‘Very good. Then, we have reached an understanding. Our goal is to interfere as little as possible. The populace may even forget we’re here.’
I doubt that very much, Admiral. But we can always hope.
The Admiral stood, came round the table and invited Bakune to precede him out. Straightening, Bakune bowed and entered the hall. The Admiral, he noticed, had to hunch to avoid bashing his head in the companionway. On deck, Bakune was shown to the set of stairs hung over the side. Blue sailors moved about, handling gear, adjusting the sheets. Bakune passed an opening on to the hold and saw for an instant how empty it was. Where were these troops? Was this not a transport?
The Blues sailors with him urged him on and he stepped out on to the stairs. He bowed to the Admiral one last time, then firmly grasped hold of the rope guides and started down.
On deck Admiral Swirl came to Admiral Nok’s side at the gunwale. Together they watched the launch return to shore. ‘What do you think?’ Swirl asked.
Nok rolled his neck, easing the muscles. ‘Hard to say. Very guarded, that one.’
‘At least he was not overtly hostile.’
‘But no fool, either. I just hope we’ve bought enough time.’
‘How far away do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know.’ Nok scratched his moustache. ‘Frankly, I was half expecting him to be here already.’
The Blue Admiral nodded his helmed head, perhaps agreeing. ‘And the patrols?’
‘Four at first, let’s say. Two four-hour shifts.’
‘Reserve?’
‘A hundred marines at the pier.’
The Blue Admiral was nodding again. ‘That’s about all we can field
… Let’s hope they don’t test us.’
Nok grasped hold of the gunwale, eyed the townscape. ‘They will. But let’s hope we’re out of here before then.’ He leaned his elbows on the wood and let out a long low breath into the icy wind. ‘We’re here, Greymane… but where are you?’
‘Well — would you look at that,’ Wess drawled while hunched behind his wide heavy-infantry shield. Kneeling behind his own shield, Suth ignored him. Len, whom they both covered, shushed the man as he untangled his line. A pink and gold dawn was brightening beyond the eastern hills. The three stood at the Ancy’s muddy shore.
It was their turn to go fishing.
For his part, Suth silently prayed to his entire inbred menagerie of Dal Hon gods that they get a bite right away. Any moment now the archers would catch sight of them and the torrent would begin. He reached down to select a water-polished stone from the shallows and stuck it in a cheek to suck on. It was an old trick to stave off hunger and thirst. Being of the Dal Hon, he was no stranger to want. He’d grown up through a number of droughts and lean times, so these last weeks of privation hadn’t hit him as hard as some. Likewise Wess, who never seemed to eat anyway; the man would just jam a ball of some resin or leaf into a cheek and he’d be good for the day. Lard, however, could hardly muster the strength to stand, while Pyke had disappeared — deserted, probably. Dim they’d lost in the defence of the bridge. Keri had taken an arrow in the side and lay in the infirmary tents. Yana was sick with the epidemic of the runny shits, which afflicted almost everyone in camp and added terribly to the general indignity of dying by degrees. Goss seemed unaffected, though his eyes were sunken and his cheeks behind the salt and pepper bristles were as hollow as caves.
‘You guys really should take a peek,’ Wess said.
‘Quiet,’ Len hissed, sotto voce.
Suth watched the water, seeking any slim darting shape. If only he held a sharp fishing stick now instead of this bulky shield.
‘Okay, but I gotta tell you-’
‘What?’ Suth cut in, glaring. Wess inclined his head towards the far shore. Suth scanned the slope; the lightening dawn was revealing the enemy — and themselves as well to the archers keeping watch on the shore. Smoke hung like mist, slowly drifting. Suth’s own breath plumed in the chill morning air. He examined the ranks. Something strange there… he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. ‘Something,’ he breathed.
‘Un-huh. No Moranth. Them Black bastards is gone. Their whole encampment’s picked up ’n’ flown.’
Len straightened. ‘What?’
Wess was right. Where the Moranth encampment had stood now stretched an empty field of churned-up mud.
Len started rolling up his gut fishing line. ‘Let’s go.’
‘They’ll all see in a minute,’ Wess objected.
An arrow hissed past them. ‘Now everyone can see,’ Suth cursed.
‘We haven’t caught a thing,’ Wess pointed out. ‘Unless we bring something to the pot we don’t get a share…’
Len shoved the line into a shoulder bag. ‘This is important.’
An arrow slammed into Wess’ shield, throwing him back a step. Len started backing away and Suth moved to cover him. Sighing, Wess followed. Outside bow range they met a crowd gathered along the shore, pointing and talking, and pushed their way through. Suth heaved the heavy shield on to his back. ‘We should report,’ Len said. Wess just rolled his eyes.
They crossed to where their squad had set up camp. Yana lay under an awning made from a tattered blanket. Goss sat before the blackened pit where they used to cook their meals when they had food and firewood.
‘The Moranth look to be gone,’ Len told Goss.
Goss nodded at the news. ‘So I heard.’
‘Good report there, Len,’ Wess said, lying down.
‘Now what?’ Suth asked Goss.
A slow shrug from the man where he sat in his threadbare padded aketon. ‘Guess we’ll attack.’
‘Attack? Half of us couldn’t drag our backsides across the bridge.’
Goss pondered that for a time. ‘I hear they got lotsa provisions over on that side…’
‘If we controlled the river we could build weirs,’ Len added.
Suth was suddenly maddeningly hungry. It was as if the mere mention of a solid meal was enough to set his juices flowing. He almost said aloud how desperately famished he was, but refrained: those who mentioned that forbidden subject were looked on as if they were idiots. Who in the name of Togg and Fanderay isn’t, you horse’s arse? was the usual comment. He lay down to sleep, mumbling, ‘Let’s just get it over with.’
*
An aide summoned Devaleth to the command tent. It was still quite early; she hadn’t even broken her fast yet with a glass of thin tea. She finished dressing hurriedly and headed across camp, which was seething with the most commotion she’d seen in weeks. Was there to be a fresh assault? Or an attack? The bridge was quiet; rather, everyone was studying the far shore. Glancing over as well, she tried to see what was of such interest but couldn’t identify it.
She found Greymane and the Adjunct, Kyle, standing before the tent, scanning the west shore. The High Fist appeared more animated than she’d seen in a long time. The man had frankly been deteriorating; losing weight, becoming withdrawn and sullen. Only Kyle seemed able to rouse him from his dark moods. Now a faint smile, or eagerness, kept pulling at his mouth behind the iron-grey beard he’d been growing. Kyle bowed, greeting Devaleth. Even Greymane offered a smile — though one tinged with irony. ‘What do you think, water-witch? What are we to make of this?’
‘Make of what?’
Kyle raised his chin to the west. ‘It seems the Moranth Black have decamped.’
‘Really? Whatever for?’
The High Fist nodded. ‘That’s what everyone’s wondering.’
Fist Rillish appeared, walking stiffly and carefully towards the tent. Devaleth fought an urge to help the man — that he was even on his feet was painful to see. The dysentery ravaging the troops had drained pounds from the man: his face was ashen and greasy with sweat, and his shirt hung loose on him. He saluted and the High Fist curtly responded.
