‘Why not wait for Steven?’
‘That wasn’t my choice; you did that.’
‘Why don’t you have a wound on your wrist? If you’re really Gilmour in there, why don’t you have the hole in your arm?’
‘Because, Garec, and I wish you would credit me with a touch more consideration than you apparently do, I am a Larion Senator, and Larion Senators do not kill people to find a host. Mark is disguised as a Malakasian officer; I’m guessing the major who led that battalion into the forest looking for the table, because she is the ranking officer here in Wellham Ridge, and because she is the only officer who did not remove her gloves the entire time they were on their forced march. She pushed her troops too hard, too many nights following too many days of marching through snow and several died. I think many were sick before they left Wellham Ridge in the first place. This fellow was certainly in poor health. He was left behind by his squad, and I waited around for a few days for him to begin his journey to the Northern Forest. I’ve been on foot ever since, coming here as quickly as my short, chubby little legs could carry me.’
‘Why did you abandon the fisherman’s body?’ Garec had sheathed his knife; he wanted desperately to believe that Gilmour had found them again.
‘I retreated inside myself,’ the soldier began. He considered his words for a moment, then went on, ‘Yes, I think that’s the best way to put it: I hid inside Caddoc Weston’s body, running further and further into the recesses of his mind until the adder poison had spread so thoroughly throughout his system that I had to flee. Those snakes were not from this world – they weren’t from Steven’s world either – so my guess is that Mark called them from the spell table, like Nerak used to summon the almor, calling them from the fringe worlds, the Fold’s margins, what Steven might call Hell. If I had been given all day to prepare, I might have generated some spell to neutralise their venom, but they came at me so quickly, I had nothing, nothing but hope.’
‘What did you say?’ Kellin asked the solider.
‘Nothing but hope. It seems to be a recent habit of mine, saving myself from hopelessness by having no resources left but hope. But I’m not complaining; I am a hopeful person. I always have been.’
Kellin nudged Garec in the ribs. ‘Ask him.’
Garec had heard enough as well. ‘Tell me, whoever you are, when I turned one hundred and fifty Twinmoons, Brynne and Sallax had a party for me at Greentree Tavern. It was simultaneously a great day and a wretched day. Why?’
The soldier looked down from the second-floor window. Staring at Garec, he hoisted himself over the windowsill and dropped gently into the mud beside the partisans. Kellin and Brand flinched; Garec remained frozen in place.
Garec felt unnerved having a stranger gaze at him with such ardent emotion. He blinked hard, then asked the red-cheeked Malakasian, ‘Well?’
‘It was a great day, Garec, because so many of your friends and family were there to usher you into real adulthood – Sallax, Versen, Brynne, Namont, Jerond, Mika, oh, and so many more. We drank and revelled and carried on, and it was wonderful. There was music and beer, great food and dancing. We played absurd drinking games and sang bawdy songs. It was one of the best parties I have ever been to, because your friends and family loved you, and you knew it. You had grown up so quickly, done so much killing, dealt in so much death, that having you turn one hundred and fifty Twinmoons amongst friends was as much a celebration for them as it was for you.’
‘But-’
Gilmour held up a hand to stop Garec. ‘It was all perfect – but there was one wrinkle, wasn’t there?’
‘Tell us, Gilmour.’ Garec surprised himself when he used his old friend’s name, but he shook his head; the test wasn’t over yet.
‘Capina.’
Garec swallowed hard.
‘Capina was an easy target, Garec. I’m sorry. It’s been almost fifty Twinmoons and I’ve never told you that. I am truly sorry. I cannot think of that day without feeling embarrassment, both for myself and for Versen, Sallax, Brynne, all of us.’
‘My true friends,’ Garec said.
‘No one loves you like we do.’
‘But-’ Garec was looking down at his boots now.
‘But she did, didn’t she?’
Garec didn’t respond.
‘We were drunk, all of us, me included, and I don’t know why, it just happened. We had known you so well, for so long, it felt like we could get away with it, because you knew how much we cared about you, how much we valued your friendship.’ The Malakasian soldier approached slowly, stopping just a few paces in front of them. ‘She broke it off that night, didn’t she?’
Garec nodded.
‘And although you joked about it then, and you still joke about it now, I think you were heartbroken. I know she was. We were merciless. It was embarrassing, and by the time I realised how personally she was taking our jibes, the damage had been done. We left her feeling that she would never be one of us, no matter how much she loved you, and that is tragic, Garec, because she was good for you. You would have been happy with her, instead of…’
‘Instead of what?’
‘Instead of being miserable with us. You could have settled down, moved back to the farm and had four children by now. Instead, you became-’
‘The Bringer of Death.’
‘Sallax never should have started that.’ Gilmour took Garec in his arms. ‘He had no idea what he was saying, and someday, Garec, when this business is through, I’ll tell you why.’
‘You know something I don’t know, Gilmour?’
‘I know a great many things, yes, and one of them is how sorry I am about that night. We don’t get many chances at love, not real chances, anyway. We allow plenty of emotions to masquerade as love, but most are just interlopers, busybody intruders playing with us.’ Gilmour leaned in close to Garec’s ear and whispered, ‘And what hurts most about that night is the fact that you don’t believe you’ve ever been anything but a killer, and you lost your chance at a normal life when Capina disappeared. But I know better. From where I’m standing, Garec, you’ve never been a killer. Someday, you’ll understand.’
‘I hope so,’ Garec whispered.
‘You will.’
‘We have to contact Stalwick.’
Gilmour released him, wiped his sleeve across his face and looked at Brand and Kellin. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let’s find me some clothes. I am a deserter, after all.’
‘You’re dead,’ Kellin clarified.
Gilmour laughed. ‘True, but the Malakasian Army is known for its strict adherence to policy. Even dead, I’ll draw all manner of disagreeable attention if I stay in this uniform. We’ll find me some clothes, meet Steven and contact Stalwick.’
‘Good,’ Brand said, relief evident in his voice. He mentally tallied the days left for Gita and the Resistance forces to escape Traver’s Notch.
‘What about the spell table?’ Garec asked.
‘It left Wellham Ridge this morning, on a barge bound for Orindale.’
‘Why? Where’s he taking it?’
‘From what I can gather, Mark is bound for Pellia; there’s a northern Twinmoon coming, and the tides should be high enough for him to run up the Ravenian Sea and through the archipelago.’
‘Why Pellia?’ Kellin asked.
‘He’s heading for Welstar Palace,’ Garec said.
Gilmour nodded.
THE BRIG-SLOOP
‘I’m not talking about new tits, you great blazing idiot, I’m talking about different tits, temporary tits.’ Marrin Stonnel was drunk – and why not? There was nothing to do, nothing critical, anyway, other than some cleaning and a patch-up job or two, but the others could take care of that. He was better with tar and lumber than the rest of them, even though he was the youngest, next to Pel Wandrell. No one knew what they’d hit on the run up from Strandson, but whatever it was, Marrin planned to have the leaks patched and tarred inside two days.
‘Do we have to call them tits?’ Sera Moslip asked, puffing on her hand-carved wooden pipe. It had taken several Twinmoons to fashion, but it drew almost perfectly. ‘I mean, I’m no fancy woman from the big city or nothing, but even so…’ She grimaced, displaying tobacco-stained, crooked teeth.