Shadow s-1

by K. J. Parker

  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 couldn'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 y
ou'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.

  Monach closed his eyes. Dying in a manner befitting a member of the order had been covered in some detail in eighth grade, and he'd come third out of twenty. The key to the approved technique was dignity, acceptance, faith in a higher purpose.

  Keeping his eyes closed, he visualised the course the knife and the hand holding it would have to take (assuming Feron Amathy was proposing to sever his jugular vein). He saw the left hand spreading to press down on his ear, to keep his head steady while the right hand cut; it was the obvious vulnerable moment, because it's always a mistake to place your body into the enemy's circle unless it's led by your weapon. At the perfect moment he reached up with his right hand, caught hold of the other man's left index finger, pressed it back sharply and broke it.

  Feron Amathy squealed, his instinct making him try to pull away. That was good. Monach increased his grip on the broken finger so that Feron Amathy, trying to yank his hand back, put most of his body weight into the area of maximum pain. Excellent: in tight corners, use pain to confuse the enemy, force him to overlook his advantage and his opportunity for a single finishing cut. In the meanwhile Monach had time to shift his position on the ground (not that he wanted to, but he supposed it had to be done), enough so that he could get his left hand round the other man's right wrist and shake the knife out of it. At some point during this manoeuvre a spike of pain made him open his eyes and he found that he was looking directly at Feron Amathy's face. He saw the fear and smiled, just as the knife hit the ground.

  He let go of the other man's wrist and gathered up the knife. As anticipated, Feron Amathy pulled away with all his strength, freeing his broken finger and screaming as the pain lit up his whole body. Monach took advantage of having his right hand free again by slamming the heel of it up under the other man's chin. Quite correctly, Feron Amathy slumped backwards, landing on his broken finger and howling.

  In Monach's mind, the calm, contemptuous voice of Father Tutor told him to assess the situation objectively. For the moment he had a total ascendency, but it was a moot point whether it would last long enough for him to get in close and kill the enemy, especially given his own wretched condition. Any attempt at a finishing cut would only provoke a furious instinctive resistance, like the one he'd just put up, which could easily lead to disaster in spite of his superiority in technique and firm grasp of theory. If, on the other hand, he chose to get up and leave the tent, it was highly unlikely that Feron Amathy would try to pursue him personally. Instead he'd yell at the top of his voice for the guard, and by the time they arrived anybody who'd attained a pass in grade five, let alone a second-class distinction, ought to be among the shadows and halfway to making a perfect escape, regardless of any previous injuries.

  As always, Father Tutor was right, and the idea that here was a moment of destiny, when he had the crucial Feron Amathy at his mercy and could kill him easily, was just an illusion. Someone with less discipline, less training, less skill in the interpretation of theory might be fooled into thinking that this was a point at which the world would change for ever, but Monach knew better. Only a god could do something like that.

  An intriguing thought occurred to him. Not all that long ago he'd almost managed to convince himself that he was the god Poldarn. He'd talked himself out of it, reasonably enough, but somewhere in his mind there lingered just a smear of a suspicion. Now, if he really was a god, surely all he'd have to do was say the word, or just think it, and his injuries would miraculously heal. Gods, after all, can't be injured; they can project an illusion of injury, possibly well enough to deceive themselves, but no actual harm could come to them. It was worth a try.

  He thought the command, and waited. For one very brief moment, he wasn't sure; then the pain reasserted itself, and he knew. Another theory knocked on the head. Never mind.

  He made it to the tent flap before Feron Amathy started yelling for the guard. Any kind of movement was fairly close to being unbearable; walking should have been technically impossible, let alone running. Looked at from another angle, he had the time it would take for the guards to enter the tent and get their orders in which to get through the camp and into the village. He ran.

  At exactly what point the idea took shape in his mind he couldn't say. It might even have been before he broke Feron Amathy's finger; certainly it had very nearly evolved into its final form when he stuck his head out of the tent and looked for an escape route. Partly it was desperation-who else did he know in Cric, after all? Of course, there was no reason whatsoever to suppose that the old man who might just be General Allectus would be inclined to help him. But if his guess was right, the old man would have nothing to lose by harbouring a fugitive, since if he was caught and recognised by a soldier from the Amathy house he'd be killed immediately in any case. A lot would depend on whether General Allectus saw it that way, of course. Always assuming he really was General Allectus.

  It was a stupid idea; but it gave him something to focus on, a purpose. They'd taught him that long ago, at an age when other boys were still playing with wooden swords and fighting make-believe enemies: if you have to run, run towards something, not just away. The slightest trace of purpose will often keep back the smothering blanket of fear, which is nearly always a worse enemy than the source of danger itself, just as more people are killed by the smoke in a burning house than the actual fire.

  His sense of direction was hazy, but he had an idea that when he'd been brought in he'd made a note in his mind that the general's tent was at right angles to the road through the camp, on the left-hand side. Find the road, turn left and keep going, parallel to it, picking a way through the rows of tents… He staggered as his knees and his breath collapsed simultaneously, but he managed to keep his balance by swaying wildly, like a drunken old man.

  That was a thought. He tried to picture them in his mind, vague figures he'd seen in every town and city he'd been to; the mind filtered them out after a while, since they were of no possible importance and an eyesore into the bargain. He analysed their way of moving-unselfconscious, confident in a twisted sort of a way, since men with neither past nor future are rarely afraid of anything. He remembered one or two who were familiar sights from the lower town in Deymeson. Cripples, both of them; one, now he came to think of it, must have broken both legs at some point and had them heal without being set; the other had wrecked his back, or been born like it, so that he always walked along with his nose right down by his feet, the knuckles of his fingers dragging along the ground. As he adjusted his stance and posture to copy them, it occurred to him that they must spend their entire lives in something like the pain he felt now, and for a moment he was filled with admiration for their courage and endurance (because he would either die or escape, be rescued and healed; they would be here for ever, in the confined area of pain, the circle).

  Whatever else he wasn't, Monach was a fine actor. The guards passed him three times: once, at the run, going towards the town; once, at the double, coming back; the last time, walking dejectedly, going out again. The third time he called out to them, a vague loud noise that was composed half out of words and the rest of mere roaring. They swung out a few yards further into the road to avoid him.

  Cric village was deserted. Of course, it always would be at this time of night, since hard-working farmers rise and go to bed with the sun. Nobody here wasted good tallow by burning a lamp or a candle. There was just enough starlight to mark the difference between emptiness and the shadows of buildings. As he trudged and swayed and staggered, Monach
found that although he felt the pain with each step, it wasn't actually troubling him-because it wasn't his, it belonged to the persona of the old drunk, a character he'd dragged into the world to carry his sufferings for him like a porter. Instead he used each ache and wrench and spike of pain as a foundation for his performance-the more it hurts, the less you feel it; that still made no more sense than it had twenty years ago, but the order had been of the opinion that learning it by heart would make him a better monk, more able to make the draw and understand the nature of the gods.

  He hadn't been counting doors and there weren't any visual landmarks to guide him, but he knew which house belonged to the man he was looking for, because his instinct and intuition told him which one it was, and he believed in them as a true monk should. He felt for the latch and lifted it. It wasn't locked or bolted; Cric wasn't that sort of place.

  'Hello?' He stepped inside, resisting the temptation to stand up straight in spite of the pain in his back and shoulders. Stay in persona until the very last moment, just in case. 'Hello,' he repeated, 'is anybody there?'

  'All right, I can hear you,' replied a voice in the darkness. 'There's no need to shout.'

  It was a voice he thought he recognised, at any rate. He tried to remember the name the old man had been using the last time he was here. Jolect; Jolect something or something Jolect, and he'd claimed to be a plain, ordinary retired soldier.

  'Sergeant Jolect?' he said. 'Am I in the right house?'

  The voice chuckled, 'what if I told you that you weren't?'

  'That would depend,' Monach croaked as a surge of pain too broad and grand for him to ignore swept up from his knees to his chin.

  'Depend on what?'

  'On whether you're telling the truth.'

  The voice chuckled again, this time with a little more colour. 'Yes, I'm called Jolect,' it said. 'But I was never a sergeant.'