by K. J. Parker
(‘Now are you glad we came?’ Copis muttered.
‘All right, yes.’)
The nearest thing to a button in the square was a card of sand-cast brass toggles, rough and unfinished and priced at five quarters. Copis grinned like a dog smelling blood. ‘No competition whatsoever,’ she sighed happily. ‘The one thing I was afraid of was that there’d be a deep-rooted button cartel who’d run us out of town for trying to shove in on their pitch.’
‘Doesn’t look that way,’ Poldarn replied. He’d tied up the horses to a conveniently placed rail and was unstepping the awning poles. ‘This is extraordinary. Nothing at all like this in Sansory.’
Copis nodded. ‘And this is the first place we came to. For all we know, the whole damn town could be like this. You know, we should’ve brought all the stock.’
They set up the stall, expecting a soldier or bailiff to arrive at any moment and demand to see their trading permits, but nobody paid any attention, apart from a few good-natured enquiries about what they were selling. To their relief, when they replied, ‘Buttons,’ they weren’t stared at or asked what a button was; in fact, quite a crowd had gathered by the time they opened the stall for business. By noon, the table was looking decidedly threadbare.
‘Definitely coming back here again,’ Copis said, during an uncharacteristic lull. ‘And we can easily jack the prices up a quarter or so; to judge from what they’ve been saying, they reckon we’re practically giving the stuff away.’
‘We’ll see,’ Poldarn replied. As far as he was concerned, their mark-up was steep enough as it was without increasing it further. In fact, there was something about trade in general that struck him as rather dishonest, only a step or two removed in legitimacy from the god-in-the-cart scam. ‘I figure luck’s a bit like a cart. Pushing it when you’re struggling uphill is usually all right, but when you’re coasting gently downhill it’s probably not a good idea.’
Copis shook her head. ‘Don’t believe it,’ she replied. ‘I know this kind of people, they’re like we used to get in Torcea. The more expensive something is, the more likely they are to buy it. I mean, look at some of the stuff on these stalls. This lot aren’t short of a quarter.’
Poldarn shrugged, not being inclined to take the subject further. He beckoned to the boy sitting on the barrel and held a coin up in the air. The boy duly brought him a tin cup, which turned out to be full of quite palatable wine, not stale beer as he’d expected.
‘And a quarter a cup, too,’ Copis remarked, after she’d had a mouthful. ‘That’s very reasonable. You know, we could do worse than buy a barrel or two while we’re here and sell it on in Sansory. No point taking the cart home empty.’
‘We could,’ Poldarn replied without much enthusiasm. Something was definitely making him uneasy, though whether it was Deymeson, the morality of commerce or something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he wasn’t sure. ‘Next time, maybe,’ he added, ‘once we’ve had a chance to find out if there’s actually a market for the stuff there. And we’d better look into things like excises and tariffs if we’re going into the wine trade.’
Copis sighed. ‘That’s the problem with you,’ she said, ‘no spontaneity. I think you were probably a counting-house clerk in your previous life. And I’ll bet your books always balanced at the end of the day.’
‘And that’d be a bad thing?’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ Copis replied. ‘Still, I suppose it’s a good combination, one brave and impetuous and the other sensible and boring.’
Poldarn looked up. ‘That’s how you see us, is it?’
Copis nodded. ‘I was exaggerating a bit,’ she said, ‘but not that much. The thing about you is, I think that deep down you’ve got this urge to live a really dull, ordinary, commonplace life, which suggests that to you it’s all new and fascinating, being ordinary, and that before this you used to be something dashing and dangerous.’
‘You just said I was probably a clerk.’
‘Changed my mind.’
Poldarn clicked his tongue, a habit he’d picked up from Copis. ‘If I’m going out of my way to avoid excitement and adventure, I’m not making much of a fist of it,’ he said. ‘Except for the last week or so, I suppose, that’s been refreshingly quiet. In fact, it’s been days since I last killed anybody.’
‘My heart bleeds,’ Copis replied gravely. ‘You’ll just have to make do with fleecing people instead. Not as effective as killing them, but it means you can carve off another slice or two the next time you’re passing through. I guess you could say it’s the difference between hunting and rearing livestock.’
The market dissolved abruptly an hour before sunset, like a giant turned to stone by the first light of dawn. The stall-holders lifted their tables off the trestles and carried them, still laden with goods, back into their houses, while their wives and children scurried backwards and forwards with table legs, stools, barrels and bales. It all happened so quickly that if Poldarn had happened to be kneeling down lacing his boot at the time, he’d have missed it and stood up again to find the square suddenly and inexplicably different (ah, the difference one moment can make . . .).
‘You’d better get a move on,’ someone said as he stood gawping at the empty square. ‘If the bailiffs come round and catch you still trading, you’ll be for it.’
‘Oh,’ Poldarn said. ‘Thanks. Why?’
‘Curfew,’ the stranger replied, and hurried away.
‘Wonderful,’ Copis muttered, grabbing dishes and trays of buttons and pouring them into jars at random. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, tear down the stall. And if you can stop someone and ask, find out if it’s a general curfew or just trade.’
She seemed to be taking it very seriously, so he dismantled the canopy and unshipped the poles as quickly as he could. Nobody came close enough to the cart to be stopped and questioned; in any event, they were moving too fast and too purposefully towards their houses, which suggested that the curfew was general and that they really didn’t want to get caught. That, of course, presented them with a fresh problem.
‘There’ll be an inn or something,’ Copis reassured him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
As soon as they had the stall down and packed away in the cart, they headed across the square to the inn (the Dogma and Doctrine), arriving a couple of heartbeats after the door bolts went home and the shutters were snatched in with a bang. Knocking on the door proved to be a complete waste of time.
‘Marvellous,’ Copis said edgily. ‘Now what?’
Poldarn wasn’t listening; he was watching three robed men with staffs walking across the square towards them. Since there was nobody else in sight, it wasn’t difficult to guess what they wanted.
‘I suppose they must be sword-monks,’ Copis whispered. ‘You hear all sorts of things about them, of course, but I’ve never seen one before.’
‘Well, they don’t seem to be carrying swords,’ Poldarn said. ‘I’ll have to take your word about the monk part.’
‘Quiet,’ Copis replied. ‘I should be able to handle this.’
Sword-monks or not, the three men didn’t seem to be in any hurry; they were strolling rather than marching. ‘Hello,’ one of them called out from about fifteen yards. ‘You’re strangers in town, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ Copis said. ‘We’re terribly sorry, we didn’t know about the curfew.’
The monk who’d spoken to them shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘We aren’t going to lock you up for ignorance. I take it you haven’t got anywhere to stay.’
Copis nodded. ‘We tried the inn over there, but they’ve locked the doors.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll see to that,’ the monk said, and nodded to one of his colleagues, who set off quickly across the square towards the inn. ‘Right,’ the monk went on. ‘The rules are pretty straightforward. Nobody on the streets after curfew – that’s three-quarters of an hour before sunset, there’s sundials in every squar
e, so knowing the time’s easy enough. All inns and shops closed and locked on time; all foreigners registered with the prior’s office and able to show proof of accommodation for the night. You aren’t either of those, are you?’
Copis shook her head.
‘Not to worry,’ the monk said, and nodded towards the inn. ‘It’s perfectly straightforward; I issue a vagrancy notice and billet you in the nearest registered accommodation. If they’re full you might have to put up with a night in the stables, but it’s bound to be better than the watch-house lock-up. I’ll trust you to report to the prefecture by an hour after sunrise tomorrow morning; just tell them who you are and why you’re here and that you didn’t know the rules before you arrived, and they’ll issue you with the necessary passes and stuff. Quite painless,’ he added, ‘so long as you follow procedure.’
The innkeeper and his wife weren’t overjoyed at having a sword-monk hammering on the door, and would probably have harboured a grudge against them if it wasn’t for the fact that earlier in the day they’d bought six sets of buttons for the price of five (Copis had been feeling generous) and were quite delighted with the bargain. Accordingly, although the inn was full, the innkeeper’s younger son was turned out of his room and sent to sleep under the table in the kitchens, while Copis and Poldarn got a bed for the night, albeit a small one, and a view out of the tiny fifth-floor window over the bleak main street down towards the gate-with-no-walls and the moors beyond. By the standards of Sansory or any of the main-road inns they’d stayed in it was damp, cramped and miserable. On the other hand, it could easily have been far worse.
‘Actually,’ Copis was explaining, while Poldarn leaned his elbows on the window ledge and watched the last glow of sunset fading in the west, ‘curfews aren’t all that uncommon, but mostly you get them in Guild towns, so it didn’t occur to me that there’d be one here. Of course, it’s like a Guild town in ever so many ways, so maybe I should’ve suspected. Never mind,’ she went on, ‘there’s no real harm done and we can find somewhere better in the morning.’
‘Doesn’t bother me,’ Poldarn replied truthfully, as he watched a distant glimmer of light. ‘But I guess the innkeeper’s son would like us to go away so he can have his bed back. Are we allowed to move on, though? I got the impression that once we’re registered somewhere, we’ve got to stay put till we leave.’
Copis frowned. ‘Not sure,’ she replied. ‘The impression I got was that we aren’t committed to staying anywhere till we register in the morning; so if we get up good and early we can scout around and find somewhere before we sign in at the what’s-its-name, prefecture.’ She yawned. ‘This is an odd town,’ she said. ‘Not the oddest I’ve ever been to, not by a very long way, but still odd. Good for business, though.’
‘That’s true,’ Poldarn said absently. He was still watching the light. ‘One of these days, you’ll have to explain to me about Guild towns. I’ve heard people talking about them, but all I’ve gathered so far is that they’re different and not all that pleasant to visit.’
‘You’ve been to Mael,’ Copis said sleepily. ‘That’s a Guild town.’
‘True. Now that was an odd place.’
‘Tell you about it in the morning,’ Copis sighed, and turned over on to her side. She was occupying the whole bed, and Poldarn didn’t feel like bickering, so he grabbed the cushion off the chair for a pillow and lay down on the floor. Just before he fell asleep, he thought he heard something moving about in the thatch directly over his head, but he wasn’t sure; it could just as easily have been the crows in his dream, spreading their wings and launching themselves wearily into the darkness of his mind.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ one of them said.
‘It’s him.’ The speaker, an old man with a thick bush of unruly white hair, rested both palms on the table-top. ‘No doubt about it whatsoever.’ He paused for a moment, catching his breath, then went on: ‘I was more or less sure when I heard the report from Sansory, about the man who met with Chaplain Cleapho but escaped before they could catch him. Then there was the message from the inn – full marks to your sword-brother, by the way, it was an inspired idea to set the innkeeper to watch out for him – and I was almost certain. Now I’ve seen him with my own eyes. It’s him.’
There was a long silence. ‘That’s settled, then,’ the abbot said at last. ‘Now that we know it’s him, what shall we do?’
There were no suggestions. Father Abbot leaned forward a little in his chair, elbows on the table. ‘The obvious solution would be to kill him, or to load him with chains and send him to Torcea. I’m not sure what we could charge him with, but there’s bound to be something. In any event, I don’t suppose the emperor will be very particular about details.’
He paused, waiting for someone to contradict him. Nobody seemed inclined to say anything. Father Abbot frowned. For once, unanimous agreement with his decision wasn’t what he wanted.
‘With respect.’ At last, the abbot thought. More than anything else, he wanted a way of not having to do what obviously needed to be done. ‘With respect,’ the man who’d spoken repeated, ‘I don’t believe either of those courses of action is either necessary or advisable.’
Father Abbot gestured to him to continue.
‘The point is,’ the speaker continued (he was a short, fat monk with very curly grey hair and a rather babyish face; he was also the deacon in charge of security and defence), ‘we have excellent grounds for believing that – well, we may know who he is, but he doesn’t.’
That wasn’t what the abbot had been expecting to hear. He was interested.
‘My agents have been looking for him for some time now,’ the deacon went on. ‘The plain truth is, they couldn’t find him, except for one; and for practical reasons that agent was in no position to file regular reports. I’ve now had an opportunity to piece together what we’ve learned so far. I think you’ll agree, it puts a different complexion on the matter.’
‘Go on,’ Father Abbot said. Nobody else spoke.
‘To cut a long story short,’ the deacon said, ‘we believe that on his way from here to Boc he was ambushed by an enemy unit sent specially to find him – how they knew where to look I’ll deal with later – and there was a short but very fierce fight. We believe that he was the only survivor of that battle; what’s more, we’re almost certain that during the fighting he took a heavy blow to the head that knocked him out. When he woke up, he found that he’d lost his memory. He didn’t know who he was, where he was, or even what language he was speaking in. We believe that he still hasn’t got his memory back; in fact, I’ve taken advice from my colleagues in the infirmary and one or two lay experts in the field, and they assure me that the most likely outcome will be that unless he’s suddenly presented with the truth about his past, he’ll quite likely never remember, neither who he is nor what he’s done. To all intents and purposes, he’s a different man altogether. And as such,’ the deacon said, ‘not only would it be wrong for us to kill him or betray him to the authorities; it would also be a wickedly negligent waste of a remarkably useful opportunity to make use of him.’
‘Well,’ said the abbot, ‘we can’t have that, can we? Perhaps you’d better explain your idea to the rest of us.’
The deacon made a short, crisp bow. ‘By all means,’ he said, and proceeded to tell the chapter what he had in mind. At the end of his presentation, Father Abbot was wearing a very slight smile.
‘A very elegant solution to the problem,’ he said, ‘provided, of course, that your information is accurate and you can get him to do what you have in mind. It’s also the nastiest, most vindictive punishment I’ve ever heard anybody suggest, and therefore entirely suitable. As long as you’re sure on those two points, I’m quite happy for you to proceed. Opinions, gentlemen?’
Nobody spoke for a long time. Then one of the monks shook his head.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I know who he is and what he’s done – more to the point, what he would’ve done if
it wasn’t for this freak accident we’ve heard about. Even so, I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy.’
Father Abbot breathed out through his nose. ‘Your humanity does you credit,’ he said. ‘All in favour.’
The vote was, of course, unanimous; every vote of the chapter in council since the foundation of the order had been unanimous, or at least that was what it said in the minutes. Nevertheless, Father Abbot wasn’t blind or stupid. He could see that at least one of the councillors was unhappy with the decision, not counting himself. (But then, if he’d opposed every sensible measure that he found morally repugnant, the affairs of the order would’ve ground to a halt ten years ago.)
Poldarn woke up, and found that he was sitting upright, both hands clenched. He assumed that it was because he’d been having a bad dream.
This time there was definitely somebody moving about, and not just outside, actually in the room with them. He glanced over at Copis; she was fast asleep, lying diagonally across the bed, one foot and one arm sticking out from under the covers. Just to be sure, he kept still and waited to hear her breathe. It seemed to be a long time before she did.
Whoever it was moved again. Poldarn stretched out with his fingertips until he identified the hilt of his sword, and carefully teased it towards him until he could get his left hand around it and pull it smoothly across the floor. He wasn’t wearing a belt or a sash, so when he got to his feet he held it pressed to his waist with his left hand in exactly the right place.