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‘Hark, old friend, do you hear something amiss?’
‘Crows will chatter,’ the other replied. ‘Why, I once held a blade that did nothing but complain. Eager to cut, but chafing in the misery of peace.’
‘What fate that weapon, Prazek?’
‘Seduced by rust, in the manner of retired soldiers, sagging prostitutes and decrepit bards with wavering voices. All things end in their time, Dathenar.’
‘But swords that chortle in the midst of mayhem, Prazek, surely that is untoward?’
‘Promises to the enemy,’ Prazek replied, halting his mount and leaning on his saddle horn as he surveyed the prisoners. ‘I’ve a mind to take such a blade and, indeed, to wear both the armour and its dreadful avowal. Someone must speak for the madness of civil war, after all, and if such a war is to have a voice, then these weapons will suit.’
Dathenar reined in and slipped down from his horse. He adjusted his heavy gauntlets. ‘Uncanny amusement is to make a song of our sad state of affairs? Well suited indeed. You there! Ready for me a fine weapon!’ He strode easily towards the wagon. ‘Let it be one that shrieks on my behalf! Let it crow in the manner of … of …’
‘Crows,’ suggested Prazek.
‘Of crows! Bleak and black above battles just done, outraged by bounty, furious with excess. Trapped between glee and grief, between the empty belly and salvation. Such weapons surely know how to survive, enough to crown the sky with midnight hues. Promises, you say, Prazek? Imagine the quavering knees among the enemy, there in their trembling line – why, the justice of their cause, as they might see it, shrinks like a sac of nuts in ice water. While we stand before them, hands upon engorged grips, swords climbing from slick scabbards—’
‘Dathenar! You filade the charming gender of half these soldiers here! What of the round-faced and sweet-eyed, the buxom and the ample, the curved icons of aesthetic perfection?’
Dathenar accepted a sword and scabbard. He drew the weapon with a flourish. It screamed. ‘What is this? Am I so ugly as to elicit terror?’
‘Not your visage, friend. Perhaps your breath.’
‘Impossible! I speak with rose petals upon my tongue. It’s a habit of discourse. But, if I understand you, Prazek, you spoke of women.’
‘My weakness, yes.’
‘It is surely their strength that makes you weak.’
‘That, and the unmanning fear of mystery.’
‘Then, for a woman here to take hold of such a sword, pommel glistening and iron stiff with anticipation, why, would she not prove far more fearless than any man at her side? Will not the blade shiver in deafening horror at her willingness to see it tested?’
‘Tested and tried, blunted and nicked, made limp if such a thing were possible. I now see your point, Dathenar.’
‘There are points and then there are points. I am now eager for loud armour, if only to invite a clash of opinions.’
‘Elegance was ever your suit, Dathenar. By fine tailoring and cloth’s perfect cut, by colours in subtle complement and boots of profound polish, you are ever the envy of others.’
‘Grace is an acquisition, Prazek, though it demands a mindful application. Only by practice am I born to it, as natural as the coiled and perfumed curls upon my head.’
‘And when your helm howls, Dathenar? How will you answer?’
‘With a smile, friend, as befits my supreme confidence. You, quartermaster! Is it not time for an unveiling of armour? Your officers need timely garb, with your clerks no doubt eager to allot names to kit, in even rows to prove salient organization, and scrolls coded by the colour of their wax, or some such thing. Look at me, sir! Do I not stand as if naked here?’
Standing close beside Galar Baras, Wareth muttered a disbelieving curse. ‘Commander? Who are these fools?’
Smiling, Galar Baras shook his head. ‘An unexpected blessing, Wareth. But even so, I did not expect Lord Anomander to be so … generous.’
‘Sir?’
‘The two finest officers from his Houseblades, Wareth. Lieutenants Prazek and Dathenar.’
Two of Seltin’s assistants had appeared, carrying between them a hide-wrapped bundle. They reached Dathenar and set it down at his feet.
‘Well, unwrap it now, will you, good sirs?’
The prisoners crowded still closer, although this time something had changed. No longer threatening. Urged forward instead by curiosity, and something of the pleasure that might attend the performance of mummers or jesters.
