miserable anyway, so why not have something tangible to be miserable about?
Stupid line of reasoning; stupid, like the very rich merchants in Falcata, who took crucial business decisions on the basis of the phases of the moon, and whether Saturn was in the fifth house. Stupid; but the answers thereby derived mustâve been right, or the merchants wouldnât have ended up very rich.
Did it really matter that Copis had made a fool of him, after all? Arguably, heâd had the last laugh, if the man had been telling the truth; heâd got her into bed in the end, hadnât he, just like heâd always wanted. No wonder sheâd wanted to kill him, come to think of it.
(It was all a bit like his name, assuming it was his name. First heâd been a god. Then he was called after a roof-tile. Then it turned out the roof-tile was named after the god. And now it turned out it really was his name â called after the god, whoâd probably been called after the roof-tile in the first place. Is that where gods come from, he wondered?)
Or he could carry on as he was (assuming they didnât burst in and drag him away if he wouldnât come quietly). He could stay here, in flat, wet, foggy, horrible Tulice, living in a turf house and working in the foundry. A lot of people lived in Tulice, in turf houses, working in foundries; and as far as he could tell, most of them seemed to get away with it, without ever being recognised or discovered or ambushed by their past lives. It couldnât be difficult , if they could manage it. Old joke: if a Tulicer can do it, so can a small rock. So, if they could do it, so could he.
Or maybe the bastard was lying to him. Ready-made pasts had to be on the list of things you werenât supposed to accept from strangers. Not withoutâ
Ah, Poldan thought (and there was a faint, thin yellow light in the distance, the lantern burning outside the foundry gates), thatâs the word Iâve been searching for. Not without proof .
(âAssuming Aciava has any, and that he hasnât been so offended that he gets on the dawn mail-coach and buggers off back where he came from before I can ask him. Assuming Iâm going to ask him. Come to think of it, the whole of our world is made up of assumings, like chalk is the bones of billions of small dead fish.)
At least the turf houses at the foundry were better than the horrible little dirt dog-kennels at the charcoal-burnersâ camp. The foundry had been in business for over a century, and the workersâ houses had to be at least forty years old, if not older; long enough for the turf to put down roots and knit together nicely. The foundrymen were almost proud of them, in a way. It wasnât everybody, they said, who lives in a living house, with walls and a roof that grow, even if it is a bit like living in your own grave.
Poldarn was shaken out of a dream about something or other he couldnât remember by Banspati the foreman. âYouâre back, then,â he said, looming over Poldarn like an overhanging cliff.
âLooks like it,â Poldarn mumbled. âWhatâs the time?â
Banspati grunted. âSome of usâve been up for hours,â he said. âSo, how did you get on?â
The question puzzled Poldarn for a moment; then he remembered. The charcoal. He tried to recall how all that had turned out. âItâs all right,â he said. âWe did the deal.â
âFine,â Banspati said. âWhat deal?â
Pulling the details out of his memory was like levering an awkward stone out of a post-hole. âThey can let us have all we need,â he said, âtwo quarters a bushel on the road, tenth off for cash on delivery, half a quarter a bushel penalty for failure to deliver. The qualityâs good,â he added, âI think. Looked all right to me, anyhow.â
Banspati nodded slowly. âThatâs more or less what we decided on,â he
Stupid line of reasoning; stupid, like the very rich merchants in Falcata, who took crucial business decisions on the basis of the phases of the moon, and whether Saturn was in the fifth house. Stupid; but the answers thereby derived mustâve been right, or the merchants wouldnât have ended up very rich.
Did it really matter that Copis had made a fool of him, after all? Arguably, heâd had the last laugh, if the man had been telling the truth; heâd got her into bed in the end, hadnât he, just like heâd always wanted. No wonder sheâd wanted to kill him, come to think of it.
(It was all a bit like his name, assuming it was his name. First heâd been a god. Then he was called after a roof-tile. Then it turned out the roof-tile was named after the god. And now it turned out it really was his name â called after the god, whoâd probably been called after the roof-tile in the first place. Is that where gods come from, he wondered?)
Or he could carry on as he was (assuming they didnât burst in and drag him away if he wouldnât come quietly). He could stay here, in flat, wet, foggy, horrible Tulice, living in a turf house and working in the foundry. A lot of people lived in Tulice, in turf houses, working in foundries; and as far as he could tell, most of them seemed to get away with it, without ever being recognised or discovered or ambushed by their past lives. It couldnât be difficult , if they could manage it. Old joke: if a Tulicer can do it, so can a small rock. So, if they could do it, so could he.
Or maybe the bastard was lying to him. Ready-made pasts had to be on the list of things you werenât supposed to accept from strangers. Not withoutâ
Ah, Poldan thought (and there was a faint, thin yellow light in the distance, the lantern burning outside the foundry gates), thatâs the word Iâve been searching for. Not without proof .
(âAssuming Aciava has any, and that he hasnât been so offended that he gets on the dawn mail-coach and buggers off back where he came from before I can ask him. Assuming Iâm going to ask him. Come to think of it, the whole of our world is made up of assumings, like chalk is the bones of billions of small dead fish.)
At least the turf houses at the foundry were better than the horrible little dirt dog-kennels at the charcoal-burnersâ camp. The foundry had been in business for over a century, and the workersâ houses had to be at least forty years old, if not older; long enough for the turf to put down roots and knit together nicely. The foundrymen were almost proud of them, in a way. It wasnât everybody, they said, who lives in a living house, with walls and a roof that grow, even if it is a bit like living in your own grave.
Poldarn was shaken out of a dream about something or other he couldnât remember by Banspati the foreman. âYouâre back, then,â he said, looming over Poldarn like an overhanging cliff.
âLooks like it,â Poldarn mumbled. âWhatâs the time?â
Banspati grunted. âSome of usâve been up for hours,â he said. âSo, how did you get on?â
The question puzzled Poldarn for a moment; then he remembered. The charcoal. He tried to recall how all that had turned out. âItâs all right,â he said. âWe did the deal.â
âFine,â Banspati said. âWhat deal?â
Pulling the details out of his memory was like levering an awkward stone out of a post-hole. âThey can let us have all we need,â he said, âtwo quarters a bushel on the road, tenth off for cash on delivery, half a quarter a bushel penalty for failure to deliver. The qualityâs good,â he added, âI think. Looked all right to me, anyhow.â
Banspati nodded slowly. âThatâs more or less what we decided on,â he
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