‘I’d noticed, Saltlick. Is that how it is in this squad?’
‘What do you mean?’
She nodded ahead. ‘Sergeant Urb. You and him are the same. You don’t say anything, don’t give yourselves away. You know, we all knew there was a … well, a kind of elite group. Squads and a few heavies. Somehow all closer to Fiddler, back when he was a sergeant. Closer than the rest of us. We knew it. We could see it. Fiddler, and round him Gesler and Stormy, Balm and Hellian, Cord and Shard. And Urb. With Quick Ben dropping in, and then Hedge. And finally, some of you heavies. Shortnose, Mayfly, Flashwit. You. I know, it was all about Fiddler, and the ones he drew in around him. The ones he picked.’
Saltlick was staring at her now.
Clasp grimaced. ‘Look at my soldiers,’ she said under her breath. ‘Look at Sad. You know what she is? A damned Semk witch.
‘Get in?’
‘To those elites. To the insiders, right? Well, he didn’t get anywhere. They were friendly enough, and the three of them got drunk — it was in Letheras. Got beastly drunk, and hired up a whole whorehouse of women. But Lap kept a bit of himself cold sober, and when he judged it right he just went and asked. Asked in. You know what Gesler said?’
Saltlick shook his head.
‘The bastard denied it to Lap’s face. Said it didn’t exist. Lied to Lap’s face. That’s how we know there’s no getting in.’
Saltlick continued studying her. ‘So,’ he said after a few strides, ‘why are you telling me?’
‘Urb’s one of the finest sergeants we marines got left to us. We know that. In fact, it’s got us pissing in our boots. The pressure’s getting unbearable, Saltlick. We can’t get a word outa him. And you can see in his eyes — he’s damned disappointed to be saddled with us.’
‘All right,’ said Saltlick.
She frowned up at him. ‘All right what?’
‘You’re in, Corporal. You and your soldiers. You’re all in.’
‘Really? You sure?’
‘You’re in.’
Smiling, she moved ahead again, paused to glance back and nod. He nodded back, saw the lightness in her step. Watched as she leaned in close to Lap Twirl, and the two soldiers spoke in whispers and gestures, and a moment later Sad and Burnt Rope closed up to listen in. Faces turned, looked back at him.
He waved.
Saltlick shifted uncomfortably. He’d sweated a lot in his tent, and now his sack was chafing. He could almost feel the skin peeling off.
The sergeant was glaring at her, gesturing. Flashwit frowned.
Mayfly nudged her. ‘Wants to talk to you.’
‘Why?’
‘He has seven questions. How would I know? Go on, Princess. The idiot lost his whole squad. He probably wants to try and explain. So he doesn’t get a knife in his back.’
‘I wouldn’t stick a knife in his back,’ Flashwit said, shaking her head. ‘No matter what he did.’
‘Really?’
‘If he killed them all and told me about it, I’d just break his neck. A knife in the back, that’s cowardly.’
‘No it ain’t,’ Mayfly objected. ‘It’s making a point. Victim’s not worth a look in the eye when y’kill him. Victim’s not s’posed to know what ended it, just that it ended, and there’s Hood’s Gate calling ’im.’
‘But sometimes you miss.’
‘Better go, he’s gettin’ cross.’
Grunting, Flashwit made her way up to Sergeant Gaunt-Eye. Wasn’t a friendly face, that one. But a face a person would remember anyway. For all the wrong things in it. ‘Sergeant?’
‘You don’t know the hand-talk, soldier?’
‘What talk? Oh, that. Yah, I know it. Mostly. Advance. Stop. Hit the ground. Fight. Go fuck yourself. Like that.’
‘A marine should know how to put together whole sentences, Flashwit.’
‘Yah? I’m a heavy, Sergeant.’
‘Tell me about the girly one.’
‘Using my hands? Can’t, Sergeant. I mean, I’d have to try and ask, “What girly one?” and I don’t know how to do that.’
‘Skulldeath. Talk to me, soldier. With words — but keep your voice down.’
‘I ain’t never raised my voice, not once, Sergeant, in my whole life.’
‘Skulldeath.’
‘What about him?’
‘Why’s he so girly, for one?’
‘He’s a prince, Sergeant. From some tribe in Seven Cities. He’s the heir, in fact-’
‘Then what in Hood’s name is he doing here?’
She shrugged. ‘They sent him to grow up somewhere else. With us. T’see the world and all that.’
Gaunt-Eye bared crooked teeth. ‘Bet he’s regretting that.’
‘No reason why,’ Flashwit said. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘So, he grew up all pampered and perfumed, then.’
‘I suppose.’
‘So how did he get that stupid name?’
Flashwit squinted at the sergeant. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Sergeant, but where was you and your squad? Back at the Trench, I mean.’
He shot her a vicious look. ‘What difference does that make?’
‘Well, you couldn’t have not seen him then. Skulldeath. He jumps high, y’see. He was the only one of us cutting Nah’ruk
‘Those burns?’
‘Aye. One for each Nah’ruk he personally throat-cut.’
Gaunt-Eye snorted. ‘A liar, too, then. About what I figured.’
‘But he never counted, Sergeant. Never does. Eight is what we saw him do, those who saw him at all, I mean. We talked about it, comparing and all that. Eight. So we told him and he burned those marks on his wrist. When we asked him how many he gutted, he said he didn’t know. When we asked him how many he hamstrung, he didn’t know that either. The rest of us couldn’t come up with numbers on those. Lot more than eight, though. But since we seen him burn himself, we decided not to tell him how many. He’d be one big burn now, right? And since he’s so pretty, well, that’d be a shame.’
She fell silent then, to catch her breath. She’d broken three or so ribs in the fight, so talking hurt. More than breathing, which hurt bad enough. Talking was worse. That had been the most words she’d used all at once since the battle.
‘Drawfirst and Mayfly,’ said Gaunt-Eye, ‘and you. All heavies.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
‘Get back in line, Flashwit.’
She gave him a bright smile that seemed to startle him, and then fell back, past one-armed Corporal Rib — who eyed her with something like suspicion — and then Drawfirst and Skulldeath, before positioning herself beside Mayfly.
‘Well?’ Mayfly asked.
‘You was wrong,’ Flashwit said with deep satisfaction.
