by K. J. Parker
‘Oh,’ Poldarn said, ‘I see. Hang on, though – thirty-five quarters for a little stub of gold? That’s a lot of money.’
The salesman scowled at him. ‘Cheap at half the price,’ he grunted. ‘I mean, twice. Well, anyway, there’s no point telling you any more because, like you said, you don’t need one. Though,’ he added half-heartedly, ‘that’s no reason why you shouldn’t join the long list of satisfied customers who’ve discovered that a Collendis Brothers gold tooth is an outstandingly impressive fashion statement.’ He stopped, and leaned forward a little in his seat. ‘I know you from somewhere, don’t I?’
This time, it was Poldarn’s turn to feel weary. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I don’t recognise you, but that’s nothing to go by.’
‘Oh?’
Poldarn shook his head. ‘I have a truly appalling memory,’ he said. ‘Straight up, I do. Basically, I can’t remember anything that’s happened to me since about three years ago.’
Instead of pulling a sceptical face at him, the salesman nodded. ‘Accident, was it? Bump on the head, something like that?’
‘More or less,’ said Poldarn, mildly impressed.
‘Same thing happened to a cousin of mine,’ the salesman said. ‘Got kicked in the head by an ox. This was before I was born, mind,’ he added, as if to assure Poldarn that he had an alibi. ‘Anyhow, he couldn’t remember spit, not even his name or where he lived, and then quite suddenly, twenty years later, he was walking up the street in the village where he used to live, and someone bumped into him and without thinking he said, “Mind where you’re going, can’t you, Blepsio, you idiot” – something like that, anyway, I’m making the name up, of course – and then, wham! It all came back to him in a flood.’
‘Really,’ Poldarn said. ‘That’s encouraging.’
The salesman grinned. ‘You’d think so,’ he replied. ‘But my cousin wasn’t too pleased. He rushed home, found his wife had declared him legally dead, married someone else, and the new bloke had mortgaged the farm fifteen ways to buggery and then run off to Torcea with the money. Still hadn’t sorted out all the legal bullshit when he died. Whereas before he started remembering stuff, he was nicely settled as a wheelwright and was doing quite well.’
Poldarn looked away. ‘Funny you should say that,’ he said. ‘You see, it’s crossed my mind that maybe, if I did get my memory back, I’d find out that my old life wasn’t really worth going back to; and, like your cousin, I’m just starting to get settled, I’m quite happy as I am. So—’
The salesman nodded. ‘So if I suddenly remember where I’ve seen you before, and tell you who you used to be, you’d rather I kept my gob shut and didn’t tell you.’ He pulled a face. ‘Just goes to show, really, what you’d assume people want and what they really want aren’t necessarily the same. Actually,’ he added, looking sideways at Poldarn under his hood. ‘I seem to recall there’s a precept of religion that says the same thing, only neater.’
Poldarn nodded. ‘Kindness is for enemies,’ he said; and then looked up sharply. ‘Precepts of religion,’ he repeated.
The salesman was still looking at him. ‘Proverbs,’ he said. ‘Little snippets of popular wisdom, made up by the monks for the most part, like the maxims of defence and stuff like that, only they’re usually even more useless than the maxims. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘loads of people beside the sword-monks know them, so you haven’t inadvertently tripped over a slice of your past. It doesn’t prove you were once a monk, or anything like that.’
Poldarn looked away. ‘That’s all right, then,’ he said. ‘Just out of interest, have you figured out where you know me from?’
‘No,’ the salesman replied.
‘Good.’ Poldarn looked up as the salesman rolled back his hood to reveal a round, clean-shaven face with cropped black hair. ‘Did you say you were headed for Scieza?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ the salesman replied. ‘Actually, just for once I’m not really going there on business. That is, if I can possibly get a few orders along the way, so much the better, though to be honest there’s a fat chance of that out here in the sticks. But mostly I’m going there for – well, personal reasons, if you follow me.’
‘Of course. None of my business, in other words.’
The salesman grinned. ‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘So, what line of work are you in? Haven’t been to Scieza before, but isn’t it all metalworking down that way?’
‘That’s right,’ Poldarn said. ‘Biggest foundry in the district, which is where I work.’
‘Got you,’ the salesman said. ‘The bell-foundry at Dui Chirra, right? Well, maybe that’s how I know you, then. Before I got into this gold-tooth lark, I was a pattern-maker. Well, I say that; mostly I just sanded and painted. Very boring, so I packed it in. So, what do you make at this foundry? Just general casting, or do you specialise?’
Poldarn smiled. ‘We make bells,’ he said.
‘Bells.’ The salesman looked slightly bewildered, as if he’d always assumed they grew on tall brass trees. ‘Well, that’s probably a good line to be in – must be a fair old demand, and I’ve never heard of anywhere else that makes them.’ He shrugged, dismissing the topic like a wet dog shaking itself. ‘My name’s Gain Aciava, by the way.’
Poldarn smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’d tell you my name if I knew what it was – well, that’s another long story – but recently I’ve been answering to Poldarn. Like the god in the cart,’ he added before Aciava could say anything, ‘I know; but I sort of picked it up before I knew any better.’
Aciava looked at him for a moment. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, pleased to meet you too. Welcome to Tulice.’
‘Thank you,’ Poldarn replied solemnly. ‘Just out of interest,’ he went on, lowering his voice a little, ‘what’re they in aid of?’
‘What, the soldiers?’ Aciava looked grave. ‘You haven’t been in these parts long, then, or else you’ve been out of the flow. Bandits.’
‘Oh,’ Poldarn said.
Aciava grinned ruefully. ‘They call them that,’ he said, ‘because it doesn’t sound so bad. You know, bandits, sort of thing that can happen anywhere. Actually, they’re nothing of the sort. Civil war’s more like it, only it’s not as simple as that. All you need to know really is, don’t bother them and they probably won’t bother you. Unless you’re a bandit, of course.’
A slight sideways glance came with that last remark. Poldarn ignored it. As far as he could tell, Master Aciava just enjoyed making himself seem mysterious to strangers met on the road. No harm in that, coming from a gold-tooth salesman. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and changed the subject to the merits of the inns along the road between Falcata and the coast, on which topic Aciava proved to be erudite, passionate and fairly amusing. He was in the middle of a tirade against the Light In Darkness at Galbetta Cross when Poldarn looked up and realised that he knew where he was. ‘Scieza,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ said Aciava, ‘here we are, then. Just as well, I’ve never been here before, and they don’t always call out the names of the stops.’
The wagon rolled to a halt outside the Virtue Triumphant (which had received a vote of qualified approval in Aciava’s catalogue, its effect slightly tarnished by the assessor’s admission that he’d never been there). Poldarn jumped down while Aciava started unloading his baggage, of which there seemed to be an unexpectedly large amount.
‘Right,’ Aciava said, straightening his back and grimacing. ‘Are you staying here overnight or heading straight back home? Only, if you’re stopping, I think I owe you a drink and a meal for keeping me entertained on the road.’
Strange way of putting it, Poldarn thought; but it was almost dark, and he didn’t fancy three hours’ stumbling on the boggy, rutted track to the foundry. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘After all, I’m on expenses.’
Aciava smiled. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you can buy the drinks.’
‘No,’ Poldarn replied, and led the way to the taproom.<
br />
Like most of the inns on the coast road, the Virtue had originally been built as a religious structure, complete with dorters, refectory, great house, library, chapter house and several small chapels. The stables and kitchens were a hundred yards away from the main buildings, tucked out of sight among the barns and stores. With the decline of public religion, the great house had evolved into the taproom and common room; the crypt was now full of barrels rather than desiccated monks, and the potmen scampered to and from the transept carrying sticky jugs full of beer. To get something to eat, you had to traipse through the cloisters and climb the refectory stairs; or you could make do with bread and cheese from the baskets in the nave, all you could eat for two quarters; or, for six quarters, you could have the roast brought to you in the Lady chapel, with enough beer to poison a garrison town. Aciava, who was on expenses too, opted for the Lady chapel. This surprised Poldarn slightly, since he couldn’t imagine that the tooth merchant wanted that much more of his exclusive company after a day on the road; then again, perhaps Aciava simply wanted to finish his witty remarks about the cockroaches in the Light In Darkness. Since Poldarn stood to get a hot meal out of it, without costing the foundry anything, he didn’t mind particularly.
‘Well,’ Aciava said, while they were waiting for the food to arrive, ‘here I am. It’s been a long trip, but I’m hoping it’ll turn out to have been worth it.’
Poldarn sipped his beer. It was considerably better than Basano’s home-brew. The same could have been said about sea water. ‘You said you’d come here to meet someone,’ he said politely.
‘That’s right.’ Aciava steepled his fingers over his nose. ‘An old friend, actually. Someone I haven’t seen in years. Come to think of it, not since we were at school together.’
Poldarn stifled a yawn. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ Aciava tilted the jug over his cup. ‘Took me a while to find him, but I got there eventually.’
‘I don’t know many people in these parts,’ Poldarn said, ‘apart from the guys at the foundry, of course, so I don’t suppose I know who you mean.’
Aciava was looking at him. ‘Oh, I expect you do,’ he said.
‘Oh? Who is it, then?’
‘You.’
Chapter Two
Poldarn put his mug down slowly. ‘Look,’ he said. Aciava laughed. ‘It’s just struck me,’ he said. ‘In context, that sounded like a pick-up line. No, absolutely not. The truth is, I know who you are. And I’ve come a very long way to find you.’
That was, of course, the moment when the door swung open and a sutler backed into the chapel, holding a large tray full of plates of food. Smoked lamb, Poldarn noticed, with cabbage, artichokes and creamed leeks Tulice style. Not bad for six quarters.
The sutler put the tray down. ‘Ready for more beer?’ he asked.
‘We will be,’ Aciava said, his eyes fixed on Poldarn’s face, ‘by the time you get around to fetching it.’
‘Fine,’ the sutler replied, and left.
‘What did you say?’ Poldarn said.
Aciava sighed, and pulled one of the plates towards him. ‘You’re probably asking yourself,’ he said, ‘why I made up all that garbage on the coach; like I didn’t know you, and so forth. Actually, it’s very simple. I already knew you’d lost your memory, and that the chances were you wouldn’t recognise me. I’d also figured that if you’d gone this long without remembering anything, it was a fair bet it’s because you don’t really want to. Of course, I didn’t know how much you’d found out about yourself since; partly, that’s what the charade was in aid of. Luckily, I’ve always been easy to talk to. I do this boisterous, likeable idiot thing very well, and there’s nothing like a long wagon ride for striking up conversations, often about things we wouldn’t normally discuss with strangers.’ He speared a slice of lamb with the point of his knife. ‘So, how much have you found out? I know you went home for a year.’
Poldarn stared. ‘How the hell do you know about that?’
‘Good question,’ Aciava said with his mouth full. ‘How many people in the Empire even know about the islands in the far west, where the raiders come from? I can’t be sure about this, but my guess is, three. Two of whom,’ he added, ‘are drinking beer from the same jug. Refill?’
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.’