Tunny found himself temporarily at a loss for words. Then he shrugged. ‘Best job in the world, isn’t it.’
A group of horses were being led without urgency up the track nearby, hooves clopping at the mud, a few soldiers trudging along with them. One detached himself and strolled over, chewing at an apple. Sergeant Forest, and grinning broadly.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ muttered Tunny under his breath, quickly clearing the last evidence of letter writing and tossing the shield he’d been leaning on under his hammock.
‘What is it?’ whispered Yolk.
‘When First Sergeant Forest smiles there’s rarely good news on the way.’
‘When is there good news on the way?’
Tunny had to admit Yolk had a point.
‘Corporal Tunny!’ Forest stripped his apple and flicked away the core. ‘You’re awake.’
‘Sadly, Sergeant, yes. Any news from our esteemed commanders?’
‘Some.’ Forest jerked a thumb towards the horses. ‘You’ll be delighted to learn we’re getting our mounts back.’
‘Marvellous,’ grunted Tunny. ‘Just in time to ride them back the way we came.’
‘Let it never be said that his August Majesty does not provide his loyal soldiers with everything needful. We’re pulling out in the morning. Or the following morning, at the latest. Heading for Uffrith, and a nice warm boat.’
Tunny found a smile of his own. He’d had about enough of the North. ‘Homewards, eh? My favourite direction.’
Forest saw Tunny’s grin and raised him a tooth on each side. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. We’re shipping for Styria.’
‘Styria?’ muttered Yolk, hands on hips.
‘For beautiful Westport!’ Forest flung an arm around Yolk’s shoulders and pushed his other hand out in front of them, as if showing off a magnificent civic vista where there was, in fact, a stand of rotting trees. ‘Crossroads of the world! We’re to stand alongside our bold allies in Sipani, and take righteous arms against that notorious she- devil Monzcarro Murcatto, the Snake of Talins. She is, by all reports, a fiend in human form, an enemy to freedom and the greatest threat ever to face the Union!’
‘Since Black Dow.’ Tunny rubbed at the bridge of his nose, his smile a memory. ‘Who we made peace with yesterday.’
Forest slapped Yolk on the shoulder. ‘The beauty of the soldier’s profession, trooper. The world never runs out of villains. And Marshal Mitterick’s just the man to make ’em quake!’
‘Marshal… Mitterick?’ Yolk looked baffled. ‘What happened to Kroy?’
‘He’s done,’ grunted Tunny.
‘How many have you outlasted now?’ asked Forest.
‘I’m thinking … eight, at a quick guess.’ Tunny counted them off on his fingers. ‘Frengen, then Altmoyer, then that short one …’
‘Krepsky.’
‘Krepsky. Then the other Frengen.’
‘The other Frengen,’ snorted Forest.
‘A notable fool even for a commander-in-chief. Then there was Varuz, then Burr, then West—’
‘He was a good man, West.’
‘Gone too early, like most good men. Then we had Kroy …’
‘Lord marshals are temporary in nature,’ explained Forest, gesturing at Tunny, ‘but corporals? Corporals are eternal.’
‘Sipani, you say?’ Tunny slid slowly back in his hammock, putting one boot up and rocking himself gently back and forth with the other. ‘Never been there myself.’ Now that he was thinking about it, he was starting to see the advantages. A good soldier always keeps an eye on the advantages. ‘Fine weather, I expect?’
‘Excellent weather,’ said Forest.
‘And I hear they have the best bloody whores in the world.’
‘The ladies of the city have been mentioned once or twice since the orders came down.’
‘Two things to look forward to.’
‘Which is two more than you get in the North.’ Forest was smiling bigger than ever. Bigger than seemed necessary. ‘And in the meantime, since your detail stands so sadly reduced, here’s another.’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Tunny, all hopes of whores and sunshine quickly wilting.
‘Oh, yes! Up you come, lads!’
And up they came indeed. Four of them. New recruits, fresh off the boat from Midderland by their looks. Seen off at the docks with kisses from Mummy or sweetheart or both. New uniforms pressed, buckles gleaming, and ready for the noble soldiering life, indeed. They stared open-mouthed at Yolk, who could hardly have presented a greater contrast, his face pinched and rat-like, his jacket frayed and mud-smeared from grave-digging, one strap on his pack broken and repaired with string. Forest gestured towards Tunny like a showman towards his freak, and trotted out that same little speech he always gave.
