Memory by K. J. Parker Page A

stood up. There wasn’t really enough room in the chapel for pacing up and down, at least not without making himself look ridiculous; but he felt uncomfortable staying still. ‘Perhaps it’d be better if I just left.’
    â€˜For you, maybe,’ Aciava said. ‘But don’t I get a say in the matter? Come on, give me a chance. I’ve been rattling about in mail-coaches for a week, and that’s not taking account of three years of painstaking, dreary investigation. Surely I deserve some consideration.’
    â€˜Why? I never asked you to—’
    â€˜How,’ Aciava interrupted calmly, ‘do you know that? I mean,’ he went on, ‘for all you know, there was an evening many years ago when you took me on one side, confessed that your biggest fear in all the world was losing your memory, and made me swear on my mother’s life that if it ever happened to you, I’d find you and tell you who you are.’
    Poldarn looked at him. ‘And did I?’
    â€˜No. But there could be all sorts of reasons. Maybe there are people who need you. Have you ever once considered that?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Poldarn said, without much confidence. ‘But – well, I may not remember further back than three years, but I learned a few things about myself back in the old country – not things I did, things I am. I reckon anybody who knew me before is probably better off without me.’
    â€˜Oh, sure,’ Aciava said, pulling a face. ‘You’re a sadistic wife-beater and you carry thirteen infectious diseases. While sleepwalking, you set fire to hospitals and orphanages. You are, in fact, the god who brings the end of the world. But apart from that—’
    â€˜Fine.’ Poldarn sat down. ‘Just tell me, why was finding me so important?’
    Aciava hesitated, then grinned sheepishly. ‘I missed you,’ he said.
    Poldarn stared. ‘You what?’
    â€˜Straight up. I’d better explain. At Deymeson – you do know, don’t you, you were at Deymeson?’
    Poldarn nodded.
    â€˜Well, that’s something. You were a novice there. You joined in second year of the third grade; you were eighteen months older than the rest of us, but Father Tutor reckoned you had to stay down, because you were so far behind. Anyhow, that’s beside the point. There were six of us. No, that’s misleading, because there were twenty of us in the class; but there were six of us who always went round together. Bestest friends, that sort of thing. There was you, and me; and Elaos Tanwar – he’s dead now – and the only girl in our year, Xipho Dorunoxy—’
    Poldarn felt as if he’d just been slammed back in his chair by a kick in the stomach. ‘Copis.’
    â€˜That’s right, Copis. That makes five. And one more. Cordomine was what we knew him as, but he’s better known these days as Chaplain Cleapho.’
    There was a long silence. ‘I don’t believe you,’ Poldarn said eventually.
    â€˜Oh.’ Aciava frowned. ‘What a shame, because it’s true. I can prove it, you know.’
    â€˜I don’t want you to prove it,’ Poldarn shouted; then he took a deep breath. ‘No matter what you say,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to believe you. See, I’ve been through this before; I was at Deymeson – before the raiders burned it down – and they told me all sorts of stuff, all perfectly plausible, about who I was. And I believed them; but then I found out they were lying, using me, it was something to do with the war and some general called Cronan—’
    Aciava nodded. ‘I know about that,’ he said. ‘Hardly surprising, you weren’t very popular with the sword-monks after you left. Anyway, that was when Copis told you she’d been – well, looking after you, bad choice of words, on their instructions, and then she pulled a sword on you. No