Shadow (Scavenger Trilogy Book 1)

by K. J. Parker

  ‘Can I make a suggestion?’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Falx Roisin looked down, staring at him as if he’d just grown an extra head. ‘Yes, why not, every other bugger has, that’s how we got in this mess to start with.’

  ‘Right,’ Poldarn replied. ‘Here’s what you’ve got to do.’

  It took longer to explain the plan than it should have done, mostly because Falx Roisin kept interrupting and jumping forward to incorrect conclusions. When he’d finally finished his explanation, Falx Roisin scowled, closed his eyes for a moment and said, ‘Oh, the hell with it, yes, give it a try. It’s that or burn the whole place down and start again. You realise we’ve been stuck like this since just after breakfast?’

  Phase one, which should have been the easiest part, turned out to be the hardest, or at least the most annoying, yet all it comprised was getting twelve men and some tools and equipment (spades, shovels, pickaxes, shauls, crowbars, buckets, planks of wood, saws, hammers, nails) out through the gate the way Poldarn had just come in. Why it was so difficult, Poldarn wasn’t sure, even after he’d done it.

  Phase two was digging a vertical shaft eight feet deep by four feet square. The Falx house had some fine diggers among its members, as well as four thoroughly competent carpenters, and the shaft was dug, braced and boarded in no time at all. There was a pause between the completion of phase two and the start of phase three, while Poldarn and a couple of men he didn’t know but who seemed to reckon they knew something about mining operations tried to figure out a way of making sure phase five came up in the right place. The negotiations were fraught from the outset, and Poldarn eventually resolved them by unexpectedly applying the heel of his hand to the chin of one of the experts; after which, the other expert went away and left him in peace to do his calculations.

  He’d expected phase three to be a real cow – digging a shaft four feet square and six feet long four feet under the gatehouse floor – but in the end it was no bother at all; the diggers dug, the dirt-haulers lifted out the spoil in buckets, while the carpenters cut and shaped the props and rammed them home. Phase four was the part of the exercise that called for precision: dig a vertical shaft upwards, to come out directly under the axles of the jammed carts, allowing the carpenters to saw through the axles, take out the two jammed wheels, and retreat. In the event the tunnel came up a foot short, which meant that phase five (sawing the axles) was trickier than it should have been, the carpenters having to work leaning diagonally with their backs braced on planks. They managed it, however, just about, and if the wheels came away rather sooner than expected and crashed down into the shaft with potentially lethal force (something Poldarn realised he should have anticipated but hadn’t), it was all right, because of the shaft being offset and the carpenters accordingly just out of the way. (‘Bloody clever, that was,’ one of them congratulated him a few minutes later, ‘the way you figured that drop just right. I was stood there while they were digging thinking, bugger me, that shaft’s going to come up short, but of course I didn’t realise it was on purpose. Bloody smart thinking, chum; well done.’) Once the impacted wheels had been hauled back down the tunnel and out of the way, phase six, attaching ropes to the outgoing cart and hauling it clear, was easy as pie, as was phase seven, putting all the dirt back down the hole and making good so that the rest of the carts could get through without the risk of caving in the tunnels.

  ‘Piece of cake,’ Poldarn said, brushing mud off his knees. ‘Don’t know what all the fuss was about, really.’

  Under other circumstances a remark like that could easily have cost him his life. As it turned out, however, his colleagues in the Falx house were either too busy or too exhausted to do anything more than scowl horribly at him as they scuttled or limped past.

  ‘It worked,’ Falx Roisin said.

  Poldarn frowned. ‘You sound surprised,’ he said.

  ‘You bet your life I’m surprised,’ he replied. ‘I was convinced you were going to bring the whole gatehouse down on top of your head. Still, it worked, so who the hell cares? Well done. I owe you a favour.’

  Poldarn shrugged. ‘Just making myself useful,’ he replied. ‘I think I’ll get on and wash this mud off my hands.’

  ‘What? Oh, right, yes. You know, what you did back there, it reminds me of something, but I can’t think what. Bloody clever, though. If I needed a house engineer, I’d give you the job like a shot.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Poldarn replied dubiously. ‘I’ll be going now, if that’s all right.’

  It was dark before the house finally got back to normal, and dinner was delayed accordingly. Rather than spend an hour getting congratulated for his cleverness in the mess hall, Poldarn sneaked round to the back door of the kitchens and charmed one of the cooks, a massive woman as tall as he was and nearly twice his weight, into letting him have half a loaf, a big slab of the more recent cheese and a small jug of beer. He carried his trophies off to the stables, had his dinner in peace and quiet down behind the feed bins, returned the jug and went to his quarters to sleep.

  Falx Roisin was waiting for him there. He’d brought a lamp, rather a magnificent object in highly polished brass in the shape of a pig.

  ‘I remembered,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That trick of yours,’ Falx Roisin said. ‘I remembered where I’d heard about it before. It’s exactly what General Cronan did at Zanipolo.’

  Poldarn looked blank. ‘Two carts got stuck in a gateway, did they?’

  Falx Roisin frowned. ‘Illanzus had been besieging Zanipolo for eighteen months, and they were running desperately short of food, half the camp was down with swamp fever and the rebels were coming up fast with a relief force twice the size of the loyalist army. Cronan was just a captain then, attached to the engineers because nearly all their regular officers had been killed or had died of the fever. Cronan had them dig under the gatehouse; calculated it so perfectly that they came up right in the middle of the lodge. A few minutes later they got the gates open and that was that. It was the making of him, of course; never looked back.’

  Poldarn thought for a moment. ‘That’s very interesting,’ he said. ‘And you left your dinner and came all the way up here just to tell me about it?’

  ‘No,’ Falx Roisin replied, sounding annoyed. ‘I wanted to ask you if you’d ever been in the army.’

  ‘I see. Why?’

  That annoyed him even more. ‘Answer the question,’ he said. ‘Were you in the army or weren’t you?’

  Poldarn sighed. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Really. You’re sure about that.’

  Poldarn grinned. ‘You think I’d forget about it if I had been? Yes, I’m sure. No, I’ve never been in the army. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘There was a soldier here this morning,’ Falx Roisin continued, ‘just before the big screw-up in the yard. Military tribune from the guards, no less. He was asking after a deserter. The description sounded a lot like you.’

  ‘Did it? What did he say?’

  ‘Middle-aged, medium height, long nose, pointed chin. Hair just starting to go grey.’

  Poldarn smiled. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but it sounds to me like he was describing you. I mean,’ he went on, ‘there must be hundreds of men in this city who answer to that.’

  ‘That’s what I told him,’ Falx Roisin said. ‘And I didn’t think of you when I answered him; I mean, you’ve only been here five minutes, and I’ve got a lot of faces to remember. But then he said this deserter was one of Cronan’s staff. High-ranking man, brevet-major or something like that. Not the sort to go absent without leave on a nine-day bender. So I guessed it might be something serious.’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ Poldarn said, shifting his weight to his back foot, taking himself out of the circle of light from Falx Roisin’s lamp. ‘But nothing to do with me.’

  Falx Roisin looked at him for a moment. ‘So I pressed him for some details,’ he went on, ‘and he replied that he couldn’t tell me a lot
because it’s all under seal and classified. But he did happen to mention something about Prefect Tazencius; he tried to escape, apparently, and he had accomplices waiting for him on the road between here and Weal, two people in a cart. I was wondering if you knew anything about that, either.’

  ‘Two people in a cart,’ Poldarn repeated. ‘You mean the two who were going round pretending to be the god?’

  Whatever Falx Roisin had been about to say, he didn’t say it. Instead, he narrowed his eyebrows, opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Somebody else did, apparently,’ Poldarn replied. ‘They’ve caught them and brought them in. I passed them on my way back from town.’ He paused, waited for a moment, then went on, ‘Oh, I see. You were thinking that it was Gotto and me.’

  ‘What? Oh, no, God forbid. The thought never crossed my mind.’ Poldarn looked at Falx Roisin and was sure he could see machinery working behind his eyes. ‘Damn it, if you’re right, that’d make a whole lot of sense, wouldn’t it? I mean, they’ve been going round prophesying the end of the world, spreading panic and doom and stuff, and now people are saying they had something to do with what happened to Josequin. Bloody hell,’ he added, pulling a ferocious face. ‘The bastards. All this time they were hand in glove with that arse-hole Tazencius – and the raiders, God damn it, just think of that. I just hope they string ’em up high, that’s all, and Tazencius as well, even if he is some kind of minor royal. That’s disgusting.’

  ‘I thought so,’ Poldarn said. ‘Not to mention the blasphemy side of it. If that’s not asking for trouble, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘Blasphemy? Oh, I see what you mean.’ Falx Roisin looked at him with the atheist’s gentle contempt for the believer. ‘Well, quite,’ he said. ‘God, though, I’d never have guessed that one. Prefect Tazencius being in with the raiders. And to think I once gave him a silver dinner service.’

  Shaking his head, Falx Roisin picked up his lamp and drifted away, still murmuring to himself about the iniquities of the world. Poldarn shut the door after him, kicked his boots off and lay down on the bed. Then he realised that he was still wearing his new coat, and that it was covered in dust and mud. He stood up, took it off and hung it over the back of the chair, and stretched his back, which was just starting to stiffen up.

  Coincidence, he told himself. It was a fairly basic idea; if you can’t get at something from straight on or above, try from underneath. Furthermore, take away the fact that both cases had involved a gateway and the similarity between them wasn’t all that great. Even supposing it was, and that the idea had been in the back of his mind all along, and he’d used it for the Falx house emergency; just because he’d copied the idea, it didn’t automatically follow that he’d been in General Cronan’s army, or any army; Falx Roisin hadn’t, to the best of his knowledge, but he’d heard about what Cronan’s engineers had done; if Falx Roisin had heard of it through news or gossip, then in all likelihood so had he, and the idea had been snuggled away behind the screen along with the rest of his memories.

  He pushed the whole business out of his mind and sat down on the bed. I wonder what Copis is doing now, he thought; and the truth was, he had no idea. What did normal people do after dark, the ones who weren’t nameless strangers with no memories, the ones who didn’t earn their livings in the death and intrigue business? He tried to work it out from first principles. The ones who worked hard all day would go home and sleep; if they weren’t tired they’d light a lamp and mend their clothes or their tools, sing, tell stories, make love, whatever. Somehow he couldn’t imagine it, any more than he could imagine what giants or elves or gods did in their spare time when they weren’t being legends. Far more plausible to assume that they didn’t exist in the dark, or if they didn’t simply disappear when nobody could see them they sat still and quiet, inanimate, waiting for daybreak and the turn of the next page.

  Pages. He wasn’t tired; at least, he was very tired but he knew perfectly well he wouldn’t get to sleep. But the generous and thoughtful Falx Roisin, by his duly appointed agent Quartermaster Eolla, had provided for him in just such an emergency and ordained that he should be issued with a small pottery lamp and a book. Two books, in fact. The man was all heart.

  He lit the lamp, chafing a knuckle on the tinderbox in the process, sat down in his chair and examined the two books. He hadn’t given them a thought since he’d received them, hadn’t even opened them to find out what they were called or what they were about. That was ungrateful of him.

  The first one was quite old; the ink was brown, the parchment was almost translucent in places, and it creaked alarmingly as he opened it. How do you look after books? he wondered. Are you supposed to rub the bindings once a month with neat’s foot oil, the way you do with harness and boots, or would that make the ink run? Did the stitching down the middle wear out, and if so, was it easy to replace?

  He chose a page at random:. . . Two pounds of chopped leeks, three cups of light white wine, a pound of raisins, half a pound of fresh celery and six eggs. First, hang the hare for twelve days. On the thirteenth day, remove the skin and guts, fillet and coat in flour. Pour the wine into a bowl . . .

  A quick flick through confirmed his suspicions; it was all like that. He frowned, closed the book and put it on the floor. One to save, he decided, until he was really desperate. That still left the other book, which was not quite as old, though somewhat shorter and thinner. He was a little apprehensive about opening it; if it turned out to be another dud, could he take them both back to Eolla and demand to be allowed two replacements, or was he stuck with them for the duration of his service? He forced himself to remember that he’d had the pick of the books in the box, and had chosen these two of his own free will, purely on the basis of size. Nobody to blame but himself, and typical, he felt, of the luck he’d had so far in making choices.

  He picked up the second book and decided that it probably wasn’t going to bite him. This time, he started with the very first page:The Complete Temple Of Wisdom

  (That’s more like it, he thought.)

  Comprising a complete digest of all the other books heretofore written that merit the attention of scholars, soldiers, government officers and those of gentle birth and breeding, including but not confined to the books of religion, natural science, medicine, philosophy, law, the skills and crafts; the best works of the finest and most acclaimed divines, homilists, commentators and grammarians, historians, poets and writers of prose fiction; also including comprehensive tables of weights, measures, rates of exchange, statutes in force, common ailments and their symptoms and cures, fasts and festivals, prosody and metre newly explained, auspicious and unauspicious days; to which is appended the complete letter-writer, comprising over two hundred model letters for all occasions; the complete understanding of the counting-board, abacus and string tally; grammars and glossaries of all the known languages; the farmer’s almanac and helpmeet (newly revised); the mariner’s guide, including all necessary charts and tables of tides and a completely new and unabridged treatise on the practice of navigation by the stars; with over one thousand illustrations, diagrams and maps; by A Scholar of Sansory. Copied and bound at the sign of the Brown Dog in the precinct of the Old and New Temples, Sansory. Price: three quarters.

  The last bit let the rest down, he reckoned; three quarters for all that wisdom. Admittedly the book was vilely copied in a tiny cramped hand on low-grade mutton vellum that had been scraped back at least three times, which probably helped to keep the price down. On the other hand, all the answers to all the questions in the world, not to mention ten pages of indices and a free bookmark, all for the price of a night in an inn – maybe that was all the concentrated wisdom of mankind was worth. That would explain a great deal.

  Having nothing better to do, he looked up ‘Poldarn’ in the index. There was one listing, page 474; he flicked through, and read:An obscure southern god, now neglected. Iconography: a crow with a ring in it
s beak. Assigned duties: war, fire, sundry domestic and industrial crafts, the end of the world. Literary & cultural significance: none. Also known as Bolodan (Sthrn), Polidan (lit.), the Dodger (colloq.). See also: Mannerists; Life of Fthr Azonicus of Lomessa; Enlightened thought; prophecies; end of the world, the; Land and Sea raiders, the; carts & wagons.

  He frowned, and stuck the bookmark in to mark the place, then looked up Josequin (two pages, mostly recommending popular inns, taverns, brothels and carpet stalls), the Guilds, Sansory (eight pages; lots of taverns), Mael Bohec, the empire and a number of other things, until his eyes were too tired to stay open and he fell asleep.

  He woke up an hour later (just as he opened his eyes, he thought he saw two crows, wonderfully carved out of huge lumps of coal, come to life and flap away, croaking resentfully) with pins and needles in both feet and a sore neck, just in time to blow out the lamp before it burned up the last few drops of his monthly oil ration. Sleeping in chairs, he decided, wasn’t good for him. As he stood up, he felt something under his foot (extremely painful, in the circumstances) and guessed from the size and shape that it must be the book, fallen from his hands when he dropped off. He groped around for it but it wouldn’t come to hand, and he let it lie till morning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘It’s just as well you happened to be in the area,’ the magistrate said, quickening his pace to keep up. ‘We’ve been going through the books trying to figure out which jurisdiction these clowns fall under, and it’s starting to look depressingly like they slip down between the cracks. But of course, what we know about ecclesiastical law in this town could be written on the edge of a knife.’