Badalle stood atop a wagon, Saddic at her side, watching the scene at the edge of camp.
‘What’s happening, Badalle?’ Saddic asked.
‘Wounds take time to heal,’ she replied, watching the two men embracing, feeling a vast tension seem to drain away on all sides.
‘Are they lovers?’
‘Brothers,’ she said.
‘The one with the red beard – you called him Father, Badalle. Why?’
‘It’s what being a soldier is all about. That is what I have seen since we found them. You do not choose your family, and sometimes there’s trouble in that family, but you don’t choose.’
‘But they did. They chose to be soldiers.’
‘And then they come face to face with death, Saddic. That is the blood tie, and it makes a knot not even dying can cut.’ And that is why the others are saluting. ‘Soon,’ she said, ‘very soon, we are going to see this family awaken to anger.’
‘But Mother is sending those ones away. Will we ever see them again?’
‘It’s easy, Saddic,’ she said. ‘Just close your eyes.’
Walking slowly, Pores made his way to the edge of the camp so that he could look out on the marines and heavies, who were now forming up to face the regulars. He looked round for the Adjunct but could not see her. Nor was Fist Blistig anywhere in sight – the man who tried to murder me.
There is nothing more dangerous than a man without a sense of humour.
As Fiddler and Hedge drew apart and headed for their respective companies, Faradan Sort came up alongside Pores, and then, on his other side, Fist Kindly.
Pores sighed. ‘Fists. Was all this by your command?’
‘I was barking orders when they just stood up and left me standing there,’ said Faradan Sort. ‘They’re as bad as marines, these regulars.’
‘We will see if that’s true soon enough,’ Kindly said. ‘Master-Sergeant Lieutenant Pores, are you recovered?’
‘Some additional healing proved possible once we were away from the desert. As you see, sir, I am up and about.’
‘It is your innate laziness that still needs addressing.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Are you agreeing with me, Master-Sergeant Lieutenant Pores?’
‘I always agree with you, sir.’
‘Oh, enough, you two,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘We’re about to be saluted.’
All the regulars had drawn to this side of the camp and stood in an uneven mass. There was an ease to all of this that Pores found … peculiar, as if the entire structure of the military, in all its rigidity and inane affectation, had ceased to be relevant. The regulars no longer held their own salute and now stood watching, for all the world like a crowd drawn down to the docks to see a fleet’s departure from the bay, while Captain Fiddler moved out to stand in front of his marines, facing them all. He lifted his hand in a salute, held it for a moment as his soldiers did the same, and then let the hand fall.
And that was it. No answering gesture from the regulars. Pores grunted. ‘It’s the old coin thing, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed,’ replied Kindly in a rough voice. He cleared his throat and said, ‘That tradition was born on the Seti Plain, from the endless internecine warfare among the horse clans. Honest scraps ended in an exchange of trophy coins.’ He was silent for a few breaths, and then he sighed. ‘Seti combs are works of art. Antler and horn, polished to a lustre—’
‘I feel another bout of laziness coming on, sir. Isn’t it time you ordered me to do something?’
Blinking, Kindly faced Pores. Then shocked him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not today.’ And he walked back into camp.
Faradan Sort remained at his side for a moment longer. ‘If he had a son to choose, Pores …’
‘I’ve already been disowned once, Fist, and regardless of what you might think, I’m not a glutton for punishment.’
She studied him. ‘He was saying goodbye.’
‘I know what it was,’ Pores snapped, wincing as he turned too quickly away. When she reached to take his arm, he waved her off. Both gestures made his chest hurt, but that was the kind of pain he welcomed these days. Keeping the other kind at bay.
Forgot to thank him. Deadsmell. And now it’s too late. And now Kindly goes all soft on me. Where’s the fun in that?
‘Go back to your wagon,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘I’ll detail three squads for the harness.’
No heavies now. ‘Better make it four, Fist.’
‘It is my understanding,’ she replied, ‘that we do not have far to go today.’
Despite himself, he glanced over at her. ‘Really? Has she announced our destination, then?’
‘She has.’
‘And?’
She looked across at him. ‘We’re looking for a suitable field of battle.’
Pores thought about that for a few moments. ‘So they know we’re here.’
‘Yes, Lieutenant. And they are marching to meet us.’
He looked to the departing column of marines and heavies. Then … where are they going? This is what I get for lying half dead for days, and then spoon-feeding old Shorthand, waiting for a word from him. Just one word. Something more than just staring into space – that’s not a proper way for a man to end his days.
And now I don’t know what the Hood’s going on. Me, of all people.
The camp was breaking up behind him. Everything coming down for the march, with barely a single word spoken. He’d never known an army as quiet as this one. ‘Fist.’
‘Yes?’
‘Will they fight?’
She stepped close, her eyes cold as ice. ‘You don’t ask that kind of question, Pores. Not another word. Am I understood?’
‘Aye, Fist. I just don’t want to be the only one unsheathing my sword, that’s all.’
‘You’re in no condition for that.’
‘That detail hardly matters, Fist.’
Making a face, she turned away. ‘I suppose not.’
Pores watched her head back into the camp.
Besides, I might need that sword. If Blistig gets close. It’s not like he’ll be of any use in the scrap – the very opposite, in fact. But I’ll choose the perfect moment. It’s all down to timing. All of life is down to timing, and that was always my talent, wasn’t it?
I’m mostly a nice guy. Made a career of avoiding blood and fighting and all the unpleasant stuff. The challenge was pulling that off while being in an army. But … not as hard as it sounds.
No matter. It’s not as if I’m afraid of war. It’s the chaos I don’t like. Kindly’s combs … now, you see, those I do understand. That man I understand. Through and through. And being his one unruly comb, why, how perfect was that?
Mostly a nice guy, like I said. But Blistig tried killing me, for a few empty casks.
I don’t feel like being nice any more.
‘Adjunct wishes to see you, Fist,’ said Lostara Yil.
Blistig glanced up, saw the look in her eyes and decided to ignore it. Grunting, he straightened from where he had been sitting amidst discarded equipment.
He followed the woman through the camp, paying little attention to the preparations going on around them. These regulars were good at going through all the motions – they’d done enough of it, after all, and had probably walked more leagues since forming up than most people did in a lifetime. But that didn’t add any notches on the scabbard, did it? For all their professionalism – suddenly rediscovered since the Blood for Water miracle, and not just rediscovered, but reinvented with a discipline so zealous it bordered on the obsessive – these regulars looked fragile to Blistig.
They would melt away before the enemy at the first hint of pressure. He’d seen them lining the route taken by the marines and heavies; he’d seen their pathetic salutes. Good for gestures now, these soldiers, but their faces were empty. They had the look of the dead. Every man, every woman.
When Lostara reached the entrance to the Adjunct’s tent, she halted, gesturing him inside.