‘And now, if I am to understand you, Master Sergeant, once more you find yourself victimized by inexplicable mystery.’
‘All those recruits, sir. Dispersed into the ranks. And then…’
‘Poof.’
‘As you say and say well, sir.’
‘Whatever happened to your pond, Master Sergeant?’
‘Well, my pet water snake thrived for a while longer, until the pond dried up. Children have such grand dreams, don’t they?’
‘That they do, Master Sergeant. Until it all goes wrong.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Until we meet again, Master Sergeant Pores.’
‘And a good night to you, too, Captain Kindly.’
It was him. I was fooling myself ever thinking otherwise. Who can explain love anyway? She slid the knife back into its sheath and pushed through the loose flaps of the tent, stepping outside and suddenly shivering as something cold slithered through the faint breeze.
The dark north flicks its tongue. Echoes of some unwanted rebirth-glad I’m not a mage. They had nothing to dance about this afternoon.
Lostara moved away from the command tent. The Adjunct sending her away this late at night was unusual-I was ready for bed, dammit- but having the guards roust and drive out a drunken Banaschar wasn’t just sweet entertainment. It was, on another level, alarming.
What did Quick Ben and Bottle tell you this night, Tavore? Is there any end to your secrets? Any breach in your wall of privacy? What’s so satisfying about being alone? Your love is a ghost. The empire you served has betrayed you. Your officers have stopped talking, even to each other.
O serpent of the north, your tongue does not lie. Draw closer. We’re barely breathing.
She was forced to halt as Banaschar reeled across her path. Seeing her, he managed to stop, tottering a moment before straightening. ‘Captain Yil,’ he said genially, taking a deep breath and then letting it loose in the way that drunks did when mustering sodden thoughts. ‘Pleasant evening, yes?’
‘No. It’s cold. I’m tired. I don’t know why the Adjunct cleared everyone out-it’s not as if she needs the extra room. For what?’
‘For what, indeed,’ he agreed, smiling as if his purse was full of sweets. ‘It’s the wardrobe, you see.’
‘What?’
He weaved back and forth. ‘Wardrobe. Yes, that’s the word? I think so. Not makes for easy travel, though. Doesn’t, rather. But… sometimes… where was I? Oh, sometimes the wardrobe’s so big the girl, she just runs away from it, fast and long as she can. Is that what I mean? Did I say it right?’
‘Wardrobe.’
Banaschar pointed at her, nodding. ‘Precisely.’
‘Who runs away from a wardrobe? Girls don’t do that-’
‘But women do.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘All those choices, right? What to put on. And when, and when not. If it’s this, but not if it’s that. What to put on, Captain Yil. Choices. Surrounding you. Closing in. Creeping. Girl’s got to run, and let’s hope she makes it.’
Sniffing, Lostara stepped round the fool and continued on between the tent rows.
It was him. But you let him go. Maybe you thought he’d come back, or you’d just find him again. You thought you had the time. But the world’s always armed and all it takes is a misstep, a wrong decision. And suddenly you’re cut, you’re bleeding, bleeding right out. Suddenly he’s gasping his last breaths and it’s time to put him away, just close him up, like a scroll bearing bad news.
What else can you do?
It was him, but he’s gone and he’s not coming back.
Her pace slowed. She frowned. Where am I going? Ah, that’s right. ‘New whetstone, that’s it.’
The world’s armed, Adjunct, so be careful. Kick open that wardrobe, girl, and start throwing on that armour. The days of fetes are over, all those nights among the glittering smirks of privilege and entitlement.
‘You idiot, Banaschar, there’s only one item in her wardrobe. What’s to choose?’
She almost heard him reply, ‘And still she’s running away.’
No, this conversation wasn’t even real, and it made no sense anyway. Resuming her journey to the smiths’ compound, she encountered a marine coming up the other way. A quick exchange of salutes, and then past.
A sergeant. Marine. Dal Honese. Where in Hood’s name is she going this time of night? Never mind. Whetstone. They keep wearing out. And the sound of the iron licking back and forth, the way it just perfectly echoes the word in my head-amazing. Perfect.
It was him. It was him.
It was him.
Most of the ties and fittings on his armour had loosened or come undone. The heavy dragon-scale breast-and back-plates hung askew from his broad shoulders. The clawed bosses on his knees rested on the ground as he knelt in the wet grasses. He’d pulled off the bone-strip gauntlets to better wipe the tears from his cheeks and the thick smears of snot running from his nose. The massive bone-handled battleaxe rested on the ground beside him.
He’d bawled through half the night, until his throat was raw and his head felt packed solid with sand. Where was everyone? He was alone and it seemed he’d been alone for years now, wandering lost on this empty land. He’d seen old camps, abandoned villages. He’d seen a valley filled with bones and rubble. He’d seen a limping crow that laughed at him only to beg for mercy when he caught it. Stupid! His heart had gone all soft and he foolishly released it, only to have the horrid thing start laughing at him all over again as it limped away. It only stopped laughing when the boulder landed on it. And now he missed that laughing crow and its funny hopping-at least it had been keeping him company. Stupid boulder!
The day had run away and then come back and it wasn’t nearly as cold as it’d been earlier. The ghost of Old Hunch Arbat had blown away like dust and was that fair? It wasn’t. So he was lost, looking for something but he’d forgotten what it was and he wanted to be home in Letheras, having fun with King Tehol and sexing with Shurq Elalle and breaking the arms of his fellow guards in the palace. Oh, where were all his friends?
His bleary, raw eyes settled on the battleaxe and he scowled. It wasn’t even pretty, was it. ‘Smash,’ he mumbled. ‘Crush. Its name is Rilk, but it never says anything. How’d it tell anybody its name? I’m alone. Everybody must be dead. Sorry, crow, you were last other thing left alive! In the whole world! And I killed you!’
‘Sorry I missed it,’ said a voice behind him.
Ublala Pung climbed to his feet and turned round. ‘Life!’
‘I share your exultation, friend.’
‘It’s all cold around you,’ Ublala said.
‘That will pass.’
‘Are you a god?’
‘More or less, Toblakai. Does that frighten you?’
Ublala Pung shook his head. ‘I’ve met gods before. They collect chickens.’
‘We possess mysterious ways indeed.’
‘I know.’ Ublala Pung fidgeted and then said, ‘I’m supposed to save the world.’
The stranger cocked his head. ‘And here I was contemplating killing it.’
‘Then I’d be all alone again!’ Ublala wailed, tears springing back to his puffy eyes.
‘Be at ease, Toblakai. You are reminding me that some things in this world remain worthwhile. If you would save the world, friend, that Draconean armour is fine preparation, as is that weapon at your feet-indeed, I believe I recognize both.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ublala said. ‘I don’t know where to go to save the world. I don’t know anything.’
‘Let us journey together, then.’
‘Gods make good friends,’ nodded Ublala Pung, pleased at this turn of events.