K. Parker: The Proof House

‘All right.’ Venart hesitated for a moment, then continued, ‘When I was down at the Nails this afternoon, I did hear one thing about Ap’ Escatoy.’

‘Hm? Tell me in the morning.’

Venart shook his head. ‘Really,’ he said, ‘I should have mentioned it earlier, except of course it’s just a rumour, and I haven’t the faintest idea where it comes from or if there’s anything to it. I was waiting to see if Hido or Eseutz had come across it too, but apparently not.’

Vetriz yawned. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Ven,’ she said. ‘Stop hamming it up and tell me.’

‘All right.’ Venart looked away slightly. ‘What it is, someone was talking about the end of the siege, how it actually happened, and he said the man who finally broke through in the mines and brought down the wall was called Bardas Loredan.’

Vetriz didn’t turn round. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘I thought you should know,’ Venart said. ‘Well, there it is. Like I said, there’s absolutely no confirmation or anything like that, just a rumour.’

‘Of course,’ Vetriz replied. ‘Well, I’m off to bed. Good night.’

After that snippet of information it was inevitable that her dreams should return to the mines – she knew every inch of them by now, so that her knees and the palms of her hands ached at the thought of them – and the darkness and the stale air and the smell of clay and herbs. Once again she was crawling blind towards the source of the noise, the indecipherable confusion of steel and voices; this time she hoped she’d be able to pick out one voice among them, but that was completely unrealistic. Perhaps what she’d learned explained why she had to keep coming back here, but nothing else made sense. It was just a dream where she crawled along tunnels in the dark, and sometimes the roof caved in on her and sometimes it didn’t. Maybe she’d been right the first time, and it really was divine retribution for eating blue cheese just before going to sleep.

But this time she called out his name; though whether she was telling him she was coming to help him or asking to be rescued herself, she wasn’t quite sure. All night she slithered and stomped and crawled her way through the galleries and spurs of her dream, sometimes having to squeeze past and crawl over men who’d been dead a long time, sometimes people she’d known all her life, sometimes people she recognised for the first time; but the noise never got any closer and the voices stayed confused. She woke up sweating, the bedclothes twisted round her, the pillow on the floor where she’d thrown it after thanking it for its forbearance.

When Temrai opened his eyes, the light appalled him.

He shook his head like a wet dog, as if trying to get the dream out of his mind. Beside him, Tilden grunted and turned over, pulling the covers off his toes. She could sleep through anything, even the stifled yell he’d woken up with. If Tilden dreamed strange and terrible dreams, they were of casseroles spoiled by overcooking, or long-awaited tapestries which, when they finally arrived, didn’t go with the cushions after all. The thought made him smile, in spite of himself.

He sighed and sat up, carefully shifting his weight so as not to disturb her. In fact, the light was nothing more than a gentle smear of moonshine leaking through the smoke-hole; remarkable that it could have seemed so unbearably bright a moment ago.

Methodically, like a conscientious witness in front of the examining magistrate, he recalled the dream. He’d been in darkness, in some cave or tunnel underground; he’d been scrabbling frantically along, trying to get away from something, or someone, either the roof caving in or a man with a knife, and most of the time it had been both together. When his pursuer had caught up with him, and he’d felt a hand gathering his hair and pulling his head back to expose his throat to the cutting edge, he’d heard a voice thanking him, and another saying that the dead man was Sergeant Bardas Loredan, sacker of cities, bringer-down of walls, responsible for the deaths of thousands -

– Which was all wrong, of course. He, King Temrai the Great, was the sacker of cities and slayer of thousands; he was the one who’d brought down the walls of Perimadeia, after first burning to death all the thousands and hundreds of thousands of people trapped in there when he burst in. The wise and expensive Shastel doctor he’d sent for when the dreams he’d had since the fall of the City made him dangerously ill had told him that it was all perfectly natural, that it was hardly surprising that in his dreams he should put himself in the place of one of the people he’d burned to death; somehow, the wise and expensive doctor had left him with the impression that it was so normal as to be positively good for him, like drinking plenty of milk and taking regular exercise. He wondered what he’d have made of this new development; the caves, the man with the knife who was Bardas Loredan, the sacker of cities. He could work some of it out for himself; his guilt and self-loathing had made him identify himself with the most frightening and destructive man he’d ever encountered, so that in his mind he’d become Loredan, the ultimate degradation. No need to spend good money to be told that.

He yawned. Absolutely no chance of getting back to sleep; what he really wanted was company. Gently he slid off the bed, feeling with his toes for his soft felt shoes, pulled on his coat and crept out of the tent.

Who would be awake at this time of night? Well, the sentries, for a start (or else they were all in trouble) and the duty officer and the duty officer’s friend – there was a specific military technical term, but he hadn’t a clue what it was; basically, the job consisted of staying up all night playing draughts with the duty officer to keep him from falling asleep. Fairly soon the bakers would be up and about, starting off the next day’s bread. Almost certainly, somewhere in the camp, there’d be a bunch of young fools who’d stayed up all night drinking, and here and there a few men unable to sleep for worrying about whether they were going to die in the battle tomorrow. Quite likely he wasn’t the only man in twenty thousand who’d been turfed out of bed by a bad dream. A short walk through the streets of the camp would find him someone to talk to.

He yawned again. It was a warm night, with a smell of rain. To his surprise, he realised he was feeling hungry. What he really needed, in fact, wasn’t human companionship or someone to pour out his troubles to. What he really needed was a couple of white-flour pancakes smothered in sour cream and honey, preferably with a sprinkling of redcurrants and nutmeg. For a king spontaneously accorded the epithet Great by a devotedly loyal nation, that oughtn’t to be too much to ask.

He also had the advantage of inside knowledge. The best pancakes in the world, he happened to know, were made by Dondai the fletcher, a spry, toothless old man who spent his life pulling carefully selected feathers out of the wings of the increasingly resentful geese that formed the supplementary fletchings reserve. That was all he did. Someone else sorted the feathers into left side and right side; someone else again split them down the pith, trimmed them to shape and delivered them to the workers who actually served them to the arrowshafts with thin threads of waste sinew. When he wasn’t pulling feathers, though, Dondai made an awe-some pancake; and, being too old to need much sleep, there was a good chance he’d be awake right now.

Dondai’s tent wasn’t exactly hard to find, even in the middle of the night; all you had to do was follow the smell and sound of geese. Sure enough, at the entrance to the goose pen there was a small fire, beside which a man sat, with a furious goose struggling in his large, capable hands. The man had his back to Temrai, and it was only after he’d tapped him on the shoulder and the man had turned round that he realised it wasn’t the man he’d been looking for.