‘Then what—?’
I couldn’t stand it any more, the pecking, scolding tone in his voice that was so close to the one in my head. I grabbed him by the collar of his coat and growled, ‘It’s all I have left, Brasti – these small, petty gambits. You seriously think I have any faith in my fellow Greatcoats any more? They walked away from the King’s dream! They abandoned the missions he gave them, and the oaths they swore!’
Brasti pushed me off of him. ‘Then what good will sacrificing Chalmers do?’
For all my anger, I couldn’t answer, so Kest did it for me. ‘It will slow them down.’
Brasti turned to face him. ‘Slow them down?’
‘Even if they’ve turned against us, watching Chalmers – someone near the age when most of us took up our coats – will give them pause. When the fight comes, it will make them question themselves and, if we are very lucky, it will make them hesitate, just a little.’
‘So you agree?’ I asked.
Kest shook his head. ‘No. I understand, but that’s not the same thing. Falcio, you’re still thinking like a duellist. This is war. When the battle begins, they won’t be thinking of anything except the chaos and bloodshed all around them. They will fight on instinct.’
‘Maybe,’ I conceded. ‘But maybe you’re wrong.’
‘These are poor odds on which to bet a young woman’s life.’
A bitter laugh came out from somewhere deep inside me. ‘Is that what you think? A poor bet? Kest, once the fight starts, she’ll be there, in the midst of it. She’s rubbish with a blade and she has no experience with war. She’ll die before the first day is out. I’m just trying to give her one chance to die for something that matters.’
Kest and Brasti just stood there, looking at me. I knew they were trying to gauge whether I’d lost my mind or not.
Finally Kest said, ‘It is a cold logic that’s guiding you, Falcio.’
‘Look around,’ I said, turning to set down the path from the hill to where Chalmers would ride to her death. ‘It’s a cold fucking country.’
*
The Avareans sent their warrior first. He was a broad-chested, broad-shouldered young man riding a heavy warhorse covered by ring mail, though he himself was shirtless, and sporting half a dozen red cuts on his skin. We had watched from a distance as a dozen Avareans had apparently fought each other for the privilege of riding the Scorn. They are a strange people.
‘You sure about this?’ Feltock asked, watching along with me.
I nodded.
The Avarean rode straight for our front line as if he intended to crash right through them. To their credit, none of them fled, though they all looked like they wished they could. Though we had more than enough experienced soldiers ready and eager to stand in that line, I had insisted we put only the smallest, least-threatening people we could find – farmers and crafters, and the worse-fitting the armour, the better. There would be no great glory for the Avareans in this ride.
‘Come see the people you’ve come to butcher, you arrogant bastard,’ I whispered.
At the last instant before he met the line, the Avarean turned his horse at a right angle and slowed to barely more than a walk as he stared down our soldiers one by one. He made faces at them, grinning or frowning, pretending to cry and then suddenly laughing and jeering at them. Following my orders, our own troops did nothing in reply, which served to aggravate the young warrior, who increased his efforts to tempt and taunt them. As he passed the halfway mark of our line, he grew frustrated, making more and more menacing gestures at our soldiers, although never touching his weapon.
Just a few more seconds, I thought, and then this bastard can go riding back to his own troops and tell them how he couldn’t get a rise out of us.
He was almost at the end when something went very wrong. One of ours, I couldn’t see whether it was a man or woman, suddenly reacted, bringing a sword up to shield themselves. The young Avarean grinned in response, and, as was his right, instantly drew his own blade and thrust it through his opponent’s neck. As the body fell, the next soldier very nearly made the same mistake, only barely restraining himself in time. The Avarean laughed and said something in his own language – probably thanking us. He reached the end of the line and turned to ride back to the whoops and cheers of his own troops.
We’d lost this round: we’d proven our soldiers couldn’t keep their nerve in the face of one lone warrior.
Now one of ours was going to have to ride their line.
*
‘Any advice?’ Chalmers asked, climbing up into the saddle. Every part of her was shaking. Her voice wavered, her hands barely clutched the reins. Even her feet shifted about in the stirrups, which confused the poor beast no end. I’m not sure why Chalmers chose Arsehole out of all the mounts available – maybe some small shred of spite peeking out beneath the stoic determination to do her duty. I doubted it, though. She might want to hurt me but I doubted she was the sort to take out her fears and frustrations on a horse.
‘Steady, Arsehole,’ I told him, patting his neck. He gave no sign that he’d understood, probably because he was a horse and not even a very bright one at that.
‘Well?’ Chalmers asked.
I looked out at the Avarean warriors all lined up waiting for her. It was, Nehra had explained to me, a kind of privilege to be in that line, to see the face of the enemy up close. Perhaps they would glean some secret about us, some insight into our strengths and weaknesses. Or perhaps it was no different than drunks at a bar staring each other down.
‘Show them who you are,’ I said to Chalmers.
‘What I am is terrified.’
I looked up at her. She wasn’t lying. This wasn’t anticipation or anxiety. This wasn’t the kind of reckless determination I’d seen in Valiana when she’d first taken up the coat, or the grim acceptance of death I’d seen in so many other Greatcoats. Most of us were fighters before we’d been magistrates; Chalmers was the opposite. She’d been drawn in by her fascination with the law, with investigation. She had no reference points for what was coming next. Eighteen and unlikely to see twenty. When I faced death, I saw the events of my life behind me. What she saw now were all the things she would never experience. There was an acrid smell in the air. She had pissed herself.
‘Dismount,’ I said.
Her eyes widened and a look of confusion gave way to one of delirious relief. ‘First Cantor?’
‘It means, “get off the horse”.’
She began to lift a leg over, but she hesitated. ‘Why?’
‘I was wrong. My idea won’t do any good. It’s better if one of us goes.’
‘One of us,’ she repeated my words.
‘I don’t mean it that way. Of course you’re one of us. I mean, it’s better if I go, or Kest.’
Her eyes drifted away from me, up and to the right as if the answer were somewhere in the clouds. ‘Yes, but why won’t your idea work?’