K Parker - Memory

'Serves them right,' someone else said. Nobody replied. By the looks of it, all of those who'd withdrawn from the battle in the sunken lane had fallen here; if this was an example of Brigadier Muno's work, he was good at what he did. A professional soldier, of course, would have other agendas beside simply staying alive and holding the field. In this instance, there must have been some advantage to be gained from wiping the enemy out practically to the last man-sending a message to the Amathy house, raising the morale of his own troops, letting off steam after the murder of the brigadier's nephew. Or maybe they'd just needed the boots.

The hell with sightseeing, Monach thought; time we were getting on. He gave the order to fall in. It was reluctantly obeyed (can't blame them, he thought; naturally they don't want to carry on in this direction, with the risk of running into the people who did this-not a nice neighbourhood) and they began the last leg of the journey to Dui Chirra; a pleasant, comfortable stroll down this excellently maintained government road.

An hour or so along the way, they were met by a single man on a rather fine black horse. Soldier; staff rather than front line, judging by his clean boots and crisp riding-cloak. He sat on his horse in the middle of the road like a sheriff's officer, as if Monach had got behind on the payments for the army and he'd come to repossess it. Whoever he was, he either had strong nerves or no imagination. In any event, Monach decided, that sort of confidence deserved a little respect, so he rode out ahead to meet him.

'Hello there,' the man said; calm, slightly cocky even. 'I'm Captain Olens, Imperial staff. Who the hell are you?'

Monach nodded politely. 'Pilgrims,' he said.

Captain Olens thought about that for a moment. 'Rather a lot of you for that,' he said.

'Safety in numbers,' Monach replied. 'I get the impression that the roads around here aren't as safe as they might be, no disrespect intended. Gangs of bandits and the gods know what else roaming around all over the place. After what happened to the prince the other day, it's like nobody's safe any more.'

'Quite so,' Captain Olens said. 'So, if you're pilgrims, where are you headed for? I never knew there was anything particularly holy around here.'

Monach raised his eyebrows. 'You surprise me,' he said. 'You mean, you haven't heard about the miracle?'

'Miracle,' Olens said. 'No, can't say I have.'

'Good heavens,' Monach said. 'Everybody's talking about it back home. Manifestation of the Divine Poldarn; quite possibly the Second Coming and the end of the world. Right here,' he added, 'at Dui Chirra.'

Olens looked at him. 'Are you sure you've got the right place?' he said. 'There's nothing at Dui Chirra except a rather scruffy inn and a run-down old foundry.'

'Poldarn in his aspect of the god of fire and rebirth,' Monach said. 'Where else would you look except a foundry?'

Olens shook his head. 'Sorry,' he said, 'but I think you boys have had a wasted trip. Nothing miraculous going on there, just a bunch of layabouts messing about in a clay pit. If you're looking for miracles, you might try heading south. I did hear they've got a two-headed calf out at Chosiva.'

'Two-headed calves aren't anything special,' Monach said, shifting his reins into his left hand. 'Once you've seen one, you've seen them all.' He nudged his horse with his heels, and as they moved forward he laid the back of his right hand on the hilt of his sword, snuggled in his sash like a baby. Captain Olens must have seen him, or else he was properly aware of his circle; he pulled his horse's head around and kicked savagely. Monach's draw cut the air he'd just left.

No point chasing after him; a fine government horse like that could outrun Monach's old bag of bones any day, and even if he did catch up with him, there was nothing to be gained from killing one staff officer in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if he had a similar conversation with the commander of those poor bastards we left at the crossroads, Monach thought.

'What was all that about?' someone asked him, when he'd rejoined the column.

Monach shrugged. 'Far as I could make out, I think the government doesn't want us to go to Dui Chirra. I get the impression it's not open to the public these days.'

'Fine,' somebody said. 'So what do we do now?'

'What we're told, of course,' Monach replied. 'Unless you like the idea of a meeting with the outfit that did over the Amathy house; in which case, you carry on. Personally, I'm going the other way.'

Silence; but Monach didn't care. He was, of course, going to go to Dui Chirra, because it was the only place he could think of where Xipho might sooner or later turn up. Taking this collection of misfits with him was clearly out of the question, but it had never been anything more than a means to an end, an instrument to be used. If he'd wanted to be a soldier, he'd have joined the army.

'I was desperate,' someone said. He recognised the voice, couldn't quite put a name to it. Desperate had been the in word in fourth grade, enjoying a brief vogue in between howling and essential. 'I thought the old bastard was going to have a fit and drop dead on the spot. Boy, he was absolutely frothing.'

Frothing helped narrow down the time-span even further; it had been Cordomine's pet word for the first half of Hilary term in fourth grade, and they'd reluctantly adopted it for a week or so, until the sixth-graders started saying steaming, setting a trend that nobody dared flout. So, he asked himself, what happened in the fourth, fifth and sixth weeks of Hilary term in fourth grade? He had an idea he ought to know, but he couldn't quite remember. Meanwhile, the old stone crow carried on leering at him from its place on top of the pillar (he could feel it, even with his eyes shut) which could only mean they were in the chapter house at Deymeson, waiting in their appointed places for Father Abbot to lead in the faculty for the start of Traditional Prayers; in which case, it had to be fifth week, because 'So,' someone else interrupted, 'did you see them? What do they look like? Any good?'

The first speaker paused to consider. 'The middle one's a solid seven,' he said. 'The eldest-she's the one who's married, to that captain in the guards-she's just a milky old doe. The youngest, though-' Words apparently failed the speaker at this point.

'Hot?' The other voice prompted.

'As a stove-pipe,' the first voice confirmed. 'Like, so hot you could fry eggs.'

Ah, Ciartan thought, now we know where we are. Of course, there was no excuse for not remembering this day of all days. He opened his eyes and looked round.

The first speaker, as he should have known all along, was Elaos Tanwar; the second voice, Gain Aciava. Beside him, looking distinctly frosty, was Xipho Dorunoxy-she always wore that pained, constipated expression when the boys were discussing girls, particularly when they started using the scale of one to ten. Without looking round, she said, 'You'd better not let Turvo hear you talking about his sisters like that.'

Elaos grinned. 'You're just jealous,' he said; and ducked, just in time, as Xipho tried to reach round the back of Gain's head to stick a finger in his eye. Sword-monk reflexes.

'Do you bloody well mind?' Gain snapped; then he too had to dodge out of the way as Xipho tried again. Elaos, of course, was grinning like a monkey.

'I can't believe it,' he heard himself say, 'Turvo having sisters who're half decent-looking. It's hard to imagine a female version of Turvo. Just as well,' he added, 'I missed breakfast.'

'Cordo says they take after their mother's side,' Gain replied. 'Course, he knows the family. His lot know everybody, bloody social climbers.'

'Where is Cordo, anyhow?' the Earwig asked, from his place next to Xipho, on the left. (What was the Earwig's regular name? Couldn't remember; he'd been the Earwig since before Ciartan had come to Deymeson. Even the faculty called him that, so rumour had it.)