‘You’re drunk!’ complained the big man, staggering to his feet and brushing at himself with big, drunken hands, knocking his stool over in the process. A few of the other patrons eyed their table with evident disdain.
‘Alwaysh,’ giggled Kaspa.
West looked up briefly from his glass. ‘You’re both drunk.’
‘Not our fault.’ Jalenhorm groped for his stool. ‘It’s him!’ He pointed an unsteady finger at Jezal.
‘He won!’ gurgled Kaspa. ‘You won, didn’t you, and now we got to celebrate!’
Jezal wished they didn’t have to celebrate quite so much. It was becoming embarrassing.
‘My cousin Ariss wa’ there—saw whole thing. She was ver’ impressed.’ Kaspa flung his arm round Jezal’s shoulder. ‘Think she’s quite shmitten with you . . . shmitten . . . shmitten.’ He worked his wet lips in Jezal’s face, trying to get his mouth round the word. ‘She’s ver’ rich you know, ver’ rich indeed. Shmitten.’
Jezal wrinkled his nose. He had not the slightest interest in that ghostly simpleton of a cousin, however rich she was, and Kaspa’s breath stank. ‘Good . . . lovely.’ He disentangled himself from the Lieutenant and shoved him away, none too gently.
‘So, when are we starting on this business in the North?’ demanded Brint, a little too loud, as though he for one couldn’t wait to get underway. ‘Soon I hope, home before winter, eh, Major?’
‘Huh,’ snorted West, frowning to himself, ‘we’ll be lucky to have left before winter, the rate we’re going.’
Brint looked a little taken aback. ‘Well, I’m sure we’ll give these savages a thrashing, whenever we get there.’
‘Give ’em a thrashing!’ cried Kaspa.
‘Aye.’ Jalenhorm nodded his agreement.
West was not in the mood. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Have you seen the state of some of these levies? They can hardly walk, let alone fight. It’s a disgrace.’
Jalenhorm dismissed all this with an angry wave of his hand. ‘They’re nothing but fucking savages, the lot of ’em! We’ll knock ’em on their arses, like Jezal did that idiot today, eh, Jezal? Home before winter, everyone says so!’
‘Do you know the land up there?’ asked West, leaning across the table. ‘Forests, mountains, rivers, on and on. Precious little open space to fight in, precious few roads to march on. You’ve got to catch a man before the thrashing can start. Home before winter? Next winter, maybe, if we come back at all.’
Brint’s eyes were wide open and horrified. ‘You can’t mean that!’
‘No . . . no, you’re right.’ West sighed and shook himself. ‘I’m sure it’ll all turn out fine. Glory and promotions all round. Home before winter. I’d take a coat with you though, just in case.’
An uneasy silence descended on the group. West had that hard frown on his face that he got sometimes, the frown that said they’d get no more fun out of him tonight. Brint and Jalenhorm looked puzzled and surly. Only Kaspa maintained his good humour, and he was lolling back in his chair, eyes half closed, blissfully unaware of his surroundings.
Some celebration.
Jezal himself felt tired, annoyed, and worried. Worried about the Contest, worried about the war . . . worried about Ardee. The letter was still there, folded up in his pocket. He glanced sidelong at West, then quickly away. Damn, he felt guilty. He had never really felt guilty before, and he didn’t like it one bit. If he didn’t meet her, he would feel guilty for leaving her on her own. If he did, he’d feel guilty for breaking his word to West. It was a dilemma alright. Jezal chewed at his thumb-nail. What the hell was it about this damn family?
‘Well,’ said West sharply, ‘I have to be going. Early start tomorrow.’
‘Mmm,’ muttered Brint.
‘Right,’ said Jalenhorm.
West looked Jezal right in the eye. ‘Can I have a word?’ His expression was serious, grave, angry even. Jezal’s heart lurched. What if West had found out about the letter? What if Ardee had told him? The Major turned away, moved over towards a quiet corner. Jezal stared around, desperately seeking for some way out.
‘Jezal!’ called West.
‘Yes, yes.’ He got up with the greatest reluctance and followed his friend, flashing what he hoped was an innocent-seeming smile. Perhaps it was something else. Nothing to do with Ardee. Please let it be something else.
‘I don’t want anyone else to know about this . . .’ West looked round to make sure no one was watching. Jezal swallowed. Any moment now he would get a punch in the face. At least one. He had never been punched in the face, not properly. A girl slapped him pretty hard once, but that was hardly the same. He prepared himself as best he could, gritting his teeth, wincing slightly. ‘Burr has set a date. We’ve got four weeks.’
Jezal stared back. ‘What?’
‘Until we embark.’
‘Embark?’
‘For Angland, Jezal!’
‘Oh, yes . . . Angland, of course! Four weeks you say?’
‘I thought you ought to know, since you’re busy with the Contest, so you’d have time to get ready. Keep it to yourself, though.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Jezal wiped his sweaty forehead.
‘You alright? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine, fine.’ He took a deep breath. ‘All this excitement, you know, the fencing and . . . everything.’
‘Don’t worry, you did well today.’ West clapped him on the shoulder. ‘But there’s a lot more to do. Three more bouts before you can call yourself a champion, and they’ll only get harder. Don’t get lazy, Jezal—and don’t get too drunk!’ he threw over his shoulder as he made for the door. Jezal breathed a long sigh of relief as he returned to the table where the others were sitting. His nose was still intact.
Brint had already started to complain, now he could see that West wasn’t coming back. ‘What the hell was all that?’ he asked, frowning and jabbing his thumb at the door. ‘I mean to say, well, I know he’s supposed to be the big hero and all of that but, well, I mean to say!’
Jezal stared down at him. ‘What do you mean to say?’
‘Well, to talk that way! It’s, it’s defeatist!’ The drink was lending him courage now, and he was warming to his topic. ‘It’s . . . well, I mean to say . . . it’s cowardly talk is what it is!’
‘Now, look here, Brint,’ snapped Jezal, ‘he fought in three pitched battles, and he was first through the breach at Ulrioch! He may not be a nobleman, but he’s a damn courageous fellow! Added to that he knows soldiering, he knows Marshal Burr, and he knows Angland! What do you know, Brint?’ Jezal curled his lip. ‘Except how to lose at cards and empty a wine bottle?’
‘That’s all a man needs to know in my book,’ laughed Jalenhorm nervously, doing his best to calm the situation. ‘More wine!’ he bellowed at no one in particular.
Jezal dropped down on his stool. If the company had been subdued before West left, it was even more so now. Brint was sulking. Jalenhorm was swaying on his stool. Kaspa had fallen soundly asleep, sprawled out on the wet table top, his breathing making quiet slurping sounds.
Jezal drained his wine glass, and stared round at the unpromising faces. Damn, he was bored. It was a fact, he was only now beginning to realise, that the conversation of the drunk is only interesting to the drunk. A few glasses of wine can be the difference between finding a man a hilarious companion or an insufferable moron. He wondered if he himself was as tedious drunk as Kaspa, or Jalenhorm, or Brint.
Jezal gave a thin smile as he looked over at the sulking bastard. If he were King, he mused, he would punish poor conversation with death, or at least a lengthy prison term. He stood up from his chair.
Jalenhorm stared up at him. ‘What you doing?’
‘Better get some rest,’ snapped Jezal, ‘need to train tomorrow.’ It was the most he could do not to just run out of the place.
‘But you won! Ain’t you going to celebrate?’
‘First round. I’ve still three more men to beat, and they�
��ll all be better than that oaf today.’ Jezal took his coat from the back of the chair and pulled it over his shoulders.
‘Suit self,’ said Jalenhorm, then slurped noisily from his glass.
Kaspa raised his head from the table for a moment, hair on one side plastered to his skull with spilled wine. ‘Going sho shoon?’
‘Mmm,’ said Jezal as he turned and stalked out.
There was a cold wind blowing in the street outside. It made him feel even more sober than before. Painfully sober. He badly needed some intelligent company, but where could he find it at this time of night? There was only one place he could think of.
He slipped the letter out of his pocket and read it in the dim light from the tavern’s windows, just one more time. If he hurried he might still catch her. He began to walk slowly towards the Four Corners. Just to talk, that was all. He needed someone to talk to . . .
No. He forced himself to stop. Could he truly pretend that he wanted to be her friend? A friendship between a man and a woman was what you called it when one had been pursuing the other for a long time, and had never got anywhere. He had no interest in that arrangement.
What then? Marriage? To a girl with no blood and no money? Unthinkable! He imagined bringing Ardee home to meet his family. Here is my new wife, father! Wife? And her connections are? He shuddered at the thought.
But what if they could find something in between, where everyone would be comfortable? His feet began slowly to move. Not friendship, not marriage, but some looser arrangement? He strode down the road towards the Four Corners. They could meet discreetly, and talk, and laugh, somewhere with a bed maybe . . .
No. No. Jezal stopped again and slapped the side of his head in frustration. He couldn’t let that happen, even supposing she would. West was one thing, but what if other people found out? It wouldn’t hurt his reputation any, of course, but hers would be ruined. Ruined. His flesh crept at the thought. She didn’t deserve that, surely. It wasn’t good enough to say it was her problem. Not good enough. Just so he could have a little fun? The selfishness of it. He was amazed that it had never occurred to him before.
So he had reasoned himself into a corner then, just as he had done ten times already today: nothing good could come from seeing her. They would be away to war soon anyway, and that would put an end to his ridiculous pining. Home to bed then, and train all day tomorrow. Train and train until Marshal Varuz had battered her out of his thoughts. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, turned and set off towards the Agriont.
The statue of Harod the Great loomed out of the darkness on a marble plinth almost as tall as Jezal, seeming far too big and grand for its quiet little square near the Four Corners. He had been jumping at shadows all the way here, avoiding people, doing his best to be inconspicuous. There weren’t many people around though. It was late, and most likely Ardee would have given up waiting a long time ago, provided she was even there to begin with.
He crept nervously around the statue, peering into the shadows, feeling an absolute fool. He had walked through this square many times before and never given it a second thought. Was it not a public space after all? He had as much right as anyone to be here, but somehow he still felt like a thief.
The square was empty. That was a good thing. All for the best. There was nothing to gain, everything to lose, and so forth. So why did he feel so completely crushed? He stared up at Harod’s face, locked into that stony frown that sculptors reserve for the truly great. He had a fine, strong jaw, did Harod, almost the equal of Jezal’s own.
‘Wake up!’ hissed a voice by his ear. Jezal let vent to a girlish squeal, scrambled away, tripped, only stayed upright by clawing at King Harod’s enormous foot. There was a dark figure behind him, a hooded figure.
Laughter. ‘No need to piss yourself.’ Ardee. She pushed back her hood. Light from a window slanted across the bottom part of her face, catching her lop-sided smile. ‘It’s only me.’
‘I didn’t see you,’ he mumbled pointlessly, quickly releasing his desperate grip on the huge stone foot and doing his best to appear at ease. He had to admit it was a poor start. He had no talent for this cloak-and-dagger business. Ardee seemed quite comfortable, though. It made him wonder whether she hadn’t done it all before.
‘You’ve been pretty hard to see yourself, lately,’ she said.
‘Well, er,’ he muttered, heart still thumping from the shock, ‘I’ve been busy, what with the Contest and all . . .’
‘Ah, the all-important Contest. I saw you fight today.’
‘You did?’
‘Very impressive.’
‘Er, thank you, I—’
‘My brother said something, didn’t he?’
‘What, about fencing?’
‘No, numbskull. About me.’
Jezal paused, trying to work out the best way to answer that one. ‘Well he—’
‘Are you scared of him?’
‘No!’ Silence. ‘Alright, yes.’
‘But you came anyway. I suppose I should be flattered.’ She walked slowly around him, looking him up and down, from feet to forehead and back again. ‘You took your time, though. It’s late. I’ll have to be getting home soon.’
There was something about the way she was looking at him which was not helping to calm his thumping heart. Quite the opposite. He had to tell her that he could not see her any more. It was the wrong thing to do. For both of them. Nothing good could come from it . . . nothing good . . .
He was breathing quick, tense, excited, unable to take his eyes away from her shadowy face. He had to tell her, now. Wasn’t that why he came? He opened his mouth to speak, but the arguments all seemed a long way away now, applying at a different time and to different people, intangible and weightless.
‘Ardee . . .’ he began.
‘Mmm?’ She stepped towards him, head cocked on one side. Jezal tried to move away, but the statue was at his back. She came closer still, lips slightly parted, her eyes fixed on his mouth. What was so wrong in it, anyway?
Closer still, her face turned up towards his. He could smell her—his head was full of the scent of her. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek. What could be wrong with this?
Her fingertips were cold against his skin, brushing the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, curling through his hair and pulling his head down towards her. Her lips touched his cheek, soft and warm, then his chin, then his mouth. They sucked gently at his. She pressed herself up against him, her other hand slipped round his back. Her tongue lapped at his gums, at his teeth, at his tongue, and she made little sounds in her throat. So did he, perhaps—he really wasn’t sure. His whole body was tingling, hot and cold at once, his mind was in his mouth. It was as if he’d never kissed a girl before. What could be wrong with this? Her teeth nipped at his lips, almost painful, but not quite.
He opened his eyes: breathless, trembling, weak at the knees. She was looking up at him. He could see her eyes gleaming in the darkness, watching him carefully, studying him.
‘Ardee . . .’
‘What?’
‘When can I see you again?’ His throat was dry, his voice sounded hoarse. She looked down at the ground with a little smile. A cruel smile, as though she’d called his bluff and won a pile of money from him. He didn’t care. ‘When?’
‘Oh, I’ll let you know.’
He had to kiss her again. Shit on the consequences. Fuck West. Damn it all. He bent down towards her, closed his eyes.
‘No, no, no.’ She pushed his mouth away from hers. ‘You should have come sooner.’ She broke away from him and turned around, with the smile still on her lips, and walked slowly away. He watched her, silent, frozen, fascinated, his back against the cold stone base of the statue. He had never felt like this before. Not ever.
She glanced back, just once, as if to check that he was still watching. His chest constricted, almost painfully, just to see her look at him, then she rounded a corner and was gone.
He stood there
for a moment, his eyes wide open, just breathing. Then a cold gust of wind blew through the square and the world pressed back in upon him. Fencing, the war, his friend West, his obligations. One kiss, that was all. One kiss, and his resolve had leaked away like piss from a broken chamber pot. He stared around, suddenly guilty, confused, and scared. What had he done here?
‘Shit,’ he said.
Dark Work
A burning thing can make all kind of smells. A live tree, fresh and sappy, smells different ablaze to a dead one, dry and withered. A pig alight and a man smell much the same, but there’s another story. This burning that the Dogman smelled now, that was a house. He knew it, sure as sure. A smell he knew better than he’d have liked. Houses don’t burn on their own too often. Usually there’s some violence in it. That meant men around, most likely, and ready for a fight, so he crept right careful down between the trees, slid on his belly to the edge, and peered out through the brush.
He saw it now, right enough. Black smoke in a tall pillar, rising up from a spot down near the river. A small house, still smoking, but burned down to the low stone walls. There’d been a barn too, but nothing more now than a pile of black sticks and black dirt. A couple of trees and a patch of tilled earth. It was a poor enough living at the best of times, farming this far north. Too cold to grow much—a few roots maybe, and some sheep to herd. A pig or two, if you were lucky.
Dogman shook his head. Who’d want to burn out folks as poor as this? Who’d want to steal this stubborn patch of land? Some men just like to burn, he reckoned. He eased out a touch further, looking right and left down the valley for some sign of the ones as did this, but a few stringy sheep spread out across the valley sides was all he could see moving. He wriggled back into the brush.
His heart sank as he sneaked back towards the camp. Voices raised, and arguing, as ever. He wondered for a minute whether to just go past and keep on going, he was that sick of the endless bickering. He decided against it in the end, though. It ain’t much of a scout who leaves his people behind.
The Blade Itself Page 36
