His heart sank.
He clambered up beside her and sat down, setting the lamp next to his feet.
She glanced at him. He was filthy. He hadn’t washed for days. He hadn’t emerged from the undercroft, despite direct orders. He’d only eaten because Haller and Baskevyl had brought him rations.
Tona Criid’s dress uniform was immaculate.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Criid said, wiping her eyes. ‘This is just the first chance I’ve had to come down here. To see.’
Daur nodded.
‘This was the room, wasn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
People had died in every chamber of the old undercroft. Every single one. They’d died in droves in the Urdeshic Palace above, too. But here, in this room, Gol Kolea had died, and Yoncy had perished, and Dalin had –
– had ceased to be Dalin.
‘I just had to see it,’ she said.
‘I understand.’
‘I am at a loss,’ said Criid. ‘They were mine for so long. I took them out of certain death. I never… I never for a moment suspected that–’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Daur. ‘He was clever and he made clever things. Ingenious tricks that fooled everyone. We learned that at Vervunhive. None of us could have guessed how elaborate they could be.’
‘They weren’t tricks to me,’ she said. She let out a slow, calming breath. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without–’
She stopped herself and shot a look at him, ashamed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Feth, I’m sorry, Ban. That was a stupid thing to say.’
He shook his head.
‘It was honest,’ Daur replied. ‘I’m sorry this has happened to you.’
‘Is there…’ she asked. ‘Have you found any trace at all?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I thought I might find something that could… could stop me searching. But there’s nothing to find. I just can’t let go of the idea that she’s still here. Behind a wall somewhere. Just shut away by a fold of reality. Trapped on the other side, but alive and whole and waiting. And all I’ve got to do is look hard enough.’
He fell silent.
‘I’m fooling myself, I know,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s just something to cling to.’
He looked at her.
‘Why are you so dressed up?’ he asked.
Tona glanced down at her formal braid and pressed lines.
‘There’s a parade,’ she said.
‘Feth.’
‘I know. A fething parade. Apparently it’s the right thing to do. A show of respect and thanks. To the living and the dead alike. I’m supposed to be there. And I’m going to be late.’
‘And you don’t care?’
‘Feth, no.’
She looked around at the dark walls. The shadows that were just shadows.
‘This is my parade,’ she said.
She looked at him.
‘Will you ever come out of here?’ she asked.
‘They may have to drag me out,’ said Daur. ‘I don’t think I can ever leave.’
‘Ban, I think there are only ghosts here now,’ she said. ‘You can’t live out your life with only ghosts for company.’
He looked at her and almost smiled.
‘Yes, I just heard myself,’ Criid said. ‘Feth, I can only say stupid things today, right?’
He took her hand and held it tight.
They were waiting for him outside his quarters, wearing their dress blacks, but he walked right past them when he came out. His Scion guard, all new appointees unaccustomed to his habits, jumped to follow him.
‘My lord?’ Baskevyl called. He and Pasha scooped up their dress swords and ran to catch him up. ‘My lord, it’s about to start,’ Baskevyl called out.
‘I know,’ said Gaunt, still striding. His own dress uniform, though very plain, was quite imposing. ‘I have to make a visit first.’
He stopped suddenly, and turned to face them. The Scions skidded to a halt.
‘They expect me to write a speech,’ he said to the two company officers. ‘An address. What the feth do you say? After that?’
Baskevyl shrugged.
‘Not much to say,’ Pasha agreed.
‘I know,’ said Gaunt. ‘We won. We survived. Too many didn’t. Thank you for coming. There are drinks on the terrace.’
‘That should do the trick,’ said Baskevyl.
‘Van Voytz was good at this,’ said Gaunt. ‘He could spin a rousing address. Like a bastard.’ He fell silent and stared at the floor.
‘Sir–’ Baskevyl began.
Gaunt looked up.
‘Yes, you came to find me,’ he said. ‘What did you want?’
‘We came to fetch you,’ said Baskevyl.
‘The big hoo-hah is now,’ said Pasha. ‘You are, mmmmm, maybe late?’
‘Consider me fetched,’ said Gaunt. ‘Tell them I’m coming.’
They saluted.
He turned, then swung back to them.
‘Screw the parade,’ he said. ‘That’s all for show, and the dead can’t hear any of it. I want to commend you both, here and now. Face to face, not across a parade ground. The Tanith First excelled. You were both unflinching in the face of… of… feth! My thanks. I want you to convey my gratitude and admiration to all in the regiment. Do this personally. Express my highest regard.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Baskevyl nodded.
‘The process is very slow,’ Gaunt added, ‘because of all the red tape and paperwork, but there will be decorations to follow. Citations for honour and valour. A surprising number. You know who. I may be able to speed that process. It should be easier to issue commendations now the Tanith First is the formal escort brigade of the Lord Executor.’
‘It is?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘Macaroth agreed to it this morning’ said Gaunt. ‘You’ll be the core I build my army group upon, Bask. Your duties will change. It may get very ceremonial from now on.’
‘Ceremonial is nice. Is very restful,’ said Pasha.
‘There’ll be a new pin to wear,’ Gaunt said, gesturing to his collar. ‘I don’t know what else. We’ll work out the details. Now let me run this errand and I’ll join you on the field.’
He made the sign of the aquila and strode away.
The infirmary, its walls and floor painted a pale, gloss green, filled one whole wing of the palace compound. Gaunt strode in with the Scions behind him, and consciously slowed his pace to suit the quiet calm of his surroundings.
‘Stay here,’ he told his bodyguard. They obeyed. Scion Cleeve had not yet found the pluck to argue with him the way Sancto had. Gaunt wondered if Sancto would ever be fit to return to duty.
He wondered if he’d ever want to.
He walked past rooms where medicae staff tended the injured from the retinue, the Tanith, and from all the other regiments and support divisions affected by the onslaught. So many people, yet a fraction of the number killed. There were more trays occupied in the morgue than there were beds filled in the infirmary.
He reached the door of a guarded room. Troopers of the Jovani Vanguard clad in polished chrome armour snapped to attention.
The room was quiet. There was a smell of counterseptic and floor wax, and a very slight trace of islumbine.
Ana Curth saw him, and crossed the room to meet him.
‘Any news?’ he asked.
‘She sleeps still,’ said Curth.
They looked over at the bed where the Beati lay, shrouded by a tent of gauze.
‘Is that normal?’ he asked.
‘Nothing about her is normal,’ Curth replied. ‘Her vitals are improving. There’s colour in her cheeks, steady rhythms. Perhaps a few more days.’