wasn’t scared. West wished that he could have said the same. His heart was pounding as he pushed on between the trees after the others. He trudged doggedly past Ladisla and caught up to Cathil, falling into step beside her.
“You alright?” he asked.
“I’ve been worse.” She looked him up and down. “How about you?”
West suddenly realised what a state he must look. He had an old sack with holes cut in it for his arms pulled over his filthy uniform, his belt buckled tight over the top with the heavy sword pushed through it and knocking against his leg. There was an itchy growth of half beard across his rattling jaw, and he guessed that his face must have been a mixture of angry pink and corpse grey. He wedged his hands under his armpits and gave a sad grin. “Cold.”
“You look it. Should have kept your coat, maybe.”
He had to nod at that. He peered through the branches of the pines at Dow’s back and cleared his throat. “None of them have been… bothering you, have they?”
“Bothering me?”
“Well, you know,” he said awkwardly, “a woman in amongst all these men, they’re not used to it. The way that man Dow stares at you. I don’t—”
“That’s very noble of you, Colonel, but I wouldn’t worry about them. I doubt they’ll do anything more than stare, and I’ve dealt with worse than that.”
“Worse than him?”
“First camp I was in, the commandant took a liking to me. Still had the glow of a good free life on my skin, I suppose. He starved me to get what he wanted. Five days with no food.”
West winced. “And that was long enough to make him give up?”
“They don’t give up. Five days was all I could stand. You do what you have to.”
“You mean…”
“What you have to.” She shrugged. “I’m not proud, but I’m not ashamed either. Pride and shame, neither one will feed you. The only thing I regret is those five days of hunger, five days when I could have eaten well. You do what you have to. I don’t care who you are. Once you start starving…” She shrugged again.
“What about your father?”
“Pike?” She looked up at the burnt-faced convict ahead of them. “He’s a good man, but he’s no relative of mine. I’ve no idea what became of my real family. Split up all over Angland probably, if they’re still alive.”
“So he’s—”
“Sometimes, if you pretend you’re family, people act differently. We’ve helped each other out. If it wasn’t for Pike, I suppose I’d still be hammering metal in the camp.”
“Instead of which you’re enjoying this wonderful outing.”
“Huh. You make do with what you’re given.” She put her head down and quickened her pace, stalking off through the trees.
West watched her go. She had some bones to her, the Northmen would have said. Ladisla could have learned a thing or two from her tight-lipped determination. West looked over his shoulder at the Prince, stumbling daintily through the mud with a petulant frown on his face. He blew out a smoky sigh. It seemed that it was far too late for Ladisla to learn anything.
A miserable meal of a chunk of old bread and a cup of cold stew. Threetrees wouldn’t let them have a fire, for all of Ladisla’s begging. Too much risk of being seen. So they sat and spoke quietly in the gathering gloom, a little way from the Northmen. Talking was good, if only to keep one’s mind from the cold, and the aches, and the discomfort. If only to stop one’s teeth from chattering.
“You said you fought in Kanta, eh, Pike? In the war?”
“That’s right. I was a Sergeant there.” Pike nodded slowly, his eyes glittering in the pink mess of his face. “Hard to believe we were always too hot, eh?”
West gave a sad gurgle. The closest thing to a laugh that he could manage. “Which was your unit?”
“I was in the first regiment of the King’s Own cavalry, under Colonel Glokta.”
“But, that was my regiment!”
“I know.”
“I don’t remember you.”
Pike’s burns shifted in a way that West thought might have been a smile. “I looked different, back then. I remember you, though. Lieutenant West. The men liked you. Good man to go to with a problem.”
West swallowed. He wasn’t much for fixing problems now. Only for making them. “So how did you end up in the camp?”
Pike and Cathil exchanged glances. “In general, among the convicts, you don’t ask.”
“Oh.” West looked down, rubbed his hands together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offence.” Pike sniffed, and rubbed at the side of his melted nose. “I made some mistakes. Let’s leave it at that. You got a family waiting for you?”
West winced, folded his arms tight across his chest. “I have a sister, back home in Adua. She’s… complicated.” He thought it best to end there. “You?”
“I had a wife. When I was sent here, she chose to stay behind. I used to hate her for it, but you know what? I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”
Ladisla emerged from the trees, wiping his hands on the hem of West’s coat. “That’s better! Must’ve been that damn meat this morning.” He sat down between West and Cathil and she scowled as if someone had dropped a shovelful of shit next to her. It was safe to say the two of them were not getting on. “What were we speaking of?”
West winced. “Pike was just mentioning his wife—”
“Oh? You know, of course, that I am engaged to be married, to the Princess Terez, daughter of Grand Duke Orso of Talins. She is a famous beauty…” Ladisla trailed off, frowning round at the shadowy trees, as if even he was dimly aware of how bizarre talk of such matters seemed in the wilds of Angland. “Though I am beginning to suspect that she is less than entirely delighted with the match.”
“One can’t imagine why,” murmured Cathil, at least the tenth jibe of the evening.
“I am the heir to the throne!” snapped the Prince, “and will one day be your king! It would not hurt anyone for you to treat me with a measure of respect!”
She laughed in his face. “I’ve no country and no king, and certainly no respect for you.”
Ladisla gasped with indignation. “I will not be spoken to like—”
Black Dow loomed up over them from nowhere. “Shut his fucking mouth!” he snarled in Northern, stabbing at the air with one thick finger. “Bethod might have ears anywhere! Stop his tongue flapping or it’s coming out!” and he melted away into the shadows.
“He would like us to be quiet, your Highness,” translated West in a whisper.
The Prince swallowed. “So I gather.” He and Cathil hunched their shoulders and glared at each other in silence.
West lay on his back on the hard ground, the canvas creaking just above his face, watching the snow fall gently down beyond the black lumps of his boots. Cathil was pressed up against him on one side, the Dogman on the other. The rest of the band were all around, squeezed in tight together under a great smelly blanket. All except for Dow, who was out there taking watch. Cold like this was an amazing thing for making people familiar with each other.
There was a rumbling snore coming from the far end of the group. Threetrees or Tul, probably. The Dogman tended to twitch a lot in his sleep, jolting and stretching and twittering meaningless sounds. Ladisla’s breath wheezed out on the right, chesty sounding and weak. All sleeping, more or less, as soon as they put their heads down.
But West could not sleep. He was too busy thinking about all the hardships, and the defeats, and the terrible dangers they were in. And not only them. Marshal Burr might be out there in the forests of Angland somewhere, hurrying south to the rescue, not knowing that he was falling into a trap. Not knowing that Bethod was expecting him.
