the numbers of men, weapons and sundries at our disposal…”
That was, to the letter, what Friendly had done for Sajaam, in Safety then outside it. “I can do that.”
“Better than any man alive, I never doubt! Could you begin by fastening this buckle for me? Bloody armourers. I swear they only put it there to vex me.” He jerked his thumb at the side strap on his gilded breastplate, stood tall and held his breath, sucking in his gut as Friendly tugged it closed. “Thank you, my friend, you are a rock! An anchor! An axle of calm about which I madly spin. Whatever would I do without you?”
Friendly did not understand the question. “The same things.”
“No, no. Not the same. Though we are not long acquainted, I feel there is… an understanding between us. A bond. We are much alike, you and I.”
Friendly sometimes felt he feared every word he had to speak, every new person and every new place. Only by counting everything and anything could he claw by his fingernails from morning to night. Cosca, by sharp contrast, drifted effortlessly through life like blossom on the wind. The way that he could talk, smile, laugh, make others do the same seemed like magic as surely as when Friendly had seen the Gurkish woman Ishri form from nowhere. “We are nothing alike.”
“You see my point exactly! We are entire opposites, like earth and air, yet we are both… missing something… that others take for granted. Some part of that machinery that makes a man fit into society. But we each miss different cogs on the wheel. Enough that we may make, perhaps, between the two of us, one half-decent human.”
“One whole from two halves.”
“An extraordinary whole, even! I have never been a reliable man-no, no, don’t try to deny it.” Friendly had not. “But you, my friend, are constant, clear-sighted, single-minded. You are… honest enough… to make me more honest.”
“I’ve spent most of my life in prison.”
“Where you did more to spread honesty among Styria’s most dangerous convicts than all the magistrates in the land, I do not doubt!” Cosca slapped Friendly on his shoulder. “Honest men are so very rare, they are often mistaken for criminals, for rebels, for madmen. What were your crimes, anyway, but to be different?”
“Robbery the first time, and I served seven years. When they caught me again there were eighty-four counts, with fourteen murders.”
Cosca cocked an eyebrow. “But were you truly guilty?”
“Yes.”
He frowned for a moment, then waved it away. “Nobody’s perfect. Let’s leave the past behind us.” He gave his feather a final flick, jammed his hat onto his head at its accustomed rakish angle. “How do I look?”
Black pointed knee-boots set with huge golden spurs in the likeness of bull’s heads. Breastplate of black steel with golden adornments. Black velvet sleeves slashed with yellow silk, cuffs of Sipanese lace hanging at the wrists. A sword with flamboyant gilded basketwork and matching dagger, slung ridiculously low. An enormous hat, its yellow feather threatening to brush the ceiling. “Like a pimp who lost his mind in a military tailor’s.”
Cosca broke out in a radiant grin. “Precisely the look I was aiming at! So to business, Sergeant Friendly!” He strode forwards, flung the tent flap wide and stepped through into the bright sunlight.
Friendly stuck close behind. It was his job, now.
The applause began the moment he stepped up onto the big barrel. He had ordered every officer of the Thousand Swords to attend his address, and here they were indeed; clapping, whooping, cheering and whistling to the best of their ability. Captains to the fore, lieutenants crowding further back, ensigns clustering at the rear. In most bodies of fighting men these would have been the best and brightest, the youngest and highest born, the bravest and most idealistic. This being a brigade of mercenaries, they were the polar opposite. The longest serving, the most steeped in vice, the slyest back-stabbers, most practised grave-robbers and fastest runners, the men with fewest illusions and most betrayals under their belts. Cosca’s very own constituency, in other words.
Sesaria, Victus and Andiche lined up beside the barrel, all three clapping gently, the biggest, blackest crooks of the lot. Unless you counted Cosca himself, of course. Friendly stood not far behind, arms tightly folded, eyes darting over the crowd. Cosca wondered if he was counting them, and decided it was a virtual certainty.
“No, no! No, no! You do me too much honour, boys! You shame me with your fond attentions!” And he waved the adulation down, fading into an expectant silence. A mass of scarred, pocked, sunburned and diseased faces turned towards him, waiting. As hungry as a gang of bandits. They were one.
“Brave heroes of the Thousand Swords!” His voice rang out into the balmy morning. “Well, let us say brave men of the Thousand Swords, at least. Let us say men, anyway!” Scattered laughter, a whoop of approval. “My boys, you all know my stamp! Some of you have fought beside me… or at any rate in front.” More laughter. “The rest of you know my… spotless reputation.” And more yet. “You all know that I, above all, am one of you. A soldier, yes! A fighter, of course! But one who would much prefer to sheathe his weapon.” And he gave a gentle cough as he adjusted his groin. “Than draw his blade!” And he slapped the hilt of his sword to widespread merriment.
“Let it never be said that we are not masters and journeymen of the glorious profession of arms! As much so as any lapdog at some noble’s boots! Men strong of sinew!” And he slapped Sesaria’s great arm. “Men sharp of wits!” And he pointed at Andiche’s greasy head. “Men hungry for glory!” He jerked his thumb towards Victus. “Let it never be said we will not brave risks for our rewards! But let the risks be kept as lean as possible, and the rewards most hearty!” Another swell of approval.
“Your employer, the young Prince Foscar, was keen that you carry the lower ford and meet the enemy head on in pitched battle…” Nervous silence. “But I declined! Though you are paid to fight, I told him, you are far keener on the pay than the fighting!” A rousing cheer. “We’ll wet our boots higher up, therefore, and with considerably lighter opposition! And whatever occurs today, however things may seem, you may always depend upon it that I have your… best interests closest to my own heart!” And he rubbed his fingers against his thumb to an even louder cheer.
“I will not insult you by calling for courage, for steadfastness, for loyalty and honour! All these things I already know you possess in the highest degree!” Widespread laughter. “So to your units, officers of the Thousand Swords, and await my order! May Mistress Luck be always at your side and mine! She is drawn, after all, to those who least deserve her! May darkness find us victorious! Uninjured! And above all-rich!”
There was a rousing cheer. Shields and weapons, mailed and plated arms, gauntleted fists shaken in the air.
“Cosca!”
“Nicomo Cosca!”
“The captain general!”
He hopped smiling down from his barrel as the officers began to disperse, Sesaria and Victus going with them to make their regiments-or their gangs of opportunists, criminals and thugs-ready for action. Cosca strolled away towards the brow of the hill, the beautiful valley opening out before him, shreds of misty cloud clinging to the hollows in its sides. Ospria looked proudly down on all from her mountain, fairer than ever by daylight, all cream- coloured stone banded with blue-black stripes of masonry, roofs of copper turned pale green by the years or, on a few buildings recently repaired, shining brilliantly in the morning glare.
“Nice speech,” said Andiche. “If your taste runs to speeches.”
“Most kind. Mine does.”
“You’ve still got the trick of it.”
“Ah, my friend, you have seen captain generals come and go. You well know there is a happy time, after a man is elevated to command, in which he can say and do no wrong in the eyes of his men. Like a husband in the eyes of his new wife, just following the marriage. Alas, it cannot last. Sazine, myself, Murcatto, ill-fated Faithful Carpi, our tides all flowed out with varying speed and left each one of us betrayed or dead. And so shall mine again. I will have to work harder for my applause in future.”
Andiche split a toothy grin. “You could always appeal to the cause.”
“Hah!” Cosca lowered himself into the captain general’s chair, set out in the dappled shade of a spreading olive tree with a fine view of the glittering fords. “My curse on fucking causes! Nothing but big excuses. I never saw men act with such ignorance, violence and self-serving malice as when energised by a just cause.” He squinted at
