Almost the entire column had passed now. Hektar drew off his helmet to wipe his dark sweaty face. ‘She’s with the van …’ he began.
‘I must. Immediately.’
Hektar sighed his disgust. He wiped the leather liner inside the helmet then pulled it on again. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
‘I’ll tell Little,’ Bendan said.
‘No — you’re comin’ with us. Let’s go.’
‘What for? You got her. You don’t need me.’
‘You seen it too. Now c’mon.’
‘Aw, for Hood’s sake …’ But the big sergeant crooked a finger and started after the scout. Bendan dragged himself along behind.
The van was a damned long way ahead. First, they were all mounted, something which irked Bendan no end. Why should they be mounted when the rest of them had to plod along? And second, they were all so much cleaner and better accoutred than he. Something that also never failed to stir his resentment. Why should they wear such superior armour — cuirasses of hammered iron and banded hauberks — when all he wore was a hauberk of boiled leather faced with ring mail, with mailed sleeves? It was his general view that anyone with better equipment than his, or with greater wealth, just didn’t deserve it.
In response to a signal from the sergeant a messenger rode over, spoke to him briefly, then wheeled off to take his request to the Fist. Shortly thereafter a small mounted body broke off from the van to return to them. It was Fist Steppen, accompanied by a small guard and her inner staff. They parted around the three waiting troopers. Sergeant Hektar saluted the dumpy sunburned woman in her sweat-stained riding trousers and loose shirting. The skin of her forehead was angry-red and peeling.
‘Fist Steppen.’
‘You have a report?’
Hektar gestured to Tarat. ‘Our Rhivi scout has news.’
Tarat saluted, quite smartly. Steppen nodded to her. ‘The trail the column passed just back-’ the girl began, but was interrupted.
‘We all saw it,’ an officer put in. ‘A band marching double-file, north. Bandits, perhaps.’
Tarat’s hand snapped closed on the bone-handled knife at her side and she glared at the man.
Steppen raised a hand for silence. ‘Continue,’ she said to Tarat.
The girl did so, but still glared murder at the officer. ‘No bandits — or even soldiers — have the discipline to maintain such a straight trail. Look to our own meandering track if you don’t believe me. Men and women pause to adjust gear, to relieve themselves, to remove stones from their sandals. Only one people are capable of moving across the land in this manner. It is said they can march for four days and nights without a single pause.’
‘It is said?’ Steppen asked, cocking her head.
Tarat lost her glare, removed her hand from her blade. ‘In our stories, Fist. Among us Rhivi are told stories of these people. Most speak darkly of them.’
‘And they are?’
Tarat was clearly unwilling to say just who she was talking about, but asked directly she hunched slightly, as if expecting scorn, and said, ‘The Seguleh.’
Bendan laughed out loud. Hektar glared for him to shut up but he couldn’t help it. The Fist arched a brow. ‘You have something to add, trooper? I see you too are a local. What is your opinion?’
He waved a hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just … the Seguleh? Scary stories for children only, ma’am.’
‘I assure you they are quite real.’
‘Oh yes. Real enough. Down south. I’d say they’re damned good all right — damned good at puffing up their reputation, if you follow me, ma’am.’
Leather creaked as the Fist leaned forward on to her pommel. ‘You are from Darujhistan, yes?’
‘Yes, m’am.’
‘And the opinion you express regarding these people … this would be typical of the city, would it?’
‘Oh, yes. Just a lot of tall tales.’
‘I see. Thank you. Very informative.’ She turned to Tarat. ‘Thank you for your report. That is all.’
The troop edged their mounts aside and cantered off to return to the van. Tarat whirled to face Bendan. ‘Laugh at me again and I’ll slit you open like a weasel. Yes?’
Bendan held out his arms. ‘Yeah. Fine. Whatever.’
The tribal girl stalked away on those fine haunches.
Gods! So damned prickly!
CHAPTER XI
We are the freemen privateers.
We sail the forested isles
from Callows to far Galatan!
We have thrown off the chains
of yoke, coin and tyrant.
So join us who dare to be free!
Barathol had taken to sleeping in his work tent. During the late afternoon he’d drop in on the house to make sure little Chaur was fed and clean. He didn’t blame Scillara for her lack of maternal instincts — he was resigned to it. Perhaps it balanced what he admitted might be his own over-developed nurturing instinct.
This night he was bringing up the heat of the forge, readying for another shift, when he heard a strange sound. It seemed to be coming from the excavation trench. Outside the tent, the work crew was on break and all should have been silent, yet intermittent clanging or thumping reached him. He stepped out into the dig, listening.
He thought it came from the exposed stone blocks themselves. Kneeling, he placed an ear close to the cold smooth stone. Shortly, he heard it: a clanging or banging reverberating down the stones. It sounded as if someone was digging somewhere along the now nearly completed arc of set blocks. He stood to peer about; no one was around. The mages who oversaw the installations never arrived until much later. Frowning, he picked up a crowbar and set off to walk the circuit.
He sensed nothing strange until halfway round the nearly completed circle. Here the arc cut through a patch of woods dense in underbrush, part of an artificial park planted on the hilltop. Damn good cover, it occurred to him, and he immediately ducked down to take advantage. Edging forward, he found another excavation, this one much smaller. A pit had been dug over the arc of the stone ring. Even as he watched, dirt flew up to land in the brush. What in the Twins’ name was this?
Then he sensed someone behind him. He spun, gripping the crowbar horizontally in both hands. Steel rang from the heavy tool and a wide burly figure readied for another thrust. Barathol fell, swinging the crowbar; it glanced from a shin and the figure grunted her — her? — pain, tumbling. As the assassin fell, her foot caught him across the throat. Both rolled in the dirt, gasping. Barathol rose just in time to block another stab then readied the crowbar for a swing but stopped, astonished. His attacker also froze.
‘Barathol?’ she said, amazed.
‘Blend?’
‘What in the Queen’s name’re you doing here?’ she snarled, wincing and holding her shin.
‘What are you marines up to?’ he demanded.
A needle-point pricked his back and a voice whispered from behind, ‘The Legate has declared war on Malaz, friend. Time to choose sides.’
‘Don’t do it, Topper,’ Blend warned.
Topper? Where had he heard that name before?
Blend straightened, tested her weight on her leg. ‘Stand aside, Barathol. This is nothing to do with you.’
‘Barathol?’ said the one named Topper. ‘Mekhar? Kalam’s relation?’
‘Yes.’
The knife point pressed harder for an instant, as if its holder were of a mind to finish him quickly then and there. He wasn’t the type to go quietly and he almost moved rather than just stand and be slaughtered but the thought of little Chaur stopped him and he froze, tensed, his limbs twitching.
‘Don’t,’ Blend urged Topper. ‘He’s a friend.’
The blade withdrew — slightly. ‘Are you, Barathol … a friend?’
‘This is just a job. I have rent to pay. A family to feed. I’m lucky to have any work.’