K Parker - Memory

'Just a moment,' Poldarn interrupted. 'Feron Amathy's still very much alive, and Tazencius is the Emperor. Did something go wrong?'

Copis shook her head. 'Not at all,' she said. 'The beauty of Father Tutor's strategic planning was its economy. He had a genius for reusing the same pieces, instead of having to get rid of them and bring on new ones. Both Tazencius and Feron Amathy were-how shall I put it, they were adapted, or put on the right track; we altered them, so they'd be useful rather than harmful. Like taking a broken piece of scrap iron and making a useful tool out of it. Oh, I'm not saying we made them into good people,' she added, with a wry grin. 'Far from it. Feron Amathy really is the most evil man in the world, there's no possible doubt about that; and Tazencius is just plain stupid. But it's like taking a weapon away from an enemy and using it to defend yourself. The weapon remains the same, but the use it's put to changes. They're now weapons for us, rather than against us. Like,' she added, 'the Deymeson Order, which I helped destroy. It'd become a liability rather than an asset.'

Poldarn couldn't help noticing the look of disquiet on Gain's face while she was saying all this; and he's used to her, he thought. And me,' he said. 'What am I, right now?'

'Oh, an asset, like you've always been. Isn't that what I've been trying to tell you?'

He decided to ignore that, too. 'I get the impression,' he said, 'from what you've said, and Gain too, that this Father Tutor's dead now. Is that right?'

She nodded. 'He died before Deymeson fell, if that's what you were thinking.'

Poldarn shook his head. 'Couldn't care less,' he said. 'But if he's gone, who's making all the decisions now? Who's in charge-?'

At that, Copis smiled; warmly, for her. 'You'll be meeting him shortly,' she said. 'Of course, you've met him before. You'll know him when you see him.'

'But you can't tell me his name?'

'I could,' Copis replied. 'But then it wouldn't be a surprise.'

'This is it, then,' Monach said doubtfully.

It lay across two sturdy oak trestles in the small shed behind the charcoal store: a seven-foot shiny yellow log with a hole down one end, as though the pith of the tree had rotted out. The other end was rounded, and halfway along its length two pegs stuck out, like the stubs of trimmed branches. Somewhere, Monach decided, between a very long, thin bell and a giant parsnip.

'That's it,' Spenno replied gloomily. 'Course, the bloody thing might blow itself to bits as soon as we touch it off. No way of knowing till we try it.'

Monach knelt down and peered into the mouth of the hole; as he did so, an uncomfortable thought occurred to him. 'It hasn't got anything in it, has it?' he asked, standing up quickly and stepping to one side. 'The volcano dust, or whatever you call it.'

'Not likely.' Spenno grinned. 'We're storing that right over the other side of the compound, well away from the main buildings. Tricky stuff, see: one hot ember from the fire and it'd go up like the Second Coming. They'd have to get the surveyors in from Torcea to redraw the maps.'

Monach didn't like the thought of that. 'So,' he said warily, 'when are you going to try it out?'

'Tomorrow,' Spenno replied gravely, 'first thing. Assuming it's not raining. That's a problem with the bugger, it won't go off in the wet. We're working on that,' he added hopefully.

'Oh,' Monach said. It occurred to him that a mighty superweapon that wouldn't work in the rain was going to be a fat lot of use to anybody in Tulice, where it never seemed to stop.

'The volcano dust's got to be dry, see,' Spenno explained. 'If it gets wet it just turns into a filthy black mess, like mud, and when you stick the match in it, it just sits there.'

Oh well, Monach thought; let's hope Brigadier Muno chooses the one dry day in the whole year to attack. Otherwise we're screwed. 'If it all goes all right tomorrow,' he said, 'how soon will the next batch be ready?'

'Couldn't say,' Spenno replied. 'We've only got the one lathe working at the moment, but we should have three more up and running in a day or so. Slight technical problems with the drill heads,' he explained. 'Clown of a blacksmith made 'em too brittle-they're cracking up like glass. But we'll get there.'

Monach went back to his quarters in the drawing office, splashing through the deep muddy pools in the yard on the way. Why hadn't the stupid bastard mentioned before that the idiot bloody things didn't work in the wet? Did they know about this minor drawback in Torcea, where they were counting on the Flutes to save the Empire from the raiders? Maybe if he sneaked out quietly and went and told Brigadier Muno that the Flutes were effectively useless everywhere except in the heart of the Morevich Desert, he'd realise that they weren't worth having and go away; in which case, Monach thought with a grin, I could stay here and learn how to make bells. Nice cheerful things, bells, and they chime even when it's pissing down.

He hadn't realised how tired he was until he lay down, boots still on, wet shirt still clinging to his back and shoulders. He couldn't find the strength to stand up again and take them off-chances were that Brigadier Muno would get him before pneumonia did, so it was all as broad as it was long. He closed his eyes Someone was standing over him, just grazing the edge of his circle. He sat up and said, 'Who's there?'

It was only Runting, the quartermaster. 'Guess what,' he was saying, in a bemused voice. 'You've got a letter.'

'A what?' Monach said, as if Runting had told him there was a dragon waiting for him in the grain store.

'A letter. Addressed to you. Here.' He was holding out a brass tube the size of a medium leek. 'Sentry on the north gate found it a minute or so ago, as he was doing his rounds. Swears blind it wasn't there when he went round earlier.'

'Oh.' Monach was fumbling with the tinderbox; bloody damp, getting into everything. 'Here,' he said, 'you do this. I never could start a fire to save my life.'

Runting gave him the tube and fiddled with the tinder-box, until at last he contrived to get a lamp going. 'Well,' he said, 'aren't you going to open it?'

Monach thought for a moment. 'I can't see why not,' he said cautiously. Strange, he thought, very strange; time was, I used to spend an hour every morning just opening and reading letters. Now I'm handling this thing like I'm expecting it to jump out and bite me. 'All right, thanks.' He hesitated. Runting wasn't showing any signs of going away. 'I'll give you a shout if I need you.'

'Oh. Right.' Runting shrugged and went out. With his thumbnail, Monach cracked the small blob of hard red wax and fished out a little scrap of paper. He recognised the shape: the flyleaf, torn out of a flat-bound book. The handwriting was thin, spindly. Familiar. EarwigYou must be wondering what's going on, but don't worry, I'll explain everything when I see you. In case you've been worrying, Xipho's just fine, and so's the kid; he's with me now, in fact, trying to eat one of my shoes. The woman I've got looking after him reckons he's teething, whatever that means.

I hope I didn't startle you too much the other night. Anyway, as you've probably already figured out for yourself, I'm not nearly as dead as they'd have you believe. Now, to business. If that clown Spenno's finally pulled his finger out, the volcano-bell things should be about ready by now. Whatever happens, I don't want Muno or anyone else from the government side getting their sticky paws on them. If the worst comes to the worst, get rid of the bloody things, destroy them. This is important. Right?

Can't say any more now; I'll explain everything when I see you.

Take care,

Cordo

PS Don't you dare let Spenno see this letter, or he'll sulk. Hell of an engineer, but a bloody prima donna, just like Fabricius (remember him from sixth grade? Must be something about working with metal, probably the fumes or whatever). Anyhow, you can keep him sweet, I'm sure. You always were a bloody crawler, Wig.