When does it happen? All those wounds that ended up making us the adults we are? A child starved never grows tall or strong. A child unloved can never find love or give it when grown. A child that does not laugh will become someone who can find nothing in the world to laugh at. And a child hurt deeply enough will spend a lifetime trying to scab that wound-even as they ceaselessly pick at it. She thought of all the careless acts and indifferent, impatient gestures she’d seen among parents in civilized places, as if they had no time for their own children. Too busy, too full of themselves, and all of that was simply passed on to the next generation, over and over again.
Among the Dal Honese, in the villages of both the north and the south, patience was the gift returned to the child who was itself a gift. Patience, the full weight of regard, the willingness to listen and the readiness to teach-were these not the responsibilities of parenthood? And what of a civilization that could thrive only by systematically destroying that precious relationship? Time to spend with your children? No time. Work to feed them, yes, that is your responsibility. But your loyalty and your strength and your energy, they belong to us.
And we, who are we? We are the despoilers of the world. Whose world? Yours. Hers-the Adjunct’s, aye. And even Skulldeath’s. Poor, lost Skulldeath. And Hellian, ever bathed in the hot embrace of alcohol. You and that wandering ex-priest with his smirk and broken eyes. Your armies, your kings and queens, your gods, and, most of all, your children.
We kill their world before they even inherit it. We kill it before they grow old enough to know what it is.
She rubbed at her face again. The Adjunct was so alone, aye. But I tried. I think I did, anyway. You’re not quite as alone as you think, Tavore Paran. Did I leave you with that much? When I was gone, when you stood there in your tent, in the silence-when Lostara Yil left and not one set of eyes was upon you… what did you do? What did you free from chains inside yourself?
If Bottle watched through the eyes of one of his rats, what did he see? There in your face?
Anything? Anything at all?
‘What’s burning?’
‘You are, Shoaly.’
The heavy made no move. His boots were now peeling off black threads of smoke. ‘Am I done yet, Primly?’
‘Crispy bacon, I’d wager.’
‘Gods, I love bacon.’
‘You gonna move your feet, Shoaly?’ Mulvan Dreader demanded.
‘Got bids, all you bastards?’
‘Of course,’ said Pravalak Rim.
‘Who’s counting tens?’
‘I am,’ said Rim. ‘Got an order, doing rounds. We got ten in all, counting Skulldeath and Ruffle, though they ain’t counted in personally, being busy and all.’
‘Sinter bet?’
‘Aye,’ said Sinter.
‘What number?’
‘Seven.’
‘Rim, where you at now?’
‘Three.’
‘Out loud.’
‘Five, six, se-’
Shoaly pulled his feet from the fire and sat up.
‘Now that’s loyalty,’ Sinter said, grinning.
‘De ain feer! De ain feer! I eed farv! Farv! Erim, de ain feer!’
‘It’s Shoaly’s feet,’ said Mulvan, ‘he can do what he wants with them. Sinter wins the pot, cos she’s so pretty, right, Shoaly?’
The man smiled. ‘Right. Now, Sint, you like me?’
‘By half,’ she replied.
‘I’ll need it. Nep Furrow, what’ll a quick heal cost me?’
‘Ha! Yar half! Yar half! Ha ha!’
‘Half of my half-’
‘Nad! Nad!’
‘It’s either that or the sergeant orders you to heal me and you get nothing.’
‘Good point,’ said Sinter, glancing over to Badan Gruk. ‘Got need for your healer, Badan, you all right with that?’
‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘This was all a set-up,’ Primly muttered. ‘I’m smelling more than bacon right now.’
‘Arf ad yar arf! Shably! Arf ad yar arf!’
‘Be kind to him, Shoaly, so he does you a good job.’
‘Aye, Sergeant Sinter. Half of half. Agreed. Where’s the kitty?’
‘Everybody spill now,’ said Rim, collecting a helm. ‘In here, pass it around.’
‘Scam,’ said Drawfirst. ‘Lookback, we all been taken.’
‘What’s new about that? Marines never play fair-’
‘They just play to win,’ Drawfirst finished, scowling at the old Bridgeburner adage.
Sinter rose and walked from the camp. Numb and restless at the same time, what kind of state was that to be in? After a few strides she realized she had company and glanced over to see Badan Gruk.
‘Sinter, you look… different. Sick? Listen, Kisswhere-’
‘Never mind my sister, Badan. I know her best, remember.’
‘Exactly. She was going to run, we all knew it. You must’ve known it too. What I don’t get is that she didn’t try to get us to go with her.’
Sinter glanced at him. ‘Would she have convinced you, Badan?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And then the two of you would have ganged up on me, until I relented.’
‘Could be like that, aye. Point is, it didn’t happen. And now she’s somewhere and we’re stuck here.’
‘I’m not deserting, Badan.’
‘Ain’t you thought about it, though? Going after Kisswhere?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘She’s all grown up now. I should have seen that long ago, don’t you think? I don’t have to take care of her any more. Wish I’d realized that the day she joined up.’
He grimaced. ‘You ain’t the only one, Sinter.’
Ah, Badan, what am I to do with you? You keep breaking my heart. But pity and love don’t live together, do they?
Was it pity? She just didn’t know. Instead, she took his hand as they walked.
The soft wind on his face woke him. Groggy, thick-tongued and parched, Gesler blinked open his eyes. Blue sky, empty of birds, empty of everything. He groaned, struggling to work out the last thing he remembered. Camp, aye, some damned argument with Stormy. The bastard had been dreaming again, some demonic fist coming down out of the dark sky. He’d had the eyes of a hunted hare.
Did they drink? Smoke something? Or just fall back to sleep, him on one side of the tent, Stormy on the other-one side neat and ordered, the other a stinking mess. Had he been complaining about that? He couldn’t remember a damned thing.
No matter. The camp wasn’t moving for some reason-and it was strangely quiet, too, and what was he doing outside? He slowly sat up. ‘Gods below, they left us behind.’ A stretch of broken ground, odd low mounds in the distance-had they been there last night? And where were the hearths, the makeshift berms? He heard a scuffing sound behind him and twisted round-the motion rocking the brain in his skull fierce enough to make him gasp.
A woman he’d never seen before was crouched at a small fire. Just to her right was Stormy, still asleep. Weapons and their gear were stacked just beyond him.
Gesler squinted at the stranger. Dressed like some damned savage, all colourless gum-gnawed deerhide and bhederin leather. She wasn’t a young thing either. Maybe forty, but it was never easy to tell with plainsfolk, for that she surely was, like an old-fashioned Seti. Her features were regular enough; she’d probably been good-looking once, but the years had been hard since then. When his assessing gaze finally lifted to her dark brown eyes he found her studying him with something like sorrow.
‘Better start talking,’ Gesler said. He saw a waterskin and pointed at it.
She nodded.
Gesler reached over, tugged loose the stopper and drank down three quick mouthfuls. An odd flavour came off his lips and his head spun momentarily. ‘Hood’s knocker, what did I do last night?’ He glared at the woman. ‘You understanding me?’