‘Each land in the world produces its own men individually bad—and, in time, other bad men who kill them for the general good.’
The Tally
They smelled Beacon long before they saw it. A waft of cooking meat set the famished column shambling downhill through the trees, men slipping and barging and knocking each other over in their haste, sending snow showering. An enterprising hawker had set sticks of meat to cook high up on the slope above the camp. Alas for her, the mercenaries were in no mood to pay and, brushing her protests aside, plundered every shred of gristle as efficiently as a horde of locusts. Even meat as yet uncooked was fought over and wolfed down. One man had his hand pressed into the glowing brazier in the commotion and knelt moaning in the snow, clutching his black-striped palm as Temple laboured past, hugging himself against the cold.
‘What a set o’ men,’ muttered Shy. ‘Richer than Hermon and they’d still rather steal.’
‘Doing wrong gets to be a habit,’ answered Temple, teeth chattering.
The smell of profit must have drifted all the way to Crease because the camp itself was positively booming. Several more barrows had been dug out and several new shacks thrown up and their chimneys busily smoking. More pedlars had set up shop and more whores set down mattress, all crowding happily out to offer succour to the brave conquerors, price lists surreptitiously amended as salesmen noticed, all avaricious amaze, the weight of gold and silver with which the men were burdened.
Cosca was the only one mounted, leading the procession on an exhausted mule. ‘Greetings!’ He delved into his saddlebag and with a carefree flick of the wrist sent a shower of ancient coins into the air. ‘And a happy birthday to you all!’
A stall was toppled, pots and pans clattering as people dived after the pinging coins, huddling about the hooves of the Old Man’s mount and jostling each other like pigeons around a handful of seed. An emaciated fiddler, undeterred by his lack of a full complement of strings, struck up a merry jig and capered among the mercenaries, toothlessly grinning.
Beneath that familiar sign proclaiming
‘You’ve found a new plot,’ said Temple.
‘A small one. Would you build me a house upon it?’
‘Perhaps later.’ Temple clasped the merchant’s hand, and thought with some nostalgia of an honest day’s work done for a half-honest master. Nostalgia was becoming a favoured hobby of his. Strange, how the best moments of our lives we scarcely notice except in looking back.
‘And are these the children?’ asked Majud, squatting down before Pit and Ro.
‘We found ’em,’ said Shy, without displaying much triumph.
‘I am glad.’ Majud offered the boy his hand. ‘You must be Pit.’
‘I am,’ he said, solemnly shaking.
‘And you, Ro.’
The girl frowned away, and did not answer.
‘She is,’ said Shy. ‘Or… was.’
Majud slapped his knees. ‘And I am sure will be again. People change.’
‘You sure?’ asked Temple.
The merchant put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Does not the proof stand before me?’
He was wondering whether that was a joke or a compliment when Cosca’s familiar shriek grated at his ear. ‘Temple!’
‘Your master’s voice,’ said Shy.
Where was the purpose in disputing it? Temple nodded his apologies and slunk off towards the fort like the beaten dog he was. He passed a man ripping a cooked chicken apart with his hands, face slick with grease. Two others fought over a flask of ale, accidentally pulled the stopper, and a third dived between them, mouth open, in a vain effort to catch the spillings. A cheer rang out as a whore was hoisted up on three men’s shoulders, festooned with ancient gold, a coronet clasped lopsided to her head and screeching, ‘I’m the Queen of the fucking Union! I’m the fucking Queen of the fucking Union!’
‘I am glad to see you well.’ Sworbreck clapped him on the arm with what felt like genuine warmth.
‘Alive, at least.’ It had been some time since Temple last felt well.
‘How was it?’
Temple considered that. ‘No stories of heroism for you to record I fear.’
‘I have given up hope of finding any.’
‘I find hope is best abandoned early,’ muttered Temple.
The Old Man was beckoning his three captains into a conspiratorial and faintly unpleasant-smelling huddle in the shadow of Superior Pike’s great fortified wagon.
‘My trusted friends,’ he said, starting, as he would continue, with a lie. ‘We stand upon the heady pinnacle of attainment. But, speaking as one who has often done so, there is no more precarious perch and those that lose their footing have far to fall. Success tests a friendship far more keenly than failure. We must be doubly watchful of the men and triply cautious in our dealings with all outsiders.’
‘Agreed,’ nodded Brachio, jowls trembling.
‘Indeed,’ sneered Dimbik, sharp nose pinked by the cold.
‘God knows it,’ rumbled Jubair, eyes rolling to the sky.
‘How can I fail with three such pillars to support me? The first order of business must be to collect the booty. If we leave it with the men they will have frittered the majority away to these vultures by first light.’
Men cheered as a great butt of wine was tapped, red spots spattering the snow beneath, and began happily handing over ten times the price of the entire barrel for each mug poured.
‘By that time they will probably find themselves in considerable debt,’ observed Dimbik, slicking back a loose strand of hair with a dampened fingertip.
‘I suggest we gather the valuables without delay, then, observed by us all, counted by Sergeant Friendly, notarised by Master Temple, and stored in this wagon under triple-lock.’ And Cosca thumped the solid wood of which the wagon was made as though to advertise the good sense and dependability of his suggestion. ‘Dimbik, set your most loyal men to guard it.’
Brachio watched a fellow swing a golden chain around his head, jewels sparkling. ‘The men won’t hand their prizes over happily.’
‘They never do, but if we stand together and provide enough distractions they will succumb. How many do we number now, Friendly?’
‘One hundred and forty-three,’ said the sergeant.
Jubair shook his heavy head at the faithlessness of mankind. ‘The Company dwindles alarmingly.’
‘We can afford no further desertions,’ said Cosca. ‘I suggest all mounts be gathered, corralled and closely watched by trusted guards.’
‘Risky.’ Brachio scratched worriedly at the crease between his chins. ‘There are some skittish ones among ’em—’
‘That’s horses for you. See it done. Jubair, I want a dozen of your best in position to make sure our little surprise goes to plan.’
‘Already awaiting your word.’
‘What surprise?’ asked Temple. God knew, he was not sure he could endure any further excitement.
The captain general grinned. ‘A surprise shared is no surprise at all. Don’t worry! I feel sure you’ll approve.’ Temple was in no way reassured. His idea of a good thing and Cosca’s intersected less with every passing day. ‘Each to our work, then, while I address the men.’
