Friendly did not understand the question. “The same things.”
“No, no. Not the same. Though we are not long acquainted, I feel there is… an understanding between us. A bond. We are much alike, you and I.”
Friendly sometimes felt he feared every word he had to speak, every new person and every new place. Only by counting everything and anything could he claw by his fingernails from morning to night. Cosca, by sharp contrast, drifted effortlessly through life like blossom on the wind. The way that he could talk, smile, laugh, make others do the same seemed like magic as surely as when Friendly had seen the Gurkish woman Ishri form from nowhere. “We are nothing alike.”
“You see my point exactly! We are entire opposites, like earth and air, yet we are both… missing something… that others take for granted. Some part of that machinery that makes a man fit into society. But we each miss different cogs on the wheel. Enough that we may make, perhaps, between the two of us, one half-decent human.”
“One whole from two halves.”
“An extraordinary whole, even! I have never been a reliable man-no, no, don’t try to deny it.” Friendly had not. “But you, my friend, are constant, clear-sighted, single-minded. You are… honest enough… to make me more honest.”
“I’ve spent most of my life in prison.”
“Where you did more to spread honesty among Styria’s most dangerous convicts than all the magistrates in the land, I do not doubt!” Cosca slapped Friendly on his shoulder. “Honest men are so very rare, they are often mistaken for criminals, for rebels, for madmen. What were your crimes, anyway, but to be different?”
“Robbery the first time, and I served seven years. When they caught me again there were eighty-four counts, with fourteen murders.”
Cosca cocked an eyebrow. “But were you truly guilty?”
“Yes.”
He frowned for a moment, then waved it away. “Nobody’s perfect. Let’s leave the past behind us.” He gave his feather a final flick, jammed his hat onto his head at its accustomed rakish angle. “How do I look?”
Black pointed knee-boots set with huge golden spurs in the likeness of bull’s heads. Breastplate of black steel with golden adornments. Black velvet sleeves slashed with yellow silk, cuffs of Sipanese lace hanging at the wrists. A sword with flamboyant gilded basketwork and matching dagger, slung ridiculously low. An enormous hat, its yellow feather threatening to brush the ceiling. “Like a pimp who lost his mind in a military tailor’s.”
Cosca broke out in a radiant grin. “Precisely the look I was aiming at! So to business, Sergeant Friendly!” He strode forwards, flung the tent flap wide and stepped through into the bright sunlight.
Friendly stuck close behind. It was his job, now.
* * *
The applause began the moment he stepped up onto the big barrel. He had ordered every officer of the Thousand Swords to attend his address, and here they were indeed; clapping, whooping, cheering and whistling to the best of their ability. Captains to the fore, lieutenants crowding further back, ensigns clustering at the rear. In most bodies of fighting men these would have been the best and brightest, the youngest and highest born, the bravest and most idealistic. This being a brigade of mercenaries, they were the polar opposite. The longest serving, the most steeped in vice, the slyest back-stabbers, most practised grave-robbers and fastest runners, the men with fewest illusions and most betrayals under their belts. Cosca’s very own constituency, in other words.
Sesaria, Victus and Andiche lined up beside the barrel, all three clapping gently, the biggest, blackest crooks of the lot. Unless you counted Cosca himself, of course. Friendly stood not far behind, arms tightly folded, eyes darting over the crowd. Cosca wondered if he was counting them, and decided it was a virtual certainty.
“No, no! No, no! You do me too much honour, boys! You shame me with your fond attentions!” And he waved the adulation down, fading into an expectant silence. A mass of scarred, pocked, sunburned and diseased faces turned towards him, waiting. As hungry as a gang of bandits. They were one.
“Brave heroes of the Thousand Swords!” His voice rang out into the balmy morning. “Well, let us say brave men of the Thousand Swords, at least. Let us say men, anyway!” Scattered laughter, a whoop of approval. “My boys, you all know my stamp! Some of you have fought beside me… or at any rate in front.” More laughter. “The rest of you know my… spotless reputation.” And more yet. “You all know that I, above all, am one of you. A soldier, yes! A fighter, of course! But one who would much prefer to sheathe his weapon.” And he gave a gentle cough as he adjusted his groin. “Than draw his blade!” And he slapped the hilt of his sword to widespread merriment.
“Let it never be said that we are not masters and journeymen of the glorious profession of arms! As much so as any lapdog at some noble’s boots! Men strong of sinew!” And he slapped Sesaria’s great arm. “Men sharp of wits!” And he pointed at Andiche’s greasy head. “Men hungry for glory!” He jerked his thumb towards Victus. “Let it never be said we will not brave risks for our rewards! But let the risks be kept as lean as possible, and the rewards most hearty!” Another swell of approval.
“Your employer, the young Prince Foscar, was keen that you carry the lower ford and meet the enemy head on in pitched battle…” Nervous silence. “But I declined! Though you are paid to fight, I told him, you are far keener on the pay than the fighting!” A rousing cheer. “We’ll wet our boots higher up, therefore, and with considerably lighter opposition! And whatever occurs today, however things may seem, you may always depend upon it that I have your… best interests closest to my own heart!” And he rubbed his fingers against his thumb to an even louder cheer.
“I will not insult you by calling for courage, for steadfastness, for loyalty and honour! All these things I already know you possess in the highest degree!” Widespread laughter. “So to your units, officers of the Thousand Swords, and await my order! May Mistress Luck be always at your side and mine! She is drawn, after all, to those who least deserve her! May darkness find us victorious! Uninjured! And above all-rich!”
There was a rousing cheer. Shields and weapons, mailed and plated arms, gauntleted fists shaken in the air.
“Cosca!”
“Nicomo Cosca!”
“The captain general!”
He hopped smiling down from his barrel as the officers began to disperse, Sesaria and Victus going with them to make their regiments-or their gangs of opportunists, criminals and thugs-ready for action. Cosca strolled away towards the brow of the hill, the beautiful valley opening out before him, shreds of misty cloud clinging to the hollows in its sides. Ospria looked proudly down on all from her mountain, fairer than ever by daylight, all cream-coloured stone banded with blue-black stripes of masonry, roofs of copper turned pale green by the years or, on a few buildings recently repaired, shining brilliantly in the morning glare.
“Nice speech,” said Andiche. “If your taste runs to speeches.”
“Most kind. Mine does.”
“You’ve still got the trick of it.”
“Ah, my friend, you have seen captain generals come and go. You well know there is a happy time, after a man is elevated to command, in which he can say and do no wrong in the eyes of his men. Like a husband in the eyes of his new wife, just following the marriage. Alas, it cannot last. Sazine, myself, Murcatto, ill-fated Faithful Carpi, our tides all flowed out with varying speed and left each one of us betrayed or dead. And so shall mine again. I will have to work harder for my applause in future.”
Andiche split a toothy grin. “You could always appeal to the cause.”
“Hah!” Cosca lowered himself into the captain general’s chair, set out in the dappled shade of a spreading olive tree with a fine view of the glittering fords. “My curse on fucking causes! Nothing but big excuses. I never saw men act with such ignorance, violence and self-serving malice as when energised by a just cause.” He squinted at the rising sun, brilliant in the bright blue sk
y. “As we will no doubt witness, in the coming hours…”
* * *
Rogont drew his sword with a faint ring of steel.
“Free men of Ospria! Free men of the League of Eight! Great hearts!”
Monza turned her head and spat. Speeches. Better to move fast and hit hard than waste time talking about it. If she’d found herself with time for a speech before a battle she would have reckoned she’d missed her moment, pulled back and looked for another. It took a man with a bloated sense of himself to think his words might make all the difference.
So it was no surprise that Rogont had his all well worked out.
“Long have you followed me! Long have you waited for the day you would prove your mettle! My thanks for your patience! My thanks for your courage! My thanks for your faith!” He stood in his stirrups and raised his sword high above his head. “Today we fight!”
He cut a pretty picture, there was no denying that. Tall, strong and handsome, dark curls stirred by the breeze. His armour was studded with glittering gems, steel polished so bright it was almost painful to look at. But his men had made an effort too. Heavy infantry in the centre, well armoured under a forest of polearms or clutching broadswords in their gauntleted fists, shields and blue surcoats all stitched with the white tower of Ospria. Light infantry on the wings, all standing to stiff attention in studded leather, pikes kept carefully vertical. Archers too, steel-capped flatbowmen, hooded longbowmen. A detachment of Affoians on the far right slightly spoiled the pristine organisation, weapons mismatched and their ranks a little skewed, but still a good stretch neater than any men Monza had ever led.
And that was before she turned to the cavalry lined up behind her, a gleaming row in the shadow of the outermost wall of Ospria. Every man noble of birth and spirit, horses in burnished bardings, helmets with sculpted crests, lances striped, polished and ready to be steeped in glory. Like something out of a badly written storybook.
She snorted some snot from the back of her nose, and spat again. In her experience, and she had plenty, clean men were the keenest to get into battle and the keenest to get clear of it.
Rogont was busy cranking up his rhetoric to new heights. “We stand now upon a battlefield! Here, in after years, men will say heroes fought! Here, men will say the fate of Styria was decided! Here, my friends, here, on our own soil! In sight of our own homes! Before the ancient walls of proud Ospria!” Enthusiastic cheering from the companies drawn up closest to him. She doubted the rest could hear a word of it. She doubted most could even see him. For those that could, she doubted the sight of a shiny speck in the distance would do much for their morale.
“Your fate is in your own hands!” Their fate had been in Rogont’s hands, and he’d frittered it away. Now it was in Cosca’s and Foscar’s, and it was likely to be a bloody one.
“Now for freedom!” Or at best a better-looking brand of tyranny.
“Now for glory!” A glorious place in the mud at the bottom of the river.
Rogont jerked on the reins with his free hand and made his chestnut charger rear, lashing at the air with its front hooves. The effect was only slightly spoiled by a few heavy clods of shit that happened to fall from its rear end at the same moment. It sped off past the massed ranks of infantry, each company cheering Rogont as he passed, lifting their spears in unison and giving a roar. It might have been an impressive sight. But Monza had seen it all before, with grim results. A good speech wasn’t much compensation for being outnumbered three to one.
The Duke of Delay trotted up towards her and the rest of his staff, the same gathering of heavily decorated and lightly experienced men she’d made fools of in the baths at Puranti, arrayed for battle now rather than the parade ground. Safe to say they hadn’t warmed to her. Safe to say she didn’t care.
“Nice speech,” she said. “If your taste runs to speeches.”
“Most kind.” Rogont turned his horse and drew it up beside her. “Mine does.”
“I’d never have guessed. Nice armour too.”
“A gift from the young Countess Cotarda.” A knot of ladies had gathered to observe at the top of the slope in the shade of the city walls. They sat side-saddle in bright dresses and twinkling jewels, as if they were expecting to attend a wedding rather than a slaughter. Cotarda herself, milk-pale in flowing yellow silks, gave a shy wave and Rogont returned it without much vigour. “I think her uncle has it in mind that we might marry. If I live out the day, of course.”
“Young love. My heart is all aglow.”
“Damp down your sentimental soul, she’s not at all my type. I like a woman with a little… bite. Still, it is a fine armour. An impartial observer might mistake me for some kind of hero.”
“Huh. ‘Desperation bakes heroes from the most rotten flour,’ Farans wrote.”
Rogont blew out a heavy sigh. “We are running short of time for this particular loaf to rise.”
“I thought that talk about you having trouble rising was all scurrilous rumours…” There was something familiar about one of the ladies in Countess Cotarda’s party, more simply dressed than the others, long-necked and elegant. She turned her head and then her horse, began to ride down the grassy slope towards them. Monza felt a cold twinge of recognition. “What the hell is she doing here?”
“Carlot dan Eider? You know her?”
“I know her.” If punching someone in the face in Sipani counted.
“An old… friend.” He said the word in a way that implied more than that. “She came to me in peril of her life, begging for protection. Under what circumstances could I possibly refuse?”
“If she’d been ugly?”
Rogont shrugged with a faint rattling of steel. “I freely admit it, I’m every bit as shallow as the next man.”
“Far shallower, your Excellency.” Eider nudged her horse up close to them, and gracefully inclined her head. “And who is this? The Butcher of Caprile! I thought you were but a thief, blackmailer, murderer of innocents and keen practiser of incest! Now it seems you are a soldier too.”
“Carlot dan Eider, such a surprise! I thought this was a battle but now it smells more like a brothel. Which is it?”
Eider raised one eyebrow at the massed regiments. “Judging by all the swords I’d guess… the former? But I suppose you’d be the expert. I saw you at Cardotti’s and I see you here, equally comfortable dressed as warrior or whore.”
“Strange how it goes, eh? I wear the whore’s clothes and you do the whore’s business.”
“Perhaps I should turn my hand to murdering children instead?”
“For pity’s sake, enough!” snapped Rogont. “Am I doomed to be always surrounded by women, showing off? Have the two of you not noticed I have a battle to lose? All I need now is for that vanishing devil Ishri to spring out of my horse’s arse and give me my death of shock to complete the trio! My Aunt Sefeline was the same, always trying to prove she had the biggest cock in the chamber! If all your purpose is to posture, the two of you can get that done behind the city walls and leave me out here to ponder my downfall alone.”
Eider bowed her head. “Your Excellency, I would hate to intrude. I am here merely to wish you the best of fortune.”
“Sure you wouldn’t care to fight?” snapped Monza at her.
“Oh, there are other ways of fighting than bloody in the mud, Murcatto.” She leaned from her saddle and hissed it. “You’ll see!”
“Your Excellency!” A shrill call, soon joined by others, a ripple of excitement spreading through the horsemen. One of Rogont’s officers was pointing over the river, towards the ridge on the far side of the valley. There was movement there against the pale sky. Monza nudged her horse towards it, sliding out a borrowed eyeglass and scanning across the ridge.
A scattering of horsemen came first. Outriders, officers and standard-bearers, banners held high, white flags carrying the black cross of Talins, the names of battles stitched along their edges in red and silver thread. It hardly helped that a good number o
f the victories she’d had a hand in herself. A wide column of men tramped into view behind them, marching steadily down the brown stripe of the Imperial road towards the lower ford, spears shouldered.
The foremost regiment stopped and began to spread out about a half-mile from the water. Other columns began to spill from the road, forming battle lines across the valley. There was nothing clever about the plan, as far as she could see.
But they had the numbers. They didn’t need to be clever.
“The Talinese have arrived,” murmured Rogont, pointlessly.
Orso’s army. Men she’d fought alongside this time last year, led to victory at Sweet Pines. Men Ganmark had led until Stolicus fell on him. Men Foscar was leading now. That eager young lad with the fluff moustache who’d laughed with Benna in the gardens of Fontezarmo. That eager young lad she’d sworn to kill. She chewed her lip as she moved the eyeglass across the dusty front ranks, more men and more flooding over the hill behind them.
“Regiments from Etrisani and Cesale on their right wing, some Baolish on their left.” Ragged-marching men in fur and heavy chain mail, savage fighters from the hills and the mountains in the far east of Styria.
“The great majority of Duke Orso’s regular troops. But where, oh where, are your comrades of the Thousand Swords?”
Monza nodded up towards Menzes Hill, a green lump speckled with olive groves above the upper ford. “I’d bet my life they’re there, behind the brow. Foscar will cross the lower ford in strength and give you no choice but to meet him head on. Once you’re committed, the Thousand Swords will cross the upper ford unopposed and take you in the flank.”
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