Such thoughts were very far from Brandione’s mind on this wet day in the West. That man was up to his neck in war, and close to drowning.
‘Leader, that’s where they’ve gone now,’ Nal told the younger Brandione. ‘Those fuckers.’ He blanched. ‘I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean—’
The memory Brandione raised a finger. ‘How long have they been there?’
They were on the hunt for a particularly troublesome group of rebels, who had harassed them all along the road between Erran Town and the Four Villages. Brandione could no longer remember the name of this group, or what they represented to the rebellion. Over time, they all seemed the same. Enemies, enemies, everywhere.
Nal shrugged. ‘No way of telling, my lord. They last hit us three days back, on the Lower Southern Path. If they came straight here, they’ve probably been in there a full day.’
‘And we know it’s them?’
Nal nodded to the side of the road, where a pair of youngish women were standing, their arms crossed, bags of bones and stringy flesh. ‘Aye. Those two know them well, my lord, and are a bit angry with them. I’d never ask why, though, as it wouldn’t be gentlemanly.’ He smirked. ‘They saw one of them come out, an hour or so ago, to get something. Probably ammunition, knowing those … fellows.’
‘Then why haven’t they fired at us?’ Brandione pointed to a series of shuttered windows along the top of the building. ‘They could have hit us long ago.’
Nal thought this over for a moment, gnawing at a red lip. ‘They’re afraid, my Leader. They hope we don’t know they’re there. Or maybe they don’t want to anger us. Maybe they think we’ll parley with them.’
‘Or maybe there’s no one in there.’
‘Maybe, my Leader, maybe.’ Nal’s eyes narrowed. ‘But I believe those girls.’
The real Brandione remembered this now, remembered the words Nal spoke. At least, he thought he did. Don’t they say that memories change over time? Don’t they merge with other memories? Yet this one rang true. If it was mistaken, then so was his recollection of everything that had happened here that day. This was the path to madness, where every doubt became a monster.
In the memory, his younger self was speaking.
‘We should talk to them. See if they’ll surrender.’
A ghost of a smile flickered across Nal’s face, though he stopped himself from laughing. ‘There’s no way, my Leader. That sort are never very good. You saw what they did on the road.’ He glanced up again at the shuttered windows, and a thought seemed to occur to him. ‘Besides, they have fired at us. One of them took a shot at us earlier. Nearly hit Derrick.’
‘Most of the country here is shooting at us. Doesn’t mean it was one of them.’
‘Well, begging your pardon, my Leader, but doesn’t that make most of the country our enemies? It don’t matter, does it, if it’s exactly who we think it is or not.’ Nal waved a hand at some of the other soldiers, wearily going about their business. ‘Anyone’d think we were foreigners, down for the day from Northern Blown or one of those other shitty little fuckholes.’ He cringed at Brandione, feigning embarrassment at his language. ‘But we’re all part of the same city, my lord, aren’t we? Just ’cause we’re in the country don’t change that. They should behave according to their civic duty, my lord, and not try and fucking kill us all.’ Another embarrassed hand gesture. ‘Doesn’t matter if they’re the ones we’re looking for or not, does it, if they’re attacking us?’
Brandione nodded. ‘Let’s hope they see sense.’
He gathered himself together and began to walk up the road. He did not get far, though, before Nal grasped him by the arm.
‘My Leader! Where are you going?’
Brandione nodded at the barn. ‘To talk to them.’
‘Don’t be … don’t be so brave, your eminence.’ Nal gave a broad grin, exposing a fearsome set of broken yellow teeth. ‘You don’t want to hurt yourself, by being so brave. We’d be lost without you.’
He meant this last part, Brandione knew. They had all of them come to admire this graduate of the College, this soldier intellectual, who took risks that even these hardened men thought reckless. They admired him. He could see it in their eyes. They were grateful, too, perhaps.
I could have had so much, if I’d just stayed in the College. I would probably be Provost now, lying on cushions and reading books. Or I could have been an Administrator. That would have been a good life, too. Rolling around the Overland, manipulating its direction from gilded towers … all glorious. But no. I wanted something else. I felt haunted by something: the fear of being a coward. And so I confronted it, and I ended up on this street, this street I will never forget.
‘What do you propose we do then, Nal?’ asked the younger Brandione.
Nal whistled. ‘Well, now, that’s a good one. That is a good one. A good question, I mean.’ He smacked his tongue against his teeth. ‘We could just leave, sir.’
The younger Brandione shook his head, as Nal no doubt knew he would.
‘No. If it’s really them, they’ll harass us all the way up the road. We can’t have that, Nal.’
This was the moment that Brandione had turned over in his mind ever since.
Nal’s eyes widened, and his mouth broke into a grin. ‘Tell you what, sir – I’ve had an idea. I know just how to deal with them.’
Brandione nodded. He glanced back at the road they had come from. ‘I’ve got to get back to the camp for a while,’ he said. He looked at Nal. The older Brandione felt ashamed when he brought it to mind. He felt regret.
The truth was, an unspoken agreement had passed between Brandione and Nal, in this moment. I know what you are going to do, the future General had communicated to his man. I know what you are going to do, because I know who you are. I need you to do it. But I also need you to do it on your own. I need to have no part in it.
‘I know what you need,’ Nal said.
The memory was replaced with another. He had left the village, and gone back to the camp, perhaps three miles away. He was busying himself with mundane tasks. The older Brandione thought back on these moments, now, as he watched his younger self move energetically between the tents. He remembered the thoughts that ran through his mind. Ruthlessness is needed in war. The rebels would do the same, if the shoe was on the other foot. You have no choice.
That was the most common one. You have no choice. No choice at all. But there was always a choice.
Eventually, as dusk was drawing in, another soldier approached him. Brandione did not need the power of the Underland to remember this man. His face was etched onto the one-time General’s mind. He was small, uncommonly so for a soldier, with a round, rodent-like face.
‘Something’s happened in the town, my lord,’ the man said. Funny, Brandione could not remember his name, now. Everything else was clear and present, except the man’s name.
‘What?’ Brandione screwed his eyes up, attempting to seem anxious, even surprised. He was never much of an actor.
‘That barn,’ the little man said. ‘There’s been a fire.’
Brandione stood very still for a moment, before slowly nodding. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you want to know about the rebels, my Leader? Honestly, it was a stroke of luck for us. There were so many of them inside there. They must have locked themselves in, and then burned the place down, the fucking fools: probably some accident with their smokestuff. What a way to go, sir. Nail said you could hear them, scrabbling and—’
The memory Brandione raised a hand. ‘That will be all.’
The little man nodded. ‘It’s a good thing, Leader, isn’t it? Good they’re gone? I would’ve liked to face them properly, of course. Still – nice that they’re not around to bother us any more, isn’t it?’
Brandione nodded. ‘Of course.’
The young Brandione looked back in the direction of the town, and his older self remembered. The smell. Far ahead, he could just make out a tendril of smoke, rising in
the air.
The older man closed his eyes, and the past washed over him. They had soon left the town and the camp behind, moving onto some other scene from the war, one battle folding into another amid endless nights in the cold rain. He was not naïve. He had no illusions about war, or the ways that people died. He would order soldiers to kill, and they would do it. He would do it himself. There was no getting away from it. He knew it would be this way, and so had the rebels when they took up arms against the Overland. But something about this episode, with the barn, always sat uneasily with him.
It was the dishonesty of it. He knew that now. It was the sly nods and winks that had led to those fiery deaths, lungs filled with smoke, flesh melted from bones. He had known what Nal would do. He should simply have ordered him to do it. Or I should have done it myself. A part of his self-mythology had crumbled that day. He was under no illusions about the people that had died: they had tormented the soldiers of the Overland for long enough, picking off wayfarers and torturing them to death. They deserved what came to them. It wasn’t the act that dismayed the future General of the Overland: it was the shirking of responsibility, the game he had played with Nal.
When he handed responsibility for the rebels to Nal, he had given the man something else: a shard of his own power. He had asked him to carry a burden that was too heavy for him. That was weakness in its purest form. That was the old Brandione, the one he had run away from, the one who first went to the College. That was the action of a coward.
And he felt regret, all right. Regret for the man he once was, and never could be again.
He opened his eyes. The place was empty now; even the young Brandione was gone. This cannot be my memory if I wasn’t here. He looked around, at the dying fires and the darkening camp, and was struck by a sense of immense loss, for all that he had once been, and all that the Overland had stood for. He thought of this thing that menaced them, this Ruin. Wouldn’t it be good, in a way, to let it sweep us all up in its arms? What is there for us, now that the Overland is gone? But he knew this wasn’t true. They had all been tools of these beings for too long. It was like Nal and the barn. They had given a nod and a wink, and allowed these gods, or whatever they were, to rule their lives.
That had to end. Ruin must be destroyed. Then – when it was over – they needed to free themselves from the other creatures, too, from all these parasites of memory, and from the power of memory itself. They could no longer live on the wheel of the past.
For any of this to happen, however, he needed to find it. The First Memory. He wondered if it might be here, hidden away somewhere. No. He did not know what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it. He was sure of that.
The memory began to fade. It started at the edges, in the corner of his eye: little flecks of colour and light began to peel away, disappearing into nothingness. There was a noise, like the movement of some machine, and he was back in the tower of endless doors. He was high up, now: the floor below was far, far away, vanishing into a circle of shadow.
He looked to all the other doors, and he felt a sense of despair. How could he hope to find the First Memory in this endless maze? Was he trapped here, wandering the chambers of his own regrets – or those of others – until he himself became nothing more than a figment of the past?
He turned to the nearest door – red, with a golden handle – and reached out to it. He hesitated. Why open it? Why relive another moment like the barn? As always in these times of helplessness, a swell of anger grew within him. I won’t do it. I won’t be a pawn any more.
He thought of what this place was – this Underland. This Old Place. A home to all the memories of mankind: a thing of many parts, manic and twisted and untrustworthy, like memories themselves. We did not think about it, in the old days. We thought it was nothing more than the home of the Machinery, the domain of the Operator, and the place we threw our Strategists.
The last thought struck him like a blow. The place we threw our Strategists. So many funerals, over so many millennia: venerated bodies, taken from the mortal realm and tossed into the Portal, to the Machinery knew where. He thought of Kane, his old master. We threw his corpse in here.
The one-time General of the Overland was seized by a sudden urge to see Kane once more. He is in here. I can feel it.
He looked up to the ceiling. He could see it now in detail for the first time, a swirling storm of light. If this is a place of memory – and memories are human things – then the power lies with us. He thought of what the Queen had told him, about Arandel and the things he had done in the game. I will make the Underland bow before me.
‘Take me to Strategist Kane,’ he said.
Somewhere, he heard a noise. It sounded like laughter, though perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him.
He pictured Kane. He brought memories before him of the times they had spent together, the old man’s hacking and spluttering. He felt a sudden surge of power, which flitted away as quickly as it had appeared. He demanded it come back: he ordered it to return.
He grasped at the power of his memories.
He made them serve him.
And he came to a room full of corpses.
CHAPTER 14
Canning returned to his throne room after his battle with the Outside, and vowed to never leave it again.
The great torches had been extinguished, with a handful of candles struggling pathetically against the gloom. Canning was slouched in his strange throne, that thing of metal that had been hacked out of the wall. The Duet were not far from his side, sitting perfectly still, hand in hand, staring blankly forward. They remained his prisoners. His hold over them appeared to have strengthened since his battle with the Outside, though he could not say why. Before, he seemed to be connected to them by a kind of invisible string. Now it was as if they were held within the grip of a great fist: a fist that he controlled.
The paths of the Underland were opening before him. He had looked into the Old Place and seized a weapon to destroy the Outside. The memories of history lay at his feet, with all their secrets and power. Yet none of it mattered, because he did not know what he was supposed to do next.
He climbed down from his throne and began to pace. For a second it seemed that Girl’s eyes were following him. He stared at her and saw that she remained as motionless as before. You are a fool. She will be your prisoner, and so will her brother, for as long as you like.
He walked to a wall of the throne room and ran his fingers along the metal. It was cold and dull, rough and worn over the years. As he touched it, old memories appeared before him, dancing through the room. Ghosts from the past.
He looked once more at the Duet. He was becoming frustrated. I must move on. I must find the path forward. But where? That was the great question.
Ruin.
The name exploded in his mind. It had been buried there all along, waiting for its moment. The Outside’s words remained with him. The memories you hide away, the ones you run from – he was born in that mess, and he will chase you through them forever.
Ruin will come with the One. It had been more than a prophecy to the people of the Overland. In a perverse way, it was the foundation of their lives: the price they had to pay for the Machinery’s greatness. We worshipped it all the more, because we knew it would break. We were all of us Doubters, all along.
The Outside had talked about Ruin as if it was a creature. Canning knew what that meant. One of them. An Operator. Even in their current state – even as his prisoners – he could feel the Duet’s power, thrumming through them and thudding across the hall, an ancient, terrible drumbeat. And these two are weaker than the others. He thought of Shirkra, the vastness of her abilities. The Duet are nothing to her. What power does Ruin hold?
He needed to find out.
Canning walked to the centre of the great hall, across pools of wavering candlelight. He thought back to his duel with the Outside, and the scythe he had summoned from the depths of the Underland, imbued with th
e power of so many memories. He did not need a weapon, this time. I need an answer.
He pictured the Old Place in his mind. He saw it as a great ocean, an endless, grey expanse, strangely still and silent. In the depths of that water, he knew, was what he needed.
Who is Ruin?
The water did not stir. It remained as it had always been: an implacable, impenetrable sheet of liquid steel.
Who is Ruin?
There was the slightest movement across the surface of the ocean, as if a breeze had appeared.
Who is Ruin?
Over time, the wind gathered pace, and the waters began to swirl.
Who is Ruin?
The water was parting. Underneath, there was a kind of shadow. But it was more than a shadow; it was a thing of power, a thing of the endless ages … a pair of red eyes appeared there, in the darkness …
Fear took hold of him, and Canning tore himself away from the ocean. But the shadow did not leave. It was there, in his throne room, standing before him, shaped like a man but something else entirely. This was the only Operator that mattered, he now knew. All the others were pale, insipid, compared to this thing.
The shadow grew, losing the shape of a man, falling into smoke. The red eyes appeared once more, floating within the darkness, lowering themselves towards him, studying him with the patient hunger of a predator. He saw that they were not eyes at all, but flames, small sparks of a fire that would one day incinerate him: an inferno that would burn the world, and bring forth something new from the ashes …
Canning fell backwards, towards his throne, pushing himself away from the shadow of Ruin.
‘Leave this place,’ he hissed. ‘Leave me alone.’
He glanced at the Duet, hoping, perhaps, that they would help him, as they had in his battle with the Outside. But they remained as they were, staring impassively ahead.
‘Leave me alone,’ he said again, as the darkness filled the throne room, as it gathered itself around him, as the two flaming eyes came closer, burning against his skin. He glanced once more at the Duet.
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