Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 37 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

Ahm Lin gestured at the workbench where his partly carved block still sat, untouched since his first visit. “You’ve already started. I suspect you’ve been singing a long time, brother. The song can make us reach for many different tools; the pen, the chisel… or the sword.”

Vaelin glanced down at his sword, resting within easy reach against the edge of the table. Is that what I’ve been doing all these years? Cutting my path through life? All the blood spilled and lives taken, just verses in a song?

“Why haven’t you finished it?” Ahm Lin enquired. “The sculpture?”

“If I pick up the hammer and chisel again I won’t put them down until it’s done. And our current circumstance requires my full attention.” He knew this to be only partly true. The roughly hewn features emerging from the block had begun to take on a disturbing familiarity, not yet recognisable but enough to make him conclude the finished version would be a face he knew. Perversely, the arrival of the Red Hand had been a welcome excuse for delaying the moment of final clarity.

“It’s not advisable to ignore one’s song, brother,” Ahm Lin cautioned him. “You recall the harm I did when I called to you the first time? Why do you think that was?”

“My song was silent.”

“That’s right. And why was it silent?”

The king’s fragile neck… The whore’s dangerous secrets… “It called on me to do something, something terrible. When I couldn’t do it my song fell silent. I thought it had deserted me.”

“Your song is your protection as well as your guide. Without it you are vulnerable to others who can do as we do, like the Volarian woman. Trust me brother, you wouldn’t wish to be vulnerable to her.”

Vaelin looked at the marble block, tracing the rough profile of the unformed face. “When the Red Falcon returns,” he said. “I’ll finish it then.”

Twenty days after the Red Falcon’s departure the sailors rioted, breaking out of their makeshift prisons in the warehouse district, killing their guards and making for the docks in a well planned assault. Caenis was quick to respond, ordering two companies of Wolfrunners to hold the docks and drafting in Count Marven’s men to seal off the surrounding streets. Cumbraelin archers were placed on the rooftops, cutting down dozens of sailors as their attack on the docks faltered in the face of disciplined resistance and they went reeling back into the city. Caenis ordered an immediate counter attack and the brief but bloody revolt was all but over by the time Vaelin got to the scene.

He found Caenis fighting a large Meldenean, the big man swinging a crudely fashioned club at the lithe brother as he danced around him, sword flicking out to leave cuts on his arms and face. “Give up!” he ordered, his blade slicing into the man’s forearm. “It’s over!”

The Meldenean gave a roar of pain fuelled rage and redoubled his efforts, his useless club meeting only air as Caenis continued his vicious dance. Vaelin unlimbered his bow, notched an arrow and sent it cleanly through the Meldenean’s neck from forty paces. One of his better feats of archery.

“Not a time for half-measures, brother,” he told Caenis, stepping over the Meldenean’s corpse and drawing his sword. Within the hour it was done, nearly two hundred sailors were dead and at least as many wounded. The Wolfrunners had lost fifteen men, among them the one time pickpocket known as Dipper, one of the original thirty chosen men from their days in the Martishe. They herded the sailors back into their warehouses and Vaelin had the surviving captains brought to the docks. Forty men or so, all with the blunt and weathered features common to sea captains. They were lined up on the quayside, kneeling before him, arms bound, most staring up with sullen fear or open defiance.

“Your actions were stupid and selfish,” Vaelin told them. “If you had reached your ships you would have carried plague to a hundred other ports. I have lost good men in this pathetic farce. I could execute you all, but I won’t.” He gestured at the harbour where the many ships of the city’s merchant fleet were at anchor. “They say a captain’s soul rests with his ship. You killed fifteen of my men. I require fifteen souls in recompense.”

It took a long time, with boat-loads of Realm Guard hauling at the oars as they towed the vessels out of the harbour and anchored them off-shore, spreading pitch on the decks and dousing the sails and rigging with lamp-oil. Dentos’s archers finished the job with volleys of fire arrows and by nightfall fifteen ships were burning, tall flames fountaining embers into the star-lit sky and lighting up the sea for miles around.

Vaelin surveyed the captains, taking dull satisfaction from the grief in their weathered faces, some with tears gleaming in their eyes. “Any repeat of this foolishness,” he said, “and I’ll have you and your crews lashed to the masts before I burn the rest of the fleet.”

In the morning Vaelin found Governor Aruan at the mansion gate. There was no sign of Sister Gilma and an icy claw of fear gripped his insides.

“Where is my sister?” he asked.

The Governor’s once fleshy face was sagging from worry and a too-sudden weight loss, although he showed no sign of the Red Hand. His gaze was guarded and his voice flat. “She succumbed yesterday evening, much more quickly than my daughter or her maid. I recall my mother saying that was how it was with the sickness, years ago. Some last for days, weeks even, others fade in a matter of hours. Your sister wouldn’t let me near my daughter, insisted on caring for her alone, my servants and I were forbidden from even venturing into that wing of the mansion. She said it was necessary, to stop the spread of the sickness. Last night I found her collapsed on the stairs, barely conscious. She forbade me from touching her, crawled back to my daughter’s room on her own…” He trailed off as Vaelin’s expression darkened.

“I spoke to her yesterday,” he said stupidly. He searched the governor’s face for some sign he was mistaken, finding only wary regret. His voice was thick as he voiced the redundant question, “She’s dead?”

The governor nodded. “The maid too. My daughter lingers though. We burned the bodies, as your sister instructed.”

Vaelin found himself gripping the wrought iron of the gate with white knuckled fists. Gilma… Bright eyed, laughing Gilma. Dead and lost to the fire in a matter of hours whilst I tarried with those idiot sailors.

“Were there any words?” he asked. “Did she leave any testament?”

“She faded very fast, my lord. She said to tell you to keep to her instructions, and you see will her again in the Beyond.”

Vaelin looked closely at the governor’s face. He’s lying. She said nothing. She just sickened and died. Nevertheless, he found himself grateful for the deceit. “Thank you, my lord. Do you require anything?”

“Some more salve for my daughter’s rash. Perhaps a few bottles of wine. It keeps the servants happy, and our stocks are running low.”

“I’ll see to it.” He unclasped his hands from the gate and turned to go.

“There was a great fire in the night,” the governor said. “Out to sea.”

“The sailors rioted, tried to escape. I burned some ships as punishment.”

He was expecting some kind of admonishment but the governor simply nodded. “A measured response. However, I advise you to compensate the Merchant’s Guild. With me confined here they are the only civil authority in the city, best not to antagonise them.”

Vaelin was more inclined to flog any merchant who made the mistake of raising his voice within earshot but, through the fog of his grief, saw the wisdom in the governor’s words. “I will.” For some reason he paused, feeling compelled to add something, some reward for the governor’s kindly lies. “We will not be here long, my lord. Maybe a few more months. There will be blood and fire when the Emperor’s army arrives, but win or lose, we will soon be gone and this city will be yours again.”

The governor’s expression was a mixture of bafflement and anger. “Then why, in the name of all the gods, did you come here?”

Vaelin gazed out at the city. The light of the morning sun played over the houses and empty streets below. Out to sea the ocean shimmered with gold, white topped waves swept towards the coast and the sky above was a cloudless blue… and Sister Gilma was dead, along with thousands of others and thousands more to come. “There is something I have to do,” he said, walking away.

He found Dentos atop the light-house at the far end of the mole forming the left shoulder of the harbour entrance. He sat with his legs dangling over the lip of the lighthouse’s flat top, staring out to sea and sipping from a flask of Brother’s Friend. His bow lay nearby, the quiver empty. Vaelin sat down next to him and Dentos passed him the flask.

“You didn’t come to hear the words for our sister,” he said, taking a small sip and handing the flask back, grimacing slightly as the mingled brandy and redflower burned its way down his throat.

“Said my own words,” Dentos muttered. “She heard me.”

Vaelin glanced down at the base of the light-house where numerous lifeless seagulls bobbed in the water, all neatly skewered with a single arrow. “Looks like the gulls heard you too.”

“Practising,” Dentos said. “Filthy scavengers anyhow, can’t stand them, bloody noise they make. Shite-hawks my Uncle Groll called ‘em. He was a sailor.” He grunted a laugh and took another drink. “Could be I killed him last night. Can’t rightly remember what the bastard looked like.”

“How many uncles do you have, brother? I’ve always wondered.”

Dentos’s face clouded and he said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke there was a sombre tone to his voice Vaelin hadn’t heard before. “None.”

Vaelin frowned in puzzlement. “What about the one with the fighting dogs? And the one who taught you the bow…”

“I taught myself the bow. There was a master hunter in our village but he wasn’t my uncle, neither was that vicious shit-bag with the dogs. None of them were.” He glanced at Vaelin and smiled sadly. “My dear old mum was the village whore, brother. She called the many men who came to our door my uncles, made them be nice to me or they weren’t getting in her bed, any one of them could have been my dad after all. Never did find out which one, not that I give a dog’s fart. They were a pretty worthless bunch.

“Whore or not, my mum always did her best for me. I was never hungry and I always had clothes on my back and shoes on my feet, unlike most of the other children in the village. Bad enough being the whore’s whelp, worse to be an envied whore’s whelp. It was common knowledge my dad could’ve been one of thirty-odd men in the village, so the other kids called me ‘Whose bastard?’ I was about four when I first heard it, ‘Whose bastard? Whose bastard? Where’d you get your shoes from, Whose bastard?’ On and on it went, year after year. There was this one lad, Uncle Bab’s boy, mean little shit he was, always the first to start shouting. One day him and his gang started throwing stuff at me, sharp stuff some of it, I got all cut up, it made me angry. So I took my bow put an arrow through that boy’s leg. Can’t say I was sorry to watch him bleed and cry and flail around. After that,” he shrugged, “couldn’t really stay there any more. No one was going to apprentice a whore’s bastard, a dangerous bastard at that, so my mum packed me off to the Order. I can still remember her crying when the cart took me away. I’ve never been back.”

Watching him swig from his flask, Vaelin was struck by how old Dentos looked. Deep lines marked his brows and premature grey coloured in the close cropped hair at his temples. Years of battle and hard living had aged him and his grief for Sister Gilma was palpable. Of all the brothers she had been closest to him. When we return to the Realm I’ll ask the Aspect to give him a position at the Order House, Vaelin decided, then realised that there was every chance neither of them would see the Realm again. All he had to offer Dentos were yet more opportunities for a bloody end. His thoughts turned again to the marble block waiting in Ahm Lin’s shop and he knew he had delayed too long. It was time he did what he had been sent here to do. If he could achieve it before the Alpiran army arrived then perhaps another slaughter could be avoided, if he was willing to pay the price.

He got to his feet, touching Dentos on the shoulder in farewell. “I have business…”

Dentos’s weary eyes were suddenly bright with excitement and his finger shot out to point at the horizon. “A sail! You see it, brother?”

Vaelin shielded his eyes to scan the sea. It was the merest speck, a smudge of grey between water and sky, but unmistakably a sail. The Red Falcon was back.

Captain Nurin was first down the gangplank, his lean, weathered face drawn with exhaustion, but the light of triumph burned in his eyes along with the greed Vaelin remembered so well from their first meeting. “Twenty-one days!” he exulted. “Wouldn’t have thought it possible so late in the year, but Udonor heard our calls and made a gift of the winds. Would have been eighteen if we hadn’t had to tarry so long in Varinshold, nor carry so many passengers back.”

“So many passengers?” Vaelin asked. His gaze was fixed on the gangplank, expecting a slender, dark haired form to appear at any second.

“Nine in all. Though why a girl whose head barely reaches my shoulder needs seven men to guard her is beyond me, I must say.”

Vaelin turned to him, frowning. “Guards?”

Nurin shrugged, gesturing at the gangplank. “See for yourself.”

The heavy set man descending the gangplank had a squat, brutish face, unleavened by the scowl with which he regarded Vaelin and the surrounding Wolfrunners. More disconcerting still was the fact that he wore the black robe of the Fourth Order and a sword at his belt.

“Brother Vaelin?” he enquired in a flat tone, devoid of civility.

Vaelin nodded, growing unease dispelling any urge to offer a greeting.

“Brother Commander Iltis,” the black robed man introduced himself. “Faith Protection Company of the Fourth Order.”

“Never heard of you,” Vaelin told him. “Where are Sister Sherin and Brother Frentis?”

Brother Iltis blinked, clearly unused to disrespect. “The prisoner and Brother Frentis are aboard ship. We have some issues to discuss, brother. Certain arrangements must be made…”

Vaelin had heard only one word. “Prisoner?” His voice was soft but he was aware of the menace it possessed. Brother Iltis blinked again, his scowl fading to an uncertain frown. “What… prisoner?”

The sound of creaking wood made him turn back to the ship. Another brother of the Fourth Order, also armed with a sword, was leading a dark haired young woman by a chain attached to shackles on her wrists. Sherin was paler than he remembered, also somewhat thinner, but the bright, open smile that lit her face as their eyes met remained unchanged. Another five brothers followed her onto the quay, spreading out on either side and eyeing Vaelin and the Wolfrunners with cold distrust. Last to descend was Frentis, his face drawn in shame and his eyes averted.

“Sister,” Vaelin moved towards Sherin but found his path suddenly blocked by Iltis.

“The prisoner is forbidden discourse with the Faithful, brother.”

“Get out of my way!” Vaelin ordered him, precisely and deliberately annunciating each word.

Iltis paled visibly, but held his ground. “I have my orders, brother.”

“What is this?” Vaelin demanded, rage building in his chest. “Why is our sister shackled so?”

Behind Iltis, Sherin lifted her shackled wrists, grimacing ruefully. “I’m sorry you find me in chains once again…”

“The prisoner will not speak unless permitted!” Iltis barked, rounding on her, tugging sharply on her chain, the shackles chafing her flesh, producing a wince of pain. “The prisoner will not sully the ears of the Faithful with her heresy or treachery!”

Sherin’s eyes flicked to Vaelin, imploring. “Please don’t kill him!”

Chapter 7

She was angry, he could tell. Her expression rigid, eyes avoiding his gaze as they walked the track to the Governor’s mansion, her heavy chest of curatives weighing on his shoulder.

“I didn’t kill him,” Vaelin offered when the silence became unbearable.

“Because Brother Frentis stopped you,” she replied, eyes flashing at him.

She was right, of course. If Frentis hadn’t stopped him he would have continued to beat Brother Iltis to death on the quayside. The other brothers from the Fourth Order had unwisely begun reaching for their weapons when Vaelin’s first blow sent the man sprawling to the ground, quickly finding themselves disarmed by the surrounding Wolfrunners. They could only stand and watch helplessly as Vaelin continued to smash his fist into Iltis’s increasingly bloody and distorted face, deaf to Sherin’s pleading and leaving off only when Frentis hauled him away.

“What is this?” he snarled, wrenching himself free. “How could you allow this?”

Frentis looked more shamed and miserable than Vaelin could remember. “The Aspect’s orders, brother,” he replied in a soft murmur.

“Excuse me!” Sherin jangled her chains, glaring at Vaelin. “Do you think I might be freed to tend to our brother before he bleeds to death?”

And so she had tended to Brother Commander Iltis, ordering her chest be carried from the ship and applying balms and salves to his cuts before stitching the gash Vaelin had left in his brow when he pounded his forehead against the cobbles. She worked in silence, her deft hands doing their work with the clean efficiency he remembered, but there was a sharpness to her movements that bespoke a restrained anger.

She didn’t like seeing it, Vaelin realised. Didn’t like seeing the killer in me.

“Get this lot to the gaol,” he told Frentis, waving a hand at the Fourth Order brothers. “If they give you any trouble, flog them.”

Frentis nodded, hesitating. “Brother, about the sister…”

“We’ll talk later, brother.”

Frentis nodded again and moved away to take command of the prisoners.

Nearby, Captain Nurin cleared his throat. “What?” Vaelin demanded.

“Your word, my lord,” the wiry captain said. He was unnerved by the display of violence but refused to be daunted, forcing himself to meet Vaelin’s glare. “Our arrangement, as noted before witnesses.”

“Oh.” Vaelin tugged the bag containing the bluestone from his belt and tossed it to Nurin. “Spend it wisely. Sergeant!”

The Wolfrunner sergeant quickly snapped to attention. “My lord!”

“Captain Nurin and his crew are to be detained with the other sailors. Search the ship thoroughly to ensure none are hiding aboard.”

The sergeant saluted smartly and moved off, shouting orders.

“Detained, my lord?” Nurin raised his eyes reluctantly from the bluestone now grasped tightly in his fist. “But I have urgent business...”

“I’m sure you do, captain. However, the presence of the Red Hand in the city requires you remain with us a little longer.”

The greed in the captain’s eyes transformed abruptly into naked fear and he took a few rapid backward steps. “The Red Hand? Here?”

Vaelin turned back to Sister Sherin, watching her tie off the suture and snip away the stray threads with a small pair of scissors. “Yes,” he murmured. “But, I suspect, not for much longer.”

“I told you once,” Sherin said as they paused on the track to the governor’s mansion, “no-one is going to die on my account. And I meant it, Vaelin.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, surprised at his sincerity. He had hurt her, made her feel every blow he landed on Iltis, made her see the killer.

She sighed, some of the anger leeching from her face. “Tell me about the Red Hand. How many have died?”

“So far, only Sister Gilma and a maid at the Governor’s mansion. His daughter still lingers, although she may have expired by now.”

“No other cases? No sign of it anywhere else in the city?”

He shook his head. “We followed Sister Gilma’s instructions to the letter.”

“Then she may have saved the city by acting so quickly.”

They came to the mansion gate where one of the guards rang the bell to call the governor. Vaelin eyed the mansion’s dim windows as they waited. Since Sister Gilma’s passing the place had taken on a sinister aspect, made worse by the shabby appearance of the untended gardens. He was half-expecting no-one to answer the bell, for the Red Hand to have finally run rampant through the house, leaving it an empty husk awaiting the torch. He was ashamed to find himself almost hoping it was over, with no outbreaks elsewhere in the city it could end here and there would be no need to send Sherin into danger.

“Is that the Governor?” she asked.

“That it is.” Vaelin’s shameful hope faded as Governor Aruan’s portly form emerged from the mansion. “He hates us but he loves his daughter. It’s how I got him to surrender the city.”

“You threatened her?” Sherin gaped at him. “Faith, this war has made you a monster.”

“I wouldn’t have hurt her…”

“Don’t say any more, Vaelin.” She shook her head, eyes closed in disgust, turning away from him. “Just stop talking, please.”

They stood in icy silence as the governor approached, the guards scrupulously looking elsewhere and Vaelin feeling Sherin’s anger like a knife. When the governor arrived Vaelin made the introductions and worked the key in the heavy padlock securing the gate. “She grows weaker,” Aruan said, hauling the gate open, his voice frantic with hope and desperation. “She was still talking last night, but this morning…”

“Then we’d best not linger, my lord. If you could help me with this.”

Vaelin set the chest down and Sister Sherin and the governor hefted it together and started back towards the mansion. She offered no word of farewell.

“How long will this take, sister?” he asked.

She halted, glancing back, her face devoid of emotion. “The curative requires several hours preparation. Once administered the improvement should be immediate. Come back in the morning.” She turned away again.

“Why were you shackled?” he demanded before she could leave. “Why were you under guard?”

She didn’t turn back, her answer so soft he almost missed it. “Because I tried to save you.”

He sent the guards away and settled down to wait, lighting a fire and huddling in his cloak, the onset of winter added a chill to the wind sweeping in from the sea. The hours stretched as he pondered Sherin’s words and brooded on her anger. I tried to save you…

Frentis appeared as the sun faded towards the horizon, sitting opposite and adding some wood to the fire. Vaelin glanced up at him but said nothing.

“Brother Commander Iltis will live,” Frentis said, his tone deliberately light. “More’s the pity. Can’t talk yet though, just grunts and moans on account of his jaw. No great loss, heard enough of his guff during the voyage.”

“You said the Aspect ordered you to allow her to be treated like that,” Vaelin said. “Why?”

Frentis’s expression was pained, reluctant to share what he knew would be unwelcome information. “Sister Sherin is a convicted traitor to the Realm and a Denier of the Faith.”

Sherin in the Blackhold. The thought of it sent waves of guilt and worry coursing through him. What had she suffered there?

“I went straight to Aspect Elera when we docked,” Frentis continued. “Like you told me. When she heard what I had to say we went to Aspect Arlyn. He was able to talk the king into releasing the sister from the palace.”

“The palace? She wasn’t in the Blackhold?”

“Seems she was kept there when the Fourth Order first arrested her but Princess Lyrna got her out. Apparently she just marched in and demanded they release the sister to her custody. The warden thought she was acting on the king’s orders so handed her over. Rumour is Aspect Al Tendris was hopping mad when he heard, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Sister Sherin was still a prisoner anyway, just had a nicer prison.”

“What could she have done that could ever be considered treason, let alone denial of the Faith?”

“She spoke against the war. Not just once either. Many times, to anyone who’d listen. Said the war was founded on lies and contrary to the Faith. Said you and all the rest of us had been sent to our doom for no good reason. Wouldn’t have mattered so much if it’d been some nobody spouting off, but she’s well known in the poorer parts of the capital, well liked too, on account of all the people she’s helped. When she spoke people listened. Seems neither the king nor the Fourth Order liked what she had to say.”

More of the old man’s scheming? Vaelin wondered. Perhaps he knew about his attachment to Sherin and her arrest was another means of applying pressure. He felt it unlikely, Janus had already secured his obedience. Sherin’s arrest seemed an act born of simple fear; his war could not be undone by a dissenting voice. Vaelin knew well the king’s ruthlessness but to publicly arrest a well liked sister of the Fifth Order was hardly the subtle, insidious move he favoured. He must have tried something else, Vaelin concluded. Some other way to silence her or buy her loyalty. So, she had the strength to resist him where I did not.

“The king only agreed to Sherin’s release on condition she be shackled and kept under constant guard,” Frentis went on. “She’s also forbidden to talk to anyone without permission.” Frentis tugged an envelope from his cloak and held it out to Vaelin. “The details are here. Aspect Arlyn said we should observe them…”

Vaelin took the envelope and tossed it on the fire, watching the wax of the king’s seal bubble and run in the flames.

“It seems the king has reprieved Sister Sherin and ordered her immediate release,” he told Frentis in a tones which didn’t invite argument. “In recognition of her long years of service to the Realm and the Faith.”

Frentis’s eyes flicked to the now charred envelope, but didn’t linger. “Of course, brother.” He shifted nervously, clearly debating whether to voice something more.

“What is it, brother?” Vaelin prompted tiredly.

“There was a girl, came to the dockside when we were getting ready to leave. Asked if I could give you this.” His hand emerged from his cloak again, clutching a small package wrapped in plain paper. “Pretty thing, she was. Almost made me sorry I joined the Order.”

Vaelin took the package, opening it to find two thin wooden blocks tied together with a blue silk ribbon. Inside was a single winterbloom, pressed flat on a white card. “Did she say anything?”

“Only that I should convey her thanks. Didn’t say what for.”

Vaelin was surprised to find a smile on his lips. “Thank you, brother.” He retied the ribbon and consigned the blocks to his pocket. “Didn’t happen to bring some food did you? I’m quite starved.”

Frentis made a journey back down the hill and returned a half hour later with Caenis, Barkus and Dentos, each laden with provisions and bedrolls.

“Haven’t slept under the stars for weeks now,” Caenis commented. “I find I miss it.”

“Oh, quite,” Barkus drawled, unfolding his bedroll. “My backside has indeed missed the joys of hard earth and sudden rain.”

“Don’t you lot have duties?” Vaelin enquired.

“We’ve decided to shirk them, my lord,” Dentos replied. “Going to flog us?”

“Depends on what kind of meal you’ve brought me.”

They roasted a haunch of goat over the fire and shared bread and dates. Dentos opened a bottle of Cumbraelin red and passed it round. “This is the last one,” he said, his voice laden with regret. “Had Sergeant Gallis pack twenty bottles before we left.”

“Men do seem to drink more in time of war,” observed Caenis.

“Can’t imagine why,” Barkus grunted.

For a while it was almost as it had been all those years ago, when Master Hutril would led them into the woods and they would camp out, boys sharing stories and mockery around the fire. Except there were fewer of them now, and the humour had a bitter edge. Even Frentis, in his way the most guileless soul among them, was becoming prone to cynicism, regaling them with the news that the dungeons were once again empty as the king attempted to add ever more regiments to the Realm Guard. “More cut-throats ready to get their throats cut.”

“Seems fitting,” Caenis said. “Those who have besmirched the king’s peace should be obliged to make recompense. What better way than through service in war? And I have to say, former outlaws do make excellent soldiers.”

“No illusions,” Barkus agreed. “No expectations. When you live your whole life in hardship, a soldier’s life doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Ask those poor bastards we left behind at the Bloody Hill how much they liked a soldier’s life,” Dentos said.

Barkus shrugged. “Soldier’s life often means a soldier’s death. Least they get paid, what do we get?”

“We get to serve the Faith,” Frentis put in. “It’s enough for me.”

“Ah, but you’re still young, in mind and body. Give it another year or two and you’ll be reaching for Brother’s Friend to silence those pesky questions, like the rest of us.” Barkus tipped the wine bottle into his mouth, grimacing in disappointment as the last drops dribbled out. “Faith, I wish I was drunk,” he grumbled, hurling the bottle into the darkness.

“Don’t you believe it then?” Frentis went on. “What we’re fighting for?”

“We’re fighting so the king can double his tax income, oh innocent urchin.” Barkus pulled a flask of Brother’s Friend from his cloak and took a long pull. “That’s better.”

“That can’t be right,” Frentis protested. “I mean, I know all that stuff about Alpirans stealing children was so much horse-dung, but we’re bringing the Faith here, right? These people need us. That’s why the Aspect sent us.” His gaze swivelled to Vaelin. “Right?”

“Of course that’s right,” Caenis told him with his accustomed certainty. “Our brother sees the basest motives in the purest actions.”

“Pure?” Barkus gave a long and hearty laugh. “What’s pure about any of this? How many corpses are lying out there in the desert because of us? How many widows and orphans and cripples have we made? And what about this place? You think the Red Hand appearing here after we seize the city is just some huge coincidence?”

“If we brought it with us then it would have laid us low as well,” Caenis snapped back. “You speak such nonsense sometimes, brother.”