by K. J. Parker
Very soon afterwards, the yard was deserted. Poldarn, for his part, couldn't be bothered to go; instead, he crossed over to the forge and spent the rest of the day by the fire, drawing down, splitting, shaping and jumping up. By evening, his strip of odd-looking steel had taken on a definite and unique shape; like a leaping dolphin with a broad, splayed tail (where the upper and lower horns of the hand-guard arched round until they almost touched). He hardened and tempered the steel with an unexpected degree of trepidation; but for once, everything went right, and the piece that emerged from the barrel of burning olive oil was unmistakably a Raider backsabre. It wasn't, Poldarn suspected, entirely perfect, but that was only to be expected of his first attempt at making such a thing, done entirely from memory. As he took a break from drawfiling out the hammer marks and speckles of forged-in firescale, it occurred to him to wonder, for the first time, what he'd actually made the thing for. If he needed to chop kindling he already had a perfectly good hand-axe. And he wasn't about to kill anybody-was he?
Chapter Six
They faced each other down a thin steel road; two circles, separated by the smallest possible distance. The draw had been inconclusive; there hadn't been the smallest fraction of a second between them, because both of them had eliminated time in the moment (which doesn't exist in religion) between the impulse and the result; and all that had come of it was an awkward collision of flats, nothing achieved either way. From there they'd both immediately fallen back into their own circles, swords in the first guard, their minds in their eyes, as the precept of religion puts it, both waiting for the other to move first. And since they were identical in every respect (having attained religion, at least as far as the third grade, and thereby eliminated themselves except as copies, cast from the same pattern in the same mould) there was no way that either of them was going to make that first move, in the same way that a shadow can't pre-empt the body that casts it.
Father Tutor was drumming his fingers on the desk, trying to annoy them (one or both, didn't matter), break their concentration,-needle them into making a mistake. Behind him, the rest of the class sat completely still-it was perfectly legitimate for Father Tutor to distract the candidates, but God help a student who sneezed or scratched an itch while the bout was in progress. Quite right, too; in the school at Deymeson, it was traditional that exactly half of the students in each grade after Grade Three moved up a class at the end of the year. The other half, those students who failed the practical, were buried in the yard behind the junior refectory, unless their families were prepared to pay the cost of shipping them home He caught his breath; was that a movement, or the different kind of stillness that comes before movement (as waves ripple out in all directions when a stone falls in water, so a movement ripples backwards and forwards in time, the perceived outcome and the perceived anticipation) or was he just imagining things? The other face, his mirror image, was watching him in exactly the same way as he was watching the other face. Had his equal-and-opposite imagined that he'd seen the anticipation of movement too? That'd be right. Combat is a mirror (precept for the day, a couple of terms back); also, combat in religion is a battle between two shadows (presumably meaning roughly the same thing, but with added mysticism).
– Which was why friendships were rare among the students at Deymeson; difficult to get attached to someone when it was quite possible-probable, even, given Father Tutor's macabre sense of humour-that you'd wind up meeting your best friend on the thin steel road, knowing that one of you wouldn't be back after the summer recess. Unfortunate; but here they both were, the very best of friends, so close it was hard to tell them apart, so close that even the draw had failed to separate them. There hadn't been time to apologise, to say No hard feelings, if somebody's got to get through over my dead body I'd rather it was you. That shouldn't have needed saying, of course, not between friends; but apparently it did, and it hadn't been.
Father Tutor yawned loudly; and that wasn't a legitimate examination tactic, that was just plain rude. Something as out of the ordinary as this, a year-end practical that lasted longer than a sneeze, you'd have thought he'd be pleased, not bored.
Maybe he'll stop the fight. No way of proving it, but he was sure the idea had crossed both their minds simultaneously; followed immediately by Maybe we can stop the fight; if we both sheaths our swords together, now He felt the impulse tug at his wrists, but he defied it. Yes, he knew his friend, he knew his friend wanted to end the fight more than anything in the world. But he knew also that his friend was thinking exactly the same thing as he was: Bloody stupid I'd look, if I put up and he doesn't; and then I'd be dead, and that bastard, that traitor who said he was my friend, he'd still be alive and through to next grade, and that'd make him better than me In religion, there is no time, there is no space, because the sword doesn't move from scabbard to flesh and it takes no time getting there. Between the impulse and the result no time, no space, therefore in religion nobody and nothing can exist.
'Very good,' Father Tutor called out, in a voice that suggested he didn't think it was very good at all. 'On the count of three, you will both step back three paces and put up your swords; and then we'd better start again from the beginning, see if we can't do better next time. One, two…'
(And both of them thought: on three the practical will be over, and we'll have to do it again; another draw, as bad as having to die twice. That gives us this little bit of time, between two and three, to get this mess cleared up.)
Just before Father Tutor could say the word, both of them moved. Both stepped forward, two circles intersecting (like the ripples from two stones thrown simultaneously into water) and once again the swords met in mid-air, at the point where the shadow joins the body, and so nothing was achieved, nothing happened 'Three,' Father Tutor said. 'Well,' he added, as they stepped back and sheathed their swords with a click, 'that was a bit of a shambles, wasn't it?'
He couldn't help it, he was shaking all over. Partly it was simply fear, the reaction to the extremes of danger and concentration. Partly though it was shame, and abhorrence; because at this moment in time there was only enough room in the world for one of them, and yet both of them were still there, illegally sharing it, like a shadow or a mirror-image being soaked up into the body that cast it. Two circles superimposed, becoming one.
That's not supposed to happen. And if it does-Not quite sure about the details, but isn't that supposed to mean something really bad is on the way, like the end of the world, Poldarn's second coming, something like that?
Maybe the same thought had just occurred to Father Tutor, because he was looking very grave all of a sudden, with possibly just a hint of why-did-it-have-to-happen-in-my-class.
'Match drawn,' said Father Tutor quietly. 'Both pass. Both through to the next grade.'
A moment when nothing happened (religion); then everybody in the building started talking at once 'You,' said a voice in his ear. 'Wake up, now.'
Bloody hell, Poldarn thought, not again. Why can't I ever get a full night's sleep?
'Fuck you,' he muttered, and opened his eyes. Banspati-no, not this time. Banspati was there, but he was standing back looking very worried and unhappy (rather like Father Tutor in the dream). The man who'd woken him up was that soldier, Brigadier Muno. A pity, Poldarn reflected bitterly, that I just told him to fuck himself.
'On your feet,' Brigadier Muno growled at him, and his big cheerful face wasn't quite as friendly as usual. 'Get your boots on and follow me.'
Not good; not good at all. Poldarn didn't know all that much about the Imperial regular army, but he had an idea he'd read or heard somewhere that the top brass don't usually come round waking you up and bringing you breakfast in bed. In the background, Banspati was glowering at him with a mixture of hatred and sympathy; you're for it this time, and thanks to you, so am I…
Typical: when you're flustered and in a hurry, your feet won't fit in your boots. Poldarn managed to get them on somehow, though they really didn't want to go; also he h
ad pins and needles in his left foot, which really didn't help matters. Was it worth telling the brigadier he was sorry for saying 'Fuck you'; or would that only make it worse? Probably best not to say anything, he decided, knowing that whatever he did, he'd be bound to get it wrong.
Across the yard a lot of people were milling around, even though the angle of the sun told him it was ridiculously early for the day shift to be up and about, unless something was seriously wrong and he was the only man in the camp who didn't know about it. (That'd be right.) Outside the drawing office, which was apparently where they were headed, he noticed a bunch of riding horses tied up to the tethering post; unusual sight, since nobody in the foundry had a horse-even the brigadier and his staff had come by coach as far as the Virtue and footslogged the rest of the way. One very fancy horse; white, nervous, thoroughbred, with a gilded red leather saddle, worth a lot of money. Looks like we're entertaining the quality. Is that good?
Poldarn reflected on the sort of person who seemed to make good in the Empire-Tazencius, Feron Amathy-and decided no, probably not.
'In there,' said the brigadier.
Usually the drawing office was crowded-people working, people watching other people work-but not today; there was just one man, sitting on the corner of the long, broad table that Spenno and Malla Ancola used for drawing out designs. He lifted his head as Poldarn walked in, and at once Poldarn knew who he was. The last time he'd seen him had been at some army camp in the Bohec valley, where he'd had to trick and threaten a sentry into taking responsibility for the cavalry captain he'd rescued from two murderous old women who'd been looting the dead. He remembered carrying the cavalryman all the way up from the river-he'd been trampled by his own troop's horses, and both the man's legs had been broken; it had been an ordeal for both of them, but the cavalryman had been rather more stoical about it. He remembered how the poor bastard had made a point of telling him his name. Muno Silsny.
And here he was. As soon as he caught sight of Poldarn, he jumped to his feet; staggered, caught his balance and started to hurry towards him. Seated, he'd been like something off one of the grand triumphal arches in Falcata market square: pale, cold and handsome, as if his head had been cut off his head and replaced with a marble portrait bust of himself. But when he moved, Poldarn noticed, he waddled like a duck Two broken legs, badly set by an overworked, apathetic surgeon; it was a miracle Muno Silsny could walk at all, all things considered. Even so; the second most important man in the Empire, bouncing along like an oversized toddler. Not something you expect to see.
Just before breaking into Poldarn's circle, Silsny stopped.
His mouth was open, and his coin-portrait face wore a sort of idiotic, stunned expression. 'It's you,' he said; then, as if he'd suddenly caught sight of himself in a mirror and remembered with a start that he was a general, 'Here, you lot; Gianovar, Catny, Uncle-it's him. The man who saved my life.'
For a split second Poldarn was left wondering: yes, but is he pleased to see me or not? Then the stunned look melted into a huge boyish grin, and the general (crimson gold-trimmed cloak, best quality gilded parade armour) took a long waddle forward and, quick as a sword-monk's draw, reached out and hugged him so hard that the air was squeezed out of his lungs.
'You've got no idea,' Muno Silsny was saying, 'how much I've looked forward to this. Damn it, what happened to you? I can remember you carrying me, and then I must've zonked out, and next thing I knew I was lying on the floor with my legs splinted, and my useless nephew Bel was leaning over me saying it was all right, I was safe, and you'd gone-'
'That's right,' Poldarn said, with the little breath he had left. 'I traded you for a horse. Your nephew got me one; I think he stole it from somebody.'
Muno Silsny laughed and said, 'He did indeed. A major from the general staff-he was absolutely livid about it. But anyhow: you left, and I never had a chance to say thank you.'
Poldarn shrugged awkwardly. 'Oh, it was no big deal,' he said.
'No big deal.' Muno Silsny shook his head. 'Well, I think it was a hell of a big deal, thanks all the same. Those ghastly old women, hovering over me like carrion crows, just about to murder me for my socks. I still get nightmares sometimes, you know.'
This is getting embarrassing, Poldarn decided. 'Well, I'm glad you made it in one piece,' he said. 'And you don't seem to have done too badly for yourself since.'
Behind him, he could feel the expressions on their faces: Banspati, looking like he'd just been stuffed with breadcrumbs; Uncle Muno probably scowling and shaking his head, everybody else staring and thinking, so what's in it for us? But as far as Poldarn was concerned, he'd rather have been somewhere else. He trusted the past-and anybody who came from there-about as much as he trusted Gain Aciava (who apparently had been telling the truth, at least some of the time).
'Oh, things have been going really well for me, yes,' Muno Silsny was saying. 'Damned if I know why, it's not like I'm anybody special; I mean, I never did anything brave and unselfish like you did. Makes you wonder, really, what the hell makes this world tick. But at least I've found you again. It's time we settled up, you know. It's been preying on my mind.'
Poldarn grinned feebly. 'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'No charge.'
Muno Silsny laughed, as if he'd just said something funny. 'This is absolutely amazing,' he said. 'I really don't know what to say. And to think, all this time you've been here, just quietly getting on with it, like nothing had ever happened. Why the hell didn't you come and see me, once I'd started getting famous and everything?'
'Oh, well,' Poldarn said. 'I had things I had to do, you know how it is.'
Muno Silsny was looking at him as though he'd just remembered something. 'You told me,' he said, 'that day by the river, you told me you'd lost your memory. That's right, you said you'd lost your memory and you couldn't even remember your name or anything about who you were. I remember thinking at the time, bloody hell, that must be about as bad as it can get, worse than broken legs or even getting killed. I mean, in a way it's a sort of death, because everything you were, which is everything you are, when you come to think about it-all gone, lost, and all you're left with is the clothes you stand up in. Certainly as bad as being robbed, or burnt out of your house, because you don't even know what you've lost. So,' he added brightly, 'that's all sorted out now, is it? Everything back to normal, and here you are home again. I'm so glad about that.'
Well, why not? Poldarn thought; and he nodded.
'Wonderful,' Muno Silsny said, slapping Poldarn hard on the shoulder. 'So, how long was it before it all came flooding back? Days? Weeks? As long as a month? I've heard it can take that long, in extreme cases.'
'Something like that,' Poldarn said.
'That's awful.' Muno Silsny shook his head sympathetically. 'It's terrifying, really, when you think how fragile memory can be. It's like when someone dies, and nobody knows where he left his will or the deeds to the farm or the keys to the strongbox. All that absolutely essential stuff that only exists inside our heads, and one little tap on the head's all it takes to lose it for ever and ever. I think I'd go mad if it happened to me. It'd be like being struck blind and deaf and dumb, all at the same time. Listen to me,' he added, 'I'm prattling on like a lunatic. I think it's just because I'm so very pleased to see you again. I mean to say, it's not every day you meet someone you owe your life to, and you'd started believing you'd maybe never see him again.'
Thank you, and can I go now? Poldarn wanted to say. Sure, he knew that by rights this was an amazing stroke of luck, almost as good as finding the genie in the bottle, like in the old stories. Somehow, though, he felt sure that it wasn't good luck at all, probably quite the reverse. Absolutely no idea why, of course.
In the event, it took him a very long time to escape from Muno Silsny. Over lunch (in the drawing office; some weird and wonderful picnic of Torcean haute cuisine that Silsny had brought with him-obscure parts of rare animals drowned in thick, spicy butter sauces) he heard how Uncle had h
appened to mention in one of his letters that they had a chap in the camp who'd lost his memory once, just like Silsny's bloke; and as soon as he'd read that he wrote back asking for a detailed description, and of course he knew straight away that it was the same man, so he dropped everything, cancelled dinner with the Emperor, and hopped straight on the first boat he could find; and how it had been a pig of a crossing, freak winds in the Bay, had to put in thirty miles south of where he'd been intending to land, and then all the problems of getting here, with the floods and all. Over dinner (at the Virtue Triumphant; same room as the night he'd dined with Gain Aciava) he heard all about Muno Silsny's meteoric and totally unexpected rise to power; how General Cronan had died at just the right time, though of course it was a tragedy, the best man in the Empire and that was including Tazencius, though of course nobody had heard him say that; and how at every step up the ladder he'd told himself, well, now at least I'll be in a position to say thank you properly to the guy who saved my life that time, if ever I can find him 'So,' Muno Silsny said at last, with a big silver goblet of wine in one hand and a pheasant drumstick in the other, 'here we are. And the question is, what can I do for you? Anything you like-really anything, so long as I can do it or get it for you; and if I can't, it won't be for want of doing my absolute damnedest. You just name it, it's yours. Well?'
Well, Poldarn thought.
Well, what I really want, what I want most of all in all the world, is for Gain Aciava to have been lying. Do you think you can fix that for me, General Muno?
'Well,' Poldarn said. 'Nothing, really.'
Muno Silsny looked at him. 'No, seriously,' he said.
'Seriously.' I can't believe I just said that. Even so. 'I honestly can't think of anything I want, thanks all the same.'