Memory Page 28

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Poldarn said quietly, ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

  Spenno grinned. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You aren’t allowed to say. I appreciate that; I mean, if you go around telling all and sundry, the whole thing falls flat on its face. But it’s all right, I don’t suppose anybody knows but me – well, maybe Chaplain Cleapho, after all he’s head of religion, isn’t he? And the monks, the ones you spared at Deymeson, they’d know, of course; and your priestess, her in the cart with you at Cric. But people don’t know – especially now, when they won’t be able to recognise you any more. And obviously, I won’t breathe a word to a soul. So there’s no harm in telling me, is there, Poldarn?’

  It took some time to sink in. Then he replied, ‘No, you’re wrong. It’s not like that at all. It was just a trick, a confidence trick, a scam. To cheat the people in the villages into giving us food. And we only did it the one time, for crying out loud.’

  This time Spenno seemed just a little bit offended. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘That’s fine. I understand. I suppose you can’t go making exceptions, even for people you know. Must be hard enough as it is, in your position. But it’s not like I was asking for, well, special treatment when the time comes, anything like that. I just wanted to know what’s the right thing to do. No harm in that, surely? I mean, if I’m trying to do the right thing, then aren’t we both on the same side?’ He grinned weakly. ‘Or would that be telling, too?’

  For some reason, Poldarn felt it was important that Spenno be made to understand. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to believe me. It was all just pretending, to get money and food out of those people. And Copis, the priestess, she wasn’t even—’ He stopped. Wasn’t even a real fraud didn’t sound right, and he couldn’t tell the truth about why she’d been sent with him, even assuming that he knew what the truth was. ‘She was only pretending,’ he said. ‘Really, she’d been sent by the sword-monks, on some mission or other—’

  ‘Well, of course,’ Spenno said, now distinctly annoyed. ‘Of course. They’re in charge of religion, it’s their responsibility, of course they’d choose the priestess. Look, obviously I’ve said the wrong thing, but I wasn’t to know, was I? All I ask is, you won’t hold it against me, right?’

  Poldarn shook his head. ‘You’re all wrong about this,’ he said. Then something occurred to him. ‘But how did you know that was me?’ he asked. ‘Did you see us, at Cric?’

  ‘No, of course not, I was here. But I recognised you.’

  ‘How the hell could you do that? I’ve never been here before—’ He stopped. ‘At least, I don’t think so. Had you seen me before – before I turned up here for work, I mean?’

  Now Spenno was looking at him, as if he was the one not making sense. ‘I’d never seen you before in my life.’

  ‘But you said you recognised me.’

  ‘Well, of course. I’m not blind, you know.’ Spenno was getting angry. ‘I’ve read the book, see. So of course—’

  ‘Book?’ Book. Concerning Various Matters. ‘Where the hell does it say in the book—?’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ Suddenly the book was in Spenno’s hand – nobody had ever seen where he kept it, concealed somewhere inside his raggedy old coat. ‘Here, book nine, chapter sixty-seven, lines forty-one to ninety-five.’ The book was open; Poldarn reached for it but Spenno pulled it away. Of course, nobody was ever allowed to touch the book. And Poldarn’s copy was back in the shed.

  ‘You recognised me,’ Poldarn said, ‘because of something in the book?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Fine. Would you mind reading it out for me?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Spenno replied, as though Poldarn was making fun of him. ‘You know as well as I do, naturally; better. Well,’ he added, making a show of looking up at the sun, ‘I’d better be getting on, we’re very busy at the moment, obviously. I’m sorry about saying the wrong thing, but really, I didn’t mean anything by it. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  Spenno was staring hard at him. ‘Yes,’ Poldarn said, ‘of course. And no, I won’t hold it against you, it’s perfectly all right.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Spenno sounded relieved. ‘And I just want you to know: if I have got it wrong and the government people, the Empire, they aren’t the good guys – well, I was only trying to do what’s right, if that counts for anything. Don’t suppose it does, it’s not how things work. But . . .’ A look of pain crossed his face. ‘Damn it, how the hell are you supposed to know? I mean, it’s so important, you’d think there’d be a way you could know for sure. Still.’ He seemed to sag a little, as if he was giving up. ‘There’ll be a good reason. After all, it’s all up to you, isn’t it?’

  Spenno closed the book and vanished it into his coat. Poldarn took a deep breath, then let it go.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, not quite sure what he was apologising for.

  ‘That’s all right. Not your fault, after all.’

  For some reason, Poldarn was pleased to hear Spenno say that. He went back to the shed, found the book and tried to remember the reference Spenno had quoted at him. But he must’ve remembered it wrong, because all he found was a detailed description of the proper method of refining curing salt from goats’ urine, using a simple refractory made from an old bucket.

  It was dark: dark as a bag, dark as twelve feet down a well shaft, dark as crows’ feathers. ‘This is so stupid’ – Xipho’s voice, a tiny beacon of context in so much darkness. ‘If we get caught, they’re going to throw us out—’

  ‘Shut up, Xipho, for the gods’ sakes.’ Cordo: Monachus Cordomine, his old schoolfriend. ‘It’s around here somewhere, we’ve just got to— Right. Lamp.’

  Short, deadly silence. ‘Well, I haven’t got it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought you were bringing it.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake—’

  A click; familiar sound, flint and steel. A tiny flare of light illuminating a face. Interesting: a face (he realised) that no longer existed, because of the essential paradox. Interesting, because these days he couldn’t get a fire lit to save his life.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he heard himself say, ‘I brought one. Knew you three couldn’t be trusted.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ Gain Aciava.

  ‘Will you all shut up.’ Xipho, extremely tense. He’d got the tinder going, he was lighting the lamp. At least, it was too dark to see himself doing it, but he could remember lighting it—

  ‘Yes!’ Cordo, excited; and the lamplight suddenly blossomed, revealing his face, and Xipho’s, and Gain’s, and his own. ‘This is it,’ Cordo was saying. ‘We’ve cracked it.’

  ‘That’ll bloody do,’ Gain hissed. ‘Just grab the book and let’s get out of here.’

  The lamp moved, its circle of light impinging on the spines of several books. ‘You sure this is the right shelf?’ he heard himself say. ‘Only—’

  ‘Here!’ Cordo, his voice suddenly brittle. ‘Look.’ The lamplight picked out a certain book and flowed into the embossed lettering on the spine, filling it like molten bronze poured into a mould. Concerning Various Matters.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Gain muttered. ‘It’d bloody well better be worth all this aggravation, is all.’

  ‘Worth it?’ His own voice, recklessly loud. ‘Are you out of your tiny mind? This is it, this is the book. Worth it, he says—’

  ‘It’s chained.’

  Xipho’s voice, dull and final as the sound of the arrow that hits you. Absolute silence.

  ‘What do you mean, chained?’ Gain said at last.

  ‘I mean it’s fucking chained,’ Xipho replied, suddenly shrill. ‘Like there’s a stupid great big chain bolted to the shelf, to stop you taking the book away. Look!’ Her hand inside the light circle, her fingers lifting a solid-looking brown steel chain that hung from the top of the book’s spine.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Oh well,’ Cordo said, ‘that�
��s that, then. Waste of bloody time.’

  ‘Of all the idiots,’ Xipho hissed. ‘How the hell could you not’ve noticed?’

  His own voice, defensive: ‘I only saw it for a moment, how was I supposed to know they’re so bloody paranoid they chain the books to the wall? Pathetic. I mean—’

  ‘Fine.’ Gain’s voice, suddenly heavy. ‘Screw it, then. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ Himself, angry, upset, cheated. ‘After all we’ve been through getting here. We can’t just turn round and give up because of a stupid little bit of chain.’

  ‘What’re you going to do, then?’ Cordo, sarcastic. ‘Chew through it with your little pointy teeth?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he heard himself reply. ‘We’re supposed to be bloody sword-monks, Deymeson’s finest. Little bit of chain’s not going to stop us.’

  Hesitant silence; the light centred around the book, with only Xipho’s hand visible above the lamp. ‘Well,’ said Cordo eventually, ‘we can’t cut through it, not without a file.’

  ‘File wouldn’t help.’ Gain, sounding gloomy. ‘Probably hardened steel.’

  ‘That’s right, look on the fucking bright side.’ Himself, unreasonably angry. ‘Look, all that’s holding it is this little staple—’

  ‘This big staple,’ Xipho corrected him, ‘driven into solid oak.’

  ‘All right,’ he replied, ‘so how about the other end of the chain? Bring that lamp closer, I want to see how it’s attached to the book.’

  Hesitation again; then the lamplight circle contracting, getting brighter as it got smaller. ‘See?’ His own voice, cockily triumphant. ‘All we’ve got to do is slit up through the spine and the chain falls off.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Xipho, as if he’d just suggested murder. ‘Borrowing it’s one thing, but you can’t go cutting it up, that’d be—’ Obviously she couldn’t conceive of how bad it would be. That bad.

  ‘Watch me.’ He couldn’t see, but could remember himself fishing one-handed in his sleeve for a little bone-handled folding knife; too clumsy with nerves to open it with just his fingernails, had to use both hands. ‘Keep the lamp steady, will you? This leather’s tough.’

  ‘You can’t—’

  (Now, he remembered, now we’re coming to the bad bit. I’d like to wake up now, please. Please? But the big black crow only shook its head: No, I want you to see this.)

  The little knife blade sliding, sawing through the crumbling, tough leather; suddenly a chink, as the chain falls away and clunks against the shelf. ‘Gotcha.’ His own hiss of victory: ‘Right, now let’s get out of here, quick—’

  He didn’t need to watch the dream, because he could remember it perfectly well; so he closed his eyes, but the dream carried on behind them. Now I’m going to grab the book with both hands and pull; but it’s wedged in tight between two big fat books, it doesn’t want to come and I’ve just slit down the spine, I’ve got nothing to pull it out by. So I grab hold as best I can, both forefingers and both thumbs, and I heave – and here’s the book coming out in a hurry, and me staggering back. Here’s me stumbling, bumping into Xipho; here’s Xipho dropping the lamp. Here’s where the lamp hits the floor, smashes. Here’s where burning oil flies everywhere – the book in my hands, the other books on the shelf. Cordo’s sleeve.

  ‘You fucking idiot.’ Gain, still under the impression that this is just a rotten accident, that the worst that can happen is that someone’ll come and find us out. ‘Now what’re we going to do?’

  Cordo, batting at his sleeve, but it’s too hot for that, burns his skin. He screams, can’t help it. Xipho, yelling ‘Shut up!’ Gain, trying to beat out the fire running up his friend’s arm with his own sleeve drawn down over his hand. Nobody (except me) appreciating the true gravity of the situation; not just Cordo’s sleeve, the whole fucking library is on fire—

  That cold, sensible ability to assess a state of affairs and understand what’s still possible, what’s no longer possible. No longer possible to put out the fire, save the library or– regrettably – save Cordo; remember, the massive library doors are locked, the key’s in the librarian’s lodgings on the other side of the Great Cloister – Cordo and the library and Xipho and Gain and me, all smothered and burned to ash before the librarian can get here with it, even if he’s running out of his front door now. As for scrambling back up the way they came, in through the skylight, impossible with a burning, screaming Cordo, but just possible without him – and then down the back wall into the deep shadows of the cloister, hidden from sight as everyone comes running with buckets and pails to fight the fire . . . Still possible (if Cordo is dispensed with) to save three out of four lives and get out of here, get back to the dormitory without getting found out.

  Analysis: Cordo good as dead already, library beyond saving, but the three of us still capable of effective salvation.

  ‘Come on,’ he remembered himself saying. ‘Back the way we came.’

  ‘We can’t’; Xipho, panicking. ‘We can’t get him up—’

  ‘I know. Leave him. Now.’

  Gain, lashing at Cordo with a burning book. Xipho likewise. Is it now too late to save them, too? Assessment: no, but action needed—

  He remembered what he did next. Not the little knife this time; the big one, the one they laughed at him for carrying stuck down the side of his boot. Smooth draw, up, taking care to avoid getting burnt. One thrust into Cordo’s side.

  ‘Now leave him,’ he heard himself say; and he remembered the looks on their faces—

  ‘You killed him.’ Xipho, stunned.

  ‘Yes.’ His own voice. ‘Now follow me.’

  Born leader, me, he remembered thinking; maybe the first time it’d occurred to him that that was what he was born to do, lead others out of mortal peril. Of course, it had been his idea to steal the book in the first place; but the objective had been worthwhile, that stupid chain had just been sheer bad luck.

  They’d hesitated, Gain and Xipho. But not for long. And the next day (by some miracle, none of them had tell-tale burns on their hands or faces and their burned clothes had been dumped over the wall into the cesspit, where self-respecting sword-monks would be too fastidious to think of looking) standing shocked, ashen-faced, gauntly silent, as Father Tutor broke the news to them: their friend Cordo, foolishly tried to break into the library, burned to death; the little Earwig sobbing (he’d refused to come with them, said it’d all end in tears; but at least he had the wit to keep his face shut in front of Father Tutor).

  At least, Father Tutor was saying, at least they’d managed to save most of the books. But not (Father Tutor didn’t say, but they knew) not the book, the one with all the answers in, unique, the only known copy, lost and gone irrecoverably for ever; memory consumed in fire, like the truth about Cordo—

  He woke up, and as he stirred the book slid off him and hit the floor. He’d been reading about how to fix files in their handles using powdered rosin, and had fallen asleep. Not the most enthralling book in the world.

  Outside – he poked his head round the shed door, wondering how long he’d been asleep. For the first time in days, people were moving about, even running. Curious, he couldn’t help thinking; the last he’d heard was that Galand Dev had finally admitted that the crack in the firebox couldn’t be mended, and so nothing could be done until the whole furnace was torn down and rebuilt. The furnace was still there, but now there was smoke pouring out of its chimney.

  Oh well, he thought. Might as well go to work.

  In the yard he ran into one of the old-timers, a small, shrivelled man who’d been hanging round Dui Chirra for decades. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ he asked, waving in the direction of the furnace.

  The old man laughed. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he said. ‘That short bugger’ (Galand Dev, presumably), ‘he’s only gone and ordered a fire laid in. Spenno’s shitting feathers but nobody’s listening to him.’

  ‘I thought he reckoned the whole thing’d cra
ck up if they lit a fire,’ Poldarn said.

  ‘He was wrong, then,’ the old man replied. ‘Around about midnight he had the firehouse boys in there slapping cowshit and clay in the crack; laid in a bit of a fire just to cure it, and now they reckon it’s good as new. Hasn’t blown up yet, so they must’ve fixed it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Poldarn said. ‘So, how far’ve they got?’

  ‘Fire’s been in full since dawn,’ the old man told him, ‘so it can’t be far off ready to pour. Moulds are all in, so they can go as soon as he likes.’

  Poldarn shrugged. ‘So why the hurry-up all of a sudden?’

  ‘Reckon the military’s given Muno a boot up the arse,’ the old man replied, with a grin. ‘This way, if the whole lot goes up, he can say it wasn’t his fault, he was only doing what he was told. But Spenno’s in there cussing a blue streak, so maybe it’ll work, at that.’

  ‘Right,’ Poldarn said. ‘Suppose I’d better go and see if I can make myself useful.’

  By the time he reached the furnace yard, there was a ring of men standing round watching. That they weren’t entirely convinced of Galand Dev’s success in patching the firebox was evident from the healthy amount of distance they were keeping. Poldarn nudged his way through to the front; he had an idea that even if the furnace blew, he’d probably be all right.

  Apparently he’d only just made it in time; because as soon as he reached the front of the crowd, Spenno (directing the operation from on top of a tall pile of scrap bronze) put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, someone pulled a lever, and a dazzlingly white stream started to trickle out of the side of the furnace tower. It crawled like a burning worm down a short clay gutter, and disappeared into the in-gate of the mould. Immediately a large round cloud of steam lifted into the air and hung over the mould pit, but there was no eruption or explosion of airborne white-hot spatter; that aside, it was like watching the fire-stream pouring out of the breach in the volcano above Haldersness.