Skulldeath had looked her over for a time, stroking her hair and making sure none of her limbs were pinned at odd angles, and when at last he fell asleep, it was curled up against her. The mother he never had. Or the mother he never left. Well, all those lost princes in fairy tales ain’t nearly as lost as Skulldeath here. What a sad—if confused—story he’d make, our sweet little boy.
Sinter rubbed at her face. She wasn’t feeling much different from Hellian, though she’d had nothing but weak ale to drink the night before. Her mind felt bludgeoned, bruised into numbness. Her haunting sensitivities had vanished, making her feel half deaf. I think I am . . . overwhelmed.
By something. It’s close. It’s getting closer. Is that what this is?
She wondered where her sister was by now—how far away were the Perish and Khundryl anyway? They were overdue, weren’t they?
Sinter thought back to her fateful audience with the Adjunct. She remembered Masan Gilani’s fierce expression the moment before the Adjunct sent her off. There had been no hesitation in Tavore’s response to what Sinter said what was needed, and not a single objection to any one of her suggestions. The only visible reaction had preceded all that. Betrayal. Yes, that word hurt her. It’s the one thing she cannot face. The one thing, I think, that devours her courage. What happened to you, Tavore Paran? Was it something in your childhood, some terrible rejection, a betrayal that stabbed to the deepest core of you, of the innocent child you once were?
When does it happen? All those wounds that ended up making us the adults we are? A child starved never grows tall or strong. A child unloved can never find love or give it when grown. A child that does not laugh will become someone who can find nothing in the world to laugh at. And a child hurt deeply enough will spend a lifetime trying to scab that wound—even as they ceaselessly pick at it. She thought of all the careless acts and indifferent, impatient gestures she’d seen among parents in civilized places, as if they had no time for their own children. Too busy, too full of themselves, and all of that was simply passed on to the next generation, over and over again.
Among the Dal Honese, in the villages of both the north and the south, patience was the gift returned to the child who was itself a gift. Patience, the full weight of regard, the willingness to listen and the readiness to teach—were these not the responsibilities of parenthood? And what of a civilization that could thrive only by systematically destroying that precious relationship? Time to spend with your children? No time. Work to feed them, yes, that is your responsibility. But your loyalty and your strength and your energy, they belong to us.
And we, who are we? We are the despoilers of the world. Whose world? Yours. Hers—the Adjunct’s, aye. And even Skulldeath’s. Poor, lost Skulldeath. And Hellian, ever bathed in the hot embrace of alcohol. You and that wandering ex-priest with his smirk and broken eyes. Your armies, your kings and queens, your gods, and, most of all, your children.
We kill their world before they even inherit it. We kill it before they grow old enough to know what it is.
She rubbed at her face again. The Adjunct was so alone, aye. But I tried. I think I did, anyway. You’re not quite as alone as you think, Tavore Paran. Did I leave you with that much? When I was gone, when you stood there in your tent, in the silence—when Lostara Yil left and not one set of eyes was upon you . . . what did you do? What did you free from chains inside yourself?
If Bottle watched through the eyes of one of his rats, what did he see? There in your face?
Anything? Anything at all?
‘What’s burning?’
‘You are, Shoaly.’
The heavy made no move. His boots were now peeling off black threads of smoke. ‘Am I done yet, Primly?’
‘Crispy bacon, I’d wager.’
‘Gods, I love bacon.’
‘You gonna move your feet, Shoaly?’ Mulvan Dreader demanded.
‘Got bids, all you bastards?’
‘Of course,’ said Pravalak Rim.
‘Who’s counting tens?’
‘I am,’ said Rim. ‘Got an order, doing rounds. We got ten in all, counting Skulldeath and Ruffle, though they ain’t counted in personally, being busy and all.’
‘Sinter bet?’
‘Aye,’ said Sinter.
‘What number?’
‘Seven.’
‘Rim, where you at now?’
‘Three.’
‘Out loud.’
‘Five, six, se—’
Shoaly pulled his feet from the fire and sat up.
‘Now that’s loyalty,’ Sinter said, grinning.
‘De ain feer! De ain feer! I eed farv! Farv! Erim, de ain feer!’
‘It’s Shoaly’s feet,’ said Mulvan, ‘he can do what he wants with them. Sinter wins the pot, cos she’s so pretty, right, Shoaly?’
The man smiled. ‘Right. Now, Sint, you like me?’
‘By half,’ she replied.
‘I’ll need it. Nep Furrow, what’ll a quick heal cost me?’
‘Ha! Yar half! Yar half! Ha ha!’
‘Half of my half—’
‘Nad! Nad!’
‘It’s either that or the sergeant orders you to heal me and you get nothing.’
‘Good point,’ said Sinter, glancing over to Badan Gruk. ‘Got need for your healer, Badan, you all right with that?’
‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘This was all a set-up,’ Primly muttered. ‘I’m smelling more than bacon right now.’
‘Arf ad yar arf! Shably! Arf ad yar arf!’
‘Be kind to him, Shoaly, so he does you a good job.’
‘Aye, Sergeant Sinter. Half of half. Agreed. Where’s the kitty?’
‘Everybody spill now,’ said Rim, collecting a helm. ‘In here, pass it around.’
‘Scam,’ said Drawfirst. ‘Lookback, we all been taken.’
‘What’s new about that? Marines never play fair—’
‘They just play to win,’ Drawfirst finished, scowling at the old Bridgeburner adage.
Sinter rose and walked from the camp. Numb and restless at the same time, what kind of state was that to be in? After a few strides she realized she had company and glanced over to see Badan Gruk.
‘Sinter, you look . . . different. Sick? Listen, Kisswhere—’
‘Never mind my sister, Badan. I know her best, remember.’
‘Exactly. She was going to run, we all knew it. You must’ve known it too. What I don’t get is that she didn’t try to get us to go with her.’
Sinter glanced at him. ‘Would she have convinced you, Badan?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And then the two of you would have ganged up on me, until I relented.’
‘Could be like that, aye. Point is, it didn’t happen. And now she’s somewhere and we’re stuck here.’
‘I’m not deserting, Badan.’
‘Ain’t you thought about it, though? Going after Kisswhere?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘She’s all grown up now. I should have seen that long ago, don’t you think? I don’t have to take care of her any more. Wish I’d realized that the day she joined up.’
He grimaced. ‘You ain’t the only one, Sinter.’
Ah, Badan, what am I to do with you? You keep breaking my heart. But pity and love don’t live together, do they?
Was it pity? She just didn’t know. Instead, she took his hand as they walked.
The soft wind on his face woke him. Groggy, thick-tongued and parched, Gesler blinked open his eyes. Blue sky, empty of birds, empty of everything. He groaned, struggling to work out the last thing he remembered. Camp, aye, some damned argument with Stormy. The bastard had been dreaming again, some demonic fist coming down out of the dark sky. He’d had the eyes of a hunted hare.
Did they drink? Smoke something? Or just fall back to sleep, him on one side of the tent, Stormy on the other—one side neat and ordered, the other a stinking mess. Had he been complaining about that? He couldn’t rem
ember a damned thing.
No matter. The camp wasn’t moving for some reason—and it was strangely quiet, too, and what was he doing outside? He slowly sat up. ‘Gods below, they left us behind.’ A stretch of broken ground, odd low mounds in the distance—had they been there last night? And where were the hearths, the makeshift berms? He heard a scuffing sound behind him and twisted round—the motion rocking the brain in his skull fierce enough to make him gasp.
A woman he’d never seen before was crouched at a small fire. Just to her right was Stormy, still asleep. Weapons and their gear were stacked just beyond him.
Gesler squinted at the stranger. Dressed like some damned savage, all colourless gum-gnawed deerhide and bhederin leather. She wasn’t a young thing either. Maybe forty, but it was never easy to tell with plainsfolk, for that she surely was, like an old-fashioned Seti. Her features were regular enough; she’d probably been good-looking once, but the years had been hard since then. When his assessing gaze finally lifted to her dark brown eyes he found her studying him with something like sorrow.
‘Better start talking,’ Gesler said. He saw a waterskin and pointed at it.
She nodded.
Gesler reached over, tugged loose the stopper and drank down three quick mouthfuls. An odd flavour came off his lips and his head spun momentarily. ‘Hood’s knocker, what did I do last night?’ He glared at the woman. ‘You understanding me?’
‘Trader tongue,’ she said.
It was a moment before he comprehended her words. Her accent was one he’d never heard before. ‘Good, there’s that at least. Where am I? Who are you? Where’s my damned army?’
She gestured. Gone. And then said, ‘You are for me, with me. By me?’ She shook her head, clearly frustrated with her limited knowledge of the language. ‘Kalyth my name.’ Her eyes shifted away. ‘Destriant Kalyth.’
‘Destriant? That’s not a title people just throw around. If it doesn’t belong to you, you and your whole damned line are cursed. For ever more. You don’t use titles like that—Destriant, to what god?’
‘God no. No god. K’Chain Che’Malle. Acyl Nest, Matron Gunth’an Acyl. Kalyth me, Elan—’
He raised a hand. ‘Hold it, hold it, I’m not understanding much of that. K’Chain Che’Malle, aye. You’re a Destriant to the K’Chain Che’Malle. But that can’t be. You got it wrong—’
‘Wrong no. I wish, yes.’ She shifted slightly and pointed at Stormy. ‘He Shield Anvil.’ Then she pointed at Gesler. ‘You Mortal Sword.’
‘We ain’t . . .’ and Gesler trailed off, gaze straying over to Stormy. ‘Someone called him Shield Anvil, once. I think. Can’t recall who it was, though. Actually, maybe it was Mortal Sword, come to that.’ He glared at her. ‘Whoever it was, though, it wasn’t no K’Chain Che’Malle.’
She shrugged. ‘There is war. You lead. Him and you. Gunth’an Acyl send me to find you. I find you. You are fire. Gu’Rull see you, fill my head with you. Burning. Beacons, you and him. Blinding. Gu’Rull collect you.’
Collect? Gesler abruptly stood, earning yet another gasp as his head reeled. ‘You snatched us!’
‘Me not—not me. Gu’Rull.’
‘Who is Gu’Rull? Where is the bastard? I got to cut his throat and maybe yours too. Then we can try to find the army—’
‘Gone. Your army, many leagues away. Gu’Rull fly all night. With you. All night. You must lead K’Chain Che’Malle army. Eight Furies, coming now. Close. There is war.’
Gesler walked over and kicked Stormy.
The big man grunted, and then clutched the sides of his head. ‘Go piss yourself, Ges,’ he mumbled. ‘It ain’t morning yet.’
‘Really?’ Stormy had spoken in Falari and so Gesler did the same.
‘Bugle wakes me every time, you know that. Miserable sh—’
‘Open your eyes, soldier! On your damned feet!’
Stormy lashed out with one bare foot, forcing Gesler back a step. He’d felt those kicks before. But Stormy then sat, eyes open and widening as he looked around. ‘What did you do to me, Ges? Where’s . . . where’s everything?’
‘We got ourselves kidnapped last night, Stormy.’
Stormy’s bright blue eyes fixed on Kalyth. ‘Her? She’s stronger than she looks—’
‘Fener’s sake, Stormy, she had help. Someone named Gu’Rull, and whoever he is, he’s got wings. And he’s strong enough to have carried us away, all night.’
Stormy’s eyes flashed. ‘What did I tell you, Gesler! My dreams! I saw—’
‘What you said you saw made no sense. Still doesn’t! The point is, this woman here calls herself the Destriant to the K’Chain Che’Malle, and if that’s not dumb enough, she’s calling me the Mortal Sword and you the Shield Anvil.’
Stormy flinched, hands up covering his face. He spoke behind his palms. ‘Where’s my sword? Where’s my boots? Where the fuck is breakfast?’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘I heard you, Gesler. Dreams. It was those damned scaled rats. Every time I saw one on the trail I got the shivers.’
‘Rats ain’t K’Chain Che’Malle. You know, if you had even half a brain maybe you could’ve figured out your dreams, and maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess!’
Stormy dropped his hands, swung his shaggy head to regard Kalyth. ‘Look at her,’ he muttered.
‘What about her?’
‘Reminds me of my mother.’
Gesler’s hands twitched, closed into fists. ‘Don’t even think it, Stormy.’
‘Can’t help it. She does—’
‘No, she doesn’t. Your mother had red hair—’
‘Not the point. Around her eyes, see it? You should know, Ges, you went and bedded her enough times—’
‘That was an accident—’
‘A what?’
‘I mean, how did I know she went around seducing your friends?’
‘She didn’t. Just you.’
‘But you said—’
‘So I lied! I was just trying to make you feel better! No, fuck that, I was trying to make you feel that you’re nobody important—your head’s swelled up bad enough as it is. Anyway, it don’t matter any more, does it? Forget it. I forgave you, remember—’
‘You were drunk and we’d just trashed an alley trying to kill each other—’
‘Then I forgave you. Forget it, I said.’
‘I wish I could! Now you go and say this one looks like—’
‘But she does!’
‘I know she does! Now just shut the fuck up! We ain’t—we ain’t—’
‘Yes, we are. You know it, Ges. You don’t like it, but you know it. We been cut loose. We got us a destiny. Right here. Right now. She’s Destriant and you’re Shield Anvil and I’m Mortal Sword—’
‘Wrong way round,’ Gesler snarled. ‘I’m the Mortal Sword—’
‘Good. Glad we got that settled. Now get her to cook us something—’
‘Oh, is that what Destriants do, then? Cook for us?’
‘I’m hungry and I got no food!’
‘Then ask her. Politely.’
Stormy scowled at Kalyth.
‘Trader tongue,’ Gesler said.
Instead, Stormy pointed at his mouth and then patted his stomach.
Kalyth said, ‘You eat.’
‘Hungry, aye.’
‘Food,’ she said, nodding, and then pointed to a small leather satchel to one side.
Gesler laughed.
Kalyth then rose. ‘They come.’
‘Who come?’ Gesler asked.
‘K’Chain Che’Malle. Army. Soon . . . war.’
At that moment Gesler felt the trembling ground underfoot. Stormy did the same and as one they both turned to face north.
Fener’s holy crotch.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I am the face you would not own
Though you carve your place
Hidden in the crowd
Mine are the features you never saw
As you stack your thin d
ays
In the tick of tonight’s straw
My legion is the unexpected
A forest turned to masts
Grass blades to swords
And this is the face you would not own
A brother with bad news
Hiding in the crowd
HARBINGER
FISHER
S
he’d had an uncle, a prince high on the rungs but, alas, the wrong ladder. He had attempted a coup, only to find that all his agents were someone else’s agents. Was it this conceit that had led to his death? Which choice made it all inevitable? Queen Abrastal had thought many times on the man’s fate. The curious thing was, he’d actually made his escape, out from the city, all the way to the eastern border, in fact. But on the morning of his last ride, a farmer had woken with crippling rheumatism in his legs. This man was fifty-seven years old and, for thirty-odd years, each month through the summers and autumns he had taken the harvest of his own family’s plot up to the village a league and a half away. And he had done this by pulling a two-wheeled cart.
He must have awoken that morning in the turgid miasma of his own mortality. Wearing down, wearing out. And studying the mists wreathing the low hills and glades edging the fields, he must have held a silence in his hands, and in his heart. We pass on. All that was effortless becomes an ordeal, yet the mind remains lucid, trapped inside a failing body. Though the morning promised a fine day, night’s cold darkness remained lodged within him.
He had three sons but all were in the levy and off fighting somewhere. Rumours of some uprising; the old man knew little about it and cared even less. Except for the fact that his sons were not with him. In motions stiff with pain he had hitched up the mule to a rickety flatbed wagon. He could as easily have chosen the cart, but the one mule he owned that wasn’t too old or lame was a strangely long-bodied specimen, too long for the cart’s yoke and spar.
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