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years. There were some I'd never seen, and never had known a hope of seeing.
"Where?" I breathed.
"In the library. One of the monks thought you might be interested. When we
were here heading north I don't remember leaving them, but I wasn't much
interested in that kind of thing then. Me and Tom-Tom was too busy looking
over our shoulders."
"I might be interested," I said. "I might." My manners deserted me. I deserted
Lady without so much as an "Excuse me."
Maybe that obsession was not as powerful as I'd worked it up to be.
I felt like an ass when I realized what I had done.
Reading those copies required teamwork. They had been recorded in a language
no longer used by anyone but the temple monks. None of them spoke any language
I understood. So our reader translated into One-Eye's native tongue, then
One-Eye translated for me.
What filtered through was damned interesting.
They had the Book of Choe, which had been destroyed fifty years before I
enlisted and only poorly reconstructed. And the Book of Te-Lare, known to me
only through a cryptic reference in a later volume. The Book of Skete,
previously unknown. They had a half dozen more, equally precious. But no Book
of the Company. No First or Second Book of Odrick. Those were the legendary
first three volumes of the Annals, containing our origin myths, referenced in
later works but not mentioned as having been seen after the first century of
the Company's existence.
The Book of Te-Lare tells why.
There was a battle.
Always, there was a battle in any explanation.
Movement; a clash of arms; another punctuation mark in the long tale of the
Black Company.
In this one the people who had hired our forebrethren had bolted at the first
shock of the enemy's charge. They had broken so fast they were gone before the
Company realized what was happening. The outfit beat a fighting retreat into
its fortified encampment. During the ensuing siege the enemy penetrated the
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camp several times. During one such penetration the volumes in question
vanished. Both the Annalist and his understudy were slain. The Books could not
be reconstructed from memory.
Oh, well. I was ahead of the game.
Books available charted our future almost to the edge of the maps owned by the
monks, and those ran all the way to Here There Be Dragons. Another century and
a half of a journey into our yesterdays. By the time we retraced our route
that far I hoped we would stand at the heart of a map that encompassed our
destination.
As soon as it was clear that we had struck gold I obtained writing materials
and a virgin volume of the Annals. I could write as fast as One-Eye and the
monk could translate.
Time fled. A monk brought candles. Then a hand settled on my shoulder. Lady
said, "Do you want to take a break? I could do that for a while."
For half a minute I just sat there turning red. That, after I practically
ditched her outside. After I never even thought of her all day.
She told me, "I understand."
Maybe she did. She had read the various Books of Croaker-or, as posterity
might recall them, the Books of the North-several times.
With Murgen and Lady spelling me the translation went quickly. The only
practical limit was One-Eye's endurance.
It was not all one way. I had to trade my later Annals for their older ones.
Lady sweetened the deal with a few hundred anecdotes about the dark empire of
the north, but the monks never connected my Lady with the queen of darkness.
One-Eye is a tough old buzzard. He held up. Four days after he made his great
discovery the job was done.
I let Murgen into the game but he did all right. And I had to beg/buy four
blank journals in order to get everything transcribed.
Lady and I resumed our stroll about where we had broken it, but with me a
little down.
"What's the matter?" she chided, and to my astonishment wanted to know if it
was a postcoital depression. Just the faintest of digs there, I think.
"No. I've just found out a ton about the Company's history. But I didn't learn
anything that's really new."
She understood but she kept quiet and let me articulate my dissatisfaction.
"It's told a hundred ways, poorly and well, according to the skill of the
particular Annalist, but, except for the occasional interesting detail, it was
the same old march, countermarch, fight, celebrate or run away, record the
dead, and, sooner or later, get even with the sponsor for betraying us. Even
at that place with the unpronounceable name, where the Company was in service
for fifty-six years."
"Gea-Xle." She got her mouth around it like she had had practice.
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"Yeah, there. Where the contract lasted so long the Company almost lost its
identity, intermarrying with the population and all that, becoming a sort of
hereditary bodyguard, with arms handed down from father to son. But as it
always will, the essential moral destitution of those would-be princes made
itself evident and somebody decided to cheat us. He got his throat cut and the
Company moved on."
"You certainly read selectively, Croaker."
I looked at her. She was laughing at me quietly.
"Yeah, well." I'd stated it pretty baldly. A prince did try to cheat our
forebrethren and did get his throat cut. But the Company installed a new,
friendly, beholden dynasty and did hang around a few years before that Captain
got a wild hair and decided to go treasure hunting.
"You have no reservations about commanding a band of hired killers?" she
asked.
"Sometimes," I admitted, sliding past the trap nimbly. "But we never cheated a
sponsor." Not exactly. "Sooner or later, every sponsor cheated us."
"Including yours truly?"
"One of your satraps beat you to it. But given time we would have become less
than indispensable and you would have started looking around for a way to
shaft us instead of doing the honorable thing and paying us off and simply
terminating our commission."
"That's what I love about you, Croaker. Your unflagging faith in humanity."
"Absolutely. Every ounce of my cynicism is supported by historical precedent,"
I grumped.
"You really know how to melt a woman, you know that, Croaker?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]