pass. Perhaps he owed Weasel a favour. Maybe it was some sort of reward. Every man who had got a pass had done something for the Quartermaster in the past.
As they walked towards the edge of the camp, Weasel took Rik aside and whispered, “I have found some leads on selling the books, Halfbreed.”
Rik looked at him in shock. “You sure that’s wise?”
“The Inquisition are starting to interrogate the hill-men we brought in. The sooner we get rid of the things, the happier I will be.”
Rik could find no way to disagree with that statement but inside he was reeling. He had hoped to hold on to the books for at least the coming campaign and to have time to study them and divine their secrets. It seemed the poacher had other ideas. Rik considered his response carefully. He did not want to give Weasel any idea of his real thoughts.
“Who is it?”
“I will be talking to some guys tonight, in Mama Horne’s. I’ll have a better idea then.”
“So nothing is certain yet?”
“Not yet. But who knows, we might get them off our hands in the next few days. They are starting to make me feel damn uncomfortable.”
That was quite an admission for Weasel to make. As far as Rik knew he was utterly fearless. If Weasel was uneasy, maybe he should be terrified, he thought.
Part of him wondered if there was some way to keep his partners from selling the books, at least until he was done with them. Part of him felt like a traitor for even considering such a thing. Could he really put his own dark interests before that of his friends?
He already knew the answer to that.
Rik, Weasel and the Barbarian hitched a ride on one of the supply carts going to Redtower. The carter had just come from hiring on and seemed well pleased with the prospect of renting his vehicle for the campaign season. He was just one of many. Even a small army on the move took a lot of provisioning.
Leon joined them at the edge of the camp along with Hopper, Toadface and Handsome Jan. In addition to the passes, Weasel had managed to get an advance from the Quartermaster at reasonable interest, against the gold piece they had been promised for the head of the wizard by Master Severin. It seemed the wizard's debt would be honoured by his estate.
It was time for a big night on the town. After all, if the Regiment was moving out they might not get another one. In the distance the beacon atop the temple’s dragonspire lit the sky over the town. The glowing windows of Lady Asea’s palace rose almost as high, and gave the monstrous red tower a brooding presence that seemed to challenge that of the temple.
As the cart rattled along the muddy road Handsome Jan preened himself.
“You smell like a whorehouse tart,” said Weasel. The cologne Jan used was almost as overpowering as Toadface’s body odour.
“It gets me the women,” said Handsome Jan complacently. “They love it.”
“That’s because they think you are one of them and want to be your friend.”
“You’re just jealous of my success with the ladies.”
Weasel laughed. Oddly enough for such an ugly man he was amazingly popular with the tavern girls when he wanted to be. The Barbarian shook his head and said; “Jealous of you? The girls will take one look at my manly form and pass you effete southerners by.”
No one disagreed. Arguing with the Barbarian could be dangerous. His moods changed unpredictably. Rik suspected that the enormous quantities of alcohol he consumed had something to do with it.
“I know I am going to find me a woman tonight,” said Handsome Jan.
“You’ll be followed home by sailors,” said Weasel. “Wearing that stuff.”
“We’re a long way from the sea,” said the Barbarian, getting the wrong end of the stick as usual.
“The ladies love it,” said Handsome Jan. He paused to admire his profile in his bit of broken mirror.
“I can touch my nose with my tongue,” said Toadface. He did it just to prove his point. “The ladies love that as well.”
“That was an image I could have lived without having in my head,” said Rik.
“I hear that our new General will arrive soon,” said Leon.
“You and the rest of the camp,” said Toadface cheerily. His nature was almost as pleasant as his face was ugly.
“They say it’s Lord Azaar.”
Rik had heard that too. It had spread round the camp like wildfire. That sort of thing always did. Azaar had been the main slaughterer of the human tribes during the Conquest. He had been feared almost as much as the Old Queen and he had been just as famous. His name was part of ancient legend. Mothers would terrify naughty children with it.
“Why would the Lord of Battles be sent here?”
“In order to lead us to inevitable victory, I imagine,” said Weasel sardonically.
“He’s not taken to the field since the Schism,” said Rik.
“You know what the Exalted are like, Rik, bone bloody idle,” said Weasel.
“That’s over a century ago,” said Rik.
“I rest my case.”
“He must be over a thousand years old. Maybe older. He was one of those who came here from the Eternal Realm. The First they call themselves.”
“I hope he’s not senile,” said Weasel.
The Barbarian shook his head and said, “A thousand years, think about it. A thousand years of drinking and eating and whoring. I think I would like to live forever.”
“Perhaps you would get tired of it,” said Leon.
“Speak for yourself.” The cart hit a bump in the road and began to tip over sideways. They all shifted their weight to keep it steady. No one wanted to be tipped through the hedge and into a ditch. They were silent for a few minutes, each man lost in private contemplation.
“You really think it’s him,” asked Leon. “The Lord of Battles, I mean, not just somebody else with the same name. It might be his son or one of his family.”
“Never heard of any other General by that name,” said Weasel.
“Nor me,” said Rik. “Must be something pretty special happening if they are bringing that bloodthirsty old cripple out of retirement.”
“Think there’ll be a lot of plunder on this campaign then, Weasel?” asked Toadface.
“There always is if you just know where to look. Stick with me, boys, and you’ll be rich yet.”
“Just like you are,” said Rik sourly. He was annoyed about Weasel’s plan to sell the books, and his anger was finding its way into his speech. Be calm, he told himself. You don’t want Weasel getting suspicious of you at this stage.
“The taxes on my estates cost me a lot of money,” said Weasel with a grin.
“I can think of something else that will be taxing us in half an hour,” said Hopper gloomily. “The excise man when we buy a barrel of Morven Rose.”
As they approached the town, fetid slums surrounded them, cheap, jerry built tenements that looked like they could be pushed over by a strong breeze. Rik reckoned they were just like their equivalent in Sorrow, full of peasants thrown off their freeholds by the enclosures on the great estates.
Lots of lean and hungry people in threadbare clothes stared at them as if they might represent a meal. Here and there a few tatty black Mourning flags dangled on clothes lines strung between buildings. Most of the shops were tiny cave-like things in the fronts of the tenements, selling second hand clothes, cheap foods, watered ale, matches, firewood, and the other necessities of life for those who could afford them.
Rik felt momentary unease. Soldiers were not always popular in the slums of Sorrow. Folk had long memories of riots being put down. No one here, though, had any recent memories of such things and were just
