Return of the Crimson Guard (83 page)

Tinsmith looked to each of them, cleared his throat. ‘We'll have to wait our turn to off-load. Cawn's as bare as Hood's bones, so we'll shoulder what rations we have left and march right on out. Orders are to make six leagues a day—’

‘Six leagues!’ Nait squawked. ‘After sitting on our backsides for so long?’

‘Put
Captain
after your whining,’ Hands snarled.

‘And another thing,’ Nait continued, ‘everyone's a sergeant around here. Hands, Least, Lim, Honey Boy—’

‘That's Honey, now.’

‘Yeah, fine,
Sergeant Honey.
Why ain't I a sergeant too?’

‘’Cause you lead our saboteurs, Corporal,’ growled Master Sergeant Temp. ‘And no saboteur rises to the dizzy heights of a sergeancy.’

‘I heard o’ one or two.’

‘Then show me what you got

Nait looked away from the veteran's icy pale eyes, waggled his head mouthing,
‘show me what you got’

‘We are part of one battalion of the Fourth's heavies,’ Tinsmith continued, stroking his long silver moustache with a thumb and forefinger. ‘The iron core of this army. Now, we got us hardly any cavalry to speak of, some spotty noblemen, a few mounted scouts. What we do got is thousands of skirmishers, light infantry – enough cross-bowmen to depopulate a country. That's the hand we've been dealt. So, what to do? They need a centre, an anchor. That's us. The ferocity of their fire will wither any force stupid enough to show their heads like they did the Guard, and will do to any cavalry. But when we do hit strong resistance, they'll melt through us to the rear and reform. We don't melt. We hold. Understood? So, all the old veterans,’ Tinsmith inclined his head to the Master Sergeant, ‘they sent a contingent to High Fist Anand – and the Sword, Korbolo Dom, too of course—’

Nait blew a farting noise.

‘To hash things out,’ Tinsmith continued blithely, ‘an’ what they came up with is four main battle groups, mutually supporting, each anchored by a battalion of heavies. The Sword has the lead one, o’ course. Braven Tooth will command us on the left. The right flanking battalion is under Fist D'Ebbin, and High Fist Anand co-ordinates from the rear. Now, the lot of you might think that the Master Sergeant here was just to train you up, but I'm sure you'll all be right pleased to know that he'll be the anchoring right corner shieldman on the front line.’

Nait eyed the old veteran; sure, he looked tough, but him march six leagues in a day? The geezer'll drop and he'll be sure to step on him on the way past.

‘You sergeants,’ Tinsmith added, ‘you have your men follow his lead. Stand with him, follow his orders and I guarantee you our ranks will hold. That's all for now. Dismissed.’

‘One last thing, Captain,’ the old-timer threw in, his scarred cheek
pulling up in a one-sided smile, ‘while we're out here on this beautiful day waiting for our turn to off-load …’ Nait caught Honey's gaze, rolled his eyes. ‘… I thought I might have the men and women practise some close order drills.’

Tinsmith smoothed his moustache to hide his smile. ‘All yours, Master Sergeant.’

From the rear ranks of the Imperial retinue of court functionaries, it appeared to Possum that the Empress was in a hurry. Marines formed in parade ranks guarded the wharf where a glittering crowd of nobles and functionaries, Possum included, awaited the Imperial presence. All the usual ceremonies and speeches of reception had been waived. Behind the ranks of marines the citizens of Cawn stood waiting, silent and – Possum had to admit – looking rather downtrodden and desultory. But then, the town had just been sacked. She appeared at the top of the gangway without fanfare or announcement – just one more passenger disembarking, yet Possum was surprised by the collective inhalation from the Cawnese that her appearance evoked.
How could they have known?
She wore no finery, no crown or tiara; no sceptre weighted her arms; nor was she carried by palanquin or raised throne. No, she merely stepped up unannounced, wearing only her plain silk tunic and pantaloons. Her hair was short, mousey-brown and touched by grey; her face, well, plain, and rather sour in its tight thin mouth, lined at the eyes and brow.

Yet everyone knew it was
her.
Perhaps it was the glance she cast over the waterfront and all assembled. Severe. Utterly assured. And frankly rather disappointed with what it saw. The nobles knelt followed by the citizens. The marines saluted.

She did receive the local factors of the Cawn trading houses: they were allowed to crawl forward on their knees like a gaggle of beggars on the street. She acknowledged their abject loyalty with a brief inclination of her head, then was assisted by a groom in mounting her horse. Everyone else then mounted, and the whole cavalcade set off, the screen of cavalry, the honour-guard, the Empress and her bodyguard accompanied by High Fist Anand and staff, the court retinue following along, Possum among them. The other High Fist, Korbolo Dom, also Sword of the Empire, was where he insisted upon being, leading the van, where everyone seemed content to leave him. For his part Possum was dressed in rich silks, Untan duelling sword at his side. He played the part of a minor noble whose job was to sneer haughtily at anyone gauche enough to ask him what position it was he actually filled.

As he rode along, he spotted operatives standing alongside the road. From signs from them he learned that Cawn had been secured, that spies left behind by Urko had been identified, and that the deal that Ranath, the region's old chief of intelligence, had proposed to Possum had been accepted. The deal was a sweet one and would double Laseen's forces – eventually – but its appearance out of seemingly nowhere troubled him. What had Ranath been up to lately? Where had the intelligence behind the deal come from? And yet, was it not the man's job? Why question him for being competent and resourceful? Was he, Possum, now the sort of leader who dreaded talent among his subordinates? Had he not in fact deliberately cultivated the opposite managerial style? Did he not signal in so many ways to his subordinates that ways and means were of no interest to him so long as the job got done? That they could count on him appearing only when things got botched up? He forced himself to ease back further into his role, flexed his neck and glanced – scornfully – around at the efforts the Cawnese were making in demolishing and rebuilding their city. His gaze fell on the rider next to him and he was startled to see there, dressed in the cream flowing robes and headscarf of a Seven Cities noblewoman, Coil, the most insolent of the five commanders who constituted his second echelon.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

An arched brow, a regal wave to the surroundings. ‘Is this not delicious? Is it not bracing to be out in the field once again?’

Glancing about, Possum smiled thinly. ‘Indeed it is. I am reminded of the old days, my more
active
times.’

The woman's painted lips could just be made out curling behind the sheer scarf. ‘It seems to me that you should have been getting out much more often all this time.’

It seems to me that both of us were damned lucky not to have been on Malaz just recently.
But he inclined his head in assent to the point.
Whatever it is she's getting at
–
yet more useless taunting, no doubt.
‘But we are not here on a pleasure outing.’

‘No. Sadly not. We have the Guard before us and the insurrectionists and their traitor ringleaders. A tall order for anyone, yes?’

What was the fool getting at? She knew as well as he that Laseen in no way intended to actually fight the Guard if she could avoid it. So, the ringleaders. He glanced away, touched a silk handkerchief to his nose. Yes, a tall order. And what order? Or orders? ‘Our primary concern is the safety of the Empress, of course.’

For a mounted rider, Coil performed an admirable curtsied bow,
and reined to fall back. Possum turned away.
So – has she just announced herself as the source of all these initiatives and unexplained actions on the part of so many of the Claw? All running through here? Sadly for her I cannot risk not acting. There cannot be a parallel command structure. I should strike now, but I cannot forget what lies ahead. After all that, woman, should you still be alive … I'll kill you myself.

* * *

Captain Tazal, career soldier, of no famous family, newly installed, marched up to the Throne room of Unta, helmet under one arm, hand on the grip of his sword, and sweat slick on his brow. Guards opened the doors and entering he bowed just within the threshold. Raising his head he saw the throne empty, draped in a white satin cloth –
of course, fool!
He glanced about. Aside, rinsing his hands in a washbowl, he saw the current authority in the absence of the Empress, Mallick Rel, spokesperson of the Assembly.

Mallick turned from the bowl, dried his hands in a white cloth. ‘You have news, Captain, of this barbarian stain offending our lands?’

Our lands?
But Tazal carefully held all emotion from his bearded face. ‘Fortress Jurda has capitulated. Insufficient garrison to withstand an assault.’

The Assemblyman held out the cloth and a servant took it. He clasped his hands across his wide stomach. He glanced down as if studying them. ‘I see. And whose decision was this to make?’

The captain sought to disguise a frown. What was this? Retribution? ‘The commander, the current Lord Jurda.’

‘Competent?’

‘In my view? Yes.’

‘Unfortunate …’

How so unfortunate? Unfortunate that the fortress has capitulated? Or unfortunate for the commander that he capitulated without permission? Or unfortunate for you that thousands of Wickan were now storming down upon you howling for your blood? Or, to give the Assemblyman some credit, unfortunate that a competent military commander viewed the situation so hopeless he capitulated?
The captain wiped a sleeve across his brow, striving to keep his face flat. The man did appear admirably calm given the hole he'd dug for himself. Made of strong stuff, this fat conniver.

Still lowered, the Assemblyman's gaze slanted aside to the
unoccupied throne. His pale round face appeared even more bloated. The Sword of the Empire has left for the west, Captain. What advice would you offer us?’

Us?
From all accounts the captain had heard of this self-proclaimed Sword it was damned lucky the man was in the west and not with them. Then the captain realized the enormity of what had just been requested.
Good Soliel! Here he was, a mere garrison commander just raised to captain, never dreaming of seeing the inside of the throneroom, being asked for advice from the most powerful man in the Empire? Well, at least his wife will be pleased. Yet what on Burn's Earth should he, or could he, say to the man? Perhaps, as his father used to say, if you're going to get drunk, might as well throw in the whole deck.
He coughed into a fist to clear his throat. One war at a time, sir. Their timing is exquisite. We can't beat them. We must negotiate. Buy them off. Deal with them later.’

Sallow eyes still on the throne, the Assemblyman's thick lips pursed. His fingers, entwined across his stomach, stirred restlessly, reminding the captain of some sort of pale undersea creature. The urge to lash out is almost overwhelming,‘ the man muttered almost as if he'd forgotten the captain's presence. ‘Exterminating these vermin from the face of the world my most dear wish …’ Tazal wondered if he ought to hear any of this yet he dared not say anything, or even breathe. Mallick announced more loudly: Tactical frankness is like a smooth clean cut in battle, captain – much appreciated. I cannot dispute the straight thrust of your thinking. Ruthless cold pragmatism. Refreshing.’ He nodded to himself as if what he'd heard confirmed his own thoughts. ‘Yes. We will send an envoy to open negotiations.’

Tazal clashed a fist to his newly fitted cuirass. The envoy, Assemblyman?’

The fingers stopped weaving. ‘Why, yourself, of course. Promoted under my authority to the rank of Fist.’

After the captain exited the Throne room and the doors closed Mallick also left, but by a small side door, leaving behind the court functionaries, clerks and servants for a small private audience chamber. After a moment Oryan entered the room by another door. Mallick fixed the dark-skinned, tattooed man with a long hard stare. ‘Why, servant of mine, are you still here?’

The old man remained unperturbed, his long dark face impassive. The Wickans are not important enough.’