Shy had never been much for waiting, that wasn’t news, but lying up here in the brush and watching reminded her too much of her outlaw days. On her belly in the dust with Jeg chewing and
chewing and spitting and chewing in her ear and Neary sweating an inhuman quantity of salt water, waiting for travellers way out of luck to pass on the road below. Pretending to be the outlaw,
Smoke, half-crazy with meanness, when what she really felt like was a painfully unlucky little girl, half-crazy with constant fear. Fear of those chasing her and fear of those with her and fear of
herself most of all. No clue what she’d do next. Like some hateful lunatic might seize her hands and her mouth and use them like a puppet any moment. The thought of it made her want to
wriggle out of her own sore skin.
‘Be still,’ whispered Lamb, motionless as a felled tree.
‘Why? There’s no one bloody here, place is dead as a—’
Crying Rock raised one gnarled finger, held it in front of Shy’s face, then gently tilted it to point towards the treeline on the far side of the camp.
‘You see them two big pines?’ whispered Sweet. ‘And them three rocks like fingers just between? That’s where the hide is.’
Shy stared at that colourless tangle of stone and snow and timber until her eyes ached. Then she caught the faintest twitch of movement.
‘That’s one of them?’ she breathed.
Crying Rock held up two fingers.
‘They go in pairs,’ said Sweet.
‘Oh, she’s good,’ whispered Shy, feeling a proper amateur in this company.
‘The best.’
‘How do we flush ’em out?’
‘They’ll flush ’emselves out. Long as that drunk madman Cosca comes through on his end of it.’
‘Far from a certainty,’ muttered Shy. In spite of Cosca’s talk about haste his Company had loitered around Crease like flies around a turd for a whole two weeks to resupply,
which meant to cause every kind of unsavoury chaos and steadily desert. They’d taken even longer slogging across the few dozen miles of high plateau between Crease and Beacon as the weather
turned steadily colder, a good number of Crease’s most ambitious whores, gamblers and merchants straggling after in hopes of wrenching free any money the mercenaries had somehow left unspent.
All the while the Old Man smiled upon this tardy shambles like it was exactly the plan discussed, spinning far-fetched yarns about his glorious past for the benefit of his idiot biographer.
‘Seems to me talk and action have come properly uncoupled for that bastard—’
‘Shhh,’ hissed Lamb.
Shy pressed herself against the dirt as a gang of outraged crows took off clattering into the frozen sky below. Shouting drifted deadened on the wind, then the rattle of gear, then horsemen came
into view. Twenty or more, floundering up through the snow drifted in the valley and making damned hard work of it, dipping and bobbing, riders slapping at their mounts’ steaming flanks to
keep them on.
‘The drunk madman comes through,’ muttered Lamb.
‘This time.’ Shy had a strong feeling Cosca didn’t make a habit of it.
The mercenaries dismounted and spread out through the camp, digging away at doorways and windows, ripping open tents with canvas frozen stiff as wood, raising a whoop and a clamour which in that
winter deadness sounded noisy as the battle at the end of time. That these scum were on her side made Shy wonder whether she was on the right side, but she was where she was. Making the best from
different kinds of shit was the story of her life.
Lamb touched her arm and she followed his finger to the hide, caught a dark shape flitting through the trees behind it, keeping low, quickly vanished among the tangle of branch and shadow.
‘There goes one,’ grunted Sweet, not keeping his voice so soft now the mercenaries were raising hell. ‘Any luck, that one’ll run right up to their hidden places. Right up
to Ashranc and tell the Dragon People there’s twenty horsemen in Beacon.’
‘When strong seem weak,’ muttered Lamb, ‘when weak seem strong.’
‘What about the other one?’ asked Shy.
Crying Rock tucked away her pipe and produced her beaked club, as eloquent an answer as was called for, then slipped limber as a snake around the tree she had her back to and into cover.
‘To work,’ said Sweet, and started to wriggle after her, a long stretch faster than Shy had ever seen him move standing. She watched the two old scouts crawl between the black
tree-trunks, through the snow and the fallen pine needles, working their way towards the hide and out of sight.
She was left shivering on the frozen dirt next to Lamb, and waiting some more.
Since Crease he’d stuck to shaving his head and it was like he’d shaved all sentiment off, too, hard lines and hard bones and hard past laid bare. The stitches had been pulled with
the point of Savian’s knife and the marks of the fight with Glama Golden were fast fading, soon to be lost among all the rest. A lifetime of violence written so plain into that beaten anvil
of a face she’d no notion how she never read it there before.
Hard to believe how easy it had been to talk to him once. Or talk at him, at least. Good old cowardly Lamb, he’ll never surprise you. Safe and comfortable as talking to herself. Now there
was a wider and more dangerous gulf between them each day. So many questions swimming round her head but now she finally got her mouth open, the one that dropped out she hardly cared about the
answer to.
‘Did you fuck the Mayor, then?’
Lamb left it long enough to speak, she thought he might not bother. ‘Every which way and I don’t regret a moment.’
‘I guess a fuck can still be a wonderful thing between folk who’ve reached a certain age.’
‘No doubt. Specially if they didn’t get many beforehand.’
‘Didn’t stop her knifing you in the back soon as it suited her.’
‘Get many promises from Temple ’fore he jumped out your window?’
Shy felt the need for a pause of her own. ‘Can’t say I did.’
‘Huh. I guess fucking someone don’t stop them fucking you.’
She gave a long, cold, smoking sigh. ‘For some of us it only seems to increase the chances . . .’
Sweet came trudging from the pines near the hide, ungainly in his swollen fur coat, and waved up. Crying Rock followed and bent down, cleaning her club in the snow, leaving the faintest pink
smear on the blank white.
‘I guess that’s it done,’ said Lamb, wincing as he clambered up to a squat.
‘I guess.’ Shy hugged herself tight, too cold to feel much about it but cold. She turned, first time she’d looked at him since they started speaking. ‘Can I ask you a
question?’
The jaw muscles worked on the side of his head. ‘Sometimes ignorance is the sweetest medicine.’ He turned this strange, sick, guilty look on her, like a man who’s been caught
doing murder and knows the game’s all up. ‘But I don’t know how I’d stop you.’ And she felt worried to the pit of her stomach and could hardly bring herself to speak,
but couldn’t stand to stay silent either.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘I mean . . . who were you? I mean— shit.’
She caught movement – a figure flitting through the trees towards Sweet and Crying Rock.
‘Shit!’ And she was running, stumbling, blundering, snagged a numb foot at the edge of the hollow and went tumbling through the brush, floundered up and was off across the bare
slope, legs so caught in the virgin snow it felt like she was dragging two giant stone boots after her.
‘Sweet!’ she wheezed. The figure broke from the trees and over the unspoiled white towards the old scout, hint of a snarling face, glint of a blade. No way Shy could get there in
time. Nothing she could do.
‘Sweet!’ she wailed one more time, and he looked up, smiling, then sideways, eyes suddenly wide, shrinking away as the dark shape sprang for him. It twisted in the air, fell short
and went tumbling through the snow. Crying Rock rushed up and hit it over the head with her club. Shy heard the sharp crack a moment after.
Savian pushed some branches out of his way and trudged through the snow towards them, frowning at the trees and calmly cranking his flatbow.
‘Nice shot,’ called Crying Rock, sliding her club into her belt and jamming that pipe between her teeth.
Sweet pushed back his hat. ‘Nice shot, she says! I’ve damn near shat myself.’
Shy stood with her hands on her hips and tried to catch her smoking breath, chest on fire from the icy coldness of it.
Lamb walked up beside her, sheathing his sword. ‘Looks like they sometimes go in threes.’
Among the Barbarians
‘
T
hey hardly look like demons.’ Cosca nudged the Dragon Woman’s cheek with his foot and watched her bare-shaved head flop back.
‘No scales. No forked tongues. No flaming breath. I feel a touch let down.’
‘Simple barbarians,’ grunted Jubair.
‘Like the ones out on the plains.’ Brachio took a gulp of wine and peered discerningly at the glass. ‘A step above animals and not a high step.’
Temple cleared his sore throat. ‘No barbarian’s sword.’ He squatted down and turned the blade over in his hands: straight, and perfectly balanced, and meticulously
sharpened.
‘These ain’t no common Ghosts,’ said Sweet. ‘They ain’t really Ghosts at all. They aim to kill and know how. They don’t scare at nothing and know each rock
o’ this country, too. They did for every miner in Beacon without so much as a struggle.’
‘But clearly they bleed.’ Cosca poked his finger into the hole made by Savian’s flatbow bolt and pulled it out, fingertip glistening red. ‘And clearly they
die.’
Brachio shrugged. ‘Everyone bleeds. Everyone dies.’
‘Life’s one certainty,’ rumbled Jubair, rolling his eyes towards the heavens. Or at least the mildewed ceiling.
‘What is this metal?’ Sworbreck pulled an amulet from the Dragon Woman’s collar, a grey leaf dully gleaming in the lamplight. ‘It is very thin but . . .’ He bared
his teeth as he strained at it. ‘I cannot bend it. Not at all. The workmanship is remarkable.’
Cosca turned away. ‘Steel and gold are the only metals that interest me. Bury the bodies away from the camp. If I’ve learned one thing in forty years of warfare, Sworbreck,
it’s that you have to bury the bodies far from camp.’ He drew his cloak tight at the icy blast as the door was opened. ‘Damn this cold.’ Hunched jealously over the fire, he
looked like nothing so much as an old witch over her cauldron, thin hair hanging lank, grasping hands like black claws against the flames. ‘Reminds me of the North, and that can’t be a
good thing, eh, Temple?’
‘No, General.’ Being reminded of any moment in the past ten years was no particularly good thing in Temple’s mind – the whole a desert of violence, waste and guilt.
Except, perhaps, gazing out over the free plains from his saddle. Or down on Crease from the frame of Majud’s shop. Or arguing with Shy over their debt. Dancing, pressed tight against her.
Leaning to kiss her, and her smile as she leaned to kiss him back . . . He shook himself. All thoroughly, irredeemably fucked. Truly, you never value what you have until you jump out of its
window.
‘That cursed retreat.’ Cosca was busy wrestling with his own failures. There were enough of them. ‘That damned snow. That treacherous bastard Black Calder. So many good men
lost, eh, Temple? Like . . . well . . . I forget the names, but my point holds.’ He turned to call angrily over his shoulder. ‘When you said “fort” I was expecting something
more . . . substantial.’
Beacon’s chief building was, in fact, a large log cabin on one and a half floors, separated into rooms by hanging animal skins and with a heavy door, narrow windows, access to the broken
tower in one corner and a horrifying array of draughts.
Sweet shrugged. ‘Standards ain’t high in the Far Country, General. Out here you put three sticks together, it’s a fort.’
‘I suppose we must be glad of the shelter we have. Another night in the open you’d have to wait for spring to thaw me out. How I long for the towers of beautiful Visserine! A balmy
summer night beside the river! The city was mine, once, you know, Sworbreck?’
The writer winced. ‘I believe you have mentioned it.’
‘Nicomo Cosca, Grand Duke of Visserine!’ The Old Man paused to take yet another swig from his flask. ‘And it shall be mine again. My towers, my palace, and my respect. I have
been often disappointed, that’s true. My back is a tissue of metaphorical scars. But there is still time, isn’t there?’
‘Of course.’ Sworbreck gave a false chuckle. ‘You have many successful years ahead of you, I’m sure!’
‘Still a little time to make things right . . .’ Cosca was busy staring at the wrinkled back of his hand, wincing as he worked the knobbly fingers. ‘I used to be a wonder with
a throwing knife, you know, Sworbreck. I could bring down a fly at twenty paces. Now?’ He gave vent to an explosive snort. ‘I can scarcely see twenty paces on a clear day. That’s
the most wounding betrayal of all. The one by your own flesh. Live long enough, you see everything ruined . . .’
The next whirlwind heralded Sergeant Friendly’s arrival, blunt nose and flattened ears slightly pinked but otherwise showing no sign of discomfort at the cold. Sun, rain or tempest all
seemed one to him.
‘The last stragglers are into camp along with the Company’s baggage,’ he intoned.
Brachio poured himself another drink. ‘Hangers-on swarm to us like maggots to a corpse.’
‘I am not sure I appreciate the image of our noble brotherhood as a suppurating carcass,’ said Cosca.
‘However accurate it may be,’ murmured Temple.
‘Who made it all the way here?’
Friendly began the count. ‘Nineteen whores and four pimps—’
‘They’ll be busy,’ said Cosca.
‘—twenty-two wagon-drivers and porters including the cripple Hedges, who keeps demanding to speak to you—’
‘Everyone wants a slice of me! You’d think I was a feast-day currant cake!’
‘—thirteen assorted merchants, pedlars and tinkers, six of whom complain of having been robbed by members of the Company—’
‘I consort with criminals! I was a Grand Duke, you know. So many disappointments.’