Shadow (Scavenger Trilogy Book 1)

by K. J. Parker

Outside a sergeant was shouting at his platoon about something or other. ‘You got close enough to Feron Amathy to hold a knife on him?’

  Monach shrugged. ‘Yes,’ he said, then he winced and raised a hand to his right eye, slid it back past his ear to the nape of his neck. Just as the duty officer realised what he was doing, he thrust his arm straight up in the air and snapped it down through ninety degrees; the knife missed Cronan’s head by the width of a thumb and split the headrest of his chair.

  ‘No,’ Cronan shouted, as the duty officer started to draw his sword, ‘leave him alone. He just got my undivided attention.’

  Monach smiled, and the duty officer took a step back, his hand still resting on the pommel of his sword. Cronan turned round in his chair and tried to pull out the knife, but it was too deep. Also, his hands were shaking.

  ‘The same knife you held up Feron Amathy with?’ he asked, in a rather awkward voice.

  Monach was kneading the tendons of his forearm. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘And before you ask, it’s the only one I had on me. I’m a priest, not a cutlery stall. Keep it,’ he went on, ‘I’ve decided you can carry on living. But you’ve got to move now if you’re going to stand a chance of reaching Sansory in time.’

  Cronan stood up, and motioned to a guard to get the knife out of his chair. ‘Admit it,’ he said, ‘you just missed. That’s fair enough; you’re obviously not at your best right now.’

  Monach smiled. ‘Sansory,’ he said.

  ‘How do I know you aren’t leading me into an ambush?’

  This time Monach managed to laugh, though the sound was more like the shrieking of crows. ‘I suggest you follow your instincts,’ he said. ‘Or you could pray for divine guidance. Tell me, do you ever dream about crows?’

  Cronan frowned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’ He nodded to the duty officer. ‘General muster,’ he said, ‘quick as you like. Then I’d better see the captains of division, and you can get me the bigger map of the Bohec valley, the old one with the cart tracks on it. And get a messenger off to Sansory, tell them to shut the gates.’ He turned back to face Monach, who’d slumped back in the chair. He looked like a sack of old junk dumped carelessly in the corner of a room. ‘You’re really a sword-monk?’ he asked.

  Monach laughed. ‘What’s left of one,’ he replied. ‘It’d be nearer the mark to say that you could make up a whole sword-monk out of me and a dozen yards of bandage.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Cronan said. ‘I’ve never met a sword-monk before, at least not to talk to; I’ve seen a few of your lot strutting about in the background at big receptions and temple services, but that’s all. Were you really sent here to kill me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  Monach shrugged. ‘There was a reason. Probably. Will you settle for God moving in a mysterious way?’

  ‘No,’ Cronan replied, ‘but if you don’t know, you don’t know, and there’s no point badgering you about it.’

  Monach nodded. ‘You believe me, then. That’s good.’

  ‘I haven’t got the time or the energy not to believe you,’ Cronan replied. ‘If I wasn’t so busy, maybe I’d have the guards beat the truth out of you with big sticks, but the secret of being a good general is keeping your priorities straight. What made you change your mind about killing me?’

  ‘Who said I changed my mind? But first I’ve got to save Sansory.’

  ‘You’ve got to save Sansory?’ Cronan smiled gently.

  ‘That’s right. And I’ve got to use you to do it, since I can’t think of any other way of going about it. I’m allowed a certain degree of discretion, as a senior field officer and honorary deacon.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Cronan said. ‘You remind me of me. Do you think I’d have made a good sword-monk?’

  ‘No,’ Monach replied. ‘You’re a bit too tall, and you’d have difficulty with the theoretical side. The secret of being a good sword-monk is the ability to concentrate on meaningless tiny details at the expense of the main issue.’

  Then the doctor arrived, with four orderlies and a stretcher; they lifted Monach out of the chair and laid him on his back. ‘Thank you,’ he said, just as they were about to carry him away.

  ‘My pleasure,’ General Cronan replied.

  The cavalry went on ahead. Not that they’d be any use against the raiders, or much good against the specialist horsemen of the Amathy house (who paid better and weren’t so fussy about rules of engagement and plunder), but they could find out what was going on and report back, which was rather more important.

  General Cronan’s coach had shed a wheel the previous day, and the wheelwrights hadn’t got round to fixing it, so he rode at the head of the baggage train, in the same cart as the wounded monk. For some reason the monk found this highly amusing, though he also seemed to feel that no good would come of it. Two large crows followed them all the way.

  A scouting party from the main cavalry unit reported in, saying that they’d ridden past Sansory (which was still there, and yes, they’d sent a detachment to check the gates were shut, and they were) and carried on east towards Deymeson; about four miles short of the town, they’d seen columns of smoke in the sky directly above where the abbey should have been. No, they hadn’t had sight of the raiders, but on the other hand their orders had been not to engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary, and they didn’t want to risk disobeying those orders by going any further . . . The main body of the cavalry had fallen back to guard the east-west road, with skirmishers out deep on either side, given the raiders’ apparent tendency to come across country whenever they could.

  Cronan spread out the map on his knees – the wind tried to tug it away, but a couple of guards jumped up and held the corners down – then sent word down the line that they’d be missing out Sansory and heading for – he glanced down to read the name – Vistock, a village roughly halfway between Sansory and Deymeson. ‘We won’t bother looking for them,’ he explained, ‘they’ll come looking for us. Or they’ll just vanish into thin air and turn up somewhere else next month. At any rate, they won’t attack the city with us at their backs.’

  It hadn’t taken long for word to spread through the army that they were on their way to fight the raiders, and the sergeants were having to shout and call time to keep up the usual pace. That was understandable enough, but annoying, and the general’s temper started to fray. This was unusual enough to provoke further doleful commentary up and down the column, until the sergeants had to order silence in the ranks, which didn’t do much for morale. At this point some captain or other thought it might be a good idea to get the men singing, to cheer them up and quicken the pace. He didn’t take the trouble to check with the general first, assuming he wouldn’t want to be bothered with such trivia. The men were in no mood to sing, but they couldn’t disobey a direct order; so they sang: Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree,

  Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree,

  Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree,

  He’ll make his dinner of you and me.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Cronan shouted, standing up on the box, ‘tell them to stop making that bloody awful noise.’

  The monk, who’d been asleep for some time, opened his eyes. ‘Now there’s a tune I haven’t heard in a long time,’ he said.

  Cronan looked down at him. ‘You know it then, do you?’

  The monk nodded. ‘Used to hear it a lot when I was a boy. It’s a very old song, I believe.’

  ‘Really,’ Cronan said. ‘How would you know that?’

  The monk coughed painfully. ‘I’m a scholar, don’t forget,’ he said. ‘First recorded as a marching song in the reign of Tercennius, which I hardly need tell you is over four hundred years ago, and the text implies it was an old song then. A commentator from the reign of Cadentius – a mere two centuries back, which makes it slightly suspect, but he could well have been drawing on earlier sources – says that it refers to the defeat of Sclerus Acasto by the south-eastern
nomads, which would put it back nearly six hundred years; far-fetched, perhaps, but by no means impossible, since another popular marching-song, “Lady With the White Felt Hat”, can reliably be dated to the accession of Loriscus, nearly seven hundred and fifty years ago. Which goes to show, soldiers like the old tunes best.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘Amazing, isn’t it, the garbage that makes it down the centuries intact. Did the doctor happen to say how he rated my chances?’

  Cronan looked away. ‘Not good, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But not hopeless either. There’s some internal bleeding—’

  The monk shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I knew I’d be too late to save the order. Even if I hadn’t been, you’d never have risked your army for us. I expect you’re glad we’re out of the way.’

  ‘Well, they did send you to kill me. A man can take offence at that sort of thing.’

  ‘There was a very good reason for it,’ Monach replied, ‘though of course they didn’t explain it to me. We act in the best interests of the empire. Always.’

  ‘Really.’

  Monach nodded. ‘Properly speaking, the best interests of religion, but the one includes the other. The idea was, since we’re free agents and dedicated to the greater good, we can do the difficult, unpopular things that emperors and governors and generals daren’t do. It’s a privilege and a responsibility. We’re well aware of the implications.’ He started coughing again. ‘At least, we were,’ he said. ‘But then the god in the cart showed up, and here we are, the end of the world. Arguably, that’s why I had to kill you, to make sure the world came to an end. I mean,’ he went on, turning his head a little, ‘it’d be ridiculous if the armies of darkness were defeated, just because the dying empire happened to throw up an unusually talented general. It’d make a mockery of religion; what my old tutor used to call an abomination. How being destroyed would be good for the empire I couldn’t rightly say, but I don’t suppose I have all the facts at my disposal.’

  Cronan grunted and went back to his work. The soldiers had stopped singing and were trudging along even more slowly than before. The monk went back to sleep, and muttered from time to time about something or other.

  A squadron of cavalry brought in a further report. No sign of the raiders, they said, but when they’d ridden up to Vistock Beacon, the highest point for miles around, they’d seen what looked like a big mob of armoured horsemen riding in from the north-west. They were seven, perhaps eight hours away, assuming the Visk was still fordable at North Hey.

  ‘The Amathy house,’ Cronan said, frowning, searching the map. It didn’t show a River Visk, let alone a ford or a village called North Hey. It was a new map from the cartographer royal’s office in Torcea.

  ‘Could be,’ said one of his staff. ‘Or it could be Tazencius, coming from that direction.’

  ‘More likely to be Feron Amathy, if they’re cavalry,’ Cronan pointed out. ‘In any event it’s bad news.’

  ‘What do you think he’s planning to do?’ someone else asked.

  ‘Either join with the raiders and make us fight on two fronts – tactically his best option, but he may have another agenda besides mere victory. Otherwise, he could hold off while we fight the raiders, and then attack whoever’s left standing.’

  One of the senior officers frowned. ‘I can see why he’d attack us,’ he said, ‘but why pick a fight with them? I thought they were in this together.’

  Cronan shook his head. ‘Only as far as it suits him,’ he replied. ‘No, if he can step in after we’ve been wiped out and drive the raiders back into the sea . . .’

  ‘I follow you,’ the other man said. ‘The long-term view. You think this may be what he had in mind all along?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Cronan shrugged. ‘I think he’s more of an opportunist than that. For one thing, I don’t know how he’s planning to handle that idiot Tazencius. He’ll be glad of a few more infantry regiments, and it could be that he’s planning to set up Tazencius as a puppet emperor, at least in the short term – you know, to make his coup look more legitimate. Or maybe he isn’t bothered about that, in which case he’ll probably send Tazencius and his people in first to get chewed up, and finish off the rest of them along with the rest of us. Or the raiders, depending on who wins the main battle.’ Cronan yawned, and stretched his arms. ‘The likeliest bet is that he’s keeping all these options open, and he’ll make his final choice as late as possible. The one thing I do know about Feron Amathy, he loves having as many choices as possible.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ someone asked.

  Cronan smiled. ‘I haven’t got any choices at all,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’ve got to press on to Vistock and take on the raiders, stop them getting to Sansory. Of course, while I’m doing that, Feron Amathy may stave off boredom while he’s waiting by sacking the city and burning it to the ground, something else to blame on the raiders. It depends on what’s most important to him: giving his people a good time, to keep them happy for the next stage of the plan, or being the saviour of Sansory and the last, best hope of the empire. At the moment I’d be inclined to favour the latter, except that Sansory’s small but rich, which makes it eminently suitable for feeding to his dogs. There’s plenty of other cities he can save, after all, whereas sacking, say, Mael or one of the other Guild towns would be a bigger job with a lower return per man hour expended. So I really don’t know. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘there’s nothing much we can do about that, so it’s best not to think about it. After all, our chances of still being on our feet after we’ve picked a fight with the raiders are small enough, God knows.’

  That wasn’t the sort of thing they wanted to hear; mostly because Cronan had a reputation for telling the truth, even when it wasn’t the wisest thing to do. ‘What about Tazencius?’ someone said, after a long silence. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but he can’t be completely stupid, he must realise that playing along with Feron Amathy’s a wonderful way of getting killed before your time. Could we talk to him, do you think?’

  Cronan shook his head. ‘Highly unlikely,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like me very much, you see. And he’s just cocky enough to think he can finesse his way past Feron Amathy when the time comes. Of course, his plans may be seriously adrift by now; supposing he was banking on our sleeping friend here having done his job – get rid of me, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t desert the Amathy house and change sides, thereby making himself the champion of legitimate government and his imperial cousins’ new best friend – it’s reasonable to expect a sword-monk to be able to pull off a simple assassination after all. If my guess is right, he talked the order into believing that killing me was the only way to save the empire. His bad luck, I suppose; you can’t really say he was stupid for gambling on what should’ve been a certainty. ’ Cronan smiled, and held up his thumb and forefinger, three-quarters of an inch apart. ‘He came this close,’ he added, ‘assuming the monk really did miss.’

  Only one or two of the staff knew what he was talking about; the others didn’t ask. ‘So we can’t expect any help from Tazencius,’ someone said. ‘Even if we beat the raiders, we’ll have the Amathy house and Tazencius’ infantry at our backs. No disrespect, but it’s not sensible to stake the future of the empire on your tactical ability. You may be able to pull off a miracle, but then again you may not.’

  ‘Very tactful,’ Cronan sighed. ‘I put our chances at something less than a hundred to one.’

  ‘Fine,’ said an officer. ‘You’re as good as saying you’re resigned to this army getting wiped out, Sansory falling, and Feron Amathy with nothing between him and Torcea but a handful of third-string garrisons.’ He hesitated, then went on, ‘There is an alternative, you know.’

  Cronan nodded, looking away. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘We simply withdraw, refuse to play. Sansory falls – but it’d have fallen anyway, in all probability; Feron Amathy doesn’t get an opportunity to stab the raiders in the back, he doesn’t get rid of Tazencius; the raiders get as much loot as
they can carry and go home. Feron Amathy’s campaign loses momentum, giving us time to pick off Tazencius, maybe patch up a pardon so he can go home, and then deal with the Amathy house once and for all. Apart from Sansory getting burned to the ground, it’s a good result. And, as you say, our chances of saving the city even if we do press on and fight are next to nothing, so to all intents and purposes they’re already dead, we can’t save them.’ He picked at a thread on the knee of his trousers. ‘Also, true courage and service don’t lie in making the heroic gesture; fighting and dying here would be the easy way out. The truly brave and loyal thing to do would be to walk away. Did I leave anything out?’

  ‘I think that covers it,’ someone murmured, ‘more or less.’

  ‘Splendid,’ Cronan replied. ‘Well, we’d better be getting along. If this pathetic excuse for a map’s anything to go by, it’s still nearly two hours to Vistock.’

  Just over two hours later they came to a ford over a small, inoffensive river.

  ‘North Hey?’ Cronan asked the captain of pioneers, who claimed to know the area.

  The captain shook his head. ‘Vistock,’ he replied.

  The first thing they could make out was the shell of a millhouse, with a wrecked and moss-grown wheel sunk in the water. There was only one other structure still standing: half a barn (the other half had fallen in a long time ago, there were still signs of fire on the rounded ends of the rafters), surrounded on two sides by an overgrown wall. Outside the ramshackle doorway someone had driven a stake into the ground and stuck on it the head of an old woman with long, matted grey hair. The blood running down the stake was still wet. The body was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Raiders,’ someone said.

  ‘Or Feron Amathy,’ someone else suggested, ‘pretending to be the raiders. Not that it matters, I suppose.’

  Cronan stopped the cart and climbed out to take a look. He didn’t seem shocked or revolted, just curious. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t look like either of them to me. I guess we may just have tripped over a good old-fashioned private murder, nothing to do with the destiny of nations and none of our business.’ He knelt down and stared up at the base of the neck. ‘It’s a clean cut,’ he said. ‘Just one cut; which could mean a backsabre, I suppose. Or a sword-monk; they’re supposed to be able to chop off heads with one mighty blow, in fact I think it’s on the syllabus. Or it could just be some lunatic loose with a felling axe.’ He stood up and looked round. ‘This is Vistock? The map says it’s a medium-sized town.’