‘You’re saying I’m a bad influence?’ he said, with a waspish smile. He leaned towards her.
‘I’m completely fething serious, Blenner,’ she said. ‘I have lost myself of late. I have no wish to lose myself any more.’
She turned and began to walk away.
‘This is because she died, isn’t it?’ he called after her. As he said the words, he flinched. He knew they had come out too bitterly.
Curth turned back.
‘What?’ she snapped.
‘I heard she died,’ he said. ‘We all heard. Now she’s out of the picture, you can stop wasting time with me and set your sights on–’
She strode right up to him and grabbed him by the lapels.
‘A woman died. Eight people died. And you call it a “trying day”?’
‘You didn’t even like her!’ he blurted, pulling against her grip.
‘I did not, but I am a doctor and that doesn’t come into it. I save lives, Blenner. I don’t judge them.’
‘You just judged mine.’
She let him go, and looked away at the puddles in the yard.
‘I apologise,’ she said. ‘I am not perfect and I am sometimes inconsistent.’
He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
‘You didn’t like her, Ana. You told me so enough times.’
Curth shrugged off his hand.
‘She was a human life, sir,’ she said. ‘She was brave. She was not a nice person, but she was a good person. She had a duty that she performed steadfastly to the end. An object lesson to both of us, perhaps.’
‘I think you’re upset,’ he said softly, ‘not because she is dead, but because you’re happy she’s dead.’
She wheeled to face him.
‘How dare you?’ she asked.
‘You don’t mean to be. You don’t want to be. The fact that you are upsets that precious sense of self you just lectured me about. Gaunt’s bitch is gone. The way is clear for you to finally–’
‘Stop talking.’
‘–and you cast me aside in the process as disposable–’
‘Stop talking, Blenner,’ she growled, ‘or our friendship, which I value, will be over and done. I confided in you that I had feelings for Gaunt–’
‘Always had feelings…’
‘The duration is hardly the point, you idiot. I confided in you. A friend to a friend. I confided in you, when worse the wear for your procured drink, about your childhood comrade. Your best bosom pal from the bad old days. Ibram Gaunt, the man you like to tell anyone who is listening is your oldest, dearest friend of the ages! Why do you do that? Because it makes you look good to be able to say it?’
‘He is my best friend,’ said Blenner. He looked mortified.
‘Then act like he is. His companion died today. As far as I’m aware, he doesn’t even know it yet. I never cared for her. She was hard to like. But he liked her. He found some consolation in her–’
‘Her face. She looked like–’
‘It doesn’t matter, Vaynom. If you truly know Gaunt, you know he is distant. Alone. He has been his whole life. It’s the old affliction of command. As a colonel and as a commissar, he has to stand apart, to retain his authority, and that makes him remote. I know damn well he’s impossible to reach, and I think his life has made it hard for him to reach out. For whatever ridiculous reason, that woman offered him something that was valuable to him. Now she’s gone. Does that not, for a moment, worry you? How will it affect him? And how will it affect the regiment if he slips into a darker place because of it?’
Blenner sneered.
‘I don’t think you believe a word of that,’ he said. ‘I think… I think you’re good at making generous, principled arguments of care and concern that entirely ignore your own feelings. It’s just smoke. You’re glad she’s gone, and you despise yourself for being glad about it.’
‘This conversation is over, Blenner,’ she said.
‘You know I’m right. Stop dressing it up. Stop pretending there’s some moral principle here…’
He paused.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to strike me?’
‘What?’ she said. ‘No!’
He nodded. She looked down and saw that her right fist was balled. She relaxed it.
‘No,’ she repeated.
‘Well, then,’ he sighed.
‘You’re wrong,’ she said.
‘We’ll differ. And I will check on my old friend the moment he returns.’
‘Good night, then,’ she said. She paused.
‘Vaynom?’
‘Yes, Ana?’
‘You… you are feeling better, these days?’
‘Better?’
‘The nerves? The anxiety?’
‘Hah,’ he said, a dismissive gesture. ‘I am more settled. Good conversations with a friend have helped.’
‘You haven’t… you haven’t asked me for pills. Not for a while.’
‘The placebos, you mean?’ he chuckled.
‘I told you, sir, I was simply following the course of support Doctor Dorden prescribed.’
‘Sugar pills to salve my troubles,’ he said. ‘You know, the placebo effect is very powerful. I am feeling myself again, these days.’
‘Vaynom, if you are not… if, Throne save us, this business between us tonight has unsettled you–’
‘My, but you think a lot of yourself, doctor,’ he said.
She hesitated, stung.
‘Do not backslide,’ she said. ‘Whatever the dispute between us, do not let it cloud you. If you struggle, you can come to me. I will help you. Don’t go turning to the low lives who peddle–’
‘I am enlightened by your low estimation of me, Doctor Curth,’ he said. He tipped his cap.
‘Good night to you,’ he said, and walked away.
She watched him cross the yard, and then turned to find whatever dank billet they had assigned to her.
The banquet had been cleared from the grand salon adjoining the war room of the Collegia Bellum Urdeshi. The generals and lord commanders sat back as servitors brought in amasec and fortifiq. A fire burned in the great hearth.
The company had been convivial, despite Gaunt’s state of shock. It was as if the staff seniors had been keeping straight faces before and could finally share the joke, and celebrate both Gaunt’s elevation and his amusing disorientation.
He had found himself seated between Van Voytz and Bulledin, with Grizmund facing him. Van Voytz had been particularly garrulous, getting to his feet at regular intervals to raise a glass and toast the newest of the lords. Lugo, to Gaunt’s surprise, had been the most entertaining, lifting his soft, hollow voice above the din of feasting to regale the company with genuinely amusing stories, many of them self-deprecating. One tale, concerning Marshal Hardiker and a consignment of silver punch bowls, had been so uproarious that Gaunt had witnessed Lord General Cybon laugh out loud for the first time. Marshal Tzara had smashed her fist on the table so hard it had shaken the flatware, more in mirth at Cybon’s reaction than at the hilarity of the tale itself.
At one point, Urienz had leaned across the table and gestured to Gaunt with the half-gnawed leg of a game fowl he was devouring.
‘You’ll need a good tailor, Gaunt,’ he said.
‘A tailor?’
‘You’re a militant commander,’ said Urienz. ‘You need to look the part.’
‘I… What’s wrong with my uniform? I’ve worn it all my career.’
Urienz snorted.
‘He’s right, you need to look the part,’ said Tzara.
‘This admixture of commissar and woodsman guerrilla is very rank and file, young man,’ chuckled Kelso.
‘I have the mark of office,’ Gaunt replied. He picked up the large, golden crest of militant command that Bulledin had handed him. It was lying beside his place setting. He had not yet pinned it on. Just raising it brought a chorus of cheers and a clink of glasses.