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‘You first, and then Rebble and then Listar, sir. Us cats set you apart, sir. The three of you. You didn’t know it – not until now, I suppose – but you had the cats of your pit with you from that moment. Now, every pit’s cats know it, and they’re with you, too.’
‘You’re heading for disappointment, Rance. Warn them. Warn them all.’
‘We know you’re clever, sir.’
‘How? How do you know that?’
She studied him for a long moment, and then offered him a most peculiar and baffling smile, before rising to her feet. ‘I just thought I should let you know, sir, about them wanting to see me tomorrow. You see, I know they’re clever, far too clever, I suppose. Like you, only not like you. They see no value in wasting time. In any case, sir, you now have some time to think on finding a new sergeant to replace me. That’s what I was here to say, sir.’
He watched her leave the tent. What was all that? They’re not dismissing her. They wouldn’t do it that way. They have something else in mind. I’ll find out when she does, in the morning.
In the meantime, why didn’t I swing that conversation back to the careless cock?
This was what came of being exhausted. A dulled wit was blind to nuance, even the hint of possible innuendo, when it offered that narrow trail between empty charm and crass invitation. But then, how many years had it been since he’d last played such games? And what of Rance? Dreams of intimacy might feel deadly to a woman who took love into her hands, then drowned it. Abyss take me, these are venal thoughts. That I dare imagine her and me together – that I dare upend the world’s rightful order, to believe that either of us deserves such a thing.
Murderer and coward upon the one hand, child-slayer upon the other. Not for them tender moments, nor soft laughter, nor sweet pleasures. Not for them anything like love, or the wanting of happiness, and how deep the outrage, should they seek contentment.
No, these are the privileges of the innocent.
For surely they must be innocent, to desire for themselves such privileges, and then claim them as their right.
But for us who are guilty, the desire itself is a crime. That we should dare such things for ourselves, for whatever wrecked remnant is left in our lives.
Forget Rance. Forget anything playful. Eschew every soft thought, Wareth. Not for you and not for her. Not, indeed, for the new Hust Legion.
The weapons and armour can laugh for us, since they exist without guilt, and know nothing of blame.
His gaze strayed across to where his scabbarded sword hung from a peg in the centre pole. Barring you, of course. You know me too well. You delight in our reunion, if only to anticipate and then witness my final fall. How you will delight in orchestrating your vengeance. I know it is coming, old friend. And for all that I betrayed in you, why, I welcome it.
It was time to douse the lamps, and make of these walls something opaque and impenetrable. If there was one trait he did not share with other cowards, it was his utter absence of fear when in darkness. He knew it well as a state in which he could hide, silent, unseen.
Yet Mother Dark would strip that from us. Give us eyes to pierce any gloom. Many may consider that a blessing, an end to the fear of what cannot be seen, what cannot be known. Is it only fear that makes us pray for answers? What do we lose by not knowing? Not understanding?
Lamps doused, he sat on the cot, wishing that he were blind inside and out. Bless me with darkness if you must, but make it the blessing of not seeing. Do that, Mother Dark, and I will serve you. There are times, as you must well know, when ignorance is no enemy.
* * *
Galar Baras found Toras Redone standing near a shuttered window, shrouded in gloom. The window was one of the tall, narrow ones that looked out upon the forges. Its copper shutters were old and pitted, the edges of each slat rippled and uneven, and the faint glow coming through was the blue of a moonless night. He could see, by those liquid ribbons painted upon her, that she was naked.
Inactivity had softened her form. There was nothing visible of the hardness that came with a life of soldiering. Rolls of flesh sagged over the points of her hips, burying them deep. The drink had bulged her belly, which in turn emphasized the arch of her back beneath rounded shoulders. She stood in profile, curled, her breasts pushed out and resting upon the fat below them. The faint blue rows of light tracked her form like an arcane script, its style both melodic and drunken.
She had cut her hair short, which paradoxically made her head and face seem more feminine. After a long moment, she turned her gaze to him. ‘Galar Baras. Like the rising sun you were. Swift to touch on my intent, swifter still in striking the darkness from my hand. I recall falling to my knees. I recall eating bitter soil. You’d think it sweet, wouldn’t you? Wine and earth, or, rather, wine and dust. Whatever the poison, it must have been tasteless. Anyway, I cannot for the life of me determine what it was I found so bitter, so cruelly tart upon my tongue.’
‘Commander,’ said Galar Baras, ‘could we return to that morning, and had I truly comprehended what had happened, well, I might have hesitated … long enough.’
In swinging round to face him, the rows of blue script flowed as if painted on a silk curtain stirred awake by a draught. ‘I doubt that,’ she said.
‘Will you now return to us, commander? We have need of you.’
‘How will he see me now, do you think?’ She slowly raised heavy arms. ‘Not the woman he married, to be sure. The thing is, and I see it well in your eyes, you look upon all of this and imagine it soft as pillows. What you’ve yet to experience, lover, is the weight of it. Too solid to be a pillow, I assure you.’ She then reached out as if to accept his hand. ‘Come, let me show you.’
‘Toras—’
‘Ah! Is this the truth of it then? You imagine disgust in my husband’s face, and it twists you away from desire. Even the kiss of temptation proves suddenly sour. And what of wickedness? Did we not both delight in that? No longer, I see. Now you would stand before me, an officer with a duty to decorum, shouting your propriety with every crisp salute.’ Her hand beckoned him again. ‘Come along, lover, let’s dispel your fantasies and then we’ll be done with it, and you can beg again for my return to the Legion. Do this, Galar Baras, and I will reconsider my future.’
She was sober, or at least as sober as he might ever expect her to be. Grief, he supposed, had muted her habit of grand gestures. Or perhaps it was simply that there was more of her, the weight adding sloth to her practised indolence.
None of this should have attracted him. None of this should have awakened his hunger for her.
