He glanced at Jaume. ‘Do you have any food?’
‘Yes, of course. Not much, but–’
‘When this is over,’ said Gaunt, ‘the Munitorum will reimburse you for all costs.’
‘Sir, may I ask,’ said Jaume, ‘exactly what “this” is?’
Gaunt went to the kitchen with Criid. He was in a foul mood. He wasn’t sure if it was a response to Jaume’s tawdry fantasies, or to the memories of the ninth day that had been summoned so unexpectedly by the shabby set.
Away from the public areas, Jaume’s premises were sordid and neglected. The kitchen was a festering horror. The milk and eggs they found were off, though Gaunt had a suspicion that all the milk and all the eggs in the city were off, in the same way that all the clocks had stopped.
There was, at least, some bread, some cured sausage, some pickled cabbage, and the makings of decent soup and caffeine.
‘He lives in these back rooms like a slob,’ said Criid as they prepared the food together.
‘I think the death industry of Balhaut is itself dying,’ Gaunt replied, chopping onions for the broth. ‘Mr Jaume insists otherwise, but I don’t think there’s much money in it anymore. Grief only lasts so long. When it’s done, there’s only emptiness, and emptiness doesn’t want or need a gravestone or a commemorative portrait.’
‘Grief lasts a long time,’ she said. There were tears in her eyes.
‘Tona?’
She laughed.
‘It’s the onions,’ she said.
‘I know it’s not,’ said Gaunt, and scraped the onions off his board and into the pot with his kitchen knife.
Maggs was awake. The fever in him had subsided somewhat.
‘Why are my hands tied?’ he asked. ‘Why does my head hurt like a bastard? Hey, who cut up my hand? It’s sore!’
Criid held out a bowl of hot soup. ‘Eat this. Don’t ask questions.’
‘But my hands are tied, Tona. Come on.’
‘So are mine, in a much more metaphorical sense. You want to eat? Be inventive.’
‘How is he?’ Gaunt asked Kolding.
Kolding was so busy devouring his soup and bread that he’d steamed up his glasses.
‘The prisoner?’ he asked, between mouthfuls.
‘Yes, doctor.’
Kolding lowered his bowl, swallowing. He looked over at the prisoner, asleep on the nearby couch. Mabbon had managed a little soup and bread before sleeping.
‘He’s surprisingly… well. The fever’s broken. It’s a turnaround, I confess.’
‘And nothing to do with any mumbo jumbo ritual, obviously.’
‘Well, obviously,’ said Kolding, picking up his spoon.
Gaunt and Criid ate their soup and bread sitting under the lights in front of Balopolis.
‘You were here, weren’t you?’ she asked, mouth full, nodding at the backdrop.
‘In another life.’
‘Was it as bad as they say?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gaunt replied. ‘What do they say?’
‘That it was bad,’ replied Criid, spooning more soup into her mouth as if there was a race to finish first.
‘Then that’s what it must have been,’ he said.
He sat back on the couch, and stared at the backdrop for a long time.
‘It was something,’ he said at length.
‘Worse than we’ve seen?’ she asked.
‘Of course not. With the Ghosts, I’ve walked through bad, and worse, and worse still. Balhaut was just an action. They’re all just actions. Balhaut was a major action. A major action. Of course it sticks in my memory. But it doesn’t define me.’
Criid stared at him. ‘Oh, I think it does.’
‘What?’
‘I think Balhaut was hell on a stick, and I think it matters to you because Slaydo mattered to you more than you’d like to admit. I think Balhaut is an old wound for you.’
Gaunt laughed.
‘I’m serious,’ she went on. ‘You won a massive victory for the Warmaster here on Balhaut. You and the Hyrkans? The Oligarchy Gate and then the Tower of the Plutocrat? Hello? And what did he do for you? Eh? He died, that’s what he did.’
‘That’s not how it happened,’ said Gaunt.
‘But that’s effectively what happened,’ Criid replied, putting down her empty bowl. ‘You and the Hyrkans fought like furies for Slaydo, but when the dust settled, he was dead, and there was another Warmaster on the ascendant. You got overlooked. A pat on the back and a sideline to some backwater forest world where–’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ she asked.
‘The Hyrkans were honoured and rewarded. I was rewarded. My own command.’
Criid smiled sadly. ‘You were Slaydo’s best. His favourite. You should have been his heir. His anointed one.’
Gaunt laughed again. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about, Tona.’
‘I may not have much in the way of book learning or formal schooling,’ she replied, ‘but when you became my commanding officer, I made a point of reading up on you. I studied. You excelled at the Gate and excelled at the Tower. How much older than you is Macaroth?’
‘The Warmaster?’ Gaunt asked. ‘He has seven years on me, I think.’
‘Not much to split. Two young men. Two young protégés. Little to choose between them. Like brothers, inheriting. Slaydo died. And in death, only in death, Macaroth succeeded him.’
‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ he scoffed. ‘Macaroth was a high order commander. I was just a commissar.’
‘Slaydo loved you,’ she replied. ‘Think how he favoured you. He gave you the left flank, into the Gate. Yes, I’ve read the accounts. Memorised them. He favoured you into the Gate from the left, not because that was the easy path but because he trusted your ability. You took two impossible obstacles. Bang, bang! Macaroth had taken command of the Balopolis assault simply because everyone above him in rank was dead.’
‘He still won it,’ said Gaunt.
‘And you would have won it too, in his place. Have you ever met him?’
Gaunt looked at her.
‘Macaroth?’
‘Yes, Macaroth, our beloved Warmaster.’
‘No.’
‘No, never?’
‘Never.’
‘So he didn’t get you sidelined to some backwater forest world where–’
‘No!’ Gaunt snapped.
‘Just asking,’ Tona smiled.
‘Don’t,’ said Gaunt.
‘For an hour or two there,’ she said, turning to point at the cityscape backcloth, ‘for an hour or two right there, you were on the verge of becoming Warmaster.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘No.’
‘You really were.’
‘Criid. Enough!’
‘Listen,’ she said, rising from the couch, ‘who were Slaydo’s obvious successors? Cybon? Dravere? Blackwood? They were all old, senior men. He gave it to Macaroth. Slaydo was absolutely ready to give the Warmastery to someone younger and less qualified than the usual chain of command suggested. Macaroth proves the precedent. You could have been Warmaster! You should have been!’
Gaunt looked away.
‘You weren’t there,’ he said.
She watched him. He stared at the floor for a moment, and then looked up into her eyes.
‘You weren’t there,’ he repeated. ‘I applaud your imagination, but it wasn’t like that. Believe what you like, the only thing you really need to know is this: I would never have missed the chance of becoming the Ghosts’ commander. Tanith, Verghast, Belladon, it’s been an honour to serve alongside them all.’