Memory (42 page)

‘Which suggests it was the raiders,' Mezentius went on. ‘Don't know if you saw Josequin after they'd finished with it, but it looked pretty much like this. And from what I've heard, it's by way of being their trademark. Apparently, it's what they do back home, where they come from; when they have wars or feuds or whatever, they barricade their enemies in their own houses and burn them to death. Probably,' he added, ‘a religious thing.'

Monach made an effort and swept his mind clear. ‘The problem is,' he said, ‘we were planning on picking up supplies in Falcata. In case you hadn't noticed, we're practically out of food.'

After a short but passionate debate, they decided to head east, back the way they'd just come. If the raiders were really on the loose, there was no telling which direction they'd be headed in or where they were planning to strike next; but there was nothing out east large enough to interest them, only Dui and Tin Chirra, the charcoal burners' camps and the foundry. True, they'd run into Amathy house troops out that way, but the outfit they'd encountered were pussycats compared with the kind of people who could do this to a walled city—

(‘Unless it was the Amathy house who did this, and not the raiders after all,' someone said. ‘People reckon it was them who did Josequin.')

More to the point, there was a small but well-supplied outpost at Dui Chirra: too small to interest a city-devouring army, but big enough to have enough food to feed them. Ironic, Monach couldn't help thinking. When he'd wanted to go to Dui Chirra, they'd decided it was too dangerous, too well defended. Now he'd come to terms with not going there, that was where they were headed, the only alternative being starvation. Was there a precept of religion that said you only got what you wanted when you didn't want it any more? If not, there damn well ought to have been.

That night, when they were pitching camp, the pickets came in with a bewildered-looking old man who was, they reckoned, the last surviving resident of Falcata.

‘Who was it?' Monach demanded, as they pushed the poor fool down into a chair. ‘Who did it? Was it the raiders?'

The old man glared at him. ‘Don't know what you're talking about,' he replied, for all the world as if Monach was accusing him of having razed the city single-handed.

‘Falcata,' Monach said. ‘The city. Who destroyed it?'

The old man looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Destroyed?' he repeated.

Oh, Monach thought. ‘Falcata – it's been burnt down.'

‘Bloody hell.' The old man's face looked as though it had suddenly melted. ‘What about—?'

‘All dead.'

So; fat lot of use he was, and Monach hadn't the heart to have him thrown out, not after that. Some time later, the old man asked Monach who he was.

‘Me?' Good question. ‘Well, I'm sort of in charge.' He hadn't put that terribly well, but his mind was on other things.

‘You mean you're the general?'

‘I guess you could say that.'

‘Oh. What's it for, then, your army? Who are you?'

Another good bloody question. ‘It's a crusade,' Monach said. ‘For religion. To save the Empire.'

‘Oh. So what're you doing in these parts, then?'

Haven't been on the sharp end of so many good questions since fourth-grade finals. ‘We felt this was where we needed to be,' Monach said awkwardly.

‘What, to save the city?'

‘Well, no.'

‘Because you made a piss-poor job of it.'

Eventually they gave him some money and sent him away. Of course, there was nowhere he could spend it, and nothing he could buy with it. But it was the least they could do, in the circumstances.

The next day, everybody was on edge, as if they expected the Amathy house,
and
the regulars,
and
the raiders, by the hundreds of thousands, to jump out at them from behind every tree stump and drystone wall. As a result they made good time, in spite of the pitiful state of the road; nobody wanted to dawdle or stay in one place long enough to tie up a bootlace. Hardly the right attitude for an army of avenging angels: a loud noise or a sudden ambush by three field mice would have them all drawing and carving each other to pieces. But what could anybody expect from a thousand scared peasants led by a hundred over-trained academics? It'd be different, Monach couldn't help thinking, if only Xipho was here; because, when all was said and done, Xipho had always been the only one who really seemed to know what they were supposed to be doing, or why it was so important that they should do it. And where the hell was she, assuming she was still alive? (But if she'd been captured – by the government, the Amathy house, the raiders, someone else – they'd had the forethought to take the kid as well; Ciartan's son, of course, which put a further bewilderingly unfathomable perspective on it all. The day she'd gone missing, at least he'd had some idea what to do – find her, rescue her; or was he supposed to follow on and meet up at some prearranged rendezvous she'd told him about, on some occasion when he hadn't been listening properly? And Cordo – Cordo was still alive, in spite of the fact that he'd died, stabbed to death by Ciartan and left to burn in the Old Library.)

When the attack eventually came, of course, they'd got over their jitters and weren't ready for it. They hadn't even realised how close they were to Dui Chirra, not until their counter-attack smashed a hole in the enemy front line and they burst out the other side, scampered up a slope in order to regroup, and found that they were looking straight down at the front gate. It proved to be a stroke of luck; whoever was commanding the enemy (they had no idea, of course, who they were fighting) was under the impression that the counter-attack was a concerted effort to get to the foundry compound at all costs. In consequence, their unknown opponent drew back on the wings, where Monach's people were on the point of running away, and made a dash for the gates; mistimed it, found himself caught between the counter-attack coming down the hill and the re-formed and newly motivated wings in hot pursuit of an enemy who'd suddenly and without provocation posted their unilateral declaration of defeat . . . After that, it was just a mess, which only ended when the enemy second in command opened the gates in order to lead a sortie just as his superior had managed to force Monach and the advance party back over the brow of the hill. As soon as he saw Monach's flank men brushing the sortie aside and streaming in through the gate, he must've lost it altogether; he ordered a ramshackle, last-hope charge which allowed the back end of Monach's little army to smash into his flank and rear. If fifty of his men managed to escape with him down the Falcata road, that was all.

‘What happened?' someone asked, as Monach slumped against the inside of the gate and pulled off his helmet.

‘I don't know,' Monach replied. ‘We won, but buggered if I know how. Who were those people, anyway?'

‘Government,' someone else replied. ‘Too well kitted out for Amathy house, and if they'd been raiders we'd all be dead by now. My guess is, they were the garrison here.'

Brigadier Muno, then. Fine, Monach thought, it's always nice to know who you've been fighting. But wasn't Muno supposed to be some sort of tactical genius? Or was that his nephew, the one who'd died? ‘Anybody know how we made out?'

‘Not so bad,' someone told him. ‘It looked worse than it was on the wings – our lads didn't get close enough to 'em to come to much harm. We may've lost a couple of dozen killed, same again injured, but it's no worse than that. For what it's worth,' the speaker added, ‘we must've got a couple of hundred of them, maybe more.'

Big deal. ‘Well,' Monach said, ‘anyhow, we won. Let's just hope there's some food left. That's what we came for, after all.'

Men were starting to peep out at them from doorways and windows. It was years since Monach had been in a foundry, and that hadn't been anything like as big as this one. He looked round, suddenly wondering if the garrison's antics hadn't all been a ruse to lure him into the compound, where he'd be surrounded by five thousand heavily armed foundrymen. There did seem to be an awful lot of them—

‘Look up,' someone whispered at him. ‘Someone's coming. Probably the foreman, manager, whatever he's called.'

Monach stopped slouching, stood up straight and tried to look like a ruthless conqueror. At least the man approaching looked to be marginally more scared than he was. ‘Right,' he called out, when the man was a dozen or so yards away, ‘who're you?'

‘My name is Galand Dev,' the man replied. He was short, bald, looked like a giant who'd been squashed down to fit inside a dwarf. ‘I'm the Imperial representative here. Who are you?'

It was a question Monach was rapidly coming to dread. ‘My name doesn't matter,' he replied. ‘I speak for the brothers of the Avenging Angels of Light.' He hoped that Mezentius and the others couldn't hear him; they'd have trouble keeping straight faces. ‘We claim this post in the name of religion. Bring us all your food, now.'

‘Food?' the man called Galand Dev repeated, as though he'd never heard the word before. ‘You want food?'

‘You heard me.' Monach was painfully aware of having said the wrong thing. ‘I'm requisitioning your supplies on behalf of the Brotherhood.'

But Galand Dev was looking sideways at him. ‘Fine,' he said. ‘Is there anything else you want?'

It was obviously a trick question.
Why, what else've you got?
was almost certainly the wrong answer. But this was just a foundry; and what possible use could eleven hundred saints militant have for a heap of charcoal and a couple of large bells?

Then he remembered. Not bells. How could he have forgotten, for the gods' sakes?

‘The food first,' he said, with the sweet calm that comes when you've suddenly remembered what you're supposed to be doing. ‘Then the volcano tubes – Poldarn's Flutes, isn't that what you're calling them?'

Galand Dev nodded grimly. ‘My orders are to defend them to the death,' he said, without much conviction.

Monach nodded. ‘Then it was nice knowing you, if only for a short time. Who should I see about getting them loaded up, after you're dead?'

Galand Dev sighed. ‘That's all right,' he said. ‘I'll see to it. But don't imagine for one moment that you've won. By this time tomorrow, the whole Falcata garrison's going to be banging on the gates.'

Monach shook his head. ‘I don't think so,' he said. ‘Now, are you going to bring the food or do we have to come and fetch it?'

Poldarn's Flutes, he thought, as Galand Dev walked slowly away, flanked by Tacien and Runting (just to make sure); on balance, I think I'd rather have had bells. Nice irony: according to Xipho, though the gods only know how she knew, it's the most important top-secret project in the Empire; I've got them, and I don't actually want them. On the other hand, there's always trade.

If only I knew what it is we
do
want.

If only Xipho was here.

Gradually the foundrymen came out, wary as cats in long grass, uncertain whether they'd been captured, conquered, liberated or simply transferred to new owners along with the plant, goodwill and stock-in-hand. Monach didn't have a clue what to tell them. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he wasn't really suited to leadership.

(If Xipho was here, she'd recruit them; if Elaos was still alive, he'd explain it all so that they understood exactly why the battle and occupation had been necessary; if Cordo was here, he'd terrify them into unquestioning obedience; Gain, on the other hand, would probably sell them something. And Ciartan? He'd either kill every one of them, or find a secret hole in the perimeter fence and sneak out—)

Instead, they'd got him, the Earwig, the born follower. He climbed up on a mounting block next to the door of one of the big sheds and cleared his throat. They looked up at him, like the assembled novices at Commemoration of Benefactors. He could feel his stomach tightening into a small, hard knot.

‘First,' he said, ‘there's no need for you to worry. Just do as you're told, and everything'll be fine.'

Judging by the expressions on their faces, they weren't impressed. He cleared his throat again, and tried once more. ‘This facility is now under the control of the Avenging Angels of Light. If any one of you has a problem with that, keep it to yourself. This is a nice, straightforward military occupation. All you've got to do is carry on with your work and keep out from under our feet. In case anybody's expecting the army to come back and throw us out, that won't be happening in a hurry. Last I saw of them, they were making very good time down the Falcata road – and don't kid yourselves that the Falcata garrison'll be along in a day or so, because they won't, you've got my word on that.'

They were looking at him as though he was drunk or raving mad, but he ignored that. ‘You can have one hour to get used to the idea that you're working for us now, and then I want to see you all back at your posts, doing whatever it is you do. Talking of which, who's the foreman around here?'

A man in the front row slowly raised his hand. He didn't look like a foreman; in fact, it was hard to say what he did look like. Somewhere, Monach decided, between a very scrawny sword-monk and a half-dead crane-fly. ‘Name,' Monach called out.

‘I'm called Spenno,' the crane-fly answered, ‘I'm in charge of the project – well, me and Galand Dev.'

‘Fine,' Monach said. ‘You stay. The rest of you, go away.'

In spite of his bizarre appearance, Spenno immediately endeared himself to Monach by not asking who the Avenging Angels of Light were, or what they thought they were avenging, or what they were doing there. Instead, he offered him a tour of the foundry. ‘It's a complicated place, this,' he explained, ‘and there's a lot of places where it's a bad idea to be at certain times. Like, you don't want to be downwind of the furnace when there's a fire in. The furnace,' he added, pointing at one of the sheds, ‘is over here. You know anything about foundry work?'