Memory (61 page)

Insignificant Rethman smiles, as though he's flattered that Ciartan managed to remember how he earns his living. ‘Not at all bad, right now,' he says. Xipho's husband has a broad, flat face – blandly pleasant apart from an unfortunate chin – and enormous brown eyes like a sick cow's. She could only have married him as a gesture, making a definitive statement of her unavailability, and no need to guess whose benefit such a statement is for. But Xipho was always more of a man than most men; and if Ciartan could marry a dim, wispy, fragile little mouse with huge eyes, loads of money and no brains, so could she. ‘Of course, the charcoal trade's very seasonal, and this is usually a slow time. But we're actually up by a sixteenth on this time last year, mostly on account of some very useful new contacts in the Tulice ironworks—'

Ciartan has to try very hard not to stare. This wetslap got Xipho pregnant?
How?
With what? Instead, he consults his mental library, precepts of religion: the strongest defence is to counter-attack the enemy's attack. Since the only purpose Rethman served was to be used as a weapon against him, this was obviously the place to cut, at the fingers holding the sword. Ignore her, talk to him, like he's more important—

‘Ah yes,' he hears himself say, ‘Tulice. Fascinating place, with a lot of potential. Lumber growing up out of the ground, iron ore underneath it. Pity that communications are so difficult – bad roads and the incessant rains; otherwise, I'd say the region is wide open for sustained development.'

Rethman's eyes sparkle. And why not? It can't be every day that someone in this house actually listens to a word he says. ‘Actually, the consortium I'm in with are working on that right now,' he burbles. ‘We're looking into the possibility of using waterways – rivers, of course, and building canals; and half the year the lowlands are flooded anyhow—'

She can see right through the ploy, needless to say. The man of the moment doesn't come trundling halfway across the Empire on treacherous roads just to spend an afternoon chatting about commercial prospects in Tulice to the man who married the woman he loves. She's annoyed, in spite of herself, but she's well back inside her circle, guard up, balance perfect, and just sufficiently pissed off to be extremely dangerous.

Fortunately, some servant or other announces that dinner's ready. Excellent. When facing a tactical stalemate, change the locale.

Dinner is a bizarre experience. If the real Xipho, the one he knew at Deymeson, ever thought about food, it could only ever have been in the context of how much valuable time had to be wasted each day, taking food in at one end of the body, flushing it out the other end once it'd been processed. The real Xipho would never, ever, have participated in anything involving devilled eggs in sour cream, or sea bass with mushrooms on a bed of wild rice.
For pity's sake
, he can hear Real Xipho saying,
is this garbage supposed to be food?
And then she tips a whole jug of vinegar over it to drown out any suggestion of flavour, and loads it into her face like foundrymen stoking a furnace. But this Xipho (married, pregnant; those fingers, that can whisk a sword blade through three tightly rolled reed mats straight from the draw faster than any man in the Empire, now used only for stitching little mauve flowers onto a linen cushion-cover) eats like it's a matter of religion: serious, attentive eating, as if there's going to be a test afterwards. So; either the pathetic Rethman has corrupted her utterly, or this is all an act of war—

The meal lasts for ever; lichen smothers trees and rocks crumble into loam, and still they bring on more food, tiny bits of minced-up fish in silly little pastry fortresses, encompassed about with redoubts of rare, weird vegetable. But eventually it ends; and she gives Rethman a look, and suddenly he's deep in conversation with the Earwig (forgotten he was there; don't you always?) while Xipho walks across the furniture-cluttered floor towards the fireplace, choosing her ground for single combat.

‘Well, then,' she says. ‘You've been busy.'

Ciartan frowns a little. ‘Lots of running about, nothing much actually gets done. That's the military for you.'

Her lip twitches. Ciartan could draw you detailed maps of her lips. ‘And how's the family?' she asks – an expected opening attack, but hard to defend nonetheless.
If you ever really loved me, how could you possibly go off and marry that popsy?

‘Fine.'

She steps into his circle, following up remorselessly. ‘Lysalis doesn't go with you when you're in the field, then?'

Ciartan makes himself show his teeth in a weak imitation of laughter. ‘No,' he says. ‘Life under canvas isn't really her thing. She'd come along if I asked her to, but—'

‘You spend so much time away, though. Don't you miss her?'

Cruel Xipho: because of course he does, and that's the shameful part of it – insipid, flavourless Lysalis, Lysalis who every day renews her fatal crime of not being Xipho; and yes, he misses her. Because he loves her. In a sense. ‘It's something we've had to figure out how to deal with,' he lies (floods of tears each time he leaves.
I can't help it
, she always says,
I know you've got to go, but
—) ‘I guess it must be the same for you when Rethman's away on business.'

‘Not really.'

He lets the words hang, not prepared to commit to what might be a feint. ‘Seen Gain lately? I haven't heard from him in ages.'

‘He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth,' she replies. ‘Last I heard, he was in Josequin.'

‘Josequin.' Fine; why not? ‘Doing what?'

‘No idea. Some errand for Father Tutor, presumably – assuming he's still in orders, that is. For all I know, he could've quit and gone into trade or something. He never struck me as the contemplative type.'

‘He'll turn up again soon enough,' he says. ‘He always does. The Earwig still hanging round, then.'

Xipho's face softens. Ploy. ‘He gets on very well with Rethman,' she says. ‘They go and watch the horse races together.' Fine; so why couldn't he have married Rethman? Then all four of us could be happy. ‘It's good having him so close, otherwise I'd be completely out of touch.'

Religion: invite the attack you want to defend against. Religion: disconcert the enemy by doing the expected thing. ‘So, do you miss – well, the old days?' There, battle joined at last. Took long enough.

‘I don't know.' She's looking over his shoulder. ‘I guess it's different for a woman. You start off on something, then marriage comes along, children – I can see why they don't like having women in the Order, it must seem like a terrible waste of resources when we suddenly up and leave.'

‘Like me.' Step forward to parry, lean back to cut. ‘I left before you did.'

‘Ah yes.' Smile. ‘But look at you now: captain of your own free company, with a prince for a father-in-law. Half the Order's work is training the likes of you – it's just as important as the contemplative side. You go out there, do the things that need doing in the world, taking religion with you. Every bit as important, maybe more so.'

(Xipho, why in God's name did you marry him? It
wasn't
just me, or any of us. Certainly not just me; it was only the one time, and we made more hate than love, and ever afterwards you treated me like I was the most evil man in the world. But yes, I did leave, and I did marry Lysalis—)

‘But you're happy,' he hears himself say. ‘You don't regret—'

A smile can be as fast as a draw, a moment that doesn't exist, in religion. She smiles: cold, bitter, vindictive. ‘No,' she says. ‘I'm happy, this is what I want.' She doesn't move, but the swelling in her body threatens him like a sword in the first or perfect guard. ‘This is what I've always wanted.'

A challenge.
You got me into this mess, it's your fault; if it was your brat I'm carrying, it couldn't be more your fault.
And she thinks she's got me beaten, put me where I can't fight back, all out of options. And that, Father Tutor, is why I
am
the best of our year; because there
is
a way . . .

(Monach, in his dream, on the other side of the room, talking to Rethman, knows what will happen, because Monach, awake, will remember what happened. Three weeks later: Ciartan, angry about something, very drunk, hammered on the door of Rethman's house, demanding to see Xipho. Rethman, half asleep, trying to calm him down, believing he's good at handling drunks and excitable people, telling Ciartan to come back in the morning; something in his voice, or maybe an inadvertent gesture misinterpreted as a threat, breaching Ciartan's circle. The draw happens in a moment so brief that it exists only in religion; but after the draw, when the sword had completed its perfect movement and was back in the scabbard, Rethman dead on the floor, sliced from ear to collarbone. Xipho came down to see what all the shouting was about; having no sword, she attacked with a candlestick, which isn't a proper weapon in the eyes of religion, and therefore not covered anywhere in the syllabus. Ciartan, just managing not to draw, defending himself as best he could: a kick in the stomach, no big deal under normal circumstances – Monach, asleep, has all this locked down in his memory, as he dreams of being Ciartan, on the day that caused the act that finally eliminated all remaining options.)

‘Wake up, for crying out loud.' Someone shouting in his sleep: is that Ciartan at the door, drunk, violent, wanting to see Xipho? ‘For God's sake, wake up – they're attacking. You're supposed to be in charge!'

Monach sat up, swung his legs off the bed, opened his eyes. ‘Was I asleep?'

‘They've got battering rams.' Runting, wide-eyed, shaking. ‘Bloody great big trees from the forest. They're—'

Monach yawned and stood up. ‘How's Spenno getting on? Finished yet?'

Runting shook his head. ‘Technical problems – the crane keeps breaking or something. Look, are you coming, or what?'

‘Sorry,' Monach said, ‘I was miles away. Right, let's get to it, shall we?'

When the world closes down around you and forms a clamp that seems to be squeezing your brain out past your eyes, there's nothing quite as effective as a temporary palliative than taking it out on strangers with a sharp tool. It was their fault; they'd smashed open the gate and come bursting in before everything was ready for them. For a short while, under the gatehouse arch, Monach's life suddenly became pleasantly, wonderfully simple. It was all disgracefully self-indulgent, but at least, for the most part, they wouldn't have felt anything, and they
were
the enemy. Presumably.

He'd already sliced a dozen necks to the bone before he realised: this was all very well, and his performance of the eight approved cuts would've wrung a nod of approval out of Father Tutor himself, but it wasn't the job he was supposed to be doing. True, he was forging ahead like a scythe through dry grass, but all around him the enemy were streaming past, pushing their way into the yard as if he was somehow
irrelevant
, while his men were either falling back or being killed. All his perfectly executed strokes were doing was putting him in a position where he'd be cut off, surrounded and hacked to death, leaving the garrison without anyone to tell them what to do. He stopped in his tracks, trying to figure out how to retreat – not covered in the syllabus, because sword-monks
don't
– and wondering what in hell's name he could do to rally his people and push the enemy back. No idea, not a clue. Then, while he stood still and helpless over the body of the last man he'd chopped down, something slammed into the back of his head and he found himself sprawling on the ground.

Beautiful irony; because it was Monach's getting knocked silly by a stone that saved the moment, not his supreme skill and grace. Someone in the retreating line of defenders saw him go down, and yelled,
The chief's been hit, they got the chief
; whereupon half a dozen of them pulled up short, faced about and rushed towards him. At least one of them ran straight up an enemy spear; at which, more defenders waded in to try and rescue them, and the general falling-back turned into a reckless but effective counter-attack. By the time they reached Monach he was on his feet again, sword in hand and looking round for the bastard who'd hit him. They surged round and past him, as soon as they realised he was all right; just as the enemy had done, they ignored him, as though he belonged to some other battle that happened to be going on next door. The hell with this, Monach thought; but the sheer ignorant energy of his followers stove in the advancing line and rolled them back under the gate-house arch. There were plenty of other sword-monks in the garrison besides Monach, and they seemed keen to make the most of their chance to indulge themselves, too.

Right, he thought, and glanced up at the gatehouse tower, hoping to see if Spenno had managed to dismantle the Poldarn's Flutes yet. But the angle was too steep – all he could see were palisades. Not to worry; the job in hand was obvious enough. He needed to rally his men, make sure they didn't pursue the retreating attackers too far, then organise work details to patch up the smashed gates.

Monach tried shouting, but he couldn't make himself heard. His voice had always been soft and quiet, and he'd never had occasion to learn how to project it. As he stood in the yard, feeling unpleasantly foolish, he caught sight of Galand Dev. The short, wide engineer was engaged in a faintly ludicrous duel with two enemy soldiers, both of them a head and a hand taller than him; but he was using their height against them, warding off their blows with a captured shield as they cut down at him, and making them skip backwards as he slashed at their knees with a short-handled adze. A few strides brought him up close enough to join in; one soldier didn't see him coming until it was far too late; the other swung round to face him and forgot about Galand Dev, an omission that cost him his life.