‘Wrong. I became an Island citizen the moment I started owning property there. So long as I’ve got a credit balance at Athli’s bank, I’m a genuine, solid-gold citizen. Besides, you don’t think foreign trash like me are allowed to join the Order just like that, do you?’
Theudas shrugged. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘that’s beside the point. And yes, I suppose you’re right. I was panicking. Sorry. It’s just,’ he added, grimacing as if he’d just burned himself, ‘I hate these people. I don’t think anything’ll ever change that, not after what I saw when I was a kid. You weren’t there, Gannadius, you didn’t see…’
‘True,’ Gannadius replied firmly, ‘for which I am duly thankful. And I’m not saying don’t hate them; but as long as we’re their guests, do it quietly. All right? That way, we stand a fair chance of getting put on a ship and sent home.’
Theudas hung his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘And I know, I’m not fit to be out on my own.’ He lifted his head and smiled. ‘Just as well I’ve got you to look after me, really.’
‘Works both ways,’ Gannadius replied, lying back and closing his eyes. ‘I don’t know how far I’d have got after the wreck without you, but you could probably have measured the distance with a very short piece of string.’ He breathed out, making himself relax. ‘If you want to make yourself useful,’ he went on, ‘go and look for that nice lady doctor, see if you can get her to send a message to the coast, find out if any of our ships are expected, and if so, when. Try to be nice, will you? Don’t call her a blood-soaked murderer or anything like that; you know the drill.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
When the boy had gone, Gannadius closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. Instead, he found himself back in the awkward part of the scenario, the bit where the plains warrior was climbing in through the window of his room, marking the sill with blood.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ the warrior said.
‘I don’t know,’ Gannadius replied. ‘I don’t want to be here.’
‘Tough.’ He was squeezing his broad shoulders against the window-frame, trying to force it away from the wall so he could get through. He looked strong enough to be able to do it. ‘You belong here,’ he added with a grin.
‘No I don’t.’
‘I beg to differ. You should have been here. And now, here you are. Better late than never.’
Gannadius tried to get out of bed, but his legs weren’t working. ‘I’m not really here,’ he protested. ‘This is just a dream.’
‘We’ll soon see,’ said the warrior, and grunted with the effort. There was a sound of wood cracking. ‘The way I see it, this is where you are, and where you’ll always be. Properly speaking.’
Reaching behind him, Gannadius caught hold of the headboard and tried to pull himself backwards. ‘I’m just making you say that,’ he said, ‘because I feel guilty. You don’t even exist.’
‘You watch your mouth,’ the soldier replied. ‘I exist all right. Give me a minute and I’ll prove it to you.’
With an extreme effort, Gannadius pulled himself up into a sitting position and tried to swing his legs out of the bed, but they were completely numb.
‘And besides,’ the soldier went on, ‘I’m telling you the truth, aren’t I? Here you are, back on Perimadeian soil, where you belong. The truth is you never really left. And you know it.’
‘Go away. I don’t believe in you.’
The soldier laughed. ‘Your prerogative,’ he said. ‘But you’re wrong, and you can’t kid yourself. You know too much about it. Agrianes’ On Shadow and Substance, book three, chapter six, sections four to seven; I only know about it because it’s right here in your mind for anybody to see.’ He heaved and the central pillar of the window-frame tore loose. ‘In which Agrianes postulates that whenever there’s a serious dichotomy between perceived reality and the course of events that best accommodates the workings of the Principle, the latter interpretation is to be preferred in the absence of positive evidence to the contrary. In other words, proof. You prove you’re not here and I might just let you go. Otherwise-’
‘All right,’ Gannadius whispered. ‘What kind of proof do you need?’
‘Proof-’ the soldier repeated; and became Doctor Felden, the nice lady he’d just sent Theudas to find. She had a worried frown on her face.
‘Are you all right?’ she said.
Gannadius looked her in the eyes. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.
‘It never rains,’ said the courier sadly, awkwardly holding a sack over his head with one hand while grasping the reins in the other. ‘Well, once or twice a year, and then it rains, if you see what I mean. Not like this.’
Bardas, who had no sack, pulled his collar round his neck. ‘I’d say this is rain all right,’ he said.
The courier shook his head. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘Well, yes, obviously it’s rain; but it’s not the sort of rain you get here when it’s raining. Comes down in sheets, it does; before you know it, the coach is full of water. Can’t see ten yards in front of your nose. This is just – well, ordinary rain, like we used to have in Colleon.’
Bardas shivered. The ordinary rain was running down his forehead into his eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is rain like we used to get it in the Mesoge; about a third of the year, all spring and a bit of the late autumn. Bloody good weather for staying indoors in.’
‘We’re here,’ the courier said. ‘Ap’ Calick. Where you’re headed, remember?’
‘What? Oh, yes. Sorry.’ Bardas blinked rain out of his eyes, but all he could see was the vague, rain-blurred shape of a big, square, grey building in the valley below the hill they’d just come round. ‘So that’s Ap’ Calick?’ he said, for no real reason.
‘That?’ The courier laughed. ‘Gods, no. Ap’ Calick proper’s another half-day on up the road. That’s Ap’ Calick armoury. Quite different.’
‘Ah.’ Bardas let go of his collar just long enough to draw a sodden cuff across his eyes. It didn’t make much difference to the way it looked; a dim grey block, precisely square. ‘That’s all right, then,’ he said.
‘Dismal bloody place,’ the courier went on. ‘Mate of mine was posted there once; nothing there, he told me. Nothing to do; miserable little canteen where they water the booze. No women except for the godawful specimens who make the chain-mail, they’ve got hands like farriers’ rasps, and talk about strong-’ He shuddered, tilting rain out of a fold in his sack on to Bardas’ knee. ‘And the dust,’ he went on, ‘the dust’s the real killer. A month in there, you’ll be spitting up enough grit to polish a breastplate. No wonder they all die.’
‘You don’t say,’ Bardas replied.
‘That’s if the noise doesn’t drive you crazy first,’ the courier went on. ‘Three shifts a day, see, clack, clack, clack all the damn time. If you’re really lucky, you’ll go deaf. The heat’s another killer,’ the courier continued. ‘I mean to say, typical provincial office, builds the biggest forge in the west in the middle of a bloody desert. You get blokes going crazy because they drink the brine.’
‘The what?’
‘Brine,’ the courier repeated. ‘Salt water, for tempering in. They get so thirsty in there on a hot day, they drink the salt water out of the tempering vats and go crazy and die. Three or four of them, every year. They know it’ll kill them, but after a bit they just don’t care.’
Bardas decided it was time to change the subject. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said. ‘About tempering in salt water.’
The courier shook his head. ‘Temper in all sorts of things,’ he said, ‘depending on what they’re making. Salt water, oil, lard, plain water; molten lead they use for some things; or is that annealing? Can’t remember. My mate didn’t talk about it much. Made him depressed even thinking about the place.’
‘Is that so?’ Bardas said.
A few hundred yards further on, Bardas could hear the noise. It was just as the courier had said, the clack-clacking of countless hammers, all out of sync, like massive raindrops on a slate roof. ‘Worse inside,’ the courier informed him. ‘Big rooms, see; the sound bounces off the walls and the ceiling. You can always tell a man who’s worked in one of these places, he doesn’t talk, he shouts.’