The Proof House

by K. J. Parker

  ‘What are you talking about, Gorgas?’

  Gorgas was quiet for a moment. ‘They sent a company of archers,’ he said. ‘In the middle of the night, needless to say. Surrounded the place, barred the doors from the outside, set light to the thatch. I woke up coughing my lungs out, ran to the window, nearly got shot. It was like hell, Bardas; there was smoke everywhere, you couldn’t see a thing; burning thatch coming down in great bunches, timbers, the lot. I tried to get them out, I really tried; but Clefas was dead, the smoke got him while he was sleeping; Zonaras was trapped under about half the roof, he was caught there screaming and burning and I couldn’t do anything—Look,’ he said, and moved round, so that Bardas could see his face. For an instant, he thought it was someone else. ‘I was still trying when he died,’ he said. ‘He kept yelling, Gorgas, help me, right up to the end.’

  Bardas didn’t say anything.

  ‘Iseutz had already left – but you know that anyway. So it was just me and Niessa,’ Gorgas eventually continued. ‘Just her and me; we managed to jump out the top loft window on to the roof of the duck shed – she’d had the wit to grab the bow and some arrows, and there was light enough, gods know; we managed to crawl into the duck shed and I kept them off till I ran out of arrows – you saved our lives, boy, making me this bow, I’m telling you. Anyway, just when I thought we’d had it, I saw a gap we could get through and we ran for it. I didn’t stop till I was out in Clyras’ meadow – you know, the sunken cart-road; you’d never know it was there now, the hedge had grown up all round it. Then I realised Niessa wasn’t with me, so I went back. She was dead. They were cutting her head off with Dad’s old felling-axe.’

  Gorgas was quiet for a long time.

  ‘Well,’ he resumed at last, ‘there wasn’t any point, was there? Maybe killing a few of them and getting killed myself, what would that have achieved? You’ve got to be practical. I snuck back down the sunken road, hid up for the day, walked into Tornoys that night and found this boat. It’s Lyras Monedin’s old lobster-boat; you remember Lyras, miserable old bugger who used to throw stones at us when we were kids.’

  Bardas opened his eyes. ‘Is he still alive? He must be over a hundred.’

  ‘Still going strong, apparently,’ Gorgas said, ‘though Buciras and Onnyas take the boat out now. Well, before I stole it, anyway. So that’s that,’ he went on. ‘Everything we ever had, everything we worked for, you and me, all gone up in smoke, literally. It’s just you and me now, Bardas. We’re the only ones left.’

  ‘I see.’ Bardas closed his eyes again. ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Ah.’ Gorgas’ voice was smiling again. ‘That’s what I meant when I told you it was all going to be all right. You remember Fleuras Peredin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fleuras Peredin,’ Gorgas repeated. ‘Used to go fishing for cod and those long wriggly buggers with the big flat heads, out beyond the sand-banks.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘Ah.’ Gorgas chuckled. ‘Well, I remembered something he told me once, about how he’d been caught in a squall and blown right out to sea; and he told me about this island he’d wound up on, a long way out. Of course I thought he was making it up, he always was a liar; and then I heard someone in the Hopes and Fears telling pretty much the same tale about a year ago, which set me thinking. Anyway, the long and the short of it is, there really is an island there; I’ve been there, and I know how to find it. It’s nothing special, I’ll grant you; lots of rocks and trees and not much else. But there’s fresh water, and a flat spot right in the middle that looks as good a bit of dirt as I’ve ever seen anywhere; spit out an apple pip and a year later you’ll have a tree. There’s goats living up in the rocks, and plenty of birds; you couldn’t go hungry there if you tried. There’s timber for building, any god’s amount of it; and to cap it all, do you know what I found, up one of the mountains? Iron ore; dirty great lumps of it, just lying on the surface. I promise you, Bardas; my strength, all your skills, there’s nothing we can’t have there if we want it. Just you and me, together. It’d be like old times. What d’you reckon?’

  Bardas thought for a moment. ‘You’re crazy,’ he said.

  Gorgas frowned a little. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re actually suggesting we could live together, build a farm, as if none of what you did ever happened. You want to go back to when we were kids, before—’

  Gorgas’ face seemed to be falling apart; the cracked, angry, melted skin and the look of horror. ‘For gods’ sakes, Bardas,’ he said. ‘What I did? I love you, Bardas, more than anybody in the whole world, but you simply can’t just lie there and talk about what I did. One bad thing – oh, a very, very bad thing, no possible doubt about that; and ever since, every waking moment of my life, I’ve been trying to make up for it – to Niessa, to Clefas and Zonaras, to you. Every single thing I’ve done since, I’ve done for the three of you. And yes, I’ve done some bad things in that time, terrible things, but good and bad simply don’t come into it when it’s done for us, for family. But you – all the things you’ve done, all those people you killed – with Uncle Maxen, in the courts, during the siege, on Scona, Ap’ Escatoy, the war here; who did you kill them for, Bardas? For whoever was paying you? Go on, answer me, I want to know.’

  Bardas shook his head. ‘Don’t you dare say that,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever try to make it sound like I’m like you.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Gorgas was almost laughing. ‘You left home to seek your fortune; that’s fine. All the money you made, you sent it home for Clefas and Zonaras; you were trying to look out for them, just like me. During the siege you were fighting for your city. On Scona – well, you had the right, that’s all I can say about that; but we were quits after that, and you know it. But since then; you, a soldier of the Empire? Do you sincerely believe in the manifest destiny of the Sons of Heaven?’

  ‘What about the Islanders?’ Bardas shouted. ‘Killed, enslaved, because of you—’

  Gorgas shook his head. ‘By the Empire. The people you fight for. Please. And besides, none of it would have happened if Ap’ Escatoy hadn’t fallen; and who was it let the bull out of the pen? But that’s all right,’ Gorgas went on, speaking more softly. ‘You were doing a job, just like you were doing when you were with Uncle Maxen; a soldier’s not responsible for the wars he fights in, just as I’m not responsible for what the Empire did to the Islanders – or what Temrai did to the City. And besides—’ He made his horrible face into a smile. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘we’re through with all of that now, both of us. Don’t you see? We can put it all behind us – dammit, if I’ve got one single virtue, it’s being realistic. We can’t put right any of the bad things we’ve done. Even trying to make up for them makes us do more bad things, worse things. There’s got to come a time when we say enough’s enough, it’s time to do something else; something worthwhile and decent and good. I tried that, Bardas; I tried to go home, to be what I always should have been, a hard-working farmer making an honest living out of our land. I tried to wind back the wheel, if you like – and what happened? Our home’s nothing but cold ashes and trash, everything ruined, burned and gone. And you – well. I don’t have to say it, do I?’

  Bardas was actually shaking with anger. ‘Everything, ’ he said, ‘everything bad in the whole world, is your fault. All the bad things, the evil things I did, are your fault. And I’ll never forgive you. Never.’

  ‘Oh, Bardas.’ Gorgas was gazing at him, his face full of compassion. ‘Do you know, what you just said, in a way, that’s an act of love. All these years you’ve been letting me take away all the bad things you’ve done. You’ve allowed me to do that for you. And that’s fine; I’m glad about that. Now let me do this one last thing, for both of us. Let’s take all the evil away, shall we?’ He grinned, stretching the burns and the wounds that hid his face like a visor. ‘Let’s rid the world of the Loredan boys, for good and all. Now wouldn’t that be so
mething, eh? Get the Loredan brothers out of harm’s way, where they can’t do any more damage. Can’t think of a single more altruistic act than that. Think of it; we’d be as good as dead and buried.’

  (It’s customary to die first; but in your case we’ll make an exception.)

  ‘And anyway,’ Gorgas went on, still smiling, ‘it’s not as if you’ve got a choice. You’re too weak to fight me, or jump over the side. When we get there, as soon as I’ve got you and the stuff ashore, I’m going to soak down the decks with lamp-oil and set this old tub alight. You want to get off the island, you’re going to have to build yourself a boat.’

  Bardas was having trouble breathing. ‘Or I could kill you,’ he said. ‘I could kill us both.’

  ‘You could,’ Gorgas conceded. ‘If you wanted to; and then we’d really be alike, you and me – except that my act of deliberate evil was at the beginning, and yours would be at the end. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No.’>

  ‘Thought not,’ Gorgas said cheerfully. ‘So it looks like we’re going to be doing it my way. It’s all right; if I take away the choice, you can carry on blaming me for everything. You can blame me when it rains, or when it doesn’t; you can blame me when the goats eat off the green corn, or the hayrick catches fire; I’ll be glad to take the blame, it’ll be like old times.’

  ‘No,’ Bardas said softly. ‘Gorgas, please.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Gorgas said (he was walking away; Bardas couldn’t see him any more). ‘I guess you’ve just got to trust me, Bardas. After all, I’m your big brother and I love you. And haven’t I always seen you right?’

  If you enjoyed THE PROOF HOUSE,

  look out for

  SHADOW

  The Scavenger Trilogy, Book One

  by K.J. Parker

  Chapter One

  He opened his eyes and looked down. He had no idea where he was. A long way below, he could see a man’s body lying in churned-up mud beside a river. It lay sideways, as if in bed, one cheek submerged in a shallow pool, still enough to form a mirror. That struck him as a pleasantly absurd symmetry; one side of the man’s face buried in mud, the other side duplicated by the reflection. There were red splashes in the pool that could be blood or, just as easily, something far less melodramatic. At first he assumed it was a peaceful scene, until it occurred to him to wonder why anybody would choose to sleep in such a position.

  Then he heard voices. That was what put him on notice that something was wrong; because one voice belonged to the sleeper, the other quite definitely seemed to be coming from the reflection.

  ‘I’ve had it with you,’ the sleeper’s voice said. ‘I can’t take any more of this; it’s all completely out of control and I just don’t want to know you any more. And look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  (Instinctively he knew that the unconscious body was his own.)

  ‘You’ve said all this before,’ the reflection replied. ‘You don’t mean it. I’m not listening.’

  ‘The hell with you,’ the sleeper replied furiously. ‘You know, that’s probably what I hate about you the most, the way you just look away every time I say something you don’t want to hear. Just for once, why can’t you listen to me?’

  ‘Because you never say anything worth listening to,’ the reflection said. ‘Oh come on, I’ve heard it all before. You aren’t going to leave me, you wouldn’t last five minutes without me to take care of you. On your own, you’re nothing.’

  ‘My God,’ the sleeper said, after a pause. ‘I’m listening to you, and I can’t believe we ever had anything in common. Get out of here, go away. I don’t want to see you ever again.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes, really. Can’t you understand anything? From now on, as far as I’m concerned, you’re dead.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘More than that, even. You never existed. I’ve never heard of you. I don’t know your name, or where you come from, or what you’ve been or done – especially that, for God’s sake.’

  The reflection laughed insultingly. ‘Oh, right,’ it said. ‘And of course, all that was just me. You were never involved. You never did anything.’

  ‘No,’ replied the sleeper, ‘I never did. It was all you. And now you’re gone, completely out of my mind, like pulling a bad tooth. You were never here. You never existed.’

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ said the reflection, sounding offensively reasonable. ‘But I don’t think you want anything of the sort. You need me. You’ll be back. Same as the last time.’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Same as the last time,’ the reflection repeated, ‘same as always. But I’ll leave you to figure that out for yourself. You’ll know where to find me.’

  ‘Like hell,’ shouted the sleeper. ‘I’d sooner die first.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ the reflection said; then the body stirred and lifted its head, and the movement shattered the reflection, scattering it in waves out to the edges of the pool.

  He opened his eyes and looked up. He felt dizzy and his head was splitting. Just now he’d had the most unpleasant feeling, as if he’d been floating in the air and looking down at himself; but that wasn’t how it was at all. Instead, he could see the black silhouette of a crow. It circled a couple of times, then turned into the slight breeze to slow itself down, opened its wings like a sail and glided down, pitching on the chest of a dead man who was lying next to him, a yard or so away. Having landed, the crow lifted its head and stared at him, as if to suggest that he had no right to be there. He remembered about crows; they’ll sit in a tree watching you for hours at a time, and they won’t stir till you leave. But they can’t count; you want to nail a crow with a stone or a slingshot, take someone with you as you walk to the hide; when you’re ready, send your friend out and the crow will watch him till he’s out of sight, then he’ll lift himself into the air on his big, stiff wings, sail in and pitch, right where you want him to be. Very smart birds, crows, with an instinctive knowledge of how far a man can throw a stone, but useless at figuring.

  He meant to wave his arms and shout, because you always chase off crows, on principle. All he could manage, it turned out, was a vague flap of his hand and a croak in the back of his throat. It was enough to do the job, however, and the crow opened its wings and lifted, proclaiming as it went the subtle treachery of humans who lie still pretending to be dead, just to fool hard-working scavengers.

  Just scaring off a bird was enough to make him feel dizzy and sick all over again. He lay back and stared at the sky, waiting for his memory to come back and explain to him how he came to be lying out in the open next to a dead body. Once he knew that, he’d know what to do; meanwhile, it’d do no harm to close his eyes again, just for a moment—

  ‘I had to make him go away,’ somebody said. He recognised it as his own voice, the sleeper’s voice from the dream, or hallucination, or vision, or whatever the hell it had been. ‘He was always trouble, nothing but trouble and sorrow. We’ll be much better off without him, you wait and see.’

  Will we? he wanted to ask.

  ‘Just put him completely out of your mind,’ the voice replied. ‘Trust me, I know him. Whatever happens, we’ve got to be better off without him.’

  So he opened his eyes again, sat up and looked round. He found that he was in the bottom of a combe, with a rain-swollen river running down the middle. The water had slopped out on to the grass on either side, and where he was lying was churned up into a filthy mess of mud and brown standing pools. In it lay dead bodies, some on their backs, some face down and almost submerged. He was filthy himself, with a black tidemark a hand’s span above both knees, and he was missing one boot, presumably sucked off when he’d stumbled into a boggy patch.

  It’s all right, he told himself, it’ll all come back in a moment. He forced himself to stand up, in spite of violent protests from his head and knees. That gave him a better view, a broader perspective, but still none of it made any sense.

  He loo
ked down at the dead man lying next to where he’d been, trying to read him through the mud. A soldier, because he was wearing armour (boiled leather cuirass and pauldrons, cheap and cheerful and fairly efficient so long as you fight in the dry; over that a rough woollen cloak so sodden with blood and dirty water that it could’ve been any colour; trousers the same, the toes of the boots just sticking up out of the mud); cause of death was either the big puncture wound in the pit of the stomach or the deep slash that started under the right ear and carried on an inch or so into the leather of the cuirass, just above the collarbone. His face was just an open mouth and two open eyes, with drying mud slopped incongruously on the eyeballs, but whether it was a friend or an enemy he couldn’t say.

  He counted. Two dozen bodies, more or less (he could easily have missed one in the mud), and half of them were dressed like the first one he’d looked at; the other half were scruffier, tattier but kitted out in better armour – good steel scale, fine protection but expensive and a bitch to keep clean – and clothes that had once been good-quality civilian stuff. They didn’t mean anything to him either, and that bothered him a lot, so he went to the trouble of pulling each of them out of the swamp, wiping the muck off their faces so he could see their eyes, but it didn’t get him anywhere. Quite the opposite, in fact, since he went in over his knees more than once in the slough, and the thought of being stuck there, unable to move and with nobody living to pull him out, wasn’t a cheerful one. Fortunately, by going flat on his face and clawing hard at the grass with his hands until the mud let go of his knees, he managed to get away with it. Apparently that was something he had a knack for.

  By now he was painfully tired and painfully thirsty. Even so, he didn’t fancy the river, at least not until after he’d lugged out the two bodies, lodged in a big patch of briars, whose blood was fouling the water. Then he drank, and that made him feel much better, though not inclined to stir much from where he was lying, belly down, back in the mud again. But it occurred to him that if the bodies he’d just cleared out of the stream were still bleeding, it followed that the fighting must’ve been quite recent – and that there had been two sides to the fighting, and he didn’t know which one he belonged to. It could easily be the case that the friends of one side or the other were out looking for them, that they could show up here at any moment. Of course, they might be his friends too, and overjoyed to see that he’d made it. Or they might not.