Return of the Crimson Guard

this — oh yes.’ He smiled, raising his hands. ‘The gloves are off. And lo and behold, the claws are unsheathed.’

‘Whose?’

The smile hardened. ‘Careful, my friend. The Throne's, let us say. You say you support the Empress. Excellent. Let us collect the entire contents of every trading house's vault to hold as pledge to said backing. You will notify the Ruling Convene of the province that all their writs have been called in immediately. We will expect the complete commitment of all troops from across Cawn province as the honouring of said debt. Understood?’

Nevall sat heavily on his stool, lay a hand on his blackened ledger book, nodded.

‘As you merchants say, Nevall — a pleasure doing business with you.’

The factor hung his head. Tent cloth shifted. He looked up and the Claw was gone. Yanking open his book, Nevall took a bite from a stick of charcoal next to it and chewed furiously. He jammed a feather nib into the corner of his mouth. ‘Damn Laseen and Mallick both.’

‘The place is a dump!’ Nait exclaimed from the crowded rail of the fishing scow that had carried its contingent of seven hundred — limping and wallowing — all the way from Unta to Cawn harbour. Least, in thin torn buckskins only, his fists white on the rail, mumbled abjectly, ‘I just want off. Please Hood, kill me and take me from here.’

Nait eyed the stricken giant halfbreed Barghast. He leaned close to whisper, ‘Want some fish?’

‘Baiting!’ Hands yelled from nearby.

Rolling his eyes, Nait leaned over the side, made a great gagging show of spitting out the wad of chewed rustleaf bulging his cheek. Least paled, swallowing.

Hands dragged Nait from the rail. ‘Staff meeting,’ she smiled gleefully. Nait slumped, groaning.

At mid-deck they met with their old sergeant, now captain, Tinsmith. Many of Tinsmith's old command from the Untan Harbour Guard were gathered around, Hands, Honey Boy, together with many faces from other guard companies within Unta such as Lim Tal, one-time chief bodyguard, and rumoured lover, to Duke Amstar D'Avig. Also sitting with the captain was the old tanned and scarred veteran for whom many had already come to nurture a precious hatred for having drilled them mercilessly day after day since casting off from the capital. A man Tinsmith simply referred to as Master Sergeant Temp, but whom the men called ‘Old Clozup’ after his constant badgering of ‘Close ranks! Close up!’

Tinsmith looked to each of them, cleared his throat. ‘We'll have to wait our turn to off-load. Cawn's as bare as Hood's bones, so we'll shoulder what rations we have left and march right on out. Orders are to make six leagues a day-’

‘Six leagues!’ Nait squawked. ‘After sitting on our backsides for so long?’

‘Put Captain after your whining,’ Hands snarled.

‘And another thing,’ Nait continued, ‘everyone's a sergeant around here. Hands, Least, Lim, Honey Boy-’

‘That's Honey, now.’

‘Yeah, fine, Sergeant Honey. Why ain't I a sergeant too?’

‘’Cause you lead our saboteurs, Corporal,’ growled Master Sergeant Temp. ‘And no saboteur rises to the dizzy heights of a sergeancy.’

‘I heard o’ one or two.’

‘Then show me what you got

Nait looked away from the veteran's icy pale eyes, waggled his head mouthing, ‘show me what you got’

‘We are part of one battalion of the Fourth's heavies,’ Tinsmith continued, stroking his long silver moustache with a thumb and forefinger. ‘The iron core of this army. Now, we got us hardly any cavalry to speak of, some spotty noblemen, a few mounted scouts. What we do got is thousands of skirmishers, light infantry — enough cross-bowmen to depopulate a country. That's the hand we've been dealt. So, what to do? They need a centre, an anchor. That's us. The ferocity of their fire will wither any force stupid enough to show their heads like they did the Guard, and will do to any cavalry. But when we do hit strong resistance, they'll melt through us to the rear and reform. We don't melt. We hold. Understood? So, all the old veterans,’ Tinsmith inclined his head to the Master Sergeant, ‘they sent a contingent to High Fist Anand — and the Sword, Korbolo Dom, too of course-’

Nait blew a farting noise.

‘To hash things out,’ Tinsmith continued blithely, ‘an’ what they came up with is four main battle groups, mutually supporting, each anchored by a battalion of heavies. The Sword has the lead one, o’ course. Braven Tooth will command us on the left. The right flanking battalion is under Fist D'Ebbin, and High Fist Anand co-ordinates from the rear. Now, the lot of you might think that the Master Sergeant here was just to train you up, but I'm sure you'll all be right pleased to know that he'll be the anchoring right corner shieldman on the front line.’

Nait eyed the old veteran; sure, he looked tough, but him march six leagues in a day? The geezer'll drop and he'll be sure to step on him on the way past.

‘You sergeants,’ Tinsmith added, ‘you have your men follow his lead. Stand with him, follow his orders and I guarantee you our ranks will hold. That's all for now. Dismissed.’

‘One last thing, Captain,’ the old-timer threw in, his scarred cheek pulling up in a one-sided smile, ‘while we're out here on this beautiful day waiting for our turn to off-load…’ Nait caught Honey's gaze, rolled his eyes. ‘… I thought I might have the men and women practise some close order drills.’

Tinsmith smoothed his moustache to hide his smile. ‘All yours, Master Sergeant.’

From the rear ranks of the Imperial retinue of court functionaries, it appeared to Possum that the Empress was in a hurry. Marines formed in parade ranks guarded the wharf where a glittering crowd of nobles and functionaries, Possum included, awaited the Imperial presence. All the usual ceremonies and speeches of reception had been waived. Behind the ranks of marines the citizens of Cawn stood waiting, silent and — Possum had to admit — looking rather downtrodden and desultory. But then, the town had just been sacked. She appeared at the top of the gangway without fanfare or announcement — just one more passenger disembarking, yet Possum was surprised by the collective inhalation from the Cawnese that her appearance evoked. How could they have known? She wore no finery, no crown or tiara; no sceptre weighted her arms; nor was she carried by palanquin or raised throne. No, she merely stepped up unannounced, wearing only her plain silk tunic and pantaloons. Her hair was short, mousey-brown and touched by grey; her face, well, plain, and rather sour in its tight thin mouth, lined at the eyes and brow.

Yet everyone knew it was her. Perhaps it was the glance she cast over the waterfront and all assembled. Severe. Utterly assured. And frankly rather disappointed with what it saw. The nobles knelt followed by the citizens. The marines saluted.

She did receive the local factors of the Cawn trading houses: they were allowed to crawl forward on their knees like a gaggle of beggars on the street. She acknowledged their abject loyalty with a brief inclination of her head, then was assisted by a groom in mounting her horse. Everyone else then mounted, and the whole cavalcade set off, the screen of cavalry, the honour-guard, the Empress and her bodyguard accompanied by High Fist Anand and staff, the court retinue following along, Possum among them. The other High Fist, Korbolo Dom, also Sword of the Empire, was where he insisted upon being, leading the van, where everyone seemed content to leave him. For his part Possum was dressed in rich silks, Untan duelling sword at his side. He played the part of a minor noble whose job was to sneer haughtily at anyone gauche enough to ask him what position it was he actually filled.

As he rode along, he spotted operatives standing alongside the road. From signs from them he learned that Cawn had been secured, that spies left behind by Urko had been identified, and that the deal that Ranath, the region's old chief of intelligence, had proposed to Possum had been accepted. The deal was a sweet one and would double Laseen's forces — eventually — but its appearance out of seemingly nowhere troubled him. What had Ranath been up to lately? Where had the intelligence behind the deal come from? And yet, was it not the man's job? Why question him for being competent and resourceful? Was he, Possum, now the sort of leader who dreaded talent among his subordinates? Had he not in fact deliberately cultivated the opposite managerial style? Did he not signal in so many ways to his subordinates that ways and means were of no interest to him so long as the job got done? That they could count on him appearing only when things got botched up? He forced himself to ease back further into his role, flexed his neck and glanced — scornfully — around at the efforts the Cawnese were making in demolishing and rebuilding their city. His gaze fell on the rider next to him and he was startled to see there, dressed in the cream flowing robes and headscarf of a Seven Cities noblewoman, Coil, the most insolent of the five commanders who constituted his second echelon.