‘I’m sorry?’
Horns sounded suddenly, from the ridge lines beyond the Letherii units-on all sides, in fact.
Keneb said, ‘Three hundred dead Bonehunters, Commander, and eight hundred dead Letherii, including their supreme commander. Not an ideal exchange for either side, but in a war, probably one the Adjunct could stomach.’
Brys sighed, his expression wry. ‘Lesson delivered, Fist Keneb. My compliments to the Adjunct.’
At that moment, Fiddler walked up to them. ‘Fist, you owe me and my squad two nights’ leave, sir.’
Keneb grinned at Brys Beddict. ‘As much as the Adjunct would appreciate the compliments, Commander, they in fact belong to this sergeant here.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘That’s another lesson to mull over,’ Keneb said, ‘the one about listening to your veterans, regardless of rank.’
‘Well,’ mused Brys, ‘I may have to go hunting for my few surviving veterans, then. None the less, Fist, the sacrifice of three hundred of your soldiers strikes me as a loss you can ill afford, regardless of the battle’s outcome.’
‘True. Hence my comment about timing, Commander. I sent a rider to Fist Blistig but we could not respond in time to your ambush. Obviously, I would rather have avoided all contact with your troops. But since I know we’d all prefer to sleep in real beds tonight, I thought it more instructive to invite the engagement. Now,’ he added, smiling, ‘we can all march back to Letheras.’
Brys drew out a handkerchief, wetted it from his canteen, and then stepped up to Fist Keneb, and carefully cleaned off the streak of red paint.
Captain Faradan Sort entered Kindly’s office to find her counterpart standing to one side of his desk and staring down at an enormous mound of what looked like hair heaped on the desktop.
‘Gods below, what is that?’
Kindly glanced over. ‘What does it look like?’
‘Hair.’
‘Correct. Animal hair, as best as I can determine. A variety of domestic beasts.’
‘It reeks. What is it doing on your desk?’
‘Good question. Tell me, was Lieutenant Pores in the outer office?’
She shook her head. ‘No one there, I’m afraid.’
He grunted. ‘Hiding, I expect.’
‘I doubt he’d do something like this, Kindly-’
‘Oh, never directly. No, but I would wager a wagonload of imperials he’s had a hand in it. He imagines himself very clever, does my lieutenant.’
‘If he owns anything he values greatly,’ she said, ‘crush it under a heel. That’s how I took care of the one I sensed was going to give me trouble. That was back in Seven Cities, and to this day he looks at me with hurt in his eyes.’
He glanced at her. ‘Hurt? Truly?’
‘Truly.’
‘That’s… exceptional advice, Faradan. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Anyway, I was coming by to see if you’d had any better luck finding our two wayward mages.’
‘No. We need to get High Mage Quick Ben involved in the search, I believe. Assuming,’ he added, ‘they’re worth finding.’
She turned away, walked to the window. ‘Kindly, Sinn saved many, many lives at Y’Ghatan. She did so the night of the assault and again with the survivors under the city. Her brother, Corporal Shard, is beside himself with worry. She is precipitous, yes, but I do not consider that necessarily a fault.’
‘And the Adjunct has, it seems, desperate need for mages,’ said Kindly. ‘Why is that?’
She shrugged. ‘I know as little as you, Kindly. We will march soon, away from the comforts of Letheras.’
The man grunted. ‘Never let a soldier get too comfortable. Leads to trouble every time. She’s right in kicking us into motion. Still, it’d be a comfort to know what we’re heading into.’
‘And a greater comfort to have more than one half-mad High Mage to support eight thousand soldiers.’ She paused, and then said, ‘We won’t find ourselves another Beak hiding among the squads. We’ve had our miracle, Kindly.’
‘You’re starting to sound as grim as Blistig.’
She shook herself. ‘You’re right. Apologies. I’m just worried about Sinn, that’s all.’
‘Then find Quick Ben. Get him looking into those closets or Whatever they’re called-’
‘Warrens.’
‘Right.’
Sighing, she swung round and went to the door. ‘I’ll send Pores to you if I see him.’
‘You won’t,’ Kindly said. ‘He’ll come up for air sooner or later, Faradan. Leave the lieutenant to me.’
Sergeant Sinter and her sister sat playing the Dal Honese version of bones with Badan Gruk. The human finger bones were polished with use, gleaming amber. The legend was that they’d belonged to three Li Heng traders who’d come to the village, only to be caught thieving. They’d lost more than their hands, naturally. Dal Honese weren’t much interested in delivering lessons; they preferred something more succinct and, besides, executing the fools just left the path open for more to come wandering in, and everyone liked a good torture session.
That was before things got civilized, of course. Kellanved had put an end to torture. ‘A state that employs torture invites barbarism and deserves nothing better than to suffer the harvest of its own excesses.’ That was said to have been from the Emperor himself, although Sinter had her doubts. Sounded too… literate, especially for a damned Dal Honese thief.
Anyway, life stopped being much fun once civilization arrived, or so the old ones muttered. But then, they were always muttering. It was the last career to take up before dying of oldness, the reward for living so long, she supposed. She didn’t expect to survive her career as a soldier. It was interesting to see how it was the green, fresh ones who did all the complaining. The veterans just stayed quiet. So maybe all that bitching was at both ends of life, the young and the old trapped inside chronic dissatisfaction.
Kisswhere collected up the bones and tossed them again. ‘Hah! Poor Badan Gruk-you won’t ever match that, let’s see you try!’
It was a pretty good cast, Sinter had to acknowledge. Four of the core patterns with only a couple of spars missing and one true bridge. Badan would need a near perfect throw to top Kisswhere’s run.
‘I’ll stop there, I said. Toss ’em, Badan. And no cheating.’
‘I don’t cheat,’ he said as he collected up the bones.
‘Then what’s that you just palmed?’
Badan opened his hand and scowled. ‘This one’s gummed! No wonder you got those casts!’
‘If it was gummed,’ Kisswhere retorted, ‘then it was from my sister’s last throw!’
‘Hood’s breath,’ sighed Sinter. ‘Look, you fools, we’re all cheating. It’s in our blood. So now we’ve got to accept the fact that none of us is going to admit they were the one using the gum to get a stick. Clean the thing off and let’s get on with it.’
The others subsided and Sinter was careful to hide her relief. That damned gum had been in her pouch too long, making it dirty, and she could feel the stuff on her fingers. She surreptitiously brought her hands down to her thighs and rubbed as if trying to warm up.
Kisswhere shot her a jaded look. The damned barracks was hot as a head-shrinker’s oven.
They made a point of ignoring the clump of boots as someone marched up to their table. Badan Gruk threw the bones-and achieved six out of six in the core.
‘Did you see that! Look!’ Badan’s smile was huge and hugely fake. ‘Look, you two, look at that cast!’
But they were looking at him instead, because cheaters couldn’t stand that for long-they’d twitch, they’d bead up, they’d squirrel on the chair.
‘Look!’ he said again, pointing, but the command sounded more like a plea, and all at once he sagged back and raised his hands. ‘Fingers clean, darlings-’
‘That would be a first,’ said the man standing now at their table.
Badan Gruk’s expression displayed hurt and innocence, with just a touch of indignation. ‘That wasn’t called for, sir. You saw my throw-you can see my fingers, too. Clean as clean can be. No gum, no tar, no wax. Soldiers can’t be smelly or dirty-it’s bad for morale.’
‘You sure about that?’
Sinter twisted in her chair. ‘Can we help you, Lieutenant Pores?’
The man’s eyes flickered in surprise. ‘You mistake me, Sergeant Sinter. I am Captain-’
‘Kindly was pointed out to us, sir.’
‘I thought I ordered you to cut your hair.’
‘We did,’ said Kisswhere. ‘It grew back. It’s a trait among Dal Honese, right in the blood, an aversion-is that the word, Sint? Sure it is. Aversion. To bad haircuts. We get them and our hair insists on growing back to what looks better. Happens overnight, sir.’
‘You might be comfortable,’ said Pores, ‘believing that I’m not Captain Kindly; that I’m not, in fact, the man who was pointed out to you. But can you be certain that the right one was pointed out to you? If Lieutenant Pores was doing the pointing, for example. He’s one for jokes in bad taste. Infamous for it, in fact. He could have elected to take advantage of you-it’s a trait of his, one suspects. In the blood, as it were.’
‘So,’ asked Sinter, ‘who might he have pointed to, sir?’
‘Why, anyone at all.’
‘But Lieutenant Pores isn’t a woman now, is she?’
‘Of course not, but-’
‘It was a woman,’ continued Sinter, ‘who did the pointing out.’
‘Ah, but she might have been pointing to Lieutenant Pores, since you asked about whoever was your immediate superior. Well,’ said Pores, ‘now that that’s cleared up, I need to check if you two women have put on the weight you were ordered to.’
