silence. Hedges too, Temple noticed, for some reason with a smile of feverish delight on his face. Savian shrugged his shirt off and stood stripped to the waist, and his whole body from his pale neck to his pale hands was covered in writing, in letters large and tiny, in slogans in a dozen languages:
‘I only asked for the sleeves,’ said Cosca, ‘but I feel the point is made.’
Savian gave the faintest smile. ‘What if I said I’m not Conthus?’
‘I doubt we’d believe you.’ The Old Man looked over at Lorsen, who was staring at Savian with a hungry intensity. ‘In fact, I very much doubt we would. Do you have any objections, Master Sweet?’
Sweet blinked around at all that sharpened metal and opted for the easy way. ‘Not me. I’m shocked as anyone at this surprising turn of events.’
‘You must be quite discomfited to learn you’ve been travelling with a mass-murderer all this time.’ Cosca grinned. ‘Well, two, in fact, eh Master Lamb?’ The Northman still picked at his drumstick as though there was no steel pointed in his direction. ‘Anything to say on behalf of your friend?’
‘Most o’ my friends I’ve killed,’ said Lamb around a mouthful. ‘I came for the children. The rest is mud.’
Cosca pressed one sorry hand to his breastplate. ‘I have stood where you stand, Master Savian, and entirely sympathise. We all are alone in the end.’
‘It’s a hard fucking world,’ said Savian, looking neither right nor left.
‘Seize him,’ growled Lorsen, and his Practicals swarmed forwards like dogs off the leash. For a moment it looked as if Shy’s hand was creeping towards her knife but Lamb held her arm with his free hand, eyes on the ground as the Practicals marched Savian towards the fort. Inquisitor Lorsen followed them inside, smiled grimly out into the camp and slammed the door with a heavy bang.
Cosca shook his head. ‘Not even so much as a thank you. Doing right is a dead end, Temple, as I have often said. Queue up, my boys, it’s time for an accounting!’
Brachio and Dimbik began to circulate, ushering the men into a grumbling queue, the excitement of Savian’s arrest already fading. Temple stared across at Shy, and she stared back at him, but what could either of them do?
‘We will need sacks and boxes!’ Cosca was shouting. ‘Open the wagon and find a table for the count. A door on trestles, then, good enough! Sworbreck? Fetch pen and ink and ledger. Not the writing you came to do, but no less honourable a task!’
‘Deeply honoured,’ croaked the writer, looking slightly sick.
‘We’d best be heading out.’ Dab Sweet had made his way over to the wagon and was looking up. ‘Get the children back to Crease, I reckon.’
‘Of course, my friend,’ said Cosca, grinning down. ‘You will be sorely missed. Without your skills—let alone the fearsome talents of Master Lamb—the task would have been nigh impossible. The tall tales don’t exaggerate in your cases, eh, Sworbreck?’
‘They are legends made flesh, captain general,’ mumbled the writer.
‘We will have to give them a chapter to themselves. Perhaps two! The very best of luck to you and your companions. I will recommend you wherever I go!’ Cosca turned away as though that concluded their business.
Sweet looked to Temple, and Temple could only shrug. There was nothing he could do about this either.
The old scout cleared his throat. ‘There’s just the matter of our share o’ the proceeds. As I recall, we discussed a twentieth—’
‘What about my share?’ Cantliss elbowed his way past Sweet to stare up. ‘It was me told you there’d be rebels up there! Me who found those bastards out!’
‘Why, so you did!’ said Cosca. ‘You are a veritable child-stealing Prophet and we owe you all our success!’
Cantliss’ bloodshot eyes lit with a fire of greed. ‘So… what am I due?’
Friendly stepped up from behind, innocuously slipped a noose over his head, and as Cantliss glanced around, Jubair hauled with all his considerable weight on the rope, which had been looped over a beam projecting from the side of the broken tower. Hemp grated as the bandit was hoisted off his feet. One kicking foot knocked a black spray of ink across Sworbreck’s ledger and the writer stumbled up, ashen-faced, as Cantliss pawed feebly at the noose with his broken hand, eyes bulging.
‘Paid in full!’ shouted Cosca. Some of the mercenaries half-heartedly cheered. A couple laughed. One threw an apple core and missed. Most barely raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh God,’ whispered Temple, picking at the stitching on his buttons and staring at the tarred planks under his feet. But he could still see Cantliss’ squirming shadow there. ‘Oh God.’
Friendly wound the rope about a tree-stump and tied it off. Hedges, who’d been shoving his way towards the wagon, cleared his throat and carefully retreated, smiling no longer. Shy spat through the gap in her front teeth, and turned away. Lamb stood watching until Cantliss stopped twisting about, one hand resting slack on the hilt of the sword he had taken from the Dragon People. Then he frowned towards the door through which Savian had been taken, and flicked his stripped chicken bone into the mud.
‘Seventeen times,’ said Friendly, frowning up.
‘Seventeen times what?’ asked Cosca.
‘He kicked. Not counting that last one.’
‘That last one was more of a twitch,’ said Jubair.
‘Is seventeen a lot?’ asked the Old Man.
Friendly shrugged. ‘About average.’
Cosca looked down at Sweet, grey brows high. ‘You were saying something about a share, I think?’
The old scout watched Cantliss creaking back and forth, with a hooked finger gently loosened his collar and opted for the easy way again. ‘Must’ve misremembered. Reckon I’ll just be heading on back to Crease, if that’s all the same with you.’
‘As you wish.’ Below them, the first man in line upended his pack and sent gold and silver sliding across the table in a glittering heap. The captain general plumped his hat back on and flicked the feather. ‘Happy journey!’
Going Back
‘That fucking old shit-fucker!’ snarled Sweet, slashing with a stick at a branch that hung across the road and showering snow all over himself. ‘Prickomo fucking Cocksca! That bastard old arsehole- fucker!’
‘You said that one already, as I recall,’ muttered Shy.
‘He said old arsehole bastard-fucker,’ said Crying Rock.
‘My mistake,’ said Shy. ‘That’s a whole different thing.’
‘Ain’t fucking disagreeing, are you?’ snapped Sweet.
‘No I’m not,’ said Shy. ‘He’s a hell of a fucker, all right.’
‘Shit… fuck… shit… fuck…’ And Sweet kicked at his horse and whipped at the tree-trunks in a rage as he passed. ‘I’ll get even with that maggot-eaten bastard, I can tell you that!’
‘Let it be,’ grunted Lamb. ‘Some things you can’t change. You got to be realistic.’
‘That was my damn retirement got stole there!’
‘Still breathing, ain’t you?’
‘Easy for you to say! You didn’t lose no fortune!’
Lamb gave him a look. ‘I lost plenty.’
Sweet worked his mouth for a moment, then shouted, ‘Fuck!’ one last time and flung his stick away into the trees.
A cold and heavy quiet, then. The iron tyres of Majud’s wagon scrape-scraping and some loose part in
