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Oh, it could be. It was. None of the trappings, girded and stout, could truly hide the white, unstained banners carried by so many into battle.
But to think on it was to feel one’s own heart breaking, breaking and breaking. ‘Never mind those young faces striving to look fierce, or dangerous. Never mind the mimicry they attempt, to appear wizened, wearied, unaffected. All of that, darling, is a mask turned both inward and out, convincing neither. Focus with purpose here, upon those white, pristine banners.
‘And think, if you dare, of those who sent them into battle. Think, Serap, as I cannot. Must not. But if we draw too close, you and me, if we press on with this silent conversation, one of us will flinch in the end. And flee.
‘To silence’s end, closed out with empty conversations, or tankards of ale, or men into whose lap you will slide with laughter and promise. Into company, then, and the filling of this moment. Filling unto bursting, eager to flow over into the next moment, and the next…’
Solitude demanded courage. She knew that now. The crazed revellers displayed their cowardice in that wild and insistent commune with anything and everything: that incessant need to blend in, and among, and keep forever at bay the howling silence of being alone. But she would not yield to contempt, for she could see in their need something she knew well.
Despair.
Despair is the secret language of every generation in waiting. And you find it in the face of every innocent soul, as it marches into its embattled future. While the rest of us, innocent no longer, look on with blank, indifferent eyes.
She sat alone at her table, in the gloom and smoke, and on all sides, white banners waved in the silence.
A short while later, two soldiers entered the tavern. There had been a time, not long ago, when Urusander’s discipline was like a fist closed about his legion. Propriety and courtesy ruled the behaviour of his charges, when on duty or not.
But Hunn Raal was no Vatha Urusander. The lessons the captain had learned from his battles in the past fell upon the wrong side of propriety, and made mockery of courtesy. Of course, he was far from alone in this sour aftermath, where cynicism and contempt stalked the veteran soldier, and if she gave it some thought, Serap found herself skirting dangerous notions about the worth of things, and the true cost of war.
The newcomers swaggered in, inviting challenge. They were not entirely sober, but neither were they as drunk as they let on.
Settled back in her chair, in shadows, Serap remained undetected by the two men as they strode to the bar.
‘I smell Deniers,’ one of the soldiers said, gesturing at the barkeep. ‘Ale, and none of that watered-down piss you’re offering everyone else in here.’
‘There’s but one keg,’ the barkeep said, shrugging. ‘If you don’t like what I serve, you can always leave.’
The other soldier grunted a laugh. ‘Aye, we could. Not saying we will, though.’
Farmhands at a nearby table were pushing back their chairs. Brothers, Serap decided, four in all. Burly, too poor to drink enough to get drunk, they now stirred, disgruntled as bears.
The barkeep set two tankards down and asked for payment, but neither soldier offered up any coins. They collected their tankards and drank.
The four brothers now stood, and the scrape of chairs brought the two soldiers around. Both men were smiling as they reached for their swords.
‘Want to play, then?’ the first soldier asked, drawing his blade.
On seeing the weapon, the brothers hesitated at their table. None carried weapons of any sort.
Serap rose, stepped out from the gloom. When the soldiers saw her, their expressions went flat. She approached them.
‘Sir,’ the second soldier said. ‘It wasn’t going anywhere.’
‘Oh but it was,’ Serap replied. ‘It was going right where you wanted it to go. How many are waiting outside?’
The man started, and then of
fered her a lopsided grin. ‘There’s been rumours, sir, of Deniers, hanging out in the town. Spies.’
The first soldier added, ‘Had a squad-mate get stabbed nearby, sir, just the other night. He never saw who jumped him. We’re fishing for knives, that’s all.’
‘Hebla got himself stuck by a fellow soldier,’ Serap said. ‘The man cheats at knuckles, a game none of the locals can afford to play with Legion soldiers. What company are you two in?’
‘Ninth, sir, in Hallyd Bahann’s Silvers.’
‘His Silvers.’ Serap smiled. ‘How Hallyd likes his pompous nicknames.’
The second soldier said, ‘We’ll be sure to let our captain know how you feel about them nicknames, sir.’
