‘I was hoping you’d answer that for us,’ Sharr laughed.
‘I wish I could.’ Len Hernesto looked like a man overmatched by the challenges ahead. He breathed heavily, despite the fact that he was sitting, warm and dry, beside Stalwick’s fire.
‘How is traffic along the Highway?’ Markus asked.
‘Fine, fine,’ Len said. ‘They took care of the roads, even the farm roads, running back and forth across the Plains in a spiderweb. It was their rutting food as well, I guess.’
‘And the stores?’
‘Of that, I’m not certain. They emptied most of the waterfront warehouses onto the vessels that picked them up. None of us have ventured into the barracks buildings here or here.’ He pointed to two places on the map. ‘They left several stables full of good horses, but they’re gone already. Thieves were bold enough to sneak the animals out, but no one’s gone inside the barracks proper, not that I know of yet. So there might be food, clothing, maybe bits of useful junk in there. It’s certainly a more comfortable place for you to sleep than how you are.’
‘Too risky,’ Sharr said, shaking his head, ‘at least for now. Gita won’t let us anywhere near those barracks, not to sleep in, anyway.’
‘I suppose she’s right,’ Len agreed. ‘That’s all you need, to get in there all snug and warm, and then have a regiment of irritable stormtroopers arrive unexpectedly.’
‘Still, we could get in and out, pillage whatever they left behind. Gods know we’ll need the food,’ Markus said.
‘That you will,’ Len said. ‘And we need to get the commercial fishermen out again. A Moon’s haul off the banks will feed this town for some time. Bloody tragic, the way everything they brought in – you brought in, Sharr – had to go to those wet-nosed motherhumpers. Lords, but I won’t miss them.’ He spat a mouthful of viscous phlegm between his boots.
‘Hold on,’ Sharr held up a finger, ‘say that again.’
‘What?’ Len looked puzzled then said, ‘They’re a bunch of clods, you know it, Sharr. They’re a worthless drain on the land, a waste of food, wine and warm places to sleep. The lot of them aren’t worth one Capehill baby, naked at birth!’
‘Yes, yes, that, but after that-’ Sharr cut himself off, then shouted, ‘Stalwick! Get in here!’
Sharr and Markus slogged through the mud and sleet, trying to run and shouting for help at every turn. Stalwick, his assorted weaponry clattering like a skeleton, followed as closely as he could.
Len Hernesto, his days of sprinting well behind him, remained in the little tent, standing the post.
‘Where is she?’ Markus yelled above the wind and rain.
‘The boarding house,’ Sharr wheezed, ‘go ahead of me. Take Argile Road towards the town centre. I’ll be right behind you.’
Markus, younger and faster, lowered his head and sprinted for Gita Kamrec’s apartments. He hadn’t known Stalwick long enough to experience his strange propensity to foretell the future in unpredictable snippets, but he trusted Sharr: something Stalwick had said that morning had Sharr convinced that Gita was in danger.
Splashing round the last corner, Markus waved to the sentry beside the doors at Gita’s boarding house. ‘Inside!’ he tried to shout, sucking in breaths through clenched teeth, ‘get upstairs, now!’
‘Lieutenant? What’s wrong?’
The guard wore an eye-patch; Markus had seen him in Gita’s shadow for the past Twinmoon, but didn’t know his name. ‘Upstairs!’ he repeated.
Eye-Patch stayed at his post but drew a pair of hunting knives regardless. He wore a bow slung across his back and had a quick-access quiver full of goose-feathered arrows on his belt. ‘No one’s gone inside all morning, sir,’ he said.
Markus skidded, fell in the muddy road and rolled to his feet. ‘Listen, I don’t-’
‘Barrold!’ Sharr called, stumbling round the corner, mud-splattered and leading a handful of partisans, none of whom looked like they had any idea why they had been rallied like this. Behind the winded posse, Stalwick staggered, one hand pressing against his side as he gasped.
‘Barrold!’ Sharr shouted again, ‘go!’ He panted, then gave up and pointed towards the second floor.
Eye-Patch, Barrold Dayne, who had lost his left eye to Steven Taylor in the caverns below the Medera River, turned suddenly and kicked the boarding house door nearly off its hinges.
‘Go,’ Sharr panted to Markus, following him inside.
Barrold was already on the upper landing, already inside Gita’s apartment, and already shouting for help.
‘Rutters,’ Markus cursed and bound up the stairs three at a time.
There was a shout, a crash, then silence.
Sharr’s vision blurred, he saw swirling spots of yellow and white and knew he was about to pass out. The room spun, then lurched back into place. He sucked in a breath, another, then dropped his sword, shrugged out of his cloak and doubled over, his hands on his knees.
He heard the others; they were all right. The danger, for the moment, had passed, but with adrenalin addling his thoughts, he was glad there was no one here to fight.
‘Help him up,’ Gita said, then gave a string of orders to the crowd gathered in the corridor.
‘Whoa there, old man,’ Markus said, holding him beneath one arm.
Something clanged and banged outside the chamber and they heard shouting. ‘Let me through,’ a familiar voice said, ‘I’m with them, I tell you, I’m with them. I need to get in there.’
Sharr half walked and half staggered to a chair, found a mug pressed into his hand and swallowed a few mouthfuls of water. That was better. He coughed hard and felt all manner of stickiness come loose in his chest. ‘More, please,’ he gasped, and passed the mug to Markus, who passed it to Stalwick, who had managed to get past the guards at the door to take up station next to his friends.
‘Get him a beer,’ Markus said.
‘But I just got here, Markus,’ Stalwick explained. ‘I just got up the stairs and through that throng, and what’s happening in here? Is everyone all right? Did I miss something, and who is that?’ Stalwick pointed behind the table where an overturned chair, a map of southern Gorsk and a broken breakfast tray half-hid the inert body of a maid.
Sharr wiped his face on his sleeve, felt his heart slow and managed a smile: Stalwick had been right.
‘Just get him a beer, Stalwick. Move it.’ Markus shoved him towards the corridor.
The room came back into focus. ‘It’s all right,’ Sharr said, unwilling to stand yet. ‘I’m all right. Give me a moment; that’s more running than I’ve done since before you were born, Markus.’
Barrold slapped him hard on the back. ‘Better you than me, sir!’
‘Go easy on me, Barrold,’ Sharr waved up at him in mock surrender. ‘I’m still spinning down here.’
Gita pulled a chair up beside him. ‘How’d you know?’
‘It was Stalwick,’ Markus said. ‘He said something this morning. Sharr caught it. I don’t even remem-’
‘He said he would miss you when you were gone,’ Sharr said, nodding thanks as Stalwick handed him the froth-topped mug. He drank half of it in one swallow, then handed the mug to Gita who finished it in similar fashion.
‘Miss me?’
‘It just came out of him,’ Sharr explained. ‘You know how he gets, rambling on about gardening and boils and pest control and his great-aunt Gaye from Southport? No offence, Stalwick.’
‘That’s all right, Sharr. I do go on sometimes. I mean, not all the time, and well, my aunt’s name isn’t Gaye, it’s Mavene, and she’s not really a great-aunt, more a cousin, although we all call her Aunt Mavene, and she’s not really from Southport, she’s from a little village not far from here really, but you know, if you were just using that as an example, well, then, I understand what you’re-’