Sharr stood up from kneeling, folding canvas tents into tight bundles. It was sleeting in Traver’s Notch, and that stinging, freezing downpour had soaked the tents through; they’d all need to be unrolled to dry out as soon as the weather cleared, otherwise the cloth would sprout fungus and start rotting through. Trying to prepare for travel or combat in the rain was unavoidable, and Gita had ordered the entire Resistance force – almost regiment-sized, if they were part of a proper army – to be ready to march on Capehill at a moment’s notice. Platoons, companies, squads of farmers, merchants, woodsmen, sailors, even, were all scattered throughout the surrounding foothills, all disguised as miners and spread out so they wouldn’t attract notice from passing occupation patrols. Every group, no matter their size, had a cache of mining implements to help with the ruse, and some of the soldiers were actually working the lode shafts outside Traver’s Notch when not drilling, each hoping to tap a rich vein before the assault on Capehill.
The order had come that morning: prepare to move southeast right away. And an extra order for Sharr Becklen: keep a close eye on Stalwick Rees of Capehill.
Sharr cursed, scraped the mud from his knees and glared at his annoying countryman. Gita had made it clear that Stalwick was not to be left alone at any time, and any changes in his behaviour, any seizures or fits, were to be reported to her immediately. Inexplicably, Stalwick had grown attached to the burly Capehill fisherman, and Gita had encouraged the pairing, telling Sharr, ‘It’ll be good for you! You two have so much in common; I imagine your new friendship will last a lifetime.’
Standing in the sleet, his clothes clinging to him like wet laundry, Sharr thought that even for one as old as he had managed to become, a lifetime of friendship with Stalwick Rees would leave anyone contemplating suicide. He scratched at his grey-streaked beard, considering his charge.
Stalwick was tall and lean, with blotchy skin and hair that looked permanently matted to the top of his head. His vision was poor and he had nervous tics and idiosyncratic gestures that left everyone around him on edge. He was interminably clumsy, and more than one dinner companion had discovered the challenge of eating beside him – Kellin Mora now automatically moved her goblet out of his reach the moment he came near, although even that didn’t always save her from having its contents spilled on her food. But they all put up with Stalwick, for he had a few uncanny abilities that made him an asset to the Falkan Resistance. He could make a fire anywhere; Sharr had heard that his campfires managed to burn even through the torrential rains that blew through Falkan in the early spring. He didn’t quite believe it, though he had also heard that a log from one of Stalwick’s fires had remained alight even after it had accidentally been kicked into a pond.
In addition to kindling his resilient flames, Stalwick periodically foretold the future – not the distant future, Ages and Eras yet to come, but the immediate future, the next aven, or the following day. What was troublesome about Stalwick’s clairvoyance was that he himself rarely knew he was seeing anything at all; he’d say something odd, leaving those around him to try to work out what he was prophesying. ‘I’m looking forward to the fish tonight,’ or ‘The mud will be thick tomorrow,’ might be followed with ‘I’ve never sailed on a schooner before.’ Later, Stalwick’s family and Resistance colleagues – now plagued with anxiety about what might happen – would discover that a relative who had been fishing near a mud flat had dropped by to share the day’s catch and was keen to talk about the schooner he’d seen passing by on the horizon. Sharr found Stalwick’s ability to capture glimpses of the future infuriating; he tried to ignore the periodic babble, pretending not to hear.
‘Did you hear me, Sharr? Did you? I said, “what”.’ Stalwick tied a length of bailing twine about the rolled canvas tent, but Sharr stopped him, gripping him too tightly by the shoulder. ‘Ow, stop that, stop it, Sharr. That hurts, don’t you know? That hurts.’
‘Sorry, Stalwick,’ Sharr sighed. ‘It’s just that these tents have to be ready to go. We may be leaving for Capehill at any moment, and if we don’t have tents loaded into the wagons, half of us will be without shelter. Do you understand?’
Stalwick nodded excitedly; Sharr was making his point for him. ‘That’s why I’m saying you need to let me help, Sharr, you do! I can do this, watch me.’
‘No, Stalwick.’ Sharr gripped his shoulder again, less forcefully this time. ‘I’ll finish these, but why don’t you go and get us some beer, or some tecan. Someone around here must have some brewing; see if you can find us a couple of goblets.’
Stalwick beamed. ‘I will, Sharr. I can do that. I know, there was a guy… I think his name is Daran or Deren, I can’t remember, but anyway, anyway, he knows a woman from the second company – that group from the plains – who fights like an unchained nightmare, I guess, but anyway, she makes tecan for them. I don’t know why none of the rest of them can make their own, or maybe she’s just especially good at it, but anyway, anyway, she makes it, and it’s drop-dead good tecan, the best in the whole battalion. And well, you know, the second company is camped on the other side of the stream. So, it’s not far. It’s really not, I mean, I can be over there and back in a breath or two, so it won’t even get cold, and if it does, well, then I’ll make a fire. I’m good with fires. I mean, I’m good with folds, too, but you know, fires are something I am good at too.’
Sharr sighed again, a long, slow exhalation to purge the lingering feelings of homicidal rage. ‘Thank you, Stalwick,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘Some tecan would be wonderful. I could use a warming-up. I’ll be here.’
‘Good, Sharr, good. I’ll be back. I’ll get as much as I can- Well, I’ll get two goblets, anyway, but if there’s more, I’ll get more. I mean, that’ll save us a trip later. You know? I mean, the second company is close, but who wants to cross the stream, especially today, more than once if you don’t have to. You know?’
‘Go on, Stalwick, and when you get back, we’ll make a fire.’
Despite the bone-deep chill, Stalwick’s face flushed a warm red and he looked as though he might expire from pure unchecked enthusiasm. ‘I’ll start one, Sharr. If you want a fire, I’ll get a blaze going that they’ll be able to see in Pellia. We’ll be the warmest, driest squad in the whole company, maybe the whole battalion. I’ll do that, ho, ho, will I ever!’
‘Good. Thank you, Stalwick,’ Sharr repeated. ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’ He turned back to the tents until he was sure Stalwick had left. He felt the tension leave his shoulders as he relaxed into the welcome silence. He really didn’t mind the sleet; he’d had a lifetime fishing the deep trenches off the coast of Capehill. He missed the steely-grey, freezing cold days, even when it had been utterly miserable, for fishing the North Sea had been glorious in its unpredictability. Hand-lining for summer jemma-fish, the giants that had not yet begun the season’s migration; that was lucrative fishing. But it was the nets that Sharr missed; hauling them along the trenches and canyons was like reaching into a wizard’s chest and withdrawing a handful of whatever magic might be secreted inside. Sometimes it was schools of hullen, tough little fish he could sell on the wharf for a copper or two a basket. On other days, they’d haul up a shark, a fat-bodied monster, stuffed to bursting on jemma and too slow even to get out of its own way. Sharr sometimes looped a line around their tails and dragged them for half an aven – there was no reason to bring a live shark on board, stuffed full or not, and dragging them backwards drowned them. Most tried to fight it, engaging in a titanic tug-of-war while intrepid archers would take turns firing, but eventually, the sharks always succumbed. His crew loved these fights especially; Sharr found the whole ritual gruesome. He always heaved a sigh of relief when the sharks died.