‘Commissar Blenner,’ growled Gaunt. ‘Major Petrushkevskaya’s name is Petrushkevskaya. That’s what the men will call her. They’ll damn well learn how to say it. Anything else would be disrespectful.’
‘Of course,’ said Blenner. ‘I only meant–’
‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Petrushkevskaya. ‘Actually, it has been an issue. I’m generally known as Major Pasha. It’s what I was called in the scratch companies, before my rank was official. Sort of an affectionate name, but it has its uses. Simplicity being one of them.’
Gaunt nodded.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s fine. Though I generally discourage the ranks from adopting informal names. A lack of discipline in anything, even the form of words, represents a lack of discipline that could spread.’
‘That must be why we’re called Gaunt’s Ghosts,’ said Blenner.
Zhukova laughed.
Gaunt had to bite his lip to prevent himself from snapping at Blenner in front of them. He looked for another outlet to vent at.
‘Where did that feth-awful band come from?’ he asked.
‘Uhm, sir?’
He turned. The others turned with him. Major Baskevyl had joined them, bringing another new face, an officer of Belladon extract. The man’s face was oddly familiar, and clearly tinged by anger.
‘Sir,’ said Baskevyl, this is Captain–’
‘It’s my feth-awful band, sir,’ said the officer. ‘My command is a fighting unit of three sections that happens to carry the role of colours band for ceremonial occasions. Its presence is meant to reflect the martial prowess and splendour of Belladon, and to enhance this regiment. It is honourable and dignified. It has been devoted to the matter of joining this command for years, and has made considerable efforts to arrange transfers to do so. It is the marching band my brother personally requested.’
Gaunt waited a second before replying. He looked the man full in the face.
‘You’re Wilder’s brother.’
‘I am.’
‘I meant no disrespect. I didn’t know your brother–’
‘No, you did not. And precious little trace of him remains here. When he took command of this regiment, the previous names were merged. I see all sign of the 81st has now vanished from the regimental title. A revision you made, I presume?’
‘The new title was clumsy,’ said Gaunt, showing no emotion. ‘Belladon has, however, left a profound and positive mark on our ranks, and your brother’s stewardship of this regiment, and his legacy, is not forgotten.’
Wilder jutted out his chin a little, but remained silent. Gaunt saluted him.
‘Welcome to the Tanith First, Captain Wilder. The Emperor protects.’
Wilder returned the salute.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It must be said, captain, that we were not expecting to be reinforced by a colours band.’
‘They’re fighting troopers, damn you!’ Wilder cried. He swung at Gaunt. His fist stopped dead, the wrist clamped tightly in Blenner’s right hand. The speed with which Blenner had moved to intercept was quite impressive.
‘I don’t think, Captain Wilder,’ said Blenner, holding the wrist firmly and speaking directly into Wilder’s furious face, ‘that striking your commanding officer would be a great way to end your first day in this regiment. It might even be a way of making it your first and only day.’
He laughed at his own joke. Zhukova laughed too, brightly and rather over-emphatically. The band had stopped playing and everyone in the hall was watching.
‘But it is your first day,’ said Blenner calmly and clearly, ‘and this is an emotional moment. It has perhaps sharpened your grief over the memory of your brave brother. That’s understandable. It’s taken you a long time to get here, and you’re standing here at last. We’ve all taken a drink. It’s the end of a long day and there are longer ones ahead. So, why don’t we make the fresh start here, and not five minutes ago?’
He looked at Gaunt.
‘I think that would be a prudent idea,’ said Gaunt.
Blenner let Wilder’s wrist go. Wilder lowered his hand and straightened up. He smoothed the front of his jacket.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I apologise. Thank you.’
‘Nothing more will be said about it,’ said Blenner. He raised his glass high and addressed the room.
‘Welcome to the Ghosts. Fury of Belladon!’
Fury of Belladon! they all sang back, even Petrushkevskaya and Zhukova, and glasses clinked.
Gaunt turned to the band and gestured encouragingly.
‘Play up! I was just getting used to it.’
Sergeant Yerolemew smiled, nodded, and brought the band back into full order. The music blasted out again.
‘Deft,’ Gaunt whispered to Blenner.
‘I have my uses,’ Blenner replied.
‘I still don’t need a band,’ Gaunt added quietly. ‘Can we see if we can at least lose their instruments in transit?’
‘I’ll have some people look into it,’ whispered Blenner.
‘And keep an eye on Wilder. He’s trouble.’
‘There’s an old saying, Ibram. Keep your friends close, and the brother of the dead hero you replaced as commander closer. Or confined to quarters.’
The undercroft of the barrack hall was an extensive warren of vaulted wine cellars, pantries, larders and basements. Light shone out of the noisy scullery. The kitchens were filled with heat and steam and the smell of herbs and roasted meat, and kitchen staffers were loitering in the cool scullery entrance, beaded with sweat, as they took quick breaks between servings. From overhead, the boom and muffled clash of the enthusiastic band rang like a minor seismic disturbance.
Viktor Hark walked down the stairs beside the scullery, through a waiting group of overheated servers and pot boys, and turned left into the main undercroft space. The arched stone was whitewashed, and it was cool and dry, with just the hint of cold brick and the background top note of chemical smog that got into everything in Anzimar.
Lamps had been lit down here. Glow-globes and candles had been set at the long bench table.
First Platoon, B Company, had assembled. Varl and Brostin, Mach Bonin the scout, Kabry and Laydly, LaHurf, Mkaninch and Mktally, Judd Cardass and Cant the Belladonians, Mkrook, Senrab Nomis the Verghastite. Rawne, the presiding genius of B Company and the regiment’s second officer, stood in a corner, leaning against the wall.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Hark, and held up his hand as they began to scrape back chairs and rise. ‘As you were.’
There were bottles and glasses on the table, and an earthenware pitcher of water. None of the bottles had been opened.
‘Trouble on the island this morning, so I hear,’ Hark said to Rawne.
‘I handled it,’ said Rawne.
‘You certainly did,’ replied Hark. He reached into his coat, took out the message wafer that had been delivered to him in the quad, and handed it to Rawne.
Rawne unfolded it and read it.
‘Congratulations, major,’ Hark said.
Rawne allowed himself a small smile. The men began to whoop and pound their fists on the table.
‘Further to the incident this morning,’ said Hark over the row, ‘and in light of the serious security failings demonstrated by Major Rawne, First Platoon, B Company, the Tanith First, is hereby charged with the secure management of the prisoner for the duration of this operation. In such respect, First Platoon, B Company, the Tanith First, will be designated an S company by the Commissariat for purposes of authority and powers.’
The men whooped even more loudly.
‘Major Rawne is supervising officer. I will consult directly on S Company procedure. That’s “S” as in security.’
‘I thought it was “S” as in special,’ Cant called out.