* * *
Possum spent the entire battle keeping an eye on the grand pavilion raised to house Laseen. Certainly, a number of Claw operatives had no doubt been posted by his lower echelon commanders. But Possum no longer knew whom to trust. Frankly, he'd always been of that policy, and it had served him well all through his career, saving his life more often than he could count. Now, however, he had more than his usual nagging suspicions and doubts. He had material indications of a parallel command structure organized by a subordinate, Coil, pursuing her own ends. This he could not tolerate – mainly because those ends no doubt did not include him.
And so he did what he did best, watched and waited. Laseen had imposed a moratorium against any head-hunting for the time being and so he did not have to be on the job. He could wait. He did not think Coil so clumsy as to ignore that edict. He stood, sorcerously hidden, in the shade of a small tent that offered a view of the rear of the Imperial residence, and waited. He kept watch both over the mundane grounds and through his Warren of Mockra.
The noise and turmoil of the battle to the west rose and fell and frankly Possum did not give a damn. It was not his job. Staffers, higher-ranking soldiers and nobles came and went. Noncombatants as well – servants, cooks, craftsmen, chamberpot emptiers – everyone necessary to the maintenance of such an august dwelling. It was these who interested Possum the most. The faceless servants who came and went without notice. How often had he himself taken advantage of the selective blindness of his social betters?
The day waned; the late afternoon sun broke through to clear sky far to the west and found his position against the tent canvas. Possum squinted. Sweat dripped down his arms. Nothing. All day and nothing. He was offended … No, more than that: he was disgusted! What was his profession coming to? Surely he was not alone in his – how should he put it… his professional curiosity? He decided to replay through the day's comings and goings, searching for a pattern. Some betraying slip or detail. And after sorting through so many individual moves, glances and gestures of those who passed, he believed he found it. A woman. Civilian. An officer's woman – wife or mistress. Seven times the woman's errands and apparently random wanderings had taken her in a near circumnavigation of the tent's walls. And her walk and carriage! No camp-follower her. Each time she made a show of coming to watch the battle but she spent more time studying the tent and its guards than looking west. A pity, really; more training and experience and she'd be almost undetectable.
Possum edged up and down slightly on his toes to keep his legs limber, ran his fingers along the pommels of the knives slipped up his sleeves. Come back, little lady. Who are you? But more importantly – who do you work for?
He waited and he waited. The noise of battle waned. A flurry of message riders came and went. Had someone won the blasted dreary battle? They had, he supposed. A crowd gathered of the camp-followers, wounded and servants, kept distant by the Imperial guards. Yes, from everyone's excited smiles he imagined they must have won. And then there she was. He stepped out after her, wrapped in veils of Mockra, deflecting attention.
No raised Warren flickered about her that he could sense. She gawked westward for a time, shot glances to the Imperial tent, then headed away back to the encampment. A slim wisp of a thing; a pleasure to watch. Long black hair. From time to time Possum wasn't the only one following her. Her path took her back to the officers’ tents. He saw no gestures that betrayed her awareness of his presence. She entered the tent of a rather lower-ranked officer, a lieutenant perhaps, lifting the canvas flap then letting it fall behind her. Possum paused next to the neighbouring tent. Really, now. That's a give-away. There's no way talent like that would settle for a lieutenant. Her walk alone rated a captain. He sensed as passively as possible past and through the tent. No active Warren magics that he could detect. She was there, sitting. Very well. He dropped his favoured blades into his hands. Time to earn his pay.
He pushed aside the tent flap, his Warren dancing on the tips of his fingers, both blades raised, faced where she had been sitting and a hand clasped itself at his neck like the bite of a hound and pushed him to the dirt floor. Face jammed into the dirt he slashed, kicking. He raised his Warren once again but the hand clenched even impossibly tighter, grating the vertebrae of his neck. Such strength! Inhuman! A woman's voice breathed in his ear: ‘Don't.’
He recognized that voice. He'd heard it before the day of the attack of the Guard. This was the second time this girl-woman had got the better of him. He let his Warren slip away. ‘Good.’ She yanked the blades from his hands as if he were a child, dug one against the side of his neck. ‘Now,’ she whispered, so close her breath felt damp. ‘What should I do with you? By that I don't mean let you go … oh, no. What I mean is – how shall I kill you? I will let you choose. Do you want me to push this blade up under your chin or into your eye? Shall I ease it through your ribs into your heart?’ She crouched even lower so that her lips touched his ear. ‘Tell me what you want,’ she breathed huskily.
Despite the stark certain knowledge that he was about to die a lustful rush for this girl-woman murderess possessed him. He wanted her more than he could express. He opened his mouth to tell her what he wanted when the tent flap opened and a woman shouted deliriously, ‘They've surrendered!’ Then she screamed.
The murderess snarled something in a language unknown to Possum. He twisted, throwing her off. He jumped up, fresh weapons drawn but she was gone. He pushed the screaming woman aside to search outside. Of course there was no sign. He calmed the woman with a wave of Mockra.
‘Thank you. You know, their surrender saved my life.’ He bowed to leave then paused, turning back; he looked her up and down – not bad. A little bit more his type and he might've … well, duty and all … He headed to the Empress's tent.
Far along the western horizon the setting sun had passed beyond low clouds and Nait sat letting the slanting light warm his old bones. Old! Ha! Just this morning he'd thought of himself as young. But now he felt old – especially in the company of these sprouts. Old and wrung out. It was too much effort even to open his eyes. He thought of all the stupid things he'd done and he vowed never to ever do anything like that again. And it wasn't like he was some kind of glory-seeker or any dumb shit like that; no, he'd done all of it merely to preserve his precious skin.
Someone tapped his outstretched booted foot. Squinting, shading his eyes against the orange-gold glow, he peered up to see an Imperial officer. ‘Yeah? Ah – yes, sir?’ He saluted.
‘Are you Corporal Jumpy?’
‘Ah, no and yes, sir.’
‘Your captain wants you. Something about a commendation.’
‘That so, sir? Thank you, sir.’
The officer moved on. Nait made an effort to stir himself, failed. He fell back against his shield right where he'd sat when the skirmish-line broke. He felt as if all the brothers of all the girls he'd stolen kisses and gropes and more from had caught up with him and beaten him all over with wooden truncheons. Incredibly, his worse wounds had been inflicted by the skirmishers themselves. After the adrenalin rush of battle drained away he'd been surprised to find that a crossbow bolt had passed entirely through the inside of one thigh. Another had gouged his neck with a slice that would not stop bleeding, while another had lain open the back of his hand, and another had almost cut his ears off by knocking his helmet all this way and that. And he knew he was damned lucky.
More shapes moved about the darkening battlefield; stunned wounded walked aimlessly; camp-followers searched for loved ones and secretly looted on the sly; healer brigades collected wounded. Nait could not be bothered to get up. Around him his squad sprawled, equally quiet, sharing waterskins and pieces of dried flatbread. He took a mouthful of water, washed it around his mouth and spat out the grit and blood. He searched around for loose teeth – he'd taken such a clout in the jaw.
Someone else approached. Glancing over Nait recognized him and stood up wincing, favouring his leg. Tinsmith. The captain looked him up and down. ‘You look like Hood's own shit.’
Thank you, sir.’
‘But you're alive.’
‘Yes, sir.’ His eyes tightened on the captain. ‘Sorry, sir?’
Facing the west, the captain smoothed his moustache. ‘You and Least. And Heuk.’
Him and Least. And Heuk. That was all? So Hands and Honey Boy bought it. Big sensuous Hands dead and cold. Hood be damned – what a waste! He thought of all the awful things he'd said and done to her and his face grew hot, his breath shortening. She'd taken all those things to Hood with her; no chance for him now to take them back, or apologize, or tell her she was probably damned right. ‘I'm sorry, sir.’
‘Yes. Me too. But …’ and he cuffed Nait's arm, ‘congratulations. You are now officially a sergeant.’ He held out a grey cloth armband. ‘From what I hear you earned it.’
Nait took it loosely in his fingers. Him a sergeant! Now what would they think back home! It was what he'd wanted all this time but now that he had it he realized he was just a damned fraud. It would be an insult to Hands and Honey Boy for him to wear this. He suddenly remembered the captain still standing there with him. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you, sir.’
‘You're welcome, Sergeant.’ Tinsmith inclined his head aside, ‘These your boys?’
‘Yeah. Squad of ten, sir.’
‘Very good. Your first detail is to help with the fortifications around the encampment. They've been going up all day. High Fist Anand wants a ditch and a palisade, or a wall of spikes. Whatever you ‘n’ the other sappers can manage.’
Eyes still on the cloth, he said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Puzzled, he looked up. ‘Why, sir?’
‘Why?’ Tinsmith's pale watery eyes watched him with something like compassion, or gentleness. ‘A sea of blood's been spilt here, Nait. Night's coming. He'll be coming. We have to get ready for him.’
Him. Him! Oh, Burn save them! Him! He faced the squad. ‘Up, you louts! We have shovel detail! C'mon! At the camp. They got hot food up there, I hear! Now, c'mon.’
He turned back to Captain Tinsmith, called after him, ‘Sir! What happened to that old duffer, what's his name, the master sergeant?’
The captain was still for a time. ‘You haven't heard?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He faced down the Gold the whole time, Nait. Stopped them cold. He's the reason we didn't break, him ‘n’ Braven Tooth. They finally got him though. Blew him up with their munitions there at the end.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Aye. Too bad. See you at camp.’
Damn. Another one. He waved his men on. Seemed the old fart knew his business after all.
It was a grim crossing to the east. The stink of spilled entrails and loosened bowels drove Nait to cover his face. In places it was difficult to find a clear spot to walk. From the sprawled bodies it was plain the lightly armoured skirmishers had taken a savaging while at the same time inflicting mass murder on the Talian and Falaran regulars. Wounded called, or just moaned, gesturing helplessly to them as they passed. His boys and girls promised to send help to each – what more could they do? Gulls, crows and vultures hovered overhead and hopped among the bodies, glistening with fluids and quarrelling. Nait threw rocks at them.
‘Sergeant,’ a man called in accented Talian. Nait turned. It was that Falaran cavalry commander. He lay pinned on his side under his dead horse. Crossbow bolts stood from the two like feathers. Nait squatted next to him, pulled off the fellow's helmet. ‘My thanks,’ he said, smiling behind his big orange-red beard.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing. I cannot complain. I've a good horse with me.’
‘Maybe some water?’
The man grimaced his revulsion. ‘Water? Gods, man, whatever for? No – but there is a flask of good Falaran brandy in my waistbag there …’ he gestured with his chin. Nait fished through the bag and as he did so he saw that one of the man's arms was pinned beneath him while the other was stitched to his side by three crossbow bolts. He found a beaten and dented silver flask, uncorked its neck. He tipped a taste into the man's mouth. Pure bliss lit the commander's face as he swallowed. ‘My thanks.’
Nait waved his squad on. ‘We have to go.’
‘Yes, I know. But I've a favour to ask of you, soldier.’
Oh Gods no. Not that. ‘No … I'm sorry.’
‘Ah, well, I understand. It's just the birds, you see. Evil beasties flapping closer all the time. And I … well …’ he glanced down to his useless arms.
Soliel's mercy! How could he leave the man to … that? But he was no killer. What could he— ‘Brill!’
‘Sir?’
Nait shoved the flask to the man. ‘Stay here with this wounded officer – wave down a healer.’
Brill saluted, his long gangly limbs jerking, thrust out his chin. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘OK. Let's go.’
As they turned away, Nait heard the cavalry commander asking Brill, ‘So, have you ever been to Falar then?’
By the time they reached the Eastern border of the battlefield their trousers and cloth leggings were painted red to the knees from pushing through the soaked grasses. Flies tormented them, and the setting orange-red sun cast its light almost parallel with the plain, limning the field of slaughter in rich honey tones. Nait glimpsed dun-hued shapes loping across the hills in the distance and he shivered. Jackals or wolves. They were already here – and he was coming. He waved to his boys – that is, his men and women, all gone quiet now over the harrowing course of their trek – to pick up their pace.