Then, as abruptly as the first patterns had ceased, the fires did also, and the darkness was everywhere about her again.
“Where?”
Marty’s voice found her. He was so agitated in his confusion, she answered him.
“I’m almost dead,” she said, quite calmly.
“Carys?” He was terrified that naming her would alert Mamoulian, but he had to know if she spoke for herself, or for him.
“Not Carys,” she replied. Her mouth seemed to lose its fullness; the lips thinning. It was Mamoulian’s mouth, not hers.
She raised her hand a little way from her lap as if making to touch her face.
“Almost dead,” she said again. “Lost the battle, you see. Lost the whole bloody war . . .”
“Which war?”
“Lost from the beginning. Not that it matters, eh? Find myself another war. There’s always one around.”
“Who are you?”
She frowned. “What’s it to you?” she snapped at him. “None of your business.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Marty returned. He feared pushing the interrogation too hard. As it was, his question was answered in the next breath.
“My name’s Mamoulian. I’m a sergeant in the Third Fusiliers. Correction: was a sergeant.”
“Not now?”
“No, not now. I’m nobody now. It’s safer to be nobody these days, don’t you think?”
The tone was eerily conversational, as though the European knew exactly what was happening, and had chosen to talk with Marty through Carys. Another game, perhaps?
“When I think of the things I’ve done,” he said, “to stay out of trouble. I’m such a coward, you see? Always have been. Loathe the sight of blood.” He began to laugh in her, a solid, unfeminine laugh.
“You’re just a man?” Marty said. He could scarcely credit what he was being told. There was no Devil hiding in the European’s cortex, just this half-mad sergeant, lost on some battlefield. “Just a man?” he said again.
“What did you want me to be?” the sergeant replied, quick as a flash. “I’m happy to oblige. Anything to get me out of this shit.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?”
The sergeant frowned with Carys’ face, puzzling this one out.
“I’m losing my mind,” he said dolefully. “I’ve been talking to myself for days now on and off. There’s no one left, you see? The Third’s been wiped out. And the Fourth. And the Fifth. All blown to Hell!” He stopped and pulled a wry face. “Got no one to play cards with, damn it. Can’t play with dead men, can I? They’ve got nothing I want . . .” The voice trailed away.
“What date is it?”
“Sometime in October, isn’t it?” the sergeant came back. “I’ve lost track of time. Still, it’s fucking cold at night, I tell you that much. Yes, must be October at least. There was snow in the wind yesterday. Or was it the day before?”
“What year is it?”
The sergeant laughed. “I’m not that far gone,” he said. “It’s 1811. That’s right. I’m thirty-two on the ninth of November. And I don’t look a day over forty.”
It was 1811. If the sergeant was answering truthfully that made Mamoulian two centuries old.
“Are you sure?” Marty asked. “The year is 1811; you’re certain?”
“Shut your mouth!” the answer came.
“What?”
“Trouble.”
Carys had drawn her arms up against her chest, as though constricted. She felt enclosed-but by what she wasn’t certain. The open road she’d been standing on had abruptly disappeared, and now she sensed herself lying down, in darkness. It was warmer here than it had been on the road, but not a pleasant heat. It smelled putrid. She spat, not once but three or four times, to rid herself of a mouthful of muck. Where was she, for God’s sake?
Close by she could hear the approach of horses. The sound was muffled, but it made her, or rather the man she occupied, panic. Off to her right, somebody moaned.
“Ssh . . .” she hissed. Didn’t the moaner hear the horses too? They’d be discovered; and though she didn’t know why, she was certain discovery would prove fatal.
“What’s happening?” Marty asked.
She didn’t dare reply. The horsemen were too close to dare a word. She could hear them dismounting and approaching her hiding place. She repeated a prayer, soundlessly. The riders were talking now; they were soldiers, she guessed. An argument had erupted among them as to who would tackle some distasteful duty. Maybe, she prayed, they’d give up their search before they started. But no. The debate was over, and they were grunting and complaining as several set about their labors. She heard them moving sacks, and flinging them down. A dozen; two dozen. Light seeped through to where she lay, scarcely breathing. More sacks were moved; more light fell on her. She opened her eyes, and finally recognized what refuge the sergeant had chosen.