Shadow (Scavenger Trilogy Book 1)

by K. J. Parker

  He closed his eyes – it was too dark to see anything, and somehow he knew he’d be able to make more sense of what was going on if he shut off his vision and relied entirely on hearing and touch. He had an idea he’d practised fighting blindfold or in a darkened room at some point in his life.

  Curiously, as soon as he closed his eyes he could see his circle. It was like being back in his dream, the one he’d just come from (it wasn’t the dream, because there weren’t any crows; at least, he didn’t think there were any crows. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see them even if there were any, in the dark with his eyes shut). The circle was as clear as anything; he knew where it was in the same way that he knew where his feet were, without needing to look or listen. He applied his mind to the presence of his enemy, feeling for his circle—

  —And found it, a fraction of a second before it burst in on his own. The draw happened; but instead of the firm, soft resistance of flesh, he felt the sword in his hand spring back, like a hammer dropped in its own weight on to the face of an anvil. Whoever it was had parried the cut.

  While he was still figuring out what was going on, his legs and arms were busy; he discovered that he’d jumped back the full radius of his circle and was standing in a position that came instinctively – feet a shoulder’s width apart and at right angles, heel to heel; body chest on, with the arms extended equally, outstretched but the elbows slightly bent, the pommel of the sword level with his navel; it came as naturally as breathing, and suddenly he felt secure, in control, powerful, like a captain on the bridge of his ship. It had taken no longer than a single heartbeat. His circle blazed and flowed around him like a burning moat, like the invisible walls of Deymeson, and quite suddenly he knew he was home . . .

  The attack came in on his left side, at sixty degrees to his sword blade. He could feel the violence of it before his circle was even breached. His left foot went back and behind his right heel, and at the moment when his enemy had to be raising his arms for the cut he launched his own sword at the place where the other man’s hands must inevitably be (the best defence is no defence; the best attack is no attack . . . maxims that had always been there in his mind, asleep or silent) and felt the curve of the tip, the optimum cutting point, biting into the soft iron of a hilt. The right idea, then, but he’d missed by perhaps as much as an inch; by the time he realised that, he’d already wheeled his circle through ninety degrees to the right, reading everything there was to know about his invisible enemy from that one instant of contact. He knew that he was fighting someone so close to him in skill and experience that he might as well be fighting against himself; each could read the other’s mind as clearly as his own thoughts, and nothing he or the other man could do would surprise or deceive the other. It was as if the darkness in the room was a mirror, and he was facing up to his reflection.

  (‘. . . When will I know that I’ve learned the draw?’

  ‘When you can outdraw your reflection in a mirror.’

  ‘But that’s impossible.’

  ‘If you really believe that, it’s not the end of the world. You’re still young enough to get indentures with a clerk, or learn how to mend saucepans.’)

  A cut was on its way, slanting in from the right, aimed at the point where the collarbone faded into the shoulder. He stepped forward, knowing exactly where the point of the curve would pass, and as its slipstream cooled his cheek he swung low for the knees, bracing himself for the shock that would travel up the blade as the other man parried with the flat. He used it to spring his sword up, racing the other man to see who could get there first as he turned his wrist for an upwards flick at the underside of the jaw. The other man stepped out of the way, of course, and he gave ground himself to avoid the riposte, a side-cut that would have sheared through his hip into his spine if he’d been there to receive it. He was like a man reciting a poem he’d learned by heart so long ago that the words no longer mean anything, and as his body made each inevitable movement his mind began to wander, drifting into a state between sleep and waking, the place where the crows roosted.

  ‘Stop,’ said a voice in the dark. He stopped, knowing he could trust the voice implicitly. ‘Is there a lamp or a candle in here?’

  Before he could reply Copis grunted and woke up. ‘Who’s that?’ she mumbled, in a voice still saturated with sleep.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Poldarn replied. The other man’s voice had only confirmed his position; Poldarn already knew exactly where he was. Nevertheless, by speaking the other man had pinpointed his location, an act of truce as clear and eloquent as dropping his sword on the floor. The least Poldarn could do was reciprocate by answering. Besides, if Copis was awake, it changed the whole nature of the fight. If she chose to stand up and wander about, she stood a better than average chance of getting in the way and being cut in half. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  For some reason the other man laughed. ‘I could ask you the same question,’ he said. ‘Is there a lamp or a candle? We’ll probably understand each other better if we can throw some light on the subject.’

  ‘No,’ Poldarn replied. ‘At least, I don’t remember seeing anything like that.’

  ‘Pity.’ Poldarn heard the click of a sword being returned to its scabbard. ‘Still, it’s not essential. You’ll just have to use your imagination.’

  ‘Look,’ Copis interrupted, ‘who the hell are you, and what are you doing in our room?’

  ‘Listen to me.’ The voice had changed a little. ‘You don’t know who you are, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Poldarn admitted. ‘I lost my memory a while ago—’

  ‘When you woke up beside the river, after a battle. Yes, I know all that. I’m a little vague about what you’ve been up to since, but I – we know pretty well everything about you up to that point. Would you like me to tell you?’

  Poldarn hesitated two, perhaps three heartbeats before answering. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you. But first—’

  ‘No. Now.’

  ‘First,’ the voice said emphatically, ‘I’ve got to warn you. Tomorrow morning, some senior officers of the order will send for you and have you taken up to the chapterhouse. There they’ll tell you all about yourself, in great and very plausible detail. They’ll tell you that your name is Brother Stellico, that you’re a renegade monk of this order and therefore – technically – an outlaw already sentenced to death; that before you left the order, you were a father tutor – that’s a very high rank indeed – and the senior deacon of applied religion, which is our term for swordfighting. According to what they’ll tell you, I was your immediate subordinate and your pupil, and you taught me everything I know about the subject.’ He paused. ‘None of this is true,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ Poldarn said.

  The voice laughed softly. ‘It’s all entirely possible, of course,’ he went on. ‘And it fits everything you’ll have learned about yourself. They’ll go on to offer you amnesty and an impressive-sounding title and privileges, provided you stay here for the time being and send away your friend here – Copis, isn’t it? And before that, you were called Xipho Dorunoxy, when you worked in the brothel in Josequin. That’s not your real name, of course.’

  He’d pronounced Xipho Dorunoxy perfectly, or as well as Copis had, at the very least. ‘How clever of you,’ Copis said. ‘I won’t ask how you know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the voice replied. ‘We prefer not to explain how we come by our information. It’s not a dreadful dark secret, quite the opposite, in fact, all perfectly straightforward and unimpressive. Which is why we don’t explain; it ruins the mystique.’

  Poldarn breathed in slowly. ‘Why would they want to tell me all these lies?’ he said.

  ‘Let me tell you who you really are,’ the voice said reasonably, ‘and you should be able to work it out for yourself. You’ll also see why, even though I have every reason to hate you and see you come to harm, I couldn’t stand by and watch them do this to you. I may not respect you, but I resp
ect our order; if we stoop to acts of pure malice, such as what they have planned for you, we stand to lose everything we are.’

  ‘All right,’ Poldarn said. ‘Now, tell me who I really am.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They dragged him, bleeding and dizzy, from the cart to the tent flap (and as his feet trailed behind him, each bump and jolt jarring the broken bone, flooding his body and mind with pain, two crows got up out of a dead spruce tree and flew away). The sentry outside the tent blocked their way with his spear.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Top priority is what it is,’ snapped the trooper on his left. ‘Urgent. You know what urgent means?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ The voice came from inside the tent. ‘Let them through, I’m expecting them.’ A hand pulled back the tent flap, and they hauled him through and lowered him to the ground like a sack of grain, gently enough to stop him splitting open, but beyond that, not too bothered.

  ‘Lift his head.’ A hand gathered enough hair for a grip and pulled upwards, lifting his head enough for him to see the man in the tent. ‘That’s him. Fine, good work. Now, you two go and get something to eat, catch a few hours’ sleep. We’re moving out just before dawn.’

  Monach opened his eyes, and shivered. He couldn’t see the two troopers now, so he assumed they were saluting or whatever cavalrymen did; all he could see was six square inches of threadbare carpet. But he could hear the rustling of canvas, which led him to believe they’d left the tent.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ the voice said. A pause – he didn’t reply, mostly because that would involve moving his jaw, which would be very painful. ‘Hello, can you hear me? I asked you a question.’

  Something hit him just above the waist, confirming his impression that at least one rib on that side was broken. He rode out the pain like a man in a small boat in a gale; so long as his connection with this body was minimal, he could stay above the breakers, not get swamped by them. In seventh grade they’d studied the classical techniques for enduring and ignoring pain. He’d done all right in the seventh grade, enough to scrape a pass, and the high marks he was getting in swordsmanship and religious theory made up for it.

  ‘Well,’ the man said, ‘in case you don’t know who I am, though I’m pretty certain you do, my name is Feron Amathy. What’s yours?’

  Good question; and it occurred to him that if he didn’t answer, the man might kick him in the ribs again. He didn’t want that. He couldn’t remember his name; but he knew a name he’d called himself once or twice, when on a mission using a persona. He opened his mouth – his jaw hurt like hell – and managed to make a noise that sounded like ‘Monach’.

  ‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘I know. Just wanted to see if you’d tell me the truth. It’s what we call a control; ask questions you know the answer to, it helps you get a feel for whether the subject’s likely to lie or not. So,’ he went on, sitting down in the chair whose feet Monach could just make out in line with his nose, ‘you’re the famous Monach, are you? Bloody hell, you’re a mess. What on earth did they do to you?’

  He hoped that was a rhetorical question, because he could-n’t remember. Generally speaking, if you want an accurate description of a fight, don’t ask the man lying on the ground getting kicked and stamped on. All he can see is boots and ankles, and his concentration is apt to wander.

  ‘Actually,’ the man went on, ‘your name isn’t Monach at all. It’s confusing, because all you damn monks have so many names – the one you were born with, the name-in-religion you get given when you’re a kid novice, the other name-in-religion you take when you’re ordained, not to mention the names you use when you go out into the world making trouble for regular people.’ He sighed. ‘In your case,’ he said, ‘I know them all. First you were Huon Josce. Then you were Valcennius – named after the author of six obscure commentaries on the Digest, though you didn’t know it at the time. Then you were Brother Credizen; and when you’re out murdering people, you’re Soishen Monach.’ He smiled. ‘Took my people weeks to find all that stuff out. You should be flattered.’

  Monach felt sick, as if all the skin had been flayed off his face and the man had just drawn his fingertip across it. It was absurd, of course, to feel shocked and horrified about the violation of his names, bearing in mind what was about to happen to him. But he couldn’t help it; it was instinct, like everything that mattered in religion.

  ‘Looks like you must’ve put up a hell of a fight,’ the man went on. ‘Which did neither of us any favours, of course. You got beaten into mush, I can’t get a sensible word out of you. If you’d given up and come quietly, think how much better it’d have been for both of us.’ He heard the chair creak, and the feet in front of his eyes moved. ‘Let’s get you sitting up,’ he said. ‘We might have better luck if you’re not sprawled all over the floor like a heap of old washing.’

  The man was strong, and not fussed about what hurt and what didn’t. When he opened his eyes again, his mind washed clean by the waves of pain, Monach was sitting in a chair. Opposite him was the man who’d been talking.

  ‘Better?’ the man asked. ‘All right, now, you’re going to have to make an effort and answer my questions, because it’s very important and there’s not much time. If you don’t, I’ll take this stick and find out which of your bones are broken. If you understand, nod once.’

  Nodding wasn’t too hard. He managed it. That seemed to please the man, because he nodded back and sat down in his chair, a three-foot thumb-thick rod of ashwood across his knees. He was older than Monach had expected, at least forty, with plenty of curly brown hair and a slightly patchy brown beard, thick on the cheeks and jaws but a little frayed-looking on the chin itself. He had a pointed nose, a heart-shaped face and bright, friendly brown eyes.

  ‘Splendid,’ the man said. ‘All right, pay attention. Do you know where General Cronan is?’

  Apparently he did, because his head lifted up and then flopped back, jarring his jaw and making him shudder. Once he’d nodded, he remembered who Cronan was, and the vital importance to the order and the empire of not answering the question he’d just answered.

  ‘Yes? And?’

  He felt himself trying to say something. ‘At the Faith and Fortitude,’ he heard himself say, ‘on the road from Josequin to Selce.’ The words came out fluently, like a child wetting his bed in spite of his best efforts to control his bladder. He couldn’t help thinking that if only he still had his names, that wouldn’t have happened.

  ‘I know where you mean,’ the man said. ‘Very good, now we’re getting somewhere. Next question: have you sent some of your people to kill him?’

  Just a dip of the head this time, to indicate Yes.

  ‘Buggery. When?’

  ‘This morning,’ he answered. No hesitation now. ‘About two hours before noon.’

  ‘Which means – how were they going? On foot, horseback, wagon?’

  He opened his mouth to reply but started coughing instead. Coughing was a very bad idea. The man didn’t approve, either, because he repeated his question, loudly.

  ‘Riding,’ Monach managed to say. ‘Not hurrying. Can’t risk.’

  ‘Were they taking the main road?’

  A nod.

  ‘That’s something, I suppose. All right, stay there, don’t go away.’

  The man left the tent, shouting a name, and left him alone. That was wonderful; he’d have a chance to relax, to catch up with the pain, which was racing ahead of his thoughts and blocking their way. He closed his eyes – it was better with them shut, in spite of the dizziness. At the back of his mind something was protesting: no, you mustn’t close your eyes, you’ll fall asleep or pass out. This is your only chance; look, there’s a knife on the map table, you can reach it if you tilt the legs of the chair. You can hide it under your am, and when he comes back you can stab him or cut his throat, and that’ll make up for the rest. Must do it, can’t afford not to. You�
�ve done very badly, but you still have one chance. Won’t get another. Must—

  He stayed still, put the voice out of his mind. Objectively he weighed up the conflicting demands on him. On the one hand there was the future of the order and the empire; on the other, the thought of the effort and pain, and the even worse pain if he tried and failed. It wasn’t a difficult choice. Nothing outside his body mattered, outside his body and the invisible circle of pain that surrounded it. The pain defined everything.

  A while later Feron Amathy came back. He looked unhappy. ‘I’ve sent thirty light cavalry up the old drovers’ trail, so if the Lihac’s fordable they ought to get there an hour or so before your assassins. Still, it’s cutting it fine.’

  He sounded like a senior officer briefing a delinquent subordinate, not one enemy telling another how he’d frustrated his plans and made the sacrifice of his life to the cause meaningless. It wasn’t cruelty, Monach figured, just a busy man thinking aloud, as busy men so often do. Probably he found it useful having someone to talk to, even if it was only a defeated, humiliated opponent. Monach could feel the other man’s weariness, the tremendous weight of responsibility clamping down on his shoulders. ‘Now then,’ Feron Amathy said, flopping back into his chair and letting his arms hang down. ‘What are we going to do with you, I wonder? My instinct says send your head back to Deymeson with an apple stuck in your mouth, to let them know I’m perfectly well aware of what they’re up to. On the other hand, why give them any more information than necessary? So long as they aren’t sure whether I’ve worked out that they’re involved, they’ll have to cover both contingencies, which’ll slow up their planning. In which case, I can either have you strung up here, make a show of it, issue double rations, give the lads something to cheer them up; or I could keep you for later, assuming you survive. God only knows what sort of useful stuff you’ve got locked up in your head, but will prising it out of there be more trouble than it’s worth?’ He sighed. ‘Truth is,’ he went on, ‘nobody else is fit to interrogate you. Even in the state you’re in you’re probably too smart for them, and I can’t afford to let you muck me about with disinformation. I haven’t got the time or, let’s face it, the energy. Besides, you’ve caused me a real headache and until those cavalry troopers get back from Selce I can’t be sure you haven’t really screwed everything up.’ He sighed. ‘I think I’ll knock you on the head now,’ he went on. ‘Anything else is just wasting valuable time.’ As he said that, he stood up, drawing a short knife from the sash round his waist, and stepped into Monach’s circle.