Memory (65 page)

‘Then let's find him, shall we?' Poldarn said impatiently; and off they went, down passageways, up stairs, down stairs, up passageways, with the guard leading the way and struggling to keep up, both at the same time. After a long march they crossed a courtyard: more stairs, more passages, another courtyard. ‘We're here,' the guard announced, coming to a sudden halt outside a small oak door.

No question but that the watch captain recognised the badge and understood its significance; but, as he explained, it wasn't as simple as that. Yes, he could give the necessary orders for Poldarn to be escorted to the City Prefect's office, but the Prefect himself had to authorise admission to the Emperor's private apartments; and no disrespect, but did Poldarn realise exactly what an important man the Prefect was? He could be at a council meeting, or out to dinner, or— They went to the Prefecture. The Prefect was in the middle of a reception for the senior officers of the Torcea Guild; the badge brought him scuttling to heel like a terrier. Yes, he could get Poldarn into the apartments, but actual admittance to the inner chambers was in the hands of the Chamberlain—

More stairs, passageways, courtyards. The Chamberlain was entertaining friends with a recital of chamber music, given by the most expensive musicians in Torcea. When he was shown the badge he didn't scuttle, but he didn't waste time, either. Yes, he could get Poldarn into the inner chambers, but then he'd have to explain himself to the Household Secretary—

At least this time the passageways and stairwells were attractive places to pass through: paintings, tapestries, fine oak panelling, statues, fountains. The Secretary was in a meeting with the department heads from the Exchequer, but a glimpse of the badge persuaded him that he could spare a few minutes. He looked at Poldarn down a mile of narrow nose; then he said that the badge was all very well, but—

‘It's all right,' said a familiar voice. ‘He's expected.'

None of them had heard the side door open. The Secretary swung round, swallowed and sort of flattened himself against the wall, as if a heavy load was coming through. Poldarn wasted a moment or so staring before he said, ‘Noja?'

She moved her lips but didn't actually smile. ‘It's all right,' she reassured the Secretary, the Chamberlain, the Prefect and the various other bits and pieces that had stuck to them along the way. ‘You don't need to worry about anything. I'll take him the rest of the way, it'll be fine. As I said, he's expected.'

Not far down the next corridor, he turned to her and said, ‘Noja, what the hell—?'

She shushed him, as though he was a small child. ‘Normally,' she said, ‘the Secretary would've referred you to the Chaplain in Ordinary. But we both know why that'd be a bad idea, don't we?'

‘No,' Poldarn said; then; ‘Oh, you mean Cleapho—'

Noja stopped by a fine red and black lacquered cabinet, opened it and took out a bundle wrapped in soft grey cloth. It was about three feet long. ‘Do your dreams still have crows in them?' she asked.

Poldarn nodded. ‘Always,' he said. ‘How do you know—?'

‘Sometimes you'd call out in your sleep,' she said, pulling the cloth back. Inside it was a sword: a raider backsabre, not quite finished, still rough and unpolished. But, since the last time he'd seen it (in Colonel Lock's office in Falcata), someone had hardened and tempered it, fitted the tang with wooden scales, even ground the edge. ‘It's all right,' she said. ‘Take it, it won't bite you.'

He hesitated. ‘What's this for?' he said. She didn't answer. ‘Is your name really Noja?' he asked.

She sighed. ‘No, of course not,' she replied. ‘And you don't recognise me, which is fine. I actually thought, a couple of times, that you might know who I was. You were looking at me.'

‘You – reminded me of someone,' Poldarn said. ‘Things you did, the way you moved. I guessed you reminded me of Xipho.'

Her lips were thin and tight. ‘No,' she said. ‘I think I reminded you of me. But not enough,' she added. ‘Which is a shame, all things considered. Come on, we're nearly there.'

He had to hurry to keep up. ‘No, listen,' he said, ‘this is getting out of hand. Do I know you? Well enough that you've heard me talk in my sleep?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘This way.' She'd turned the handle of a door and opened it enough to let a sliver of yellow light slide through. The central panel of the door was beautifully painted: two crows sitting in a tall, thin tree.

‘Welcome home,' she said.

(‘Welcome home,' she'd said.

He'd smiled, and it was probably the right thing to have done; she'd clearly been to a lot of trouble. There were garlands of flowers on the walls, a friendly blaze in the fireplace, bowls of dried rose petals to scent the air, all the things she'd have liked to welcome her home if she'd been away for four months. Wasted on him, but it was the thought that counted. ‘Everything looks wonderful,' he'd said, trying to sound as if he meant it. She'd looked pleased, so that was all right.

‘Come and sit down,' she'd said, ‘you must be exhausted.' She'd kissed him again, then gone over to the long table in the corner and poured out a glass of wine. It was, inevitably, the sweet fortified muck that she liked and he hated, but he'd drunk it anyway. The result had been to make him feel even more tired, something he wouldn't have believed possible. ‘You made very good time,' she'd said. ‘We weren't expecting you till this evening.'

‘Following winds across the Bay,' he'd replied, yawning. ‘So, how've you been? And how's Choizen?' She always liked it when he remembered to ask after their son. ‘Did he cut that tooth after all?'

She'd laughed, as if he'd said something endearingly stupid. ‘That was weeks ago,' she'd said. ‘He's cut another two since then. And he's fine. He said another word yesterday.'

‘Really?'

She'd beamed at him. ‘“Biscuit”,' she'd said proudly. ‘Well, what he actually said was “iskik”, but he was pointing at the plate and smiling, so—'

His cue to laugh, so he'd done that. ‘Wonderful,' he'd said, stifling another yawn. ‘Where is he?'

‘Asleep,' she'd said. ‘Talking of which, you look tired out. Maybe you should have a lie-down before dinner.'

Before dinner? What he'd really wanted to do was sleep for a week. ‘I'm fine,' he'd said, ransacking his memory for another scrap of domestic trivia to enquire after. She liked to believe that he thought about home when he was away; as if he had nothing better to occupy his mind with in the middle of a campaign than carpet-fitting and endless feuds with tradesmen. ‘Did the men come to put up the new trellis?' he'd asked. Apparently they had. Oh, joy.

‘They had a dreadful job getting the posts in the ground, though.' She'd sat down next to him, cosy but not actually touching. ‘It took them two days, and I'm afraid the lavender got a bit trampled. But yes, it's up, and it looks really nice.'

He'd smiled again, thinking, Thank God for that; I've been worrying myself sick over the trellis in the middle courtyard. Even in the middle of the battle, when they broke through and it looked pretty much as though we weren't going to make it, that fucking trellis was never far from my thoughts— ‘Splendid,' he'd said. ‘Next year we can grow our own sweet peppers. That'll be nice.'

‘Oh.' She'd looked disappointed. ‘I thought we were going to put in those climbing roses, from Malerve.'

Roses, peppers, whatever; like it mattered. ‘That'd be good,' he'd replied.

‘Yes, but if you've set your heart on peppers—'

‘Roses will be much better.'

But her face had shown she was still disappointed, probably because she'd guessed that he didn't care. Fine; too tired to fret about stuff like that. ‘Have you seen much of your father while I've been away?' he'd asked, trying to sound casual.

She'd nodded. ‘We went over for dinner a few times; mum and Turvo like to see Choizen. I . . .' She'd hesitated. ‘I asked Dad where you'd gone, but he didn't seem to want to tell me. I suppose he was afraid I'd be worried.' Another pause. ‘Was it – dangerous?'

Was it dangerous.
Just as well he'd got out of it without a scratch, or there'd have been scars to explain. ‘No,' he'd said, ‘just routine stuff, all very boring. And I'm home now, so that's all right.'

As he'd said it, he couldn't help wondering how she'd have reacted if he'd told her the truth: that, on her father's orders, he'd just led an army of freelances, Amathy house, in a joint venture with the unspeakable, monstrous raiders, who everyone knew weren't even properly human, to wipe the city of Alson off the face of the earth, taking particular care to make sure there were no survivors at all. Would she be shocked? He'd looked at her. She was his wife, she'd borne him a son, in a remote and unsentimental way he loved her; and he didn't know the answer to that.

Like that mattered, too.

‘We'd better go round there tomorrow,' he'd said. ‘There's a few things I need to talk over with your father. Not tonight, though.'

‘Of course not,' she'd said. ‘Now stay there, I've got a surprise for you. Promise not to look.'

‘Promise.'

She'd bustled out; he'd managed to keep his eyes open while she was out of the room, knowing that once they closed, they'd stay closed for at least twelve hours. About the only thing she could have brought him that he wanted just then was a bath; but that wouldn't have been a surprise.

‘Here you are.' She'd handed him a box. Rosewood, with brass fretwork hinges. Nice box, as boxes go, and you can never have too many of them. ‘Go on, then,' she'd said, ‘open it.'

Oh,
right
, there's something
inside
the box. Too tired to think straight— He'd opened the box; and inside, he'd found a book.

It's very kind of you, but what the fuck do I want with—?
He'd caught sight of the spine. Very old book, the lettering on the vellum binding very brown and faint.
Concerning Various Matters.

‘That's—' He hadn't been able to say anything else.
Concerning Various Matters
: the rarest book in the world, just the one copy known to exist, in the Great Library at Deymeson – until a foolish young student called Cordomine had tried to break in and read it, and set the whole place on fire. Since then, no Cordomine and no book: the sum of all knowledge, the entire memory of the human race, wiped out in one moment of destruction—

‘Where on earth did you get this from?' he'd heard himself say.

She'd grinned like a monkey. ‘It was the most amazing stroke of luck. There were these monks – not proper monks, like the Order and everything, they belonged to some funny little religion out in the middle of nowhere, and then the raiders came and burned the place down; and there was only just time to save one thing from the whole monastery before they were all killed, and this was it. And they ended up here in the city, and one of them was finally fed up with being a monk, so he left the others and took this book because he reckoned it might be valuable. He was trying to get in to see Dad when I was over there, and the doorkeepers were telling him to go away, but for some reason I was interested, and asked what was going on; and I know it's a book you're interested in, because I heard you talking about it with some of your school friends, years ago. Anyhow, the upshot was that I bought it from him, for thirty grossquarters. Wasn't that a stroke of luck?'

He'd smiled feebly. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, unique priceless ancient texts bought from wandering dispossessed monks must be handled with extreme care for fear of smudging the still-wet ink; but this was the thousandth time, because the monastery in question had to be Besvacharma, and it hadn't just been the raiders who'd sacked it; and he'd nearly died in that burning library, trying to rescue some clown of a sergeant—

‘Fantastic,' he'd said quietly; and he was thinking, five copies, no, six; this one'll have to go to Deymeson, but I'll make it a condition that they make me six copies – Xipho, me, Gain, the Earwig, Father Tutor and one for the open shelves, just to make sure nobody ever tries breaking into the secure section at night—

(One of these days, I might even find the time to read the bloody thing.)

‘Are you all right?' she said. ‘You look awful.'

He shook his head. ‘I'm sorry,' he replied. ‘Only – this is where I live.'

‘I just said so, didn't I?'

He stared; at the table, the chairs, the candle-stand. ‘I remember this room,' he said. ‘Do you realise what that means? I
remembered
—'

She shrugged. ‘That's good, surely.'

(And no crows anywhere; not a dream. Not that; or this– unless the crows painted on the door counted, in which case all the years he'd spent here, with her, had been a dream too.) ‘I remembered that time,' he said, ‘when I came home and you'd found me that book—'

‘Ah yes.' She laughed frostily. ‘The one you liked so much you gave it away at once. What a thing to remember, after—'

‘I
remembered
.' He felt weak in the legs, backed into a chair, and sat down awkwardly. ‘Your brother,' he said suddenly, ‘the man who found me in the woods. He really
is
your brother, isn't he?'

She smiled. ‘Well done,' she said. ‘Do you remember his name?'

‘Turvo.' Poldarn frowned. ‘He's got a crippled hand, I noticed it the first time I saw him. And Turvo—'

She nodded. ‘You did that,' she said, ‘in a year-end duel. You managed to end the bout without killing him, just crippling his right hand; because,' she added sourly, ‘you loved me. We all thought you were wonderful, especially Turvo.'