Memory

'I see,' he said. 'So, what are you planning to do with me?'

She smiled. Not affectionately. 'I'm going to keep you,' she said.

At some point, they made love, in the huge bedroom of his house. Afterwards, she rolled away and lay with her back to him. He drifted into sleep, and the river mud welled up around his face. He could hear voices above him; familiar, in a way.

'So,' said one of them, 'you're back. Welcome home.'

'You haven't won,' the other voice replied. 'You tricked me.'

'Yes, didn't I just? But the result's the same. Here you are, back with me where you belong. That's all that matters.'

'You're wrong.' The other voice was quiet, determined. 'You've got me here, and maybe you can force me to stay, but you can't stop me hating you. And I always will, now that I've seen what it could be like, out there-'

'Balls. Now you're back, it won't be a week before you slide back into the old routine. We were made for each other, you know that.'

'No.' The voice was almost shouting now. 'You only ever made me do what you wanted by threatening me, and now I'm here, the worst's happened. What are you going to threaten me with now? There's nothing left.'

Laughter. 'You really think so?'

'You're bluffing.'

'You know that's not true. Listen, I still have a few bits and pieces up my sleeve. I could tell you, and then you'd know; and once you knew, you could never even try and run away again, because there wouldn't be any point. But I want to be nice, I don't want to tell you if I can help it. After all, the only thing I've ever wanted is for you to be happy.'

'I don't believe you. I think the worst you ever had was what I've already found out. After all, nothing could be worse than that, apart from some of the things I've done since I left you. Eyvind and Choizen-'

More laughter. 'Funny you should mention them. You really think you did those things on your own. I was there, you just didn't see me. I'm always with you, wherever you go. You might as well try running away from your shadow.'

Pause; the other voice was choosing its words carefully. 'There's no shadows in the darkness,' it said. 'It takes light to make shadows. I've been in places darker than you, but I didn't become you. Because I knew that no matter what I did, at least I was free of you-'

'You burned your best friend to death. You killed your own son.' The voice was mocking. 'What is it they say about imitation?'

'Those things were your fault.'

'No. You killed Eyvind because you thought it was the right thing to do; and maybe it was, in that place, at that time. You killed Choizen in self-defence, because you tried to rob him on the road and he fought back. You were there on the road because you'd been laid off at the foundry, and Chiruwa fooled you into going highway robbing with him, and when you found out what he was really planning to do, you weren't bothered enough by it to walk away. You killed Carey, the fieldhand, mostly just because he was there. I had nothing to do with any of that. And there's all the soldiers, and the Deymeson monks, poor fools who had the bad luck to cross your path at the wrong time.' Dry laughter. 'And the joke is, that's nothing at all compared with what you've set in motion, just because you felt sorry for a crazy old woman in a broad-brimmed hat. But I could still tell you something about us-about me-that'd hurt you very much; you'll survive knowing, but it won't make you like yourself any more. Truth is,' the voice went on, 'I know you better than you do; so it follows that I know what's best for you, and for me too. Trust me.'

'No.'

'Trust me,' the voice said urgently, 'and Xipho and the Earwig won't have to die. Together we can save them. On your own, you wouldn't know how.'

Pause. 'I'd rather let them die than come back with you.'

'There.' Total triumph in that voice. 'You see, I've won. You always were your own worst enemy.'

'Apart from you.'

'Me? You love me-'

'I love you,' he heard her say.

He couldn't help yawning, having just woken up. She laughed.

'I didn't mean to yawn,' he said. 'What time is it?'

'Late,' she replied. 'Come on, get up. You always were useless in the mornings.'

He grunted, rolled off the bed and looked for his clothes, which had vanished. In their place 'What the hell are these?' he asked.

'Get dressed and don't argue.'

He held up the shirt. 'You must be joking,' he said. 'There's enough brass thread in this to make a Poldarn's Flute.'

She clicked her tongue. 'That's not brass,' she said.

'You mean-Oh.' Explained why the shirt was so heavy. He'd come across lighter mail shirts. The trousers were the same, only more so. Even the shoes 'Whose clothes are these, anyway?' he asked.

'Yours.'

He was about to argue when he caught the faint smell of cedarwood. Keeps the moths at bay, he'd heard somewhere. 'Mine,' he repeated.

She nodded. 'Of course, they're three years out of fashion-you're going to look like a clown, but that can't be helped. I've ordered you a whole new wardrobe, but these things take time.'

'I used to wear things like this,' he said; and he realised what a stranger he'd become to himself. 'Where are we going, then, if I need to dress up?'

She gave him a long, steady look. 'Dinner,' she said. 'With my father.'

Chapter Eighteen

'Hello, Earwig,' Cleapho said. 'Long time, no see.'

Monach lifted his head. He could still see-just about-out of his left eye. His right didn't seem to want to open any more.

'Cordo,' he said. His voice sounded dreadful. 'What're you doing here?'

Cleapho laughed. 'I won,' he said. 'The battle. Come on, you must remember the battle. Or have you lost your memory, like Ciartan?'

That didn't strike Monach as particularly funny, but Cleapho laughed noisily. 'What happened?' Monach said. 'Last thing I remember-' He paused; he wasn't sure what the last thing he remembered was.. 'The Flutes,' he said. 'They failed-'

Cleapho was nodding sagely. 'Of course,' he said. 'They were supposed to. It's called sabotage, though that's rather a feeble term for such an intricate exercise.' He narrowed his eyes. 'You must've been quite close to one of them,' he said. 'The doctors tell me it's a miracle you're still alive.'

Monach could remember the heat of the air as it hit him in the face like a hammer.

'Ironic, really,' Cleapho went on. 'No, don't try to move,' he added, as Monach made an effort to sit up. 'You'll only start the bleeding off again.'

Monach hadn't taken any interest in his surroundings, his entire attention having been focused on Cordo, his old friend. 'I'm on a ship,' he said in surprise.

'That's right,' Cleapho said. 'You're being taken to Torcea. We should be there in a couple of hours. You've been asleep for a very long time.'

Other things were claiming Monach's attention now-pain most of all. He hurt all over. 'How bad is it?' he asked, as calmly as he could.

'Pretty bad,' Cleapho replied. 'You're still basically in one piece-Your left leg's a jigsaw puzzle and I think you lost a couple of fingers on your left hand, but that's all. Your right eye's pretty comprehensively wrecked, you lost all the skin off your face and arms, and you've got a lot of internal damage: broken ribs, that sort of thing.'

Monach was surprised at how calm he felt. 'Am I going to make it?' he asked.

'Well, now.' Cleapho almost smiled. 'We're all going to die sooner or later. But as far as the sawbones can make out, none of it's what they call life-threatening. Are you in a lot of pain?' Monach was about to say 'No, I'm fine,' but this was Cordo he was talking to. 'Yes,' he admitted, 'everything hurts like hell.'

'Sorry about that,' Cleapho replied; and Monach remembered. Sabotage.

'The Flutes were supposed to fail?' he asked.