‘I am aware of this.’
‘Yes, you must be. I’m sorry. But, Cotillion, you gave me more than your anger. Don’t you see that? The man I love does not now grieve for me. His love is not for a ghost, a brief moment in his life that he can never recapture. You gave us both a chance to live, and to love – it doesn’t matter for how much longer.’
‘I also spared the Adjunct, and by extension this entire army.’
She cocked her head, momentarily disoriented. ‘Do you regret that?’
He hesitated, and that silence rippled like ice-water through Lostara Yil.
‘While she lives,’ he said, ‘the path awaiting you, and this beleaguered, half-damned army, is as bitter as my own. To the suffering to come … ah, there are no gifts in any of this.’
‘There must be, Cotillion. They exist. They always do.’
‘Will you all die in the name of love?’ The question seemed torn from something inside him.
‘If die we must, what better reason?’
He studied her for a dozen heartbeats, and then said, ‘I have been considering … amends.’
‘Amends? I don’t understand.’
‘Our youth,’ he murmured, as if he had not heard her, ‘the brightness of the sun. She chose to leave him. Because, I fear, of me, of what I did to her. It was wrong. All of it, so terribly wrong. Love … I’d forgotten.’
The shadows deepened, and a moment later she was alone in her tent. She? Cotillion, listen to my prayer. For all your fears, love is not something you can forget. But you can turn your back on it. Do not do that. A god had sought her out. A god suffering desperate need. But she couldn’t give him what he desired – perhaps, she saw now, he’d been wise in rejecting what she’d offered. The first time, it was anger for love. But I saw no anger left in him.
Always an even exchange. If I opened my love to him … whatever he had left inside himself, he didn’t want to give it to me. And that, she now comprehended, had been an act of mercy.
The things said and the things not said. In the space in between, a thousand worlds. A thousand worlds.
The Perish escort of two armoured, helmed and taciturn soldiers halted. The one on the left pointed and said to Bottle, ‘There, marine, you will find your comrades. They have gathered at the summons of their captain.’ To Masan Gilani and Ruthan Gudd, the soldier continued, ‘The Adjunct’s command tent lies elsewhere, but as we have come to the edge of the Bonehunter encampment, I expect you will have little difficulty in finding your own way.’
‘Much as we will miss your company,’ Ruthan Gudd said, ‘I am sure you are correct. Thank you for guiding us this far, sirs.’
The figures – Bottle wasn’t even sure if they were men or women, and the voice of the one who’d spoken gave no hint whatsoever – bowed, and then turned about to retrace their routes.
Bottle faced his companions. ‘We part here, then. Masan, I expect I’ll see you soon enough. Captain.’ He saluted smartly.
The man scowled in reply. Gesturing to Masan, he set off for the heart of the camp.
Bottle faced the direction the guard had indicated. What’s Sort got to say to them, then? Guess I’m about to find out.
They’d set no pickets. A small mass of soldiers were seated or standing in a basin, and at the far end, hunched down on a boulder … is that Fiddler? Gods below, don’t tell me this is all that’s left! Tentatively, he approached.
They made their own way through a relatively quiet camp. It was late, and Masan was not looking forward to rousing the Adjunct, but she knew Tavore would not abide any delays to any of this. Though my report probably won’t impress her. Five beat-up T’lan Imass is all I’ve got to show. No, it was Ruthan Gudd who was marching into a serious mess. She hoped she’d be witness to at least some of that exchange, if only to revel in the captain’s discomfort.
Elder! Well, I won’t tell. But all the rest you did, Captain, now that sounded interesting. Too bad I missed it.
They passed through a few groups here and there, and Masan sensed a heightening attention from those faces turned their way, but no one accosted them. No one said a damned thing. Strange and stranger still.
They came to within sight of the command tent. Two guards were stationed at the flap, and the glow of lantern light painted the canvas walls.
‘Does she ever sleep?’ Ruthan Gudd wondered in a drawl.
‘In her boots,’ Masan replied, ‘I doubt I would.’
The eyes of the guards were now on them, and both slowly straightened, their shadowed gazes clearly fixing on the captain. Both saluted when he halted before them.
‘She probably wants to see us,’ Ruthan said.
‘You have leave to enter, sir,’ one of them said.
As the captain moved to the entrance the same guard said, ‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘Welcome back.’
Masan followed him inside.
‘Of all the luck,’ muttered Ruthan Gudd upon seeing a dozing Skanarow. He held a hand to stay Masan. ‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘don’t wake her.’
‘Coward,’ she mouthed in reply.
Grimacing, he edged past the sleeping woman. As she neared, Masan’s gaze fell to one wayward booted foot, and she gave it a kick.
Skanarow bolted upright. ‘Adj— Gods below!’
That shout rang loud as a hammered cauldron.
At the very threshold to the inner chamber, Ruthan Gudd wheeled. Whatever he intended to say, he had no chance, as Skanarow was upon him in an instant. Such was the force of her lunge and embrace that he staggered back, splitting the curtain, into the Adjunct’s presence.
Skanarow held her kiss as if glued to the captain’s mouth.
Grinning, Masan Gilani edged in behind them, caught the Adjunct’s astonished gaze.
Tavore was standing beside a small folding map table. She was otherwise alone, accounting for her half-dressed state – only the quilted undergarment of her armour covered her torso, and below that nothing but loose linen trousers, the knees so stained they’d have embarrassed a farmer. Her face was strangely streaked in the half-light of a single oil lamp.
‘Adjunct,’ Masan Gilani said, saluting. ‘On my return journey, I happened upon the captain here, and a marine named Bottle, from Fiddler’s squad—’
‘Skanarow!’ The word was sharp as a blade. ‘Disengage yourself from the captain. I believe he has come here to speak to me – as for the rest, it will have to wait.’
Skanarow pulled herself from Ruthan Gudd. ‘M-my apologies, Adjunct. I – with your leave, I will wait outside—’
‘You will not. You will return to your tent and wait there. I trust the captain will find it without much trouble?’
Skanarow blinked, and then, fighting a smile, she saluted a second time and, with one last glance at Ruthan – a look that was either a glare or a dark promise – she was gone.
Ruthan Gudd straightened before the Adjunct and cleared his throat. ‘Adjunct.’
‘Your act, Captain, on the day of the Nah’ruk, broke enough military conventions to warrant a court-martial. You abandoned your soldiers and disobeyed orders.’
‘Yes, Adjunct.’
‘And quite possibly saved all our lives.’ She seemed to become cognizant of her attire, for she turned to the tent’s centre pole, where a robe hung from a hook. Shrugging into the woollen garment she faced Ruthan again. ‘Entire tomes have been devoted to a discussion of these particular incidents in military campaigns. Disobedience on the one hand and extraordinary valour on the other. What is to be done with such a soldier?’