The Hammer Part 10

"I'm sorry," he said. "I had an accident."

"Most unfortunate. Sit down. The books you will be reading are on the small table."

Gignomai saw them, but he was looking past the table, towards the corner of the room. If the sword had been found, it would be there, leaning against the wall; that was what Father would do. Not there. He kept his face straight, crossed to the table and sat down.

"Your mother was worried about you." Father's head was bent over the book.

"I'm sorry. I fell off the-"

"Please be more considerate in future."

Gignomai took a book off the top of the pile, glanced at the spine (Caecilius on Prosody) and opened it. It began with a beautiful illuminated letter B and went downhill from there.

He ran into his mother on the way from the library to the Great Hall. She gave him a filthy look and walked past him without saying anything. He decided it could have been worse.

At dinner, conversation was even spa.r.s.er than usual. Luso kept looking at him. Father looked over the top of his head from time to time. Mother huddled over her food and didn't look up. Stheno looked past him, the way you carefully fail to notice someone with a ghastly disfigurement. Dinner was roast wild duck. Gignomai got the bit where the bullet had pa.s.sed through, smas.h.i.+ng bones and pulping flesh.

After dinner, he announced that he was tired and was going to bed. n.o.body looked up, and he walked out of the hall. Stheno, who'd gone out to check on the calves, was hovering by the stairs, evidently waiting for him. Gignomai stopped.

"Why did you come back?" Stheno asked.

Not why did you leave why did you leave. "I fell off the edge of the world," Gignomai replied.

"Gig..."

"Seriously," Gignomai said. "I was in the woods, out on the west side. This boar jumped out at me-"

"I heard all that," Stheno cut him off (so Luso did talk to his brother sometimes). "But you weren't in the woods because you felt like a stroll."

"Well, yes, actually," Gignomai said. "That's why I was-"

"Right." Stheno made a slight movement, a small s.h.i.+ft of the shoulders. If Luso had done that, Gignomai would have sidestepped. "And for a stroll in the woods, you took your sword."

Rather like the moment when you're stalking a deer, and it suddenly lifts its head and stares straight at you, you freeze, and everything hangs in the balance.

"It wasn't in your room," Stheno said. "When we realised you were missing, I went to see if you'd taken anything with you."

Gignomai nodded slowly. "You told Luso."

"No. Nor Father."

It occurred to Gignomai to ask why, but he decided not to. He kept perfectly still, closed, not saying anything. The met'Oc family, he reckoned, were probably better at not saying anything than anyone else in the world.

"So," Stheno said, "why'd you come back?"

"I live here."

Once, many years ago, Luso and Stheno went through a phase of playing chess. It lasted about three months, and for the first six weeks, Luso won every game, quickly and often cruelly. Then-it surprised Gignomai even now to think about it-Stheno figured out how to turn a losing game into a stalemate. For the next four weeks, he still didn't win, but he somehow contrived to draw one game in five. Then, quite suddenly, he won everything, and eventually Luso gave up and went back to playing against Father instead. Over the years, Gignomai had often tried to a.n.a.lyse Stheno's strategy and had never managed to pin it down. Quite a large part of it was making moves so totally illogical that Luso couldn't cope with them, but there was also a thread of tactical skill that went so deep Gignomai couldn't trace it; he only knew that it was there.

"That's not an answer," Stheno said.

"Would you rather I hadn't come back?"

Stheno ignored that. "All right," he said, "I'll try guessing. You fell out with your town friends, or they didn't want you hanging round."

"Yes, that's right."

Stheno nodded, as if to indicate that the interview was over. Gignomai turned away, and Stheno's hand swooped down on his shoulder like a hawk. It was so much bigger than any human hand had any right to be, and so very strong. Gignomai felt his back pressing hard against the wall. He could only breathe in part of the way; not far enough.

"Other people," Stheno said quietly, "have to live in this house too. Sometimes it's not easy, but generally I manage to cope. But it's hard enough as it is without you pulling stunts like that. Do you understand?"

He'd have said anything to get the hand off his shoulder before he choked to death. "Yes, I understand. I'm sorry."

Stheno held him just a little longer; just a little too long. Then he let go, and all Gignomai could think about was breathing. "I can see why you did it," Stheno said, not at all unkindly. "In your shoes, probably I'd have done the same. But you don't have that luxury. Right?"

"Right."

Stheno nodded. A curt nod that said, quarrel over, let's not bother with grudges. "Glad you're back," he said. "I was worried."

"Stheno?"

"Yes?"

"The sword," Gignomai said. "I lost it, in the woods. Really."

Stheno frowned. "I suggest you find it," he said, "else, Father'll kill you."

"That's what I was thinking."

"All right," Stheno said. "Tomorrow morning you go and do your studying. Soon as I've seen to the pigs I'll come up and borrow you. Urgent job-I'll think of something. You can have the rest of the morning. All right?"

"Yes," Gignomai said. "Thanks."

"A quiet life," Stheno replied. "You wouldn't think it was a lot to ask."

Luso woke him up quite some time before daybreak. At least, he woke up and saw Luso sitting on the end of his bed. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but n.o.body else sat motionless quite like that.

"Just wanted to make sure you're still here," Luso said. Then he got up and left, leaving the door open. Luso never closed doors behind him.

Not enough night left to make it worth trying to go back to sleep, so Gignomai got up, dressed and lit the candle. He'd intended to read (he'd smuggled Gannasius on Ethical Theory Gannasius on Ethical Theory out of the library under his s.h.i.+rt; it had been on the pile of compulsory reading, but he'd found it interesting) but he couldn't keep still. He opened the window, leaned out and looked up at the sky. Too late, but not early enough. out of the library under his s.h.i.+rt; it had been on the pile of compulsory reading, but he'd found it interesting) but he couldn't keep still. He opened the window, leaned out and looked up at the sky. Too late, but not early enough.

So he pulled on his boots and went quietly down the stairs-long practice-and out into the back yard. Aurelio the smith was opening up the forge. He always started early, because it took a long time to lay in the fire and get it going properly. Gignomai didn't feel like being seen, but that wasn't a problem. He'd long ago worked out a sequence of doorways and edges that would keep him concealed in half light.

He made it easily to the barn, slipped inside and climbed up into the hayloft. It was well known as one of his places, so there was no point staying there too long. What they hadn't realised, as far as he knew, was that there was a loose stone in the back wall, a hand's span from the floor, which you could tease out with your fingernails if you were careful and patient.

He took out the stone and felt inside the cavity. The glove was still there. He'd very nearly taken it with him when he made his escape attempt; just as well he hadn't, or it'd be in the pillowcase, along with the rest of his stuff. The sword was one thing-failing to find it simply wasn't an option-but he was more or less resigned to the pillowcase being lost and gone for ever. In which case...

He put the stone back, then ran his fingertips all round it to make sure it was flush to the rest of the wall. For four months of the year, of course, it was completely inaccessible, buried deep under the winter hay, like one of those underwater cities in fairy tales.

The other thing he'd come for was lying on the floor where he'd last seen it, weeks ago. It was the broken-off head of a push-hoe, which at some time had been ground on a wheel to make it narrower (for weeding between rows of turnips, at a guess). He found it by feel, wrapped a sc.r.a.p of sacking round the splintered handle end and stowed it in his right-hand coat pocket.

He stayed until the sky was light enough for him to make out the shape of the hill behind the house, then went back to his room and read three pages of Gannadius on altruism. He hid the book under a loose floorboard (force of habit; they'd found that one two years ago) and went down to breakfast.

He'd timed it well. Stheno had already been and gone. Luso hadn't surfaced yet. Father was at the head of the long, broad oak table, sitting with his head bowed over a book like a falcon ripping apart its prey. Mother was at the other end of the table, looking out of the window, her lips moving silently. Two of Luso's men were huddled in the middle somewhere, uncomfortable, eating quickly. Gignomai chose a wide open s.p.a.ce about a third of the way down towards Father's end, close to the loaf and the wizened k.n.o.b-end of a side of bacon. He hacked off slightly more than he wanted and chewed hard.

As he got up, Father took official notice of him, though without looking up from his book. "Don't be late," he said. Gignomai made a sort of respectful, non-verbal grunting noise, and went straight up to the library.

He knew he didn't have long. Fortunately, he knew where to look for what he wanted: Lycoris on Metallurgy Lycoris on Metallurgy, Callicrates on Mechanisms Callicrates on Mechanisms, Onesander on the Practical Arts Onesander on the Practical Arts. The dust was rea.s.suringly thick; n.o.body had disturbed them since he'd last been there. No reason why they should. He slipped Lycoris in his left-hand jacket pocket, and wedged Callicrates and Onesander in the waistband of his trousers, drawing his s.h.i.+rt tail out to cover them. Then he sat down in front of his pile of approved reading, opened Caecilius on Prosody Caecilius on Prosody, and tried to look like someone who gave a d.a.m.n about the position of the caesura in dactylic hexameters.

Father duly appeared, took his seat without looking in Gignomai's direction, put down the book he'd been reading at breakfast, picked up another, lying open and face down on the desk. Gignomai couldn't help glancing at him from time to time. All those words, he thought, all that information; it was like pouring water into sand. It all went in, through the eyes into the brain, and none of it ever came out again. Father's head was a slurry-pit into which the sum of human knowledge and experience drained away, and all that richness, too much of it, poisoned the ground so that nothing would grow there ever again. He shuddered slightly.

Stheno was as good as his word. He appeared in the doorway, looking ridiculously large, like a man in a doll's house. Father frowned, then looked up.

"Sorry," Stheno said (he always started any conversation with Father with an apology), "but could I borrow Gig for an hour or so? The weaners have got out in the kale."

Father sighed, nodded, his head dipped back to its usual incline (you could almost hear a click as it locked back into place). Gignomai jumped up, pressing his left elbow hard against his waist to trap the two books, and scuttled out of the room. As soon as the doors had closed behind him, he mouthed, "Thanks."

Stheno shrugged, and led the way down the stairs. As soon as they were outside, he said, "You're with me. The pigs really are out."

"Are they?"

Stheno nodded. "Turned them out myself. You don't imagine Father wouldn't check."

It hadn't occurred to Gignomai, but when Stheno said it, he realised it was true. How Father came to know everything, when he was never to be seen talking to servants, was a mystery that didn't bear too much thinking about. When Gignomai was a boy, he'd had a theory that Father had a magical raven who spied on the family and reported to him in the middle of the night.

Getting the pigs back in wasn't a problem, since Stheno had trained them to come running as soon as he appeared with the slop bucket. Gignomai winced when he saw how much damage they'd done in the kale patch, but Stheno didn't say anything. They put back the hurdle Stheno had taken down, and lashed it fast with twine.

"Right," Stheno said. "It'll all be my fault, so be quick."

For a moment Gignomai was tempted to feel guilty, but that was a luxury he couldn't afford. "Thanks," he said, and darted off across the yard.

There was no point getting Stheno in more trouble than necessary, so he applied the usual breaking-out protocols: close to the hedge all the way down the long meadow, through the gap at the bottom, then follow the dead ground at the foot of the wood until he got to the hunting gate and could a.s.sume he was invisible. The big danger was that he didn't know what Luso's movements were likely to be. As far as he knew it wasn't a hunting day, but Luso was perfectly capable of declaring an unscheduled day, or simply strolling out to the woods on his own with a gun and a couple of dogs. Gignomai therefore had no alternative but to consider the woods as hostile territory and proceed accordingly.

He headed generally west, keeping parallel to the main ride, which he was fairly sure Luso would follow if he was headed this way. As soon as he reached the first stream he cut away due south until he came to the deep, wet hollow where Luso had a high seat. From there he followed a stream which he knew came out on the western edge, about five hundred yards below the place where he'd met the boar. About a third of the way down the stream he heard a shot. It rea.s.sured him. It was a long way north and east, which suggested that Luso was out still-hunting for deer in the clearing by the old charcoal camp. That meant he'd be alone, so his men would be on guard at the Gate or back at the farm but not prowling about at random.

He found what he'd been looking for, a briar tangle between two fallen trees. He found the slots of the boar, very faint and eroded but still visible in a slick of dried mud. The dog's body was nowhere to be seen (or smelt, for that matter), so Luso's men had been here. It occurred to him, for the first time, that one of them might have found the sword and decided to keep it for himself. He considered the possibility and dismissed it. There might be someone somewhere brave and stupid enough to steal from the met'Oc family right under Luso's nose. By the same token somewhere there might just possibly be dragons, unicorns and similar mythical beasts, but he was pretty sure he'd never encounter one, and most certainly not here.

He found the boar's nest, and the entrance to the hole, eventually. Thinking about it, he reckoned that the boar must've been pushed back here by Luso's dogs and had stood at bay in the hole mouth, wedging its backside into the hole as far as it could go. That would account for the briars being broken down and tangled, filling the hole up and making it invisible unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. After a long, frantic search, in the course of which he lacerated his hands and arms on the briars, he found the sword, jammed down in the roots of the tangle and masked by a swathe of broken tendrils. By the look of it, the boar had rolled there. He fished it out, drew it and examined the blade. It was still straight, and the furniture was no more bent and buckled than it had been.

Gignomai sat down in the briars, not caring about his clothes or his skin, with the sword on his knees, and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, far more so than his exertions warranted. One thing, one artefact, but everything depended on it; it had been lost, and now he'd found it again. He guessed that was how it must feel when you're condemned to death, and the reprieve arrives a few minutes before dawn. He didn't bother even trying to move for quite some time. He watched blood from a scratch on his forehead trickle, out of focus, down the inside curve of his nose and drop out of his field of vision.

When at last he was strong enough to move, he got up (everything ached) and poked around for a while looking for the pillowcase. There were many good reasons for finding it: left lying about it was a serious breach of security and, besides, he didn't want to lose the scarf. In spite of all that, he couldn't summon up the energy. He told himself that if he couldn't find it, neither could anybody else. As for the scarf, well, there was precious little chance of him forgetting, so he didn't need a bit of cloth to remind him. Another shot in the distance made him look up sharply. Then he grinned. A second shot implied that the first one had been a miss. Luso did miss sometimes.

Enough dawdling for one day. He sheathed the sword, then teased the hoe-head out of his pocket, unwrapped it and used the sc.r.a.p of cloth to bind up the sword-hilt. He lay down on his stomach and peered into the hole. He really didn't fancy going in there, not in cold blood, but it had to be done. He clamped the sword to his side with his left hand, reached out with his right holding the hoe, and crawled into the hole.

His eyes were open but there was, of course, no light. He felt the gentlest of touches right across his face-a spider's web he rationalised-and closed his mouth as he felt the spider running across his cheek. He wasn't good with spiders at the best of times, but he didn't have a hand free. It made his skin itch and crawl, and he couldn't be sure whether it had gone or was still there.

He moved himself by digging in with the hoe-head and pulling, keeping himself from sliding forward when the gradient was steep, drawing himself along when it was more or less level. When he reached the point where the tunnel suddenly fell away, his whole weight was thrown on the steel head of the tool. It wouldn't dig in, but it slowed him down a little, enough to stop him slithering out of control. Grit and small stones stripped the skin off the heel of his right hand, and his wrist burned with the strain of supporting his entire weight. It occurred to him that maybe he hadn't thought this operation through with sufficient attention to detail.

Then he was at the blockage. He'd thought about it many times, remembered what it had felt like when he'd squeezed himself against it. It was either a tree root (though unlikely this far down) or just a big stone. Now, here he was again. He tried exploring it with his fingertips, but in order to do it properly he'd have to let go of the hoe-head, which he didn't dare risk. When he was sure he'd come to a full stop he began twisting himself round, like a screw driven into oak without a pilot hole, until he was on his back. With the hoe he probed the darkness ahead of him, until he found a place that wasn't the blockage-stiff hard clay or chalk or something-but he could just about force the blade into it. He forced it in as far as it would go, twisted it, felt something give, levered out a chunk of something-a small wedge, presumably, but a start.

He told himself, Nothing in the world matters more to me, right now, than gouging out this hole. I must do it carefully, properly, I must not hurry, I must not just do half a job, I must not give up or panic or think about anything else. There's no rush. I have all the time in the world, and every bit of crumbly stuff I can dislodge is another bit done. I must not panic. I mustn't think about graves or the jaws of animals or any of that nonsense. There's nothing in the world except the job in hand.

He relaxed, making a point of feeling every muscle and tendon at rest, apart from his right hand on the hoe-head. He knew terror was only a breath or two away-not like the first time, when he'd been dead already and there was no hope. This time, though he'd be just as dead if he got stuck, he had the terrifying knowledge that getting through was possible, that there was a way out a few yards ahead if he could get there, and he wasn't just finding activities to keep himself occupied and take his mind off things. He knew from that experience that he could handle despair. Hope was a far more dangerous condition.

To pa.s.s the time he recited poetry: the first twenty lines of Alphis and Eurymedon Alphis and Eurymedon (he despised Substantivist epic, but the relentless tumpty-tum metre had jammed it in his head when he was nine), over and over again until the words lost any vestige of meaning. He sang " (he despised Substantivist epic, but the relentless tumpty-tum metre had jammed it in his head when he was nine), over and over again until the words lost any vestige of meaning. He sang "La doca votz" and "Can l'herba fresc," but his voice echoed in the tunnel, and maybe Luso was out looking for him by now. He recited the seven, eight and nine times tables, and couldn't remember what eight nines were. He summarised what he'd learned about dactylic hexameters, and tried to embody it in cla.s.sical hexametric verse. The blisters at the base of his middle and index fingers had burst, making the hoe-head almost too slippery to hold. He recited all he could remember of the met'Oc family tree. He counted backwards from five hundred.

He stopped digging. He had no way of knowing how much he'd managed to scoop out, how big the hole was, whether it was big enough. He knew there was a serious risk of getting irrevocably stuck if the hole was too small, or if he'd contrived to divert himself into another undetected blockage. The decision to go ahead was entirely arbitrary, which bothered him, but his right hand was now so cramped that he couldn't use it any more. He could lie there still and quiet for an hour or so and see if it got better, or he could go now. Life and death decision. I'll go now, he thought. I've had enough of this.

There was a bad moment when his shoulder came up against something that wouldn't s.h.i.+ft, almost certainly a big stone. He had no purchase for wriggling back, and the original blockage was now level with his left hip, so turning round was out of the question. He twisted until he was lying on his left side, his right shoulder slightly compressed. He felt the tip of his nose (still painful to the touch) brus.h.i.+ng the original obstruction as he eased himself along, a flex of the toes at a time. He felt the cover of one of the books jammed in his belt catch on something and tear. Then, remarkably, he was through, and sliding far too fast head-first into light.

He reached the hole mouth and couldn't stop. As he fell into thin air, he threw the sword away, so he wouldn't land on it and snap it. He hit the ground back first, and all the air was b.u.mped out of his lungs. They were so empty that for a moment he couldn't make himself breathe in. New air and pain came at the same time. He choked, caught his breath and opened his eyes.

He was looking up at the white face of the cliff. It looked sheer and whole; he had to turn his head to find the hole he'd just fallen out of. It was barely visible, you'd take it for a shadow or a discoloration of the rock unless you knew what you were looking at. He flexed his fingers and toes, and was mightily relieved to find that everything more or less worked. His right hand, when he raised it and examined it, was a red and white pulp which he probably wouldn't have recognised as a hand if it hadn't been attached to his wrist.

Easier the second time, he thought. Well, maybe not.

The hoe-head, presumably, was still up there somewhere. He thanked it in absentia in absentia. A small thing, of no commercial value, judged not worth repairing by Stheno and the met'Oc, but it had brought him through the hour of his trial like the intercession of some saint. The sword was lying in the thin gra.s.s. It didn't look anything. You could have taken it for a bit of old dry wood, fallen from the edge of the canopy a hundred feet above, and the white sheen of its handle no more than silver birch bark. Mere things, artefacts, make all the difference.

He thought, Once by accident, once on purpose. Never again.

He stood up, an adventure in itself. He hadn't thought any further than this: go back, get the sword, get out again. Beyond that-beyond here, the place where he now stood-he had only a vague design, an awareness of what he had to do, a determination to make a proper job of it this time. He realised that he'd antic.i.p.ated (practically relied on) dying in the hole, because good luck pushed too far turns to bad luck as reliably as any properly attested reaction in alchemy.

He walked down to the river favouring his left ankle, which he must have twisted or turned at some point. He realised he'd never been this far upstream before. He looked for a place to cross, but there didn't seem to be one; the river was fast, skimming over large rocks that sheltered deep pools. A non-swimmer with a bad ankle could slip, trying to hop from rock to rock and end up in one of those pools, or else get battered along by the current. He followed the river upstream for a while, until the pain in his leg started to get on his nerves, but the river just got wider and faster. That made him laugh. Not the best omen for someone with a head full of complex mechanisms, if he couldn't cross a river not half a mile from where he'd been born. He turned back and trudged awkwardly downstream towards his usual ford. He was nearly there when it occurred to him that if Luso was aware of his new truancy, there'd be men watching the ford from the Gate, and in his present unsatisfactory condition he wouldn't stand a chance. He turned round and limped upstream, the way he'd just come.

The h.e.l.l with all this walking up and down, he decided. Time to think.

He knew there was at least one good ford upstream, because he'd heard people talking about it while he was at Furio's. The cattle drovers used it, but they were afraid Luso might ambush them there, and there wasn't (d.a.m.n it, he should have remembered this earlier) there wasn't another ford for ten miles in either direction. That gave him some sort of fix. a.s.suming the nearest ford downstream was the one by the Gate, which he'd always used in the past, then it followed that the ford the drovers had been talking about was something like ten miles upstream from there. Ten miles limping on a bad ankle that was rapidly getting worse. Also, by the time he got there (at rather less than his usual walking pace), wasn't there a serious chance that Luso would have men there as well, if it was the only other place where the river could be crossed?

He sat down on a fallen tree and scowled at the river, which ignored him. There was, of course, a flaw in his reasoning. The drovers had been talking about places where you could cross the river with a herd of cattle. A man, even a man with a trick ankle, was rather more agile and resourceful. A man setting forth boldly to meet his destiny wouldn't need yelling at or prodding with a stick. So there could could be another place where he could cross, which didn't mean to say there be another place where he could cross, which didn't mean to say there was was.

A very small part of him was getting distinctly nostalgic for the nice warm dry library, where there were chairs to sit on and books to read. He hauled himself onto his feet, ordered his ankle to stop hurting, and lumbered painfully up the riverbank. This wasn't, of course, how it was supposed to be. When he'd resolved to go back and get the sword, he'd seen the task ahead of him, he realised, in strictly heroic terms, focusing, as any epic narrator would, on the cunning deceptions and the great, dangerous effort. The rather more mundane business of dealing with hostile geography and crossing distances was something to be glossed over with a some time later some time later or an or an eventually, after many travails eventually, after many travails. The sad fact was that he didn't have a friendly poet on hand to whisk him away from the foot of the mountain and put him down where he needed to be next. Instead, he'd have to walk.

To pa.s.s the time he reviewed his options like a beggar endlessly counting the same three coins. Here on the plain, the perspectives were entirely different. By turning his head a little he could see the plateau, a neat and convenient metaphor-isolated, elevated, defended, separate. When he was up there it was all the world, and therefore any improvement in his condition could only be achieved by changing it, which (he now realised) he didn't really want to do. Leaving it was a quite extraordinary thing. It was as though he'd contrived to burrow his way out of being himself, and was now alone and free on a flat plain of infinite possibility, holding a talisman, the sword, that could turn him into something else, the existence of his choice. He couldn't help grinning, because that was just the sort of heroic thinking that he'd been cursing a little while ago. Besides, if there were heroes in his family (in spite of the history and the legends, he was inclined to doubt it), he wasn't one of them. Luso would probably do, at a pinch. Stheno had the build for it. Not me, he thought, unless it's one of those stories that begins, Once upon a time there were three brothers Once upon a time there were three brothers. Those stories usually ended with the two eldest brothers dead.

(If Stheno and Luso died, and Father as well, of course, I'd be... He looked back at the plateau, and shook his head. The thought of owning it, that great big enormous thing, thing, was too extraordinary even to consider. Besides, would he want it? On balance, he decided, not really.) was too extraordinary even to consider. Besides, would he want it? On balance, he decided, not really.) He stopped. A flat rock stuck out into the river, with furious white water boiling up on either side of it. He could see it was slippery and sharply angled on the far side. Beyond it, he guessed, was a deep pool, almost certainly up to his chin. But it was the likeliest prospect he'd seen so far. All sorts of possible disasters occurred to him as he jumped from the bank to the rock. He could have landed worse, but there was a horrible moment when he felt himself toppling forward, and his right hand closed on empty air, and he almost toppled head first into the pool. But he managed to pull himself back (so little in it) and get himself balanced again. First thing I'll do, he promised himself, once I've made my fortune, is get someone to teach me to swim.

He stared across the pool to the far bank. If he hadn't hurt his ankle, he might have jumped it. Or he might have tried, at any rate, so it was probably just as well. Slowly, feeling extremely stupid, he sat down on the edge of the rock and lowered his feet into the pool, cringing as his shoes filled with water. He felt with his toes for a firm place, but found nothing. Metaphor, he thought, b.l.o.o.d.y metaphor again (the flat rock being the plateau, the river the possibilities of the world), and slid forward, terrified. Water rushed up over his legs and chest, into his mouth, over his eyes. His feet found the bottom. It was slippery as goose-grease.

Ridiculous, he thought, and lunged forward wildly. He staggered as the current shoved at him. His feet skidded on the slippery rocks of the riverbed and he fell, but the current kept him just about upright, as he danced furiously for a foothold. Like a fool, he hadn't thought to breathe in. There was no air in his lungs. Trying not to inhale was like trying to hold a coiled spring between his fingers. He lunged again and found a foothold. When he straightened his leg, his head pushed up out of the water. He gobbled a chunk of air, like an owl swallowing a mouse. His feet slipped again. He was unsupported, falling. His left foot landed between two rocks, twisting his bad ankle, and he hopped away from the pain. This time his right foot found a firm place, on which he balanced just long enough to swing wildly sideways. His shoulders were out of the water. He kicked at the riverbed, one foot and then the other, not even trying to stand up, just doing his best not to fall. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the bank was only five yards away. He threw the sword as hard as he could. The effort toppled him over and he landed on his outstretched hands, his face in the water but on all fours. Like this he could cope much better. He scampered the five yards, eyes tight shut, until his shoulder hit something solid, which had to be the bank. He opened his eyes again, saw a bunch of reeds and grabbed them with both hands just as his feet slipped again. He hauled on the reeds until his chest and then his waist were on the bank. Then, lacking the strength to do anything else, he rolled onto his side, which pulled his legs out of the water. he thought, and lunged forward wildly. He staggered as the current shoved at him. His feet skidded on the slippery rocks of the riverbed and he fell, but the current kept him just about upright, as he danced furiously for a foothold. Like a fool, he hadn't thought to breathe in. There was no air in his lungs. Trying not to inhale was like trying to hold a coiled spring between his fingers. He lunged again and found a foothold. When he straightened his leg, his head pushed up out of the water. He gobbled a chunk of air, like an owl swallowing a mouse. His feet slipped again. He was unsupported, falling. His left foot landed between two rocks, twisting his bad ankle, and he hopped away from the pain. This time his right foot found a firm place, on which he balanced just long enough to swing wildly sideways. His shoulders were out of the water. He kicked at the riverbed, one foot and then the other, not even trying to stand up, just doing his best not to fall. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the bank was only five yards away. He threw the sword as hard as he could. The effort toppled him over and he landed on his outstretched hands, his face in the water but on all fours. Like this he could cope much better. He scampered the five yards, eyes tight shut, until his shoulder hit something solid, which had to be the bank. He opened his eyes again, saw a bunch of reeds and grabbed them with both hands just as his feet slipped again. He hauled on the reeds until his chest and then his waist were on the bank. Then, lacking the strength to do anything else, he rolled onto his side, which pulled his legs out of the water.

Once upon a time there were three brothers, he thought, and they came to a wide river.

He lay still for a long time. Breathing was like pus.h.i.+ng his skinned hand against the dirt, back in the hole. If being alive hurts this much, he thought, why the h.e.l.l bother?

Well, he'd learned two things. There wasn't really a secret way down off the mountain, and there wasn't really a place where you could cross the river. Instead, there were two opportunities for a b.l.o.o.d.y fool to kill himself trying. But look on the bright side, he demanded of himself. I made it, I've got the sword, I may hurt all over but I haven't broken any bones this time, and the river's washed all the dirt out of my lacerated flesh. And I'm here.

Which begged the question of where here was. A good question, probably a bit too deep for him (if he'd stayed in the library long enough to read Zosimus' On Being and Reality, On Being and Reality, he might have been able to answer it). In very simplistic terms, however, he was on the other side of the river, and the town was about seven miles away, north-east. a.s.suming he wanted to go there. he might have been able to answer it). In very simplistic terms, however, he was on the other side of the river, and the town was about seven miles away, north-east. a.s.suming he wanted to go there.