on. You trip over your feet, bang your head and go to sleep – is this starting to sound familiar, by the way? – then the building catches light, everybody panics and squashes out through the door; it's only later, when the fire's taken hold and the roof's starting to fall in, that someone says,
Hey, where's Ciartan?
and they realise you must still be inside. You know,' Monach went on, reaching past a burning man and taking a honeycake off a plate, ‘your life is woven from two dominant threads, tragedy and lack of originality. Not only do really shitty things happen to you, they happen over and over again.' He bit into the cake and chewed before continuing. ‘There's a very good reason for that, by the way, like there's a very good reason for everything that goes on around here, and you're the only person in the whole wide world who isn't allowed to know what it is. That must really get up your nose sometimes, I guess.'

‘I'm asleep,' Poldarn said. ‘And dreaming all this.'

‘Correct,' Monach said. ‘Actually, it goes deeper than that; in fact, from a professional point of view, as far as I'm concerned, this is a real beauty, a genuine collector's item. You see, you aren't just dreaming this
now
, as you're lying on your pile of straw surrounded by your nearest and dearest. This is going to be one of your favourite recurring nightmares, you'll come back here time and again, sometimes weeks in a row; so I'm not just talking to you now, I'm talking to you all through your life, present, future
and
past. You know, I could work this up into a really good paper for the Founders' Day lecture, if you hadn't burned down Deymeson.' He grinned, and reached for another cake. ‘Very good, these,' he said. ‘Next time we meet up like this you must give me the recipe. Do you understand what I'm telling you? You bloody well ought to, you were top of the class in divinity theory in Third Year. I always had trouble getting my head around logical paradox, but it never bothered you any.'

‘Please,' Poldarn said, ‘I want to wake up now, I don't like this dream.'

‘Not surprising. You aren't meant to like it. That's why they call them nightmares.' Monach sighed. ‘What really amazes me is how few of them you have, considering the stuff you've got up to over the years. Compared to most of what you've done and been through, this is a picnic. Still, I guess it's all a matter of interpretation; and this is one of the main turning points in your life – well, we're just coming up to it, or else we've just passed it, depending on which direction we happen to be going in at the time.' He smiled. ‘No, I'm not making it easy for you, I know. You'd hate that, you'd reckon it was patronising. Now, this girl you've just married—' He pointed; Elja was staring up at the roof and pointing. ‘Lovely kid, she really likes you, I'd say you're on to a good thing there, even if she is young enough to be your daughter. God only knows what she sees in you, but that's her business, I suppose. Anyway, I trust you'll treat her a bit better next time you're here. She'll forgive you, I expect. That's the amazing thing about these people, this extraordinary knack they've got for forgiving and forgetting, or at least turning a blind eye.' Monach yawned – Poldarn could see bits of chewed cake on his tongue – then turned into a crow and, flapping the burning sleeves of his gown, lifted aloft, and flew slowly up into the smoke and flames of the roof.

Chapter Fifteen

‘
W
ake up,' said a voice in his ear, ‘for crying out loud.'

So he woke up. He was lying in the yard, next to the woodpile, and someone had just thrown a bucket of water in his face. No pile of straw, he noted, and no circle of anxious faces (so either Monach had got it wrong, or all that stuff was for next time; he repeated the thought in his mind, but this time none of it made any sense); just Boarci standing over him with an empty bucket.

‘Bloody hell,' Poldarn croaked. ‘What happened to you?'

‘What? Oh, you mean my beard.' Boarci pulled a sad face. ‘Got set on fire, didn't it? And when I looked at it just now, I figured, bloody fool I'd look with only half a beard. So I shaved the rest off. It'll grow back,' he sighed. ‘Eventually.'

‘How about the rest of you? You were all on fire,' Poldarn remembered.

‘Just my clothes,' Boarci replied, ‘though they're all ruined, of course, which is a pain. You know, I'm not having much luck here. When I arrived, I didn't have much but at least I had the clothes I stood up in. Not any more. This lot belongs to your middle-house stockman. Anyway,' he went on, ‘it could've been worse. Nobody died, is the main thing, and they reckon they can patch up the house, given time. Not the most cheerful wedding I've ever been to, but livelier than some.'

Poldarn stood up. His legs were weak, but they seemed to be working. ‘Where's Elja?' he said. ‘Is she all right?'

Boarci nodded. ‘A bit crispy round the edges, if you know what I mean, but yes, she's fine. Over there in the trap-house, cutting bandages and stuff. Only one who got anything like a nasty burn was your brother-in-law Egil, and it's only the backs of his hands, should heal up in time. I've seen worse.'

‘That's a comfort,' Poldarn muttered. ‘What happened to me?'

Boarci laughed. ‘Bloody comical, that was. That lamp shattered, you jumped back, fell over your feet and nutted yourself on the deck. Out like a snuffed candle. Anyway, you were sleeping like a little lamb, so I got you out and here we are.'

Now that he mentioned it, Poldarn's head
was
hurting. ‘What about the house?' he said.