this knack of being able to pull out a sword and kill people. And Aciava said it himself, they had some reason to hate me. So Iâd have to be crazy to believe them, wouldnât I?
He remembered an old joke: I wouldnât believe you if you told me my own name.
He shook his head, like a carthorse bothered by flies. It all came down to whether he wanted to know. What could there be in the past that he could conceivably want back? Like the old character-assessment question, what one thing would you save if your house was on fire? It stood to reason, heâd been three years away from his past and there hadnât been any one thing heâd felt the lack of. He could sleep in ditches and eat stale bread and raw meat; the state of his clothes or his boots didnât seem to bother him; luxury and comfort and pleasure werenât worth going back for, he could manage without them just fine. Company, now; in the past three years heâd had two lovers and a friend. Hadnât worked out too well; the lovers heâd lost to the past, but the friendâ He remembered what it had felt like, that very short time when heâd been able to do what everybody else back in the old country could do: hear other peopleâs thoughts. It had been while he stood outside the house at Ciartanstead, while Eyvind, his friend, was burning to death inside.
I killed him; and that wasnât the pastâs fault. That was just some quarrel over some trees.
Indeed; that had been a bad business, and in consequence heâd left the old country and come back here, so as to transfer Eyvindâs murder from his present to his past, like a banker moving money from current account to deposit. The past would be useful if you could use it like that, as a place where you could bury dead bodies, shovelling this convenient loss of memory into the grave to cover up their faces. Thatâs not what the past was for, though. It was where the present went to rot down, so you could use it to grow the future.
He smiled; nice piece of imagery, but it was too glib to fool anyone.
What harm could it do? After all, just because I know about the past doesnât mean Iâve got to go back there. And besides, itâll make it easier to avoid the bad stuff if I know what Iâm avoiding.
That made Poldarn wonder if there was a little tiny lawyer lurking maggot-like deep inside his brain. It was a specious argument, designed to lure him into a trap. Yes, but.
Yes, but if Iâd known then what I know now, Copis couldnât have played that dirty trick on me. And what about the sword-monks at Deymeson? If I find out about my past, they wonât find it so easy the next time.
Assuming this isnât the next time.
Big assumption, given that the source of the information appeared to be a sword-monk. If he was going to believe anything one of them told him ever again, he might as well go the whole hog, shave his scalp and have the word IDIOT tattooed on it in bright purple letters. Except, of course â what if they were the only people who knew the truth and could tell him? In that case, better not to know?
Clearly, he told himself, there are arguments on both sides, like an ambush in a narrow pass. Now, if he wanted something really scary to occupy his mind with, how about the ease with which this joker had found him? He hadnât come to this godforsaken place because he liked mud and fog, or because heâd always wanted to be a bell-founder when he grew up. If someone could find him hereâ
Assuming anybody wanted to; anybody else, apart from the incredibly annoying man who claimed his name was Aciava; who apparently wanted him for something, and had been prepared to tell him what it was (assuming he hadnât been lying)â
Fine. Poldarnâs head was spinning, and he hadnât even stopped long enough to drink much of the free beer. Which was another way of saying the same thing. He was going to be
He remembered an old joke: I wouldnât believe you if you told me my own name.
He shook his head, like a carthorse bothered by flies. It all came down to whether he wanted to know. What could there be in the past that he could conceivably want back? Like the old character-assessment question, what one thing would you save if your house was on fire? It stood to reason, heâd been three years away from his past and there hadnât been any one thing heâd felt the lack of. He could sleep in ditches and eat stale bread and raw meat; the state of his clothes or his boots didnât seem to bother him; luxury and comfort and pleasure werenât worth going back for, he could manage without them just fine. Company, now; in the past three years heâd had two lovers and a friend. Hadnât worked out too well; the lovers heâd lost to the past, but the friendâ He remembered what it had felt like, that very short time when heâd been able to do what everybody else back in the old country could do: hear other peopleâs thoughts. It had been while he stood outside the house at Ciartanstead, while Eyvind, his friend, was burning to death inside.
I killed him; and that wasnât the pastâs fault. That was just some quarrel over some trees.
Indeed; that had been a bad business, and in consequence heâd left the old country and come back here, so as to transfer Eyvindâs murder from his present to his past, like a banker moving money from current account to deposit. The past would be useful if you could use it like that, as a place where you could bury dead bodies, shovelling this convenient loss of memory into the grave to cover up their faces. Thatâs not what the past was for, though. It was where the present went to rot down, so you could use it to grow the future.
He smiled; nice piece of imagery, but it was too glib to fool anyone.
What harm could it do? After all, just because I know about the past doesnât mean Iâve got to go back there. And besides, itâll make it easier to avoid the bad stuff if I know what Iâm avoiding.
That made Poldarn wonder if there was a little tiny lawyer lurking maggot-like deep inside his brain. It was a specious argument, designed to lure him into a trap. Yes, but.
Yes, but if Iâd known then what I know now, Copis couldnât have played that dirty trick on me. And what about the sword-monks at Deymeson? If I find out about my past, they wonât find it so easy the next time.
Assuming this isnât the next time.
Big assumption, given that the source of the information appeared to be a sword-monk. If he was going to believe anything one of them told him ever again, he might as well go the whole hog, shave his scalp and have the word IDIOT tattooed on it in bright purple letters. Except, of course â what if they were the only people who knew the truth and could tell him? In that case, better not to know?
Clearly, he told himself, there are arguments on both sides, like an ambush in a narrow pass. Now, if he wanted something really scary to occupy his mind with, how about the ease with which this joker had found him? He hadnât come to this godforsaken place because he liked mud and fog, or because heâd always wanted to be a bell-founder when he grew up. If someone could find him hereâ
Assuming anybody wanted to; anybody else, apart from the incredibly annoying man who claimed his name was Aciava; who apparently wanted him for something, and had been prepared to tell him what it was (assuming he hadnât been lying)â
Fine. Poldarnâs head was spinning, and he hadnât even stopped long enough to drink much of the free beer. Which was another way of saying the same thing. He was going to be
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