The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country (239 page)

T
hey smelled Beacon long before they saw it. A waft of cooking meat set the famished column shambling downhill through the trees, men slipping and barging and knocking each other over in their haste, sending snow showering. An enterprising hawker had set sticks of meat to cook high up on the slope above the camp. Alas for her, the mercenaries were in no mood to pay and, brushing her protests aside, plundered every shred of gristle as efficiently as a horde of locusts. Even meat as yet uncooked was fought over and wolfed down. One man had his hand pressed into the glowing brazier in the commotion and knelt moaning in the snow, clutching his black-striped palm as Temple laboured past, hugging himself against the cold.

‘What a set o’ men,’ muttered Shy. ‘Richer than Hermon and they’d still rather steal.’

‘Doing wrong gets to be a habit,’ answered Temple, teeth chattering.

The smell of profit must have drifted all the way to Crease because the camp itself was positively booming. Several more barrows had been dug out and several new shacks thrown up and their chimneys busily smoking. More pedlars had set up shop and more whores set down mattress, all crowding happily out to offer succour to the brave conquerors, price lists surreptitiously amended as salesmen noticed, all avaricious amaze, the weight of gold and silver with which the men were burdened.

Cosca was the only one mounted, leading the procession on an exhausted mule. ‘Greetings!’ He delved into his saddlebag and with a carefree flick of the wrist sent a shower of ancient coins into the air. ‘And a happy birthday to you all!’

A stall was toppled, pots and pans clattering as people dived after the pinging coins, huddling about the hooves of the Old Man’s mount and jostling each other like pigeons around a handful of seed. An emaciated fiddler, undeterred by his lack of a full complement of strings, struck up a merry jig and capered among the mercenaries, toothlessly grinning.

Beneath that familiar sign proclaiming
Majud and Curnsbick Metalwork
, to which had been carefully added
Weapons and Armour Manufactured and Repaired
, stood Abram Majud, a couple of hirelings keeping the patent portable forge aglow on a narrow strip of ground behind him.

‘You’ve found a new plot,’ said Temple.

‘A small one. Would you build me a house upon it?’

‘Perhaps later.’ Temple clasped the merchant’s hand, and thought with some nostalgia of an honest day’s work done for a half-honest master. Nostalgia was becoming a favoured hobby of his. Strange, how the best moments of our lives we scarcely notice except in looking back.

‘And are these the children?’ asked Majud, squatting down before Pit and Ro.

‘We found ’em,’ said Shy, without displaying much triumph.

‘I am glad.’ Majud offered the boy his hand. ‘You must be Pit.’

‘I am,’ he said, solemnly shaking.

‘And you, Ro.’

The girl frowned away, and did not answer.

‘She is,’ said Shy. ‘Or . . . was.’

Majud slapped his knees. ‘And I am sure will be again. People change.’

‘You sure?’ asked Temple.

The merchant put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Does not the proof stand before me?’

He was wondering whether that was a joke or a compliment when Cosca’s familiar shriek grated at his ear. ‘Temple!’

‘Your master’s voice,’ said Shy.

Where was the purpose in disputing it? Temple nodded his apologies and slunk off towards the fort like the beaten dog he was. He passed a man ripping a cooked chicken apart with his hands, face slick with grease. Two others fought over a flask of ale, accidentally pulled the stopper, and a third dived between them, mouth open, in a vain effort to catch the spillings. A cheer rang out as a whore was hoisted up on three men’s shoulders, festooned with ancient gold, a coronet clasped lopsided to her head and screeching, ‘I’m the Queen of the fucking Union! I’m the fucking Queen of the fucking Union!’

‘I am glad to see you well.’ Sworbreck clapped him on the arm with what felt like genuine warmth.

‘Alive, at least.’ It had been some time since Temple last felt well.

‘How was it?’

Temple considered that. ‘No stories of heroism for you to record I fear.’

‘I have given up hope of finding any.’

‘I find hope is best abandoned early,’ muttered Temple.

The Old Man was beckoning his three captains into a conspiratorial and faintly unpleasant-smelling huddle in the shadow of Superior Pike’s great fortified wagon.

‘My trusted friends,’ he said, starting, as he would continue, with a lie. ‘We stand upon the heady pinnacle of attainment. But, speaking as one who has often done so, there is no more precarious perch and those that lose their footing have far to fall. Success tests a friendship far more keenly than failure. We must be doubly watchful of the men and triply cautious in our dealings with all outsiders.’

‘Agreed,’ nodded Brachio, jowls trembling.

‘Indeed,’ sneered Dimbik, sharp nose pinked by the cold.

‘God knows it,’ rumbled Jubair, eyes rolling to the sky.

‘How can I fail with three such pillars to support me? The first order of business must be to collect the booty. If we leave it with the men they will have frittered the majority away to these vultures by first light.’

Men cheered as a great butt of wine was tapped, red spots spattering the snow beneath, and began happily handing over ten times the price of the entire barrel for each mug poured.

‘By that time they will probably find themselves in considerable debt,’ observed Dimbik, slicking back a loose strand of hair with a dampened fingertip.

‘I suggest we gather the valuables without delay, then, observed by us all, counted by Sergeant Friendly, notarised by Master Temple, and stored in this wagon under triple-lock.’ And Cosca thumped the solid wood of which the wagon was made as though to advertise the good sense and dependability of his suggestion. ‘Dimbik, set your most loyal men to guard it.’

Brachio watched a fellow swing a golden chain around his head, jewels sparkling. ‘The men won’t hand their prizes over happily.’

‘They never do, but if we stand together and provide enough distractions they will succumb. How many do we number now, Friendly?’

‘One hundred and forty-three,’ said the sergeant.

Jubair shook his heavy head at the faithlessness of mankind. ‘The Company dwindles alarmingly.’

‘We can afford no further desertions,’ said Cosca. ‘I suggest all mounts be gathered, corralled and closely watched by trusted guards.’

‘Risky.’ Brachio scratched worriedly at the crease between his chins. ‘There are some skittish ones among ’em—’

‘That’s horses for you. See it done. Jubair, I want a dozen of your best in position to make sure our little surprise goes to plan.’

‘Already awaiting your word.’

‘What surprise?’ asked Temple. God knew, he was not sure he could endure any further excitement.

The captain general grinned. ‘A surprise shared is no surprise at all. Don’t worry! I feel sure you’ll approve.’ Temple was in no way reassured. His idea of a good thing and Cosca’s intersected less with every passing day. ‘Each to our work, then, while I address the men.’

As he watched his three captains move off, Cosca’s smile slowly faded, leaving him with eyes narrowed to slits of suspicion. ‘I don’t trust those bastards further than I could shit.’

‘No,’ said Friendly.

‘No,’ said Temple. Indeed, the only man he trusted less stood beside him now.

‘I want the two of you to account for the treasure. Every brass bit properly tallied, noted and stored away.’

‘Counted?’ said Friendly.

‘Absolutely, my old friend. And see to it also that there is food and water in the wagon, and a team of horses hitched and at the ready. If things turn . . . ugly here, we may require a swift exit.’

‘Eight horses,’ said Friendly. ‘Four pairs.’

‘Now help me up. I have a speech to make.’

With a great deal of grimacing and grumbling, the Old Man managed to clamber onto the seat and then the roof of the wagon, fists bunched upon its wooden parapet, facing out into the camp. By that stage, those not already thoroughly occupied had begun a chant in his honour, weapons, bottles and half-devoured morsels shaken at the evening sky. Tiring of their burden, they unceremoniously deposed the newly crowned Queen of the Union screeching in the mud and plundered her of her borrowed valuables.

‘Cosca! Cosca! Cosca!’ they roared as the captain general removed his hat, smoothed the white wisps across his pate and spread his arms wide to receive their adulation. Someone seized the beggar’s fiddle and smashed it to pieces, then further ensured his silence with a punch in the mouth.

‘My honoured companions!’ bellowed the Old Man. Time might have dulled some of his faculties but the volume of his voice was unimpaired. ‘We have done well!’ A rousing cheer. Someone threw money in the air, provoking an ugly scuffle. ‘Tonight we celebrate! Tonight we drink, and sing, and revel, as befits a triumph worthy of the heroes of old!’ Further cheers, and brotherly embraces, and slapping of backs. Temple wondered whether the heroes of old would have celebrated the herding of a few dozen ancients from a cliff. More than likely. That’s heroes for you.

Cosca held up a gnarled hand for quiet, eventually achieved aside from the soft sucking sounds of a couple who were beginning the celebrations early. ‘Before the revelry, however, I regret that there must be an accounting.’ An immediate change in mood. ‘Each man will surrender his booty—’ Angry mutterings now broke out. ‘
All
his booty!’ Angrier yet. ‘No swallowed jewels, no coins up arses! No one wants to have to look for them there.’ A few distinct boos. ‘That our majestic haul may be properly valued, recorded, safely kept under triple-lock in this very wagon, to be dispersed as appropriate when we have reached civilisation!’

The mood now verged on the ugly. Temple noted some of Jubair’s men, threading watchfully through the crowd. ‘We start out tomorrow morning!’ roared Cosca. ‘But for tonight each man will receive one hundred marks as a bonus to spend as he sees fit!’ Some amelioration of the upset at that. ‘Let us not spoil our triumph with sour dissent! Remain united, and we can leave this benighted country rich beyond the dreams of greed. Turn against each other, and failure, shame and death will be our just deserts.’ Cosca thumped one fist against his breastplate. ‘I think, as ever, only of the safety of our noble brotherhood! The sooner your booty is tallied, the sooner the fun begins!’

‘What of the rebels?’ rang out a piercing voice. Inquisitor Lorsen was shoving his way through the press towards the wagon, and from the look on his gaunt face the fun would not be starting any time soon. ‘Where are the rebels, Cosca?’

‘The rebels? Ah, yes. The strangest thing. We scoured Ashranc from top to bottom. Would you use the word “scoured”, Temple?’

‘I would,’ said Temple. They had smashed anything that might hold a coin, let alone a rebel.

‘But no sign of them?’ growled Lorsen.

‘We were deceived!’ Cosca thumped the parapet in frustration. ‘Damn, but these rebels are a slippery crowd! The alliance between them and the Dragon People was a ruse.’

‘Their ruse or yours?’

‘Inquisitor, you wrong me! I am as disappointed as you are—’

‘I hardly think so!’ snapped Lorsen. ‘You have lined your own pockets, after all.’

Cosca spread his hands in helpless apology. ‘That’s mercenaries for you.’

A scattering of laughter from the Company but their employer was in no mood to participate. ‘You have made me an accomplice to robbery! To murder! To massacre!’

‘I held no dagger to your neck. Superior Pike did ask for chaos, as I recall—’

‘To a purpose! You have perpetrated mindless slaughter!’

‘Mind
ful
slaughter would surely be even worse?’ Cosca burst out in a chuckle but Lorsen’s black-masked Practicals, scattered about the shadows, lacked all sense of humour.

The Inquisitor waited for silence. ‘Do you believe in anything?’

‘Not if I can help it. Belief alone is nothing to be proud of, Inquisitor. Belief without evidence is the very hallmark of the savage.’

Lorsen shook his head in amazement. ‘You truly are disgusting.’

‘I would be the last to disagree, but you fail to see that you are worse. No man capable of greater evil than the one who thinks himself in the right. No purpose more evil than the higher purpose. I freely admit I am a villain. That’s why you hired me. But I am no hypocrite.’ Cosca gestured at the ragged remnants of his Company, fallen silent to observe the confrontation. ‘I have mouths to feed. You could just go home. If you are set on doing good, make something to be proud of. Open a bakery. Fresh bread every morning, there’s a noble cause!’

Inquisitor Lorsen’s thin lip curled. ‘There truly is nothing in you of what separates man from animal, is there? You are bereft of conscience. An utter absence of morality. You have no principle beyond the selfish.’

Cosca’s face hardened as he leaned forwards. ‘Perhaps when you have faced as many disappointments and suffered as many betrayals as I, you will see it – there is no principle beyond the selfish, Inquisitor, and men
are
animals. Conscience is a burden we choose to bear. Morality is the lie we tell ourselves to make its bearing easier. There have been many times in my life when I have wished it was not so. But it is so.’

Lorsen slowly nodded, bright eyes fixed on Cosca. ‘There will be a price for this.’

‘I am counting on it. Though it seems an almost ludicrous irrelevance now, Superior Pike promised me fifty thousand marks.’

‘For the capture of the rebel leader Conthus!’

‘Indeed. And there he is.’

There was a scraping of steel, a clicking of triggers, a rattling of armour as a dozen of Jubair’s men stepped forward. A circle of drawn swords, loaded flatbows, levelled polearms all suddenly pointed in towards Lamb, Sweet, Shy and Savian. Gently, Majud drew the wideeyed children close to him.

‘Master Savian!’ called Cosca. ‘I deeply regret that I must ask you to lay down your weapons. Any and all, if you please!’