shown. She counted it among her own virtues that she could distil pleasure from the most extreme fiascos and disasters, and this mess was surely both.
Gripp Galas. That was unfortunate. Once footman to Anomander himself and proven in the wars. Anomander should never have let the fool retire.
Frowning, she watched two soldiers of Silann’s troop stagger off with a body between them. They had to hold it carefully balanced as the man had been disembowelled by a single sword cut. Gripp was said to have a temper in a fight. She wagered that was his work. That man had died in pain. She walked over to Esthala.
‘Captain, I am wondering about something.’
Distracted and perhaps, now that she’d cooled down, also embarrassed, Esthala shrugged. ‘Go on.’
‘I am wondering what in the name of the Abyss was Gripp Galas doing with that traders’ caravan.’
Esthala faced her husband again. ‘Silann! Tell me, did you examine Gripp’s body? His gear?’
The man looked over and shook his head. ‘The spear point in the back took him off his horse. His corpse rolled into a damned crevasse, fell right out of sight.’
Esthala stepped towards him. ‘Didn’t you go down after him? To make certain that he was dead?’
‘He left a blood trail thick with gore — and that crevasse was bottomless.’
‘Gore?’ Risp asked. ‘Whose gore? He was stabbed in the back. Silann,’ she continued, struggling to control her panic, ‘bring us the soldier who stabbed Gripp. I want to see the spear point. I want to hear how the blow felt — was Gripp wearing armour? Was Gripp wearing leather, as befits a caravan guard, or chain, as befits a covert agent?’
The blood had left Silann’s face. ‘That man died to the leader of the caravan guards — who was clearly another veteran.’
‘The gutted one or the one with no throat left? That one? Have you his weapon?’
A few moments later one of Silann’s soldiers collected up and delivered the dead man’s spear; as Risp reached for the weapon, Esthala stepped close and took it instead. Ignoring Risp’s scowl, the captain studied the iron point. ‘Might have struck chain — I see the bite of snapped links. The tip’s bloody, so it went through… about three fingers’ worth. If it severed the spine then Gripp’s dead or paralysed. Anywhere else and he’s wounded but not fatally so.’
‘He fell down a damned crevasse!’ Silann shouted.
‘Fell or rolled down it?’ Esthala demanded. ‘Did you see it happen?’
Swearing under her breath, Risp made her way back to her troop. ‘Muster out six more, sergeant! This hunt has turned serious.’
The sun was low in the western sky when Sukul Ankhadu summoned Rancept to the top floor of the High Tower. Upon the castellan’s wheezing arrival, she gestured to the large window. ‘I trust you have been made aware of smoke to the east.’
Rancept, it was said, was the offspring of a drunken woman and a sadly sober boar. Such observations were rarely made to his face, of course, because Rancept had his father’s temper, and enough brawn to make a bear cower. The castellan’s face looked familiar with tavern floors, his nose broken and mashed by countless brawls in his youth, unfortunately pushed back to give it the appearance of a pig’s snout. His teeth were uneven and stained and ragged from years of mouth-breathing. He was rumoured to be a thousand years old and as bone-weary as a man twice his age.
At her query he squinted at the window.
‘You’ll have to step closer to see it from here,’ said Sukul.
He made no move. ‘Mistress wants us stayin’ put, milady. Says there’s trouble on the way.’
‘Closer than we think, yes? That smoke smells to me of burning hides.’
‘Does it now, milady?’
‘You will have to take my word on that, castellan.’
He grunted, still squinting at the window. ‘Suppose I will at that.’
‘There was a highborn riding with those wagons. A boy of five or six years of age. On his way to the Wise City. To the Citadel, in fact. A child of the Korlas family.’
Rancept pawed at the silver stubble on his jaw. ‘Korlas? Good soldier. Always sad. Heard he killed himself.’
‘Officially died in his sleep or something like that.’
‘Festered wound I think it was, milady.’
‘You’re trying my patience, castellan.’
His squint narrowed until his eyes were thin slits. ‘I do that, yes.’
‘I want us to ride out — tonight — and catch up to that caravan. If there are bandits that close to us, we need to know.’
‘Not bandits, milady.’
‘I know that, you oaf! So who attacked them and are we under threat?’
He grunted a second time. ‘Safe enough up here.’
‘I insist we ride out! I want fifteen Houseblades, and a fist of tracking dogs!’
‘You’ll get one Houseblade, milady, and Ribs.’
‘Ribs? That dog is constantly surprised by the smell of its own butt! And one Houseblade isn’t enough — you are supposed to accord me proper protection.’
‘And I will, milady,’ and he now turned to her, showing his teeth. ‘That one will be me.’
‘Castellan, forgive me, but walking up the stairs to get here nearly burst your heart.’
‘Hardly, milady. My heart’s just fine and so is the rest of me, barring this nose you keep trying to not look at.’
‘Abyss below. Then it shall be you and me, castellan.’
‘And Ribs, milady.’
‘Find yourself a horse-’
‘On foot,’ he said. ‘It’s quieter.’
‘But look at me — I’m all dressed to ride!’
‘Me and Ribs will be waitin’ downstairs, milady.’
Orfantal crouched in a hollow surrounded by shattered boulders. The sky overhead was black, overcast, and the darkness on all sides had stolen away all the familiar features he had looked upon a short while earlier. In his imagination the world was now transformed, seething with motion. He heard strange sounds, stared helplessly into the blackness where he thought he saw something staring back at him.
He missed his blanket, and the fire of the caravan guards, which was kept alive through each night and which he’d find when awakening with a start, forgetting where he was and frightened — but that smudge of coals and the occasional flicker of flame seen through the tent’s thin fabric always righted him again. But now there was nothing, no tent, no Gripp snoring and muttering under his breath. He was alone and he felt nothing like a hero.
Shivers raced through him. He remembered his daydreams of a bandit attack, and just as in that story he had fled into the night, into the hills. But the truth of it, here in this hollow, was nothing like that epic adventure. His feet were numb; his hands hung heavy and insensate at the ends of his wrists, and he felt the beckoning of sleep, as if the cold were drifting away.
He had not crawled far from the basin where his horse had died. The hills had seemed too vast, too threatening to venture deep into. If he lost sight of the basin, he’d lose sight of the road, and then he’d be lost. The truth was, his courage had failed him and he felt ashamed. The smell of his own urine mocked him. He could taste his own betrayal, bitter and sickening, and again and again the shudder of the horse echoed through him — the feel of life leaving it as he hugged its neck. It did not deserve that kind of end, driven forward in fear, pushed into exhaustion, guided by a foolish boy. What would he tell Wreneck? He would rather the bandits had cut him down instead.
He gave up on his fear of the night and closed his eyes. He’d stopped shivering and that was good.
A footfall on gravel dragged him awake. His heart pounded hard and seemed to swell inside his chest. He struggled to breathe.
