'We can't all lie brought up in the lap of luxury, Major.'
Amber gave a snort. It was an old joke, repeated interminably dur¬ing the journey. Mikiss had come to the conclusion that all soldiers sniped and teased each other, however absurd the reason. Whenever the mood fell sombre, there was always a piece of foolishness to fall back on, a welcome distraction to Death's hand forever resting on their shoulders.
Amber had been born into minor nobility and was thus accused of being pampered and indulged, while Shart spoke too much and Keneg not enough. It was as simple as that, but none of them ever tired of the same old jokes. When they had been hiding from a group of soldiers one night, Mikiss had found himself glad of their idiotic levity.
Now the major stopped his small party, stepped into the shadow of a building and let his pack fall to the, dusty ground. The others fol¬lowed him, and Mikiss gave a heartfelt groan as he dropped his pack, already thankful for the ease of his torment, however brief.
'Now boys,' Amber said, looking warily at the passers-by, 'just because the end's in sight, doesn't mean we're going to relax. Sir, you'll be staying here with Shart and the packs. Keneg and I will go and give some names to the barkeep. I've no reason to think there's going to be a problem, but we don't take risks and I'm buggered if I'm running from the City Watch carrying that pack if I don't have to.' He had decided at the start that the timid army messenger would be a clerk to anyone they met, rather than the leader of their group. That left him in charge, at least in public, and mostly Mikiss preferred it that way.
Major Amber took a moment to pull his scimitars from his pack and slide the holster straps over his shoulders. He unwrapped the bleached leather from around the hilts and settled them into their sheaths, giv¬ing each a tug to ensure he could draw them without restriction. He straightened his shirt, rubbing a hand distractedly over his belly. He was a professional soldier and disliked being without his armour, but this heat made it impossible to wear even the lightest of mail. All three found themselves unconsciously checking for armour that was no longer there.
Keneg slapped the scabbard of his broadsword, a thick weapon Mikiss thought of as an unholy cross between sword and axe. He nodded at his brother and stepped up beside Major Amber.
'If there's no reception to speak of, I'll send Keneg out and have the beer waiting for you.'
Shart whispered urgently, 'See if there's anything better than that
piss we got in the last place. Bloody westerners and their poor excuse for beer; that stuff was halfway to water!'
'You'll get what you're given,' Amber growled goodnaturedly, 'but if it'll shut you up for half a minute I'll see what I can do.'
The pair strode off, Keneg half a pace behind the major, continu¬ally scanning the street as befitted his role of bodyguard – though any local thug would have to be brave to the point of madness to tangle with Major Amber. There was nothing noble or gentle about the tall Menin officer. His weathered face bore a number of scars, one of which was obviously a sword cut, and his shaved head added to the brutal facade. That Amber was dressed in fine clothes was a minor point, and of no importance once one had taken in the size of his scimitars and the brutal lines of his face.
Mikiss watched them walk away, then realised he didn't have to be on his feet any longer. He sat down heavily on his pack and gave a sigh. For a few minutes he just watched his feet, unrecognisable to him without the elegant cavalry boots he normally wore. Evenlually his attention wandered to the building sheltering them. The brick looked old. It was crumbling at the edges, and dark streaks showed years of run-off from the neighbouring building. Five yards on, I In-ground dropped away a little, though Mikiss could see no reason lot it; whatever function the drop had served was long-forgotten. Now all it contained was the shrunken corpse of a small dog, little more thill a bag of bones and scrappy fur, curled awkwardly in the corner. It was attended by half a dozen lacklustre flies. Mikiss frowned, Something about the corpse looked odd.
He leaned forward to look a little closer. It was the clog's leg! it wasn't the angle of its body that was strange, but the lengt h of the rear legs, which were too short. With a start Mikiss understood and turned away, revolted: the little dog's hind feet had been cut off. 'Gods,' he muttered, 'is that what they do for sport in this city:"
He pulled off a sandal and rubbed the dry, blistered skin on the ball of his foot. The sandal was Chetse Army-issue, with three straps wind ing around the ankle to hold it secure. He was glad not to he wearing the heavy fur-lined boots reaching halfway up his thigh favoured by the Menin cavalry, but the grit of Serene's baked roads had worked its way between every toe and under every nail.
'Good soldier's loot you've got there,' Shart commented, leaning over to look at the underside.
'Filthy, you mean?'
The soldier chuckled, knelt down and grabbed the foot, much to Mikiss' alarm. He twisted it slightly and pointed down at the rough surface underneath. Once Mikiss was paying attention, Shart gave the foot a firm slap with his massively strong sword-arm. Mikiss gave a yelp of surprise and snatched his foot back.
'That's what I meant,' Shart said with a knowing glint. 'They may be ugly and filthy, but you don't get much tougher than a soldier's foot. Trust me; if I'd done that before we set out, you'd be crying like a girl.' He stood up with a satisfied smile, and stuck his thumb into the thick leather belt that held his daggers and the long-handled axe he was so proficient with.
Mikiss stared at his foot, then back atShart. 'I think you meant to say "crying like a girl, sir", didn't you?'
'That I did, sir. Apologies for the slip, but I hope you'll let me blame it on the weather.' Shart grinned. The army messenger was not one to take his rank seriously.
'That I will,' Mikiss replied, wiping an already-sodden sleeve over his face. 'Gods, I didn't expect it to be so hot here.'
'None of us did. Don't feel natural if you ask me, sir. The way folk have been walking past with their eyes glazed over, and how they're dressed, I don't reckon it's normally so hot this far north.'
'I think you're right,' Mikiss replied, squinting at the handful of people in the street. 'Those soldiers on the Gate obviously didn't have the uniform for this sort of weather.'
'Not soldiers, sir,' Shart said with a reproachful tone. 'Those bug¬gers are only city guards, useless bastards who couldn't make it into the army.'
'I thought the army took anyone?'
'Aye, it does,' Shart broke off to squint towards the tavern. Mikiss turned to look too, but it was only a well-built man leaving the building, not Keneg. 'But there are always some who don't have the stomach for it. Watchmen still get weapons, but they have a bed to sleep in every night and they never face real enemies. Give me any twenty regular troops and I'll cut through a hundred city guards like they were made of butter.'
He cocked his head at Shart. 'But if they've got eighty more weap¬ons than you do-'
'Hah! Don't mean nothing – a hundred men is just a confused crowd 'til they're trained. If we get in a fight here, you'll see what I mean. The city guards won't know where each other are, so they'll just get in each other's way. Keneg and Amber know where I'm going to be, what I'm going to do next. I don't do things to surprise them, so they're watching my back at every step.' Shart smacked a hand against the head of his axe, tied to his belt with leather thongs, and pointed towards the tavern. 'There's the little one,' he said, reaching for the packs at his feet.
Mikiss sighed and hoisted his own onto his back, then realised he was going to have to carry Amber's as well. 'It seems a bit rich to call him "the little one" – Keneg's twice as broad as you are.'