‘So,’ says the general. ‘Tell me how you got here.’
‘Stole a cargo cruiser from Ilseville. Got out just before the city fell.’
That is as near an admission of treason as he’s ever heard. Only it’s a lot better than telling him the truth. And when General Tournier asks his next question, I know we’re OK. At least for now.
‘I heard the landing fields were bombed. Have I got that wrong?’
Whatever you do, never contradict a general, especially not in front of his own staff. All those prissy little idiots with silver braid and red patches behind their collar bars are watching. ‘Must have been after we left, sir.’
He nods.
There is no landing field at Ilseville. It’s a river port, in the middle of barren marshland. A depot for alligator skins and rare furs, a place you go once and vow never to return. Probably still is, those bits of it left.
‘Eat,’ he says. ‘Drink . . . We can discuss Ilseville later.’
Plates come and go, carried by a steady stream of orderlies, servants and waitresses. A woman begins to replace my glass and stops. When I look round, I discover it’s Shil, her face frozen with the shock of seeing me.
That’s when I realize she thought I was dead. Probably thought it was only a matter of time before she joined me. And here I am, staring at her with just a little too much attention for an officer to be paying a servant.
She has a black eye.
‘What?’ demands the general, glancing across.
Reaching for the glass, I hold it to the light and then thrust it at Shil. ‘Disgusting,’ I snarl. ‘You think I want your filthy fingerprints? Find me another.’
She bobs her head and hurries away.
The woman who brings me a replacement is older, less nervous. Not sure what Shil’s said to her, but she keeps her eyes on the floor and leaves quickly. Twisting away from the grasping hand of a man further down the table, she laughs.
It’s an art, not offending those with power over you. Watching her tells me something about those around me. Nothing I couldn’t have guessed. Their servants tread carefully around them.
‘Sven,’ says the general, and I realize I’m being offered a plate.
The chicken is fresh and well cooked. Its sauce deep and rich. I’d rather have a beer with a cane-spirit chaser; but the men around me are sniffing glasses of wine and talking about good and bad vintages. After a while, the conversation turns to battles fought and villages burnt.
Murderers with manners.
It is amazing what you can get away with if you have breeding.
A woman passes, and I slap her arse, hard. When I look up, I realize it’s Shil, and her face is bleaker than ever. A second later, it goes blank and the lieutenant next to me laughs.
‘Tried her, sir,’ he tells me. ‘Sour as lemon.’
He has tiny braids growing from his skull and the skin around his wrists has mottled. I can just see three cuts where the Uplift virus was rubbed into his flesh. Simply looking at the side effects of the virus makes me want to vomit. ‘You gave her those bruises?’
The man grins.
We introduce ourselves, and I wonder if he realizes I intend to kill him as soon as I get the chance. Guess not, because Lieutenant Hamblin tells me how he knocks Shil out by accident and ruins his own evening. Seems he likes his women to know what they’re getting.
The lieutenant wants to tell me more.
Only his general is watching. So we go back to talking about the Victory First. It’s old for a mother ship, he tells me. A little small for the numbers it holds. And it’s only towards the end of our talk I realize something: when this man, with his Death’s Head uniform and Obsidian Cross, talks about our ships he means the Enlightened.
What Colonel Vijay told me is true. The Ninth Regiment really are a bunch of poisonous little traitors.
‘You all right, sir?’ the lieutenant asks.
‘Oh, yes,’ I say, raising my glass. ‘Never better.’
Chapter 43
‘Sven,’ says the general, leaning forward. realizing his commander wants to talk to me, a brigadier stands up and politely offers me his seat.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I say.
He nods, but he is glad to swap places. I can see it in his eyes.
‘So,’ the general says. It’s a tic of his. Most of his sentences start that way. ‘Tell me how you lost your arm.’ His gaze is on the empty sleeve pinned to my chest.
‘Got it bitten off, sir.’
The general checks I’m not mocking him. Which I’m not; there’s a time and place for such things and this isn’t it.
‘What by?’
A ferox, I almost say.
A bloody great sand-hued monster, with a bone crest down his skull and claws that can tear ceramic. A ferox saved my life once. It cut me down from a whipping post, gave me a girl to fuck and a cave in which to live. Of course, it later ate the girl, and the Death’s Head took back the cave and I came close to dying. But you can’t have everything.
‘Cold-water crocodile,’ I tell him. ‘A lagarto.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive.’
I shrug. ‘Shouldn’t have got bitten in the first place. And it’s not a problem, I mend fast.’
He nods. ‘So you can still fight?’
The table goes still. It’s an insult, wrapped in a smile. They want to know how I’ll react. The brigadier whose chair I’m using shoots me a glance. A warning, only about what? Everything, I guess.
‘Sven? ‘ The general’s waiting for my answer.
At least two officers at the table hide their smiles when I glance up. The general’s not smiling. In fact, his scowl deepens. ‘Oh yes,’ I tell him. ‘I can still fight.’
‘Good,’ says the general, his voice smooth. ‘In that case you can provide tonight’s entertainment.’
A clap of his hands brings an ADC running. The boy is young, probably too young to shave. Yet he has a waterfall of silver braid and a little black dagger hanging from his hip and he’s wearing that shoulder patch. He’s probably the age I was when Lieutenant Bonafonte swore me into the Legion. Although my uniform was sweat-rotted battledress, and my dagger stolen from a market stall.
‘Sir?’ he says, saluting.
‘Get the prisoners.’
The second lieutenant scampers away.
Bet his family didn’t know he was going to end up a traitor on the wrong side of the spiral arm. Mind you, they probably think he’s dead. A life joyfully given for our beloved empire. It’s always joyfully given. And the empire is always beloved. Our glorious leader wouldn’t want anyone dying for him unwillingly.
‘Have another drink, sir,’ suggests a major on my other side. He pushes across a brandy decanter without waiting for my answer.
It tastes sour. Everything about tonight tastes sour.
Fifty Death’s Head officers, 120 NCOs and 540 troopers sharing a dining hall with 1,500 Silver Fist troopers and their braids. We’re looking at the entire Ninth. A full regiment of fucking traitors. And there is something else: at least a third of the officers around me are growing braids of their own. It’s hard to describe how that feels. To be a traitor is bad enough. That these bastards want to advertise the fact turns my gut.
‘One bout,’ explains the major. ‘No breaks . . .’
‘To the death?’
His look says, what do you think?
‘Fine with me,’ I say. ‘Never was good at pulling punches. What’s the ruling on weapons?’
‘No guns,’ he says. ‘Otherwise, anything goes.’
The general is listening with a grim smile. Unbuckling my holster, I drop it to the ground and feel glad the SIG has enough sense to stay locked down. And then I take off my jacket. I am about to drape this over the back of a chair when an orderly rushes forward to take it from my hand. He waits, looking nervous.