The ship had been left as it was; bombed, shelled, strafed, blasted and ripped but not destroyed. Where hands could not reach and rain did not strike, traces of the original soot from flames two centuries old still marked the armour plate. Gun turrets lay peeled open like tin cans; gun barrels and range-finders bristled askew all over the mounting levels of deck; tangled stays and fallen aeriels lay strewn over shattered search lights and lop-sided radar dishes; the single great funnel looked tipped and subsided, metal pitted and flayed.
A little awning-covered stairway led up to the ship's main deck; they followed a couple with two young children. Skaffen-Amtiskaw floated, almost invisible, ten metres away, rising slowly with them. One of the toddlers cried when she saw the hobbling, bald-headed man with the staring eyes behind her. Her mother lifted her up and carried her.
He had to stop and rest when they got to the deck. Sma guided him to a bench. He sat doubled up for a while, then looked at the ship above, taking in the blackened rusted wreckage all around. He shook his shaven head, muttered to himself once, then ended up laughing quietly, holding his chest and coughing.
"Museum," he said. "A museum…" Sma put her hand on his damp brow. She thought he looked terrible, and the baldness didn't suit him. The simple dark clothes they'd found him wearing when they picked him up from the citadel's curtain wall had been torn and crusted with blood; they'd been cleaned and repaired on the Xenophobe but they looked out of place here, where everybody seemed to be dressed in bright colours. Even Sma's culottes and jacket were sombre compared to the gaily decorated dresses and smocks most of the people were wearing.
"This an old haunt of yours, Cheradenine?" she asked him.
He nodded. "Yes," he breathed, looking up at a last few tendrils of mist flowing and disappearing like gaseous pennants from the tilted main mast. "Yes," he repeated.
Sma looked round at the park behind and the city off to one side. "This where you came from?"
He seemed not to hear. After a while, he stood slowly, and looked, distracted, into Sma's eyes. She felt herself shiver, and tried to remember exactly how old Zakalwe was. "Let's go, Da — … Diziet." He smiled a watery sort of smile. "Take me to her, please?"
Sma shrugged and supported the man by one shoulder. They went back to the steps that led back down to the ground.
"Drone?" Sma said to a brooch on her lapel.
"Yep?"
"Our lady still where we last heard?"
"Indeed," said the drone's voice. "Want to take the module?"
"No," he said, stumbling down a stair, until Sma caught him. "Not the module. Let's… take a train, or a cab or…"
"You sure?" Sma said.
"Yes; sure."
"Zakalwe," Sma sighed. " Pleaseaccept some treatment."
"No," the man said, as they reached the ground.
"There's an underground station right and right again," the drone told Sma. "Alight Central Station; platform eight for trains to Couraz."
"Okay," Sma said reluctantly, glancing at him. He was looking down at the gravel path as though concentrating on working out which foot to put in front of another. He swung his head as they passed under the stem of the ruined battleship, squinting up at the tall curving V of the bows. Sma watched the expression on his sweating face, and could not decide whether it was awe, disbelief, or something like terror.
The underground train whisked them into the city centre down concrete-lined tunnels; the main station was crowded, tall, echoing and clean. Sunlight sparkled on the vault of the arched glass roof. Skaffen-Amtiskaw had done its suitcase impression, and sat lightly in Sma's hand. The wounded man was a heavier weight on her other arm.
The Maglev train drew in, disgorged its passengers; they boarded with a few other people.
"You going to make it, Cheradenine?" Sma asked him. He was slumped in the seat, resting his arms on the table in a way that somehow made them look as though they were broken, or paralysed. He stared at the seat across from him, ignoring the cityscape as it slid by, the train accelerating along viaducts towards the suburbs and the countryside.
He nodded. "I'll survive."
"Yes, but for how much longer?" said the drone, sitting on the table in front of Sma. "You are in terrible shape, Zakalwe."
"Better than looking like a suitcase," he said, glancing at the machine.
"Oh, how droll," the machine said.
— You finished drawing things yet? it asked the Xenophobe.
— No.
— Can't you devote just a little of your supposedly bogglingly fast Mind to finding out why he was so interested in that ship?
— Oh, I suppose so, but -
— Wait a minute; what have we here? Listen to this:
"… You'll find out, I suppose. Past time I told you," he said, looking out of the window but talking to Sma. The city slid by beyond, bright in the sunlight. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and somehow Sma got the impression he was looking at one city, but seeing another, or seeing the same one but long ago, as though in some time-polarised light only his distressed, enfevered eyes could see.
"This is where you come from?"
"Long time ago, now," he said, coughing, doubling up, holding one arm tight to his side. He took a long slow breath. "I was born here…"
The woman listened. The drone listened. The ship listened.
While he told them the story, of the great house that lay halfway between the mountains and the sea, upstream from the great city. He told them about the estate surrounding the house, and the beautiful gardens, and about the three, later four, children who were brought up in the house, and who played in the garden. He told them about the summerhouses and the stone boat and the maze and the fountains and the lawns and the ruins and the animals in the woods. He told them about the two boys and the two girls, and the two mothers, and the one strict father and the one unseen father, imprisoned in the city. He told them about the visits to the city, which the children always thought lasted too long, and about the time when they were no longer allowed to go into the garden without guards to escort them, and about how they stole a gun, one day, and were going to take it out into the estate to shoot it, but only got as far as the stone boat, and surprised an assassination squad come to kill the family, and saved the day by alerting the house. He told them about the bullet that hit Darckense, and the sliver of her bone that
pierced him almost to his heart.
He started to dry up, voice croaking. Sma saw a waiter pushing a trolley into the far end of the coach. She bought a couple of soft drinks; he gulped at first, but coughed painfully, and then just sipped his.
"And the war did start," he said, looking at but not seeing the last of the suburbs flow past; the countryside was a green blur as they accelerated again. "And the two boys, that had become men… ended up on different sides."
— Fascinating, the Xenophobe communicated to Skaffen-Amtiskaw. I think I will do a little quick research.
— About time too, the drone sent back, listening to the man talk at the same time.
He told them about the war, and the siege that involved the Staberinde, and the besieged forces breaking out… and he told them about the man, the boy who'd played in the garden who, in the depths of one terrible night, had caused the thing to be done which led to him being called the Chairmaker, and the dawn when Darckense's sister and brother had found what Elethiomel had done, and the brother trying to take his own life, giving up his generalship, abandoning the armies and his sister in the selfishness of despair.