‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said.
‘Get another glass, Costin,’ said the captain.
The red-faced drunk reached up onto a side shelf and took down a heavy lead-glass tumbler. He put it on the table and carefully filled all four from the bottle.
‘You’re Wilder, right?’ asked the captain.
‘Yes.’
‘Welcome to the First,’ the captain said. ‘I knew your brother. He was a good man. I’m Captain Meryn, E Company. These gentlemen are friends of mine. Trooper Costin.’
The raddled Tanith nodded at Wilder.
‘And this is Sergeant Gendler. Didi Gendler.’
‘A pleasure,’ said the aristo fish. The accent was strong, hard. Wilder had heard enough to know it wasn’t Tanith, and it certainly wasn’t Belladon.
‘You’re a Vervunhiver?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ said Meryn. ‘Didi’s not just a Vervunhiver. He’s not some scum off the bottom of your boot. Are you, Didi?’
‘Captain Meryn does like his little jokes,’ said Gendler.
‘Sergeant Gendler is better than the rest of us,’ said Costin. ‘It’s well known. He’s proper breeding, is Sergeant Gendler.’
‘I’m just an honest soldier,’ said Gendler.
‘Didi is nobility,’ said Meryn. ‘He’s up-hive blood. Noble-born to a good main-spine family.’
‘Really?’ asked Wilder. ‘How’d you end up in a shit-hole like this, then?’
Gendler stiffened and his languid eyes narrowed.
‘It’s all right,’ said Wilder. ‘No offence meant. I ask myself the same question every morning.’
Meryn grinned. He held up one of the brimming little glasses.
‘Come and join us, Captain Wilder.’
Wilder took the glass and pulled up a stool.
‘What will we drink to?’ he asked. ‘What will we talk about?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Gendler, ‘if you’re down here and not upstairs, it rather suggests you don’t want to be upstairs, or that you’re not welcome. Which, in turn, suggests that we’ve already got something in common, the four of us.’
Wilder looked at the amasec in his glass, and licked his lips.
‘I’m down here,’ he said, ‘because I was sick of that damn party, and I was looking for something to drink to wash away how much I bloody hate the guts of that bastard Gaunt.’
He paused and looked up at the three men sharply, suddenly aware of what he’d said out loud.
‘Now, you see?’ said Meryn. ‘That’s something else we have in common.’
From the shadows of an adjacent corner in the undercroft, eyes watched the four men in their huddle. Eszrah Ap Niht, known as Ezra Night, warrior of the Gereon Untill, kept himself in the darkness, and listened to them talk.
‘Leaving the party early, sir?’ asked Elodie, passing Gaunt in the doorway of the barrack hall.
Gaunt stopped and saluted her.
‘No, mam,’ he said. ‘I’m just stepping out to clear my head. The band can be…’
He faltered.
‘I can hear what the band can be for myself,’ said Elodie, smiling.
Gaunt nodded.
‘I just need a moment to collect my thoughts. There are a few matters to attend to. You’re looking, if I may be so bold as to say, quite stunning this evening.’
Elodie curtsied playfully. She was very pleased with the fit of her blue dress.
‘Thank you, colonel-commissar,’ she replied. ‘You may be so bold.’
‘You’re looking for Captain Daur, no doubt?’
‘I am. He’s inside, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Gaunt. ‘Go join him, and have a very fine last evening on this world.’
Elodie went into the hall. It was crowded and busy with noise. Music and conversation, laughter and the chink of glasses. There were several hundred people present, not counting the staff. The band was making an enormous sound.
‘Have you seen Captain Daur?’ she asked Corporal Chiria, Domor’s adjutant.
‘I think he’s over there, mam,’ said Chiria. She pointed.
Elodie looked. She caught sight of Daur. He was talking to a woman. They were clearly friends. They were laughing. The woman was very good looking. She was wearing an officer’s uniform.
‘Who’s that he’s talking to?’ asked Elodie.
‘Her?’ answered Chiria. ‘That’s Captain Zhukova. She’s influx, arrived today. From Vervunhive. Turns out she and Captain Daur knew each other really well, back in the old days, at the hive. Funny, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ said Elodie.
‘Are you all right, mam?’ Chiria asked. The corporal was a big woman, with a powerful frame. Her face was famously scarred, and it made her seem threatening, but Elodie knew she was very sweet-natured.
‘Yes,’ said Elodie. ‘Of course. I think I just found out the answer to something.’
Merrt pulled the trigger. It was funny the things you didn’t forget. Basic marksman skills, hunting skills, they never went away. Like how to pull a trigger. You didn’t squeeze or jerk it, you didn’t do anything that would shake or upset the fine balance you’d achieved between the weapon and your stance. Pulling the trigger, that most significant act in the art of shooting, was, at its best, the most minimal. A draw. A slow tightening of the finger during the exhale.
The old rifle cracked. Merrt felt the kick of it. He slotted back the bolt-action to eject the shell case.
‘You missed,’ said Larkin.
‘I gn… gn… gn… know.’
‘But you missed less terribly than you did the last ten shots,’ Larkin grinned. He sat up, lifted his scope and took a look down the makeshift range. They’d set up on stretch of sea wall at the far end of the camp area, looking out down the plascrete shore to the filthy waters, with nothing between them and the far shore of Anzimar City three kilometres away except the toxic tide. There was a little jetty of rusting metal steps that led out from the end of the sea wall to a small stone derrick that was sometimes used as a beacon point. The jetty allowed Larkin to limp out to the stone platform and set up empty bottles and cans for practice. Effective range was about three hundred metres. Add in the strong breeze, the smoke and degrading light, plus the poor quality of the old rifle; it was quite a target to take.
Merrt slotted in another round, clacked back the bolt-action. Larkin took a sip of sacra from a flask. It was getting cold and the water stank.
‘Best make the most of this,’ said Larkin. ‘After tonight, all practice is going to be shipside.’
Merrt sighed.
‘It’s not like I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘I’ve always been able to remember what to do. I didn’t forget how to shoot. I just stopped being gn… gn… gn… able to.’
Merrt had once been a crack shot, some said as good as Mad Larks, though it was impossible to make that assessment after so many years. On Monthax, a bitter lifetime ago, he’d taken a las-round in the mouth during the jungle-fight. The medicaes had rebuilt his lower face, fitting him with a crude and ugly prosthetic jaw. Apart from ruining his life, it had spoiled his aim. Larkin knew Merrt was right: you just had to watch him to see he knew what he was doing. He just couldn’t translate technique into actual results. Throne knows, he’d tried. Merrt had spent years trying to re-qualify for his lanyard and get a longlas back.
‘This trip’s a shooting party,’ said Larkin, taking another sip, ‘so I need the best shooters I can get.’
‘That’s not me,’ said Merrt. ‘Not any more.’
‘But you were, Rhen.’
‘Exactly.’
Larkin sniffed.
‘You know what your trouble is?’ he asked.