K Parker: Memory

Something settled on Poldarn's nose, making him jump up; a moth, or possibly a big mosquito. The sky was lighter now. Time had passed, so presumably he'd fallen asleep after all. He discovered that he'd been lying on his left arm, and his hand was cramped up and painful. If that was dawn coming up in the corner of the sky, the coach would be here in three hours-reasonable enough, if it stopped overnight in Iacchosia and started out again at first light. He could remember Iacchosia quite clearly, having been through there a couple of months previously. A poxy little town, no big deal, entirely unmemorable. He propped himself up on his right elbow and looked round. The old man, Corvolo, was still fast asleep. There was no sign of the young man.

He woke Corvolo up and told him. Corvolo offered no explanation, but didn't seem unduly concerned. Colliers were like that, he said, especially the young ones; suddenly they'd take it into their heads to move on, and off they'd go, without collecting their stuff, as often as not, or even their pay. Probably he'd decided to try his luck at one of the other camps further down the line-not that it'd do him any good, all the camps were pretty much alike, but that was colliers for you. Why, when he'd been a kid…

The mail coach arrived before Corvolo had a chance to tell Poldarn the complete history of his life, which was probably just as well. Corvolo had an amazing memory and could recall trivial conversations from thirty years ago, apparently word for word. If the coach had been even a quarter of an hour late, Poldarn was sure he'd have murdered the old man.

The coach only stopped for a few moments; just long enough for the postillion to hurl a cloth bag off the box, and for Poldarn to grab the running-rail and hoist himself aboard. As for it being a coach, that was an exaggeration; it was nothing but an ordinary cart, slightly longer and broader than the basic farm or carrier's pattern but just as bare and uncomfortable. Apparently, the Empire didn't believe in wasting good hardening steel on cart springs, Poldarn concluded, when it could be used for making spear blades; there were two soldiers to guard the mail, just in case.

'In case of what?' Poldarn asked the driver, who appeared not to hear him this time.

Fine, Poldarn thought. Not so long ago, he'd had a short but exciting career as a courier, working for the Falx house back in the Bohec valley. Two trips; and on both occasions he'd made it back alive but the driver hadn't. He gave up trying to make conversation with the mail driver. If past experience was anything to go by, there wouldn't be much point trying to get to know him.

Instead, he exchanged a few words with the other passengers. One of them was just a crazy old woman; she was dressed in a man's shabby coat several sizes too big for her, and her lanky grey hair was mostly crammed under a cracked old leather travelling hat. On her lap she nursed a small wicker basket as if it was a newborn baby. She started to tell Poldarn a very involved-sounding story about her younger son's progress in the district excise office in Falcata, but fortunately she fell asleep in the middle of a sentence.

The other passenger was a man. He was wrapped up in more coat than the slightly chilly air-called for, with the collar drawn tight round his chin and the hood down over his eyes. This gave him an almost comically furtive look, like a caricature of a spy, or of the young prince in exile on the run from the usurper's guards. When Poldarn asked him who he was, however, he replied that he was a travelling salesman on his way to Scieza. His particular line of business, he added, was dental prosthetics.

'What?'

The salesman grinned under his hood. 'False teeth,' he said.

Poldarn frowned, puzzled. 'How do you mean, false?' he asked.

For a moment the salesman wilted, as if the thought of explaining it all again was too much for him. But he pulled himself together and launched into what was clearly a well-worn sales pitch. Are you missing a tooth or two? he asked dramatically. Are you one ivory chorister short of a full choir? Do you find excuses not to smile, because of the ugly secret your lips protect? If so, help is at hand, because 'No, actually,' Poldarn said. 'I've got pretty good teeth, as it happens. Look.' And he smiled.

'Fine,' said the salesman tetchily. 'Good for you. Now, if it so happened that you weren't so almighty fortunate in that respect, our company would undoubtedly be able to help you out and improve your quality of life to a degree you wouldn't have thought possible. Our individually made, twenty-four-carat fine replacement gold teeth can be fitted painlessly in minutes, and are guaranteed to last you a lifetime of normal and reasonable use. For only thirty-five quarters, we undertake to replace any standard-size front or back tooth-'

'Oh,' Poldarn said, 'I see. Hang on, though-thirty-five quarters for a little stub of gold? That's a lot of money.'

The salesman scowled at him. 'Cheap at half the price,' he grunted. 'I mean, twice. Well, anyway, there's no point telling you any more because, like you said, you don't need one. Though,' he added half-heartedly, 'that's no reason why you shouldn't join the long list of satisfied customers who've discovered that a Collendis Brothers gold tooth is an outstandingly impressive fashion statement.' He stopped, and leaned forward a little in his seat. 'I know you from somewhere, don't I?'

This time, it was Poldarn's turn to feel weary. 'Maybe,' he said. 'I don't recognise you, but that's nothing to go by.'

'Oh?'

Poldarn shook his head. 'I have a truly appalling memory,' he said. 'Straight up, I do. Basically, I can't remember anything that's happened to me since about three years ago.'

Instead of pulling a sceptical face at him, the salesman nodded. 'Accident, was it? Bump on the head, something like that?'

'More or less,' said Poldarn, mildly impressed.

'Same thing happened to a cousin of mine,' the salesman said. 'Got kicked in the head by an ox. This was before I was born, mind,' he added, as if to assure Poldarn that he had an alibi. 'Anyhow, he couldn't remember spit, not even his name or where he lived, and then quite suddenly, twenty years later, he was walking up the street in the village where he used to live, and someone bumped into him and without thinking he said, "Mind where you're going, can't you, Blepsio, you idiot"-something like that, anyway, I'm making the name up, of course-and then, wham! It all came back to him in a flood.'

'Really,' Poldarn said. 'That's encouraging.'

The salesman grinned. 'You'd think so,' he replied. 'But my cousin wasn't too pleased. He rushed home, found his wife had declared him legally dead, married someone else, and the new bloke had mortgaged the farm fifteen ways to buggery and then run off to Torcea with the money. Still hadn't sorted out all the legal bullshit when he died. Whereas before he started remembering stuff, he was nicely settled as a wheelwright and was doing quite well.'

Poldarn looked away. 'Funny you should say that,' he said. 'You see, it's crossed my mind that maybe, if I did get my memory back, I'd find out that my old life wasn't really worth going back to; and, like your cousin, I'm just starting to get settled, I'm quite happy as I am. So-'

The salesman nodded. 'So if I suddenly remember where I've seen you before, and tell you who you used to be, you'd rather I kept my gob shut and didn't tell you.' He pulled a face. 'Just goes to show, really, what you'd assume people want and what they really want aren't necessarily the same. Actually,' he added, looking sideways at Poldarn under his hood. 'I seem to recall there's a precept of religion that says the same thing, only neater.'

Poldarn nodded. 'Kindness is for enemies,' he said; and then looked up sharply. 'Precepts of religion,' he repeated.