by K. J. Parker
Poldarn nodded, not quite sure what to make of him. 'Maybe if you come back later,' he said, 'after dinner's over, you could get a better look at it-'
'Oh, I will,' the man replied. And I'll hire some ladders, possibly even a scaffolding team; also a whole bunch of clerks to draw it for me-I never was any good at drawing, even when I was a kid. I haven't come all this way just to gawp at it from down here and then go home.' He smiled. 'You don't recognise me, do you?' he added.
'No.'
The man laughed. 'Oh well,' he said. 'Makes a pleasant change, really. My name's Cleapho.'
That was obviously meant to mean something without further explanation. Poldarn's face must have betrayed his thoughts, because the man laughed again. 'It's all right,' he said, 'don't worry about it. Like I said, it's actually rather nice not to be recognised for once. So,' he went on, and Poldarn could feel the man observing him. 'You just like the look of it, do you?'
Poldarn nodded. 'What's the story behind it, do you know?'
'Yes. Do you?'
Strange edge to his voice when he asked that. 'Not a clue,' Poldarn replied. 'But I'd like it if you'd tell me.'
Cleapho nodded, having apparently satisfied himself about some point or other. 'It's a southern legend,' he said. 'Morevish, Tulice, Thurm, places like that. Not very widely known these days-I mean, that picture's something like three hundred years old, possibly older. The man in the cart is a god, and he's bringing the end of the world. The female's just some priestess; in some versions of the story she's got a name, Machaira, but that's probably a later gloss. The first scene is where he burns down a major city; and that's an interesting thing, because there's a version of the story where the city that gets burned at this stage in the story is supposed to be somewhere in the north, between two great rivers, which could just about be taken to mean Josequin-well, you can see the topicality, can't you? Unfortunately, that version's pretty late and a very poor source in any case-Mannerist epic poetry, thoroughly unreliable, they used to make up any old stuff and chuck it in just to get the rhymes-so it probably doesn't represent a genuine tradition or anything, just some rich dilettante's imagination. It'll be easier, of course, when I can get up there and read the writing.'
'Writing?' Poldarn squinted. 'I can't see any.'
'You wouldn't, not from down there. It's a religious thing, doesn't matter whether you or I can read the writing, it's not us it's addressed to. Lots of bloody stupid things like that in religion; they sound clever the first time you hear them, and then they're just annoying. You know,' he went on, stroking his beard, 'three hundred years is probably on the conservative side. It's difficult, of course, trying to put a date on religious painting, because styles don't change the way they do with commercial stuff. Another religious thing,' he added with a deep, rather exaggerated sigh; Poldarn got the impression that Cleapho was sharing a private joke with himself. 'Anyway,' he went on, 'as I was saying, it could be considerably older than that, though of course I'm no expert. Interesting, though.'
'I suppose so,' Poldarn said.
'But not to you, evidently. And there's no harm in that, either.' The man was chuckling again. Whatever the private joke was, it was clearly very funny. 'It's annoying that some bloody fool saw fit to smash a damned great window right through the interesting bit,' he said. 'Of course nobody mentioned that to me before I left Torcea, or I wouldn't have been quite so eager to come all this way. After all, the beginning of the story's pretty well cut and dried; it's the ending that's the problem. But instead of an ending, all we've got is a window. You know, that's probably highly symbolic, though what of I haven't a clue.'
'You were telling me the story,' Poldarn reminded him.
'What? Oh yes, so I was. Where had I got to?'
'The god had just burned down a city.'
'Right, yes. Now, this is where the story gets a bit complicated, because it all depends on which version you're following. In the Tulicite version, for instance, that's the point where he meets the maker of false images-though there's a translation issue there, because the Tulicite word trahidur can also mean a worshipper of false gods, a confidence trickster or one of those people who clips little bits of silver off the coins, basically you can take your pick. Maker of false images sounds better, though. Well, that's the Tulicite version. In the Morevish version-well, there's two Morevish versions, but in the preferred texts the meeting with the maker of false images-only in this version he's the man who makes little bronze statues of demons and brings them to life-well, the meeting with him comes after he fights and overcomes the Saviour of the People, who's the only man on earth who could stop him and save the world-he doesn't, though, it's a very gloomy myth-except that there's a tradition in some of the later Mannerists that may well be derived from a Morevish source that we don't have any more, in which he murders all the priests of the true faith before he overcomes the Saviour, which you'd normally just dismiss out of hand as some Mannerist trying to be clever, if it wasn't for the fact that in the Thurm tradition, which as far as we can tell is much, much older at this point, the Saviour bit comes before the maker of false images, in fact before the old woman in the hut and the false images and the drink from the lonely fountain but after the visit to the museum of lost souls, which is downright perverse, if you ask me.'
'I see,' Poldarn said. 'If you'll…'
'And there, of course,' Cleapho went on, 'is where it really starts to get screwed up; because suddenly out of nowhere about three hundred and twenty-five years ago along comes this purely domestic tradition, right out of the blue with no warning, where the god in the cart isn't actually Poldarn but Poldarn's son, would you believe, and the battle with the Saviour comes right after the museum-'
'Excuse me,' Poldarn interrupted, 'but what was that name you just mentioned?'
'Poldarn. Him,' Cleapho explained, pointing at the picture. 'The one we've been talking about all this time.'
'Poldarn?'
'That's right.'
Poldarn took a deep breath. 'That's the god's name, is it?'
Cleapho frowned, looking puzzled. 'Well, of course. Didn't you know that? Sorry, I'd assumed you knew, otherwise why would you be interested in the painting? Yes, that's the name. Southern, originally.'
'And hundreds of years old?'
'More than hundreds of years down in Morevish and Thurm. More like thousands. They're very conservative down there, hardly ever change their gods. Not like us.' At that point he appeared to notice something and swore under his breath. 'Look,' he said, 'you'll think I'm very rude but I've just realised I've left my escort and about a dozen porters standing about in the courtyard-I came straight here, you see, from the jetty-so I really ought to go and sort them out, before they assume I've been murdered and tear the place apart looking for me. If you're interested in all this, catch me a bit later on and I'll tell you some more. Bye for now.'
Before Poldarn could say anything, Cleapho had marched briskly down the aisle and slipped out through the door; it was rather shocking that anything that size could be moved so fast without a crane and rollers, at the very least. Poldarn took one last look at the picture and headed back to his place at table, to find that Copis had come up the aisle and was only a few feet away.
'You do know who that was you were talking to, don't you?' she hissed.
Poldarn, who'd been about to say something else, frowned. 'He said his name was Cleapho,' he replied.
'That's right, Cleapho,' Copis said, actually sounding bewildered for once. 'Cleapho, the emperor's personal chaplain. Even I recognised him, and it's years since I was last in Torcea.'
'Torcea,' Poldarn repeated.
'That's right. You know, where the emperor lives. I must have heard him preach in temple-oh, dozens of times. And it's not a voice you forget.'
Poldarn hadn't noticed anything specially distinctive about it, but that wasn't the subject he wanted to talk about. 'You said you got the name off a roof tile,' he said.
'What?'
'You know, the name. Poldarn. You said it was the name of a brickworks.'
Copis looked even more confused. 'It is.'
'No it's not,' Poldarn told her. 'It's the name of this god I'm supposed to be, and that man Cleapho-'
'Outside,' Copis interrupted. 'Before somebody hears us.'
So they went outside, and found a corner of the yard that wasn't overlooked or near anything else. 'He told me,' Poldarn said angrily, 'that this Poldarn is a real god, from somewhere away down south, and there's all sorts of stories about him, including one where he drives round in a cart with a priestess burning down cities. You must've known that; it can't be a coincidence. So why did you tell me you'd picked the name at random?'
'I did,' Copis said. 'It must just be a coincidence, that's all. Look, forget about all that now, it isn't important. Do you realise you've just spent ten minutes talking to one of the most powerful men in the whole empire?'
'What?' Poldarn said, disconcerted. 'I thought you said he was some sort of priest.'
'That's right, some kind of priest. And the emperor's some kind of government official. What the hell's he doing here? And what were you talking to him about for all that time?'
Poldarn was so bewildered that it took him a moment to remember. 'The picture,' he said. 'He told me he'd come all the way from somewhere-Torcea, I think-just to look at that picture. Then he started telling me the story, only he kept sidetracking himself.'
Copis shook her head. 'Cleapho's probably the cleverest man in the empire,' she said. 'If he was talking to you all that time, it wasn't just passing the time of day. What did you tell him? About us, I mean?'
'Nothing. He didn't ask.'
'No, you're missing something. He wouldn't make it sound like he was asking. The likes of him don't talk to the likes of you for a quarter of an hour unless it's a national emergency.'
Poldarn shook his head. 'He said the painting was three hundred years old. If it's an emergency, it can't be a very urgent one.'
'No.' Copis put on her decisive face. 'Something's going on. I don't know or care what it is, but I don't want to get mixed up in it. Let's go to Mael Bohec while we still can.'
'We've only just got here.'
'So? Anything special you were planning on doing while we're here?'
Once again he thought of the lump of fused gold in the back of the cart, and what better time to tell her about it than now? Somehow, though, it didn't feel right; whether it was the thought of how she'd react when she found out he'd been keeping the good luck from her, or perhaps a little scrap of suspicion, a trace element from the stranger he used to be that had survived the melt, or something else that was buried too deep to be found. 'I just don't see what the problem is, that's all,' he said. 'If this Cleapho's so very important, why the hell should he have the slightest interest in us?'
She looked at him. 'Define us,' she said. 'Oh, I know exactly who I am. You, on the other hand…'
He hadn't thought of that. Something the big, bearded man had said, You don't recognise me, do you? It had seemed to fit the context perfectly well at the time. Remembered in isolation, it could be made to mean all sorts of things. 'You think he knows who I am? From before…'
Copis looked away. 'I didn't say that.'
'You think he knows me,' Poldarn said, raising his voice a little. 'What's more, you think I'm the reason he's here.'
She tried to walk away but he grabbed her arm. He was gripping hard enough to hurt, but she didn't say anything about it. 'You think a man like that'd come all this way just to look at a mouldy old painting?'
Poldarn let go a little. 'It's a religious painting. He's a priest. For all I know it could be really, incredibly important.'
'Did he make it sound like it was, when he was talking to you?'
'How should I know? I don't know how priests talk. I don't know how anyone talks.' He closed his eyes, breathed out, tried to clear his mind. 'Think about it. You're suggesting he's come here on purpose to find me. How the hell would he know to find me here? Even we didn't know we were coming here till a few days ago. How long would it have taken him to get here from Torcea? Or are you saying he just packed a bag and set off on the off chance that he might bump into me somewhere in the northern provinces?'
Copis pulled a face. 'Yes, all right,' she said irritably, 'point taken. It's not just unlikely, it's impossible.' She lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. 'I still think we should clear out of here,' she said. 'When someone like that suddenly turns up, no civic reception or marching bands or little girls coming forward to present bouquets of flowers, it means something's up. Which means trouble. Which means sensible people like me leave town. Which is why-'
She was staring at something over his shoulder. He turned his head to see what it was, and saw two soldiers walking quickly across the yard towards them. Once again, they didn't look anything like any of the other soldiers he'd seen; they were magnificent creatures in burnished steel breastplates and gorgets with plumed open-face helmets carried in the crooks of their arms. Their clothes were clean and pressed, and their boots weren't even muddy. No prizes for guessing who they'd arrived with.
For a very brief moment Poldarn felt himself making a tactical assessment, but this wasn't some open plain in the middle of nowhere, without witnesses or bystanders, and besides, his sword was back in the cart. He dismissed the option from his mind. That left running away or staying put and finding out what was going on. Another choice. What fun.
'Next time I say we should leave town,' Copis hissed, but he shook his head. The soldiers were headed straight for them; no chance now that they'd turn out to be on their way somewhere else, nothing to do with them. It was at times like this, he reflected, that he really wished he knew what his real name was.
The soldiers stopped about a yard in front of them and, amazingly, saluted. Not having a clue about how to salute back, he kept still and waited for them to say something. Which they did.
'Lord Cleapho's compliments,' was what they said, 'and would you both care to join him for dinner?'
Chapter Seven
'Thanks,' Copis said, 'but we've just eaten.'
The soldier smiled. 'You can't call the slop they dish up in there food,' he said. 'And besides,' he added, nodding at Poldarn, 'he barely touched his, he was too busy looking at the pictures. This way.'
Poldarn stepped between Copis and the soldier. 'Just a moment,' he said. 'While I was in there eating my dinner, you were watching me?'
'Not me,' the soldier said, 'but you were being watched. What do you take us for, peasants?'
Copis was tugging at his sleeve like a little girl, trying to warn him about something. He took no notice. 'Then you know who I am?' he said.
'Of course we do,' the soldier replied, looking at him. 'Now can we please get out of sight, before everybody in Sansory figures out what's going on?'
Copis was pulling hard now; he was tempted just to push her away, but instead he turned round and asked, 'What?'
'I'm going back inside,' she said. 'You don't need me there.' She was looking at the soldier. 'Really you don't.'
The soldier shrugged. 'You can do what the hell you like,' he said to her, then turned back to Poldarn. 'Now come on, before you get me into trouble.'
It didn't look like he had any choice in the matter, which suited him fine. He'd had enough of choices to last him. 'All right,' he said. 'After you.'
The soldier led the way; his colleague waited for a moment, then fell in behind Poldarn, making him walk fast to avoid having his heels trodden on. Whoever he was, they weren't in awe of him to any serious extent.
'All right,' he said to the first soldier, 'who do you think I am?'
The soldier laughed without turning round. 'I could tell you exactly who I think you are,' he said, 'but I'm not supposed to insult His Grace's guests. Low doorway, mind your head.'
The door led through into a little hidden courtyard, beyond which was another small archway leading to
a narrow spiral staircase, with an uncomfortably steep pitch and rate of turn; by the time they reached the top, Poldarn was tired and more than a little dizzy. The soldier knocked three times on a very solid-looking oak door, and they went through into a cramped, circular room, presumably the top of some tower. In the middle of the room was a plain round table, with two straight-backed chairs; Cleapho was sitting in one of them, and there were three or four brass tubes with the ends of rolled-up papers sticking out of them. Two more soldiers stood behind Cleapho's chair, in front of another stout door. No sign of any food, drink, cups, plates or cutlery.
'You're a bloody fool,' Cleapho said, frowning. 'What the hell was all that about?'
Poldarn opened his mouth to speak, but realised that he didn't know where to begin. Before he had a chance to order his thoughts, Cleapho went on: 'I know it's all part of the mystique, this deliberately walking around in plain sight because you're so cool and daring, but next time please leave me out of it. Dear God; when I saw you standing there looming over me, I nearly had a heart attack.' He shook his head, then went on, 'I'm assuming you've got plenty of your people here, because this'-he indicated the four soldiers-'is all I've brought, and after your stunt in the hall I'm starting to feel nervous. Damn it,' he added, 'I'm not used to this sort of thing, all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. If this is the way you conduct business, I'm not sure I want to get involved with you.'
I could try and explain, Poldarn thought. And I could end up at the bottom of those stairs with a broken neck. Still, this man knows who I am. It'd be nice to find that out, even if I don't live very long to savour the knowledge. 'Please,' he said, as appeasingly as he could, 'I want you to listen to this as patiently as you can. I promise I'm not fooling about. You see-'
'Oh, forget it,' Cleapho interrupted. 'If you get some kind of morbid pleasure out of taking silly risks, that's up to you. Let's get down to brass tacks; to be precise, this business up the road. The point is, I appreciate why you did it, but it was too early. Tazencius and his people aren't ready. He hasn't even started recruiting openly yet-dammit, he hasn't had anything to recruit for, that's my point, there's been no build-up, just this; suddenly, wham. And if this is your idea of an opening gambit, please put your ear up against the stable pump and wash your brain out, because the supply of large cities in these parts is somewhat limited; we can't go torching one a week until Tazencius has got his act together, we'll run out of the bloody things. Unless we can get Cronan-'