One thing you can guarantee. Patronize Shil and she’s going to want to rip out your heart. Only she is trapped, being watched by a dozen Death’s Head officers, and the five-braid is still waiting for his answer.
So I drape my arm around her shoulder.
And then reach round a little further, cupping the underside of one breast. Half of the table laughs as she twists free. As Shil’s face flushes, her eyes fill with tears. They’re from anger. Although I’m probably the only person to realize that.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘you can tell us.’
‘Can’t,’ she says, scowling at the floor. Any minute now, she is going to start kicking her heels like a brat . . . If in doubt, play dumb; first rule of survival in the militia.
‘Yes, you can.’
She tilts her head, considers this.
‘He’s got snakes for hair,’ says Shil, flicking a sign against the evil eye. It’s meant to be out of sight, but the braid sees it anyway. Or maybe he’s meant to see it and Shil is only pretending to keep it out of sight.
He laughs loudly, and I decide to end this conversation. Grabbing her, I slide my hand under her skirt. She moves so fast it is all I can do to catch her wrist before she slaps me. Half the table joins in the five-braid’s laughter as I kiss her.
‘Let’s get you out of here,’ I whisper.
Shil glares at me.
‘Need a bath,’ I tell the general. ‘If that’s all right, sir? A bath, maybe another drink, some sleep . . .’
‘And her?’
‘Oh . . . She gets to scrub my back.’
‘Level five,’ he says. ‘A full suite.’ Turns out he is talking to his ADC, who nods and hastily does something to a key card, which he hands me with a slight bow.
The general watches us go with a grin on his face. Shil walks behind, more furious than ever now I’ve told her to carry the Vals for me. Picking our way between clapping tables, we head for an exit.
Although I take care to pass Neen on the way.
‘See you later,’ I tell him.
My sergeant wants to say something. But doesn’t know where to begin, and I don’t have time for him to work it out. So I nod to the Aux, then turn back and take a bottle of brandy from their table.
‘Later,’ I tell Neen. He gets it this time.
‘Yes, sir . . . Later. Hope you have a good evening, sir.’
Shil looks like she wants to slap him.
We make it to the door, watched by six hundred Death’s Head and fifteen hundred Silver Fist, plus more braids than I have ever seen in one place. Almost nobody meets my eyes. A few are obviously scared of me, but most are too busy looking at the trophies hanging from Shil’s hands.
A servant steps back.
He also looks, but his gaze is on Shil and there’s pity in his eyes.
A dozen servitors step out of my way in the corridor. None of them looks me in the eyes. Tells me all I need to know about the Ninth; they’re as big a bunch of bastards as their Silver Fist allies. Hardly news. It goes with the uniform.
‘In here,’ I tell Shil, punching a button.
The elevator opens to reveal a surprised Death’s Head officer. As I watch, a serving boy twists out of his grip and sprints away. He is at least thirty years younger than the major and lacks a paunch, so that’s him gone then.
Swinging round, the major registers that I outrank him and shuts his mouth with a snap. ‘Find another lift,’ I say.
We leave him tight-lipped and dangerous to anyone junior. I know I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am. Can’t help the way I’m made.
Don’t want to help it either.
It’s got me this far.
As the elevator opens onto the fifth level, three Silver Fist corporals step back to let us through. One sees blood on the lift floor, glances back to check where it’s coming from and sees what Shil is holding.
‘Fuck,’ he says, then realizes I’m an officer.
I wave his apologies away.
‘You see the other fights?’
He nods, wondering how I missed them.
‘Just arrived,’ I tell him. ‘So, what were they like?’
‘Fierce, sir.’
He has his eyes on my arm, which still juts its spike at the elbow and has a row of blades. They’ve ripped my sleeve, obviously. You can’t force a combat arm into a jacket cut for elegance without something giving.
‘Who fought?’
‘Volunteers . . .’ Catching my grin, he shakes his head. ‘I mean it, sir. I was thinking of volunteering myself. Our braid promised ten gold pieces and promotion to the pair that killed them.’
‘The pair?’ I say.
Eyes go wide. ‘Sir,’ he says. ‘You didn’t-’
‘Fight as one of a pair?’ I shake my head, grinning sourly. ‘No,’ I say. ‘General Tournier forgot to mention that bit of the tradition.’
This is the point the Silver Fist decides he needs to be elsewhere. Understandable really.
Chapter 46
A huge animal skin fills the middle of my suite. The dead beast has eyes of golden glass, cracked teeth, a tasselled tail, and six legs that end in vicious claws. A badly mended hole in its neck shows how it died.
A terracotta girl simpers from one corner.
Her breasts are full, upturned and delicately nippled. That is pretty much all she is: simpering face, heaving breasts and bare shoulders, all shaded by a sloping hat. The sculptor hasn’t bothered with anything else.
A lacquer bowl of sweetmeats sits next to her.
Swiping a bottle from Neen’s table was obviously a waste of my time, because far better bottles sit in a row to one side of the simpering girl. There’s nothing resembling cachaca, but there is brandy, whisky, pepper vodka and something on ice that calls itself aquavit. The bottle frosts as I pull it from the bucket. It tastes of . . .
Not sure, weeds of some kind.
Shil’s not talking to me. She stands by the door with a look of absolute misery on her face. So maybe it was stupid to admit I’d promised Neen to rescue her. But it was true. I thought she would be pleased.
Removing my shirt, I tip half the bottle over my arm. It hurts like fuck and the pain gets worse when I pull open the gash to wash the bone with alcohol. Shil’s meant to be finding thread to sew it shut, so I turn my attention to the Vals, starting with the one who died first.
Her implant wriggles when it’s dumped in the ice bucket. That is good, although the lurch my kyp gives is less good. The kyp’s feeding on the implant’s distress. The second Val’s implant is in better condition. It wriggles so violently I almost drop it.
When I look for Shil, she’s vomiting.
‘That’s Haze’s trick,’ I tell her.
Not sure she gets the joke. So I wait as she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and spits on the deck, only just missing the skin rug.
‘Shil,’ I say.
She watches me, warily.
‘What’s wrong with this room?’
It is a real question. But she doesn’t have an answer. So it seems to be time to wake my gun from standby. Shil stitches my arm, while we both wait for the SIG to stop pissing around with all its little lights. When it wants, it can exit standby faster than I can jack the slide.
‘Screening myself,’ it announces.
And then it takes a look around. A very slow look.
‘Moth-eaten rug,’ it says. ‘Black silk sheets. Cheap statue with over-sized tits. An apparently limitless supply of alcohol . . . Sven, I apologize. How could I have imagined Pavel’s city was good enough, when you can have all this?’
‘Listen . . .’
‘And that statue,’ says the SIG. ‘You know it’s a fake?’
Can’t say I did. Mind you, can’t say it matters either. Certainly not in the way it obviously matters to my gun.
‘SIG,’ I say, ‘what’s wrong with this room?’
‘You mean apart from the fact it’s ghastly?’
‘Yes. Apart from that.’
The SIG considers my question carefully. And Shil uses the time it takes to tie off the stitching on my arm. ‘Thanks,’ I say.