make it back to the support trench, and from there the next half mile to headquarters.
It was some kind of victory. The flower of ‘A’ company lay dead on the field. The survivors were only barely that – I doubted two in three would ever see service again, so utterly had three months at Aunis wrecked their bodies and snapped their minds. Then I altered my assessment. The Empire needed men. The remnants would be scraped together and thrust into action soon enough.
I found my best friend huddled with the scattered remains of a dozen platoons – refugees from the madness of the battlefield, one spot of blasted earth as good as any other. His eyes took up most of his head. They’d passed out hot rum, but his hands shook terribly, and he couldn’t bring the cup to his mouth. He stared up at me without a glimmer of recognition, mute and uncomprehending. I commandeered a greatcoat from the nearest corpse and wrapped him up in it.
No man is all one thing or another, an undiluted well-spring of bravery or a broke-down craven. I don’t know what a hero is, but I’ve met a lot of cowards, and Adolphus isn’t one of them. Nine days out of ten he was the furthest thing from it, cold as tempered steel and savage as the frost. But that day . . .
That day he wasn’t.
I figured whoever they gave the Star of Maletus to was pretty well guaranteed a free ticket back to Rigus, and I was pretty sure Adolphus could use it more than I could. That was part of it. But most of it was that I didn’t want a fucking medal, didn’t want any part of legitimizing what they’d done. What I’d done. Corpses and corpses and corpses, and they pin something shiny to your lapel and you puff out your chest and tell them it was an honor. Even now I think about it and my fists clench and I start gnashing my teeth.
Of course, it didn’t end up mattering. It was two weeks before the announcement came down that Adolphus was to receive the Star. A week before he’d taken a bolt in the eye during a routine patrol, and that was the end of his military career, invalided home.
We hadn’t spoken of it since. There hadn’t ever been a reason. There wasn’t a reason for it that night either, beyond the common instinct to spark fire with those things we’ve decided we love.
44
I spent that night in the apartment in Offbend, the same as I had the evening before. As a rule I don’t do that, and morning had barely broken through the windows when I was reminded why.
Footfalls up the stairs pulled me awake, loud with an even rhythm, four or five men moving with purpose. I figured whoever was coming could kill me as well in bed as out, and I pulled the covers up around my ears.
A little while later I was on the floor, somewhat the worse for wear. The three men standing over me came from that branch of law enforcement that swell knuckles on jaws. Though insistent I dress they took my attempts to stand with great umbrage, and were quick to display their displeasure. Their leader waited in the doorway, just out of sight, though I was pretty sure I recognized the outline.
They let me get my pants on before he came into the arc of the light, which was kind of them. I hadn’t thought there was enough left of me to be scared, but as it turned out my reserves are somewhat deeper than I’d realized.
Crowley was an ugly man, had always been so. He was squat and hard and walked like something whittled from oak. His eyes were shellfish slits through which the world filtered. As a point of pride, the freeze keep their uniforms spotless, unblemished sheets of ice gray, but Crowley’s was wrinkled and scuffed. The mystical gem carried by every agent, the Crown’s Eye, was a small blob of silver swallowed by the fat of his neck.
But you didn’t look at that – you looked at the scar that ran down the length of his face, that split his mouth into two deformed halves, curled his lips like a scrap of paper thrown on a fire. It was an old scar, but it would never heal. It had become his distinguishing characteristic, the quality marked by any observer, over and above his innate unsightliness. In that sense I thought I’d done him a favor, that night three years past when I’d carved out the discolored line from his flesh – though I didn’t imagine he saw it that way.
How does a man forget about a man who wants to kill him, especially a man who’s tried? Volume, in short – there were a lot of people who could match Crowley’s loathing of me. Maybe not quite – my ex-colleague had a real flair for hatred. But still, if I went around worrying about everyone who wished me in the ground, I’d never find time to add anyone new to the list.
‘Hello, Crowley.’
He didn’t answer.
‘All smiles, I see.’
Again, nothing. Crowley didn’t seem to see me. ‘I’m to take you to Black House,’ he said, but dully, as if repeating something he didn’t quite understand. If there was one thing to be said for Crowley, and there might not have been, it was that he was predictable. Predictable in his fury, predictable in his swift recourse to savagery. The man I’d known wouldn’t have been able to keep a smirk off his face, or his hands off mine. I guess I’d cut him deeper than I’d intended – deeper than I’d realized at the time, at least.
They didn’t bother to chain me, which seemed to speak well for the prospect of my immediate survival. True to form, none of my neighbors had reacted to the commotion. The occasional arrival of the frost, followed by the permanent disappearance of whomever they visited, was an infrequent but not overly noteworthy occurrence.
Clouds gathered. It was still hot as the inside of a boot, but a drape had been pulled across the sun and a storm rumbled in the distance. You couldn’t feel it yet, but you could hear it.
The walk seemed longer than distance strictly merited. My friend at the front desk made a point of not saying anything, and we ascended to the upper levels unhindered, up a blank stairwell and down a featureless hallway. Black House is egalitarian in its contempt for aesthetics and comfort. The top man worked out of an office the equal of a mid-level counting clerk, and went home to a modest two-bedroom. Money didn’t mean anything to him, and recognition even less, an active hindrance to the control he worked to effect over every inch of the Empire, and as far beyond as he could push it.
He was of average height, a uniform mustache over an undistinguished mouth. Neither fat, nor thin. A characterless suit, a face you thought you might have seen before but weren’t certain. He had long fingers on soft hands, and his eyes were the blue of a newborn’s blanket. Try to pin him in a memory and you’d come up short, a hole in the canvas leaving a vague impression of good humor and easy senescence, both of which were absolutely false.
It went without saying, the heat did not affect him.
‘Welcome back,’ he began. ‘It’s been far too long.’
Even before my disgrace, when the Old Man was my patron and not my enemy, he still made my skin crawl. There was something hollow about him, obvious enough if you looked, though most didn’t. At the time I’d been willing to ignore it, willing even to pretend I didn’t see it.
But I was young back then, and stupid. Now I’m only the latter. I figured if he was going to get nasty I’d be strapped into a chair in the basement, and not for the first time. Just the same I calculated the distance between us, tried to figure out if I could get my hands around the Old Man’s neck before Crowley could move on me, and whether my death grip would be enough to bring to an end a life that had stretched out far too long. I took a casual look around for some more effective tool to enforce my malice, but as usual the only object marring the clean perfection of his desk was a dish of hard candy. Cherry, by the color.
He chased away thoughts of murder-suicide with a friendly wave to my escort. ‘Thank you, Crowley, that’ll be all. And be so kind as to send in a cup of tea on your way out – that’s a good fellow.’
I was certain this would have elicited a response from my old colleague, given the precariousness of his temper and the relish with which he took offense. But Crowley obeyed without comment, and indeed, a moment later a starched suit came in with a chipped tea set. The Old Man added a spoonful of sugar into his mug, then a few more. ‘I suppose you know why I’ve called you here.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘We’ve decided it’s time for the Veterans’ Association to experience a change of leadership.’ His smile took on a nasty edge. ‘The more things change, as they say.’
‘And here I was thinking you and Joachim were thick as lice.’
‘Time moves, my boy. Pretories has . . . overstepped.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I wouldn’t have thought him for an idealist, not after all the coin that’s flowed through his pockets. But then, the years can do strange things. A
