“I do,” said Bannord.
“Don’t interrupt, please,” said Trassan wearily. “I do respect what you have to say, Bannord, but there have been only a handful of successful recorded voyages across the Drowning Sea to the Sotherwinter. Others have tried, and the King of the Drowned has pulled them under or the weather has made them founder. Haik is the only man to have crossed the Sotherwinter Sea twice, and his second attempt doesn’t seem to have gone so well. I may look like I’m dawdling, believe me, I want to get into that city so much it’s making my teeth hurt.” He hung the rag on a hook on the table and rolled his sleeves down carefully. “I am an impulsive man. You know my brother, it runs in the family. I’ve learnt the hard way to know when it pays to be careful. Another few days is not going to hurt.”
“I disagree.”
“And I am expedition leader.”
Bannord made a conciliatory noise and crossed his arms. “Look, I’m not suggesting that we go in half-cocked. Fuck that. But we need to do something, get the more belligerent and active men out and doing work with a bit of balls to it. I say, let’s scout the city.”
“I’ve had scouts go in a way.”
“Only the entrance cavern. Let’s go inside in force,” said Bannord. “Something bad happened to our Ocerzerkiyan friends over there in the other dock. I’d rather find out what it is before we go in with a train load of civilians.”
“Whereas I’d rather you didn’t go in there mob-handed and destroy a lot of valuable material you don’t understand,” said Trassan. “Haik’s ship is being examined. I don’t want to go before we’ve learnt all we can from it.”
“Really? As Ullfider tells it, there is nothing of interest aboard, and if there is it’s all frozen solid. The scouts sent into the city entrance report nothing. Empty rooms swathed in ice. Notice a pattern here?”
“They’ve barely penetrated the city. There could be anything in there.”
Bannord pointed a finger at Trassan. “We agree on something. Yes, anything. Some anythings carry swords. If there is a presence in the city, I would rather face it now, and not give it time to prepare. That kind of mistake gets men killed, and if you lose the marines, we’re all dead.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
Bannord let out a groan of frustration. “I’m not talking about abandoning you! You’re as stubborn as Guis. What do I have to do to get you Kressinds to have a conversation without wilfully misunderstanding me? Listen, Trassan. I get the impression you don’t like me much.”
Trassan stuck out his lip and shrugged, not a denial.
“But I do know what I am doing. As a marine, I’m often harnessed to duties that involve civilians. It’s unavoidable. I’ve been guarding merchantmen most of my life, or acting as some ambassador’s guard more times than I can remember. And I’m telling you, my men are getting fractious, and the others are too. We have been cooling our heels here for a week without so much as a poke into the city. We’re going to run out of time.”
“We are doing good science on the ice. Persin cannot get under the ice wall for another four weeks. We’ll be away before he gets here, and if we’re not, we’ll be ready for him.”
“Assuming he comes this way.”
“There isn’t another way,” said Trassan.
“How do we know? I am trying to help you, goodfellow. Anyone would think you don’t want to go in after all that effort. The crew are whispering that you’ve lost your nerve.”
“It’s not nerve.”
“Perfection, then. Remember the bloody whistle? Perfection is dangerous in a place like this.”
“Preparation,” countered Trassan. “Dangerous not to have that.”
“When are we going in? Let me get together a scouting party in force, and we can at least range ahead a way.”
Trassan picked up a screwdriver by the tip and knocked the wooden handle thoughtfully against the top of his bench. “Alright. We’ll do it. But I want one of the alchemists and Ullfider along. Ardovani and Iapetus too.”
“Fine,” said Bannord. “Ardovani has proven himself in a fight, Iapetus seems to be getting his head out of his arse now we’re here. Both of them will be useful if the Morfaan have left any nasty tricks. How many of my men should I detail to remain here?”
“Half. Ten,” said Trassan.
“I’ve got sixteen left. Dellion is sick.”
“Eight then.”
“Very well,” said Bannord. “The morning?”
Trassan nodded and went back to the parts of his machine.
“Well, I’ll go make the arrangements then.” Bannord folded his arms and looked around the hold. “You stay down here doing... whatever it is you are doing. Do not trouble yourself.”
“Bloody arse,” said Trassan as Bannord left, just loud enough for him to hear. Bannord flicked the Dark Lady’s horns at him by way of response, and so parity was restored.
ILONA FIDGETED IN her uniform. The arctic gear they wore made them sweat, and wool was rough against her skin.
Bannord adjusted her baldrick over her parka, checked the hang of her sword. “Stop wriggling, trooper,” he said.
“It’s itchy.”
“Goat’s wool is good enough for the heroes of Karsa,” he said. He whispered close into her ear. “Get some silk lining put in, or wear a shirt beneath, otherwise it’ll drive you crazy.”
“What is Trassan going to say?”
“You’re forgetting something,” said Bannord.
“Sir,” said Ilona.
Bannord grinned. “Trassan is going to say precisely... nothing. He cannot say anything. You are a stowaway, you need to work. I’ve found it for you. Those are the laws governing Karsan shipping. You are now a member of Prince Alfra’s Maritime Regiment.”
“He’ll go mad.”
“He can go fuck himself,” said Bannord. “The man’s so driven he pushes on into danger one moment, becomes a dithering prick the next.”
“He is my cousin.”
Bannord raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.
“Sir,” said Ilona.
“Let me handle him. Darrasind!”
Darrasind jogged up from the unit of marines standing ranked upon the ice and came to attention between Ilona and Bannord.
“Sir,” said Darrasind, purposefully keeping his eyes front, and Ilona out of his field of vision.
“Darrasind here is going to show you how we do things in the Maritime Regiment. Isn’t that right Darrasind? You’re going to make up for your embarrassing behaviour.”
“Sir, yes sir!” shouted the trooper, flushing bright crimson. His comrades sniggered.
Bannord smiled. “It’s his way of an apology,” he said in a loud stage whisper so that both Darrasind and Ilona could hear him. “Isn’t that right, Darrasind?”
“Sir, yes sir!” said Darrasind.
“Have you something to say to the goodlady... I mean, Trooper Kressinda-Hamafara?”
“I am sorry. Really sorry.” His face turned even deeper red. “I don’t know what go into me. I mean, you are so pretty and all and—”
“I’d say it was about half a quart of good whisky got into you, wouldn’t you, Darrasind? Darrasind here is off the booze until I say otherwise. Anyone catches him on it, it’s thirty lashes for him.”
“Sir!” he said. “Thank you sir!”
“You have any trouble, you tell me,” said Bannord.
“I will. Sir,” added Ilona hurriedly.
Bannord’s face softened. Ilona liked this Bannord, even if his behaviour made his other side all the more infuriating by contrast. “Ilona, Trooper Kressinda-Hamafara. This is the last time I’m going to show you any personal favour. After this, you’re one of the men. You do what I say, and you do it quickly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” said Ilona, standing to attention.
Bannord pulled a face at her posture. “We’ll work on that,” he said. “You two run along now.”
Darrasind held out his han
d to indicate that Ilona should go first. “I really am completely sorry,” Bannord heard Darrasind saying as he led Ilona to the unit of marines. “Truly.”
Trassan was deep in discussion with Antoninan, the latter holding a freshly drawn map in his hand. The Maceriyan explorer had taken his dogs two days to the east, then to the west, while the ship’s crew had prepared. There were, Bannord had been told, no traces of the Morfaan in either direction, nothing but trackless snow and black rock. There was only the city.
Trassan handed Antoninan the map back as they approached.
“Are you ready?” he asked Bannord.
“I’ve picked my men.”
Trassan looked past Bannord to where the marines were dividing themselves and collecting equipment for the expedition. Mild interest became a frown.
“What’s my cousin doing there? You haven’t told her to come have you?”
Bannord could not stop his smirk. “I ordered her to come, actually.”
“Ordered?” Trassan’s face fell. “You have not recruited her!”
“I have. She needed to pay her way, now she is.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I did.”
“But there are no women in the Karsan army!”
“There are now,” said Bannord. “I’m the ranking officer here. Military affairs are my purview.”
“You arrogant bastard!” said Trassan. “I don’t believe this!”
“There is precedent,” said Bannord. “Women have served in the Karsan army in the past...”
“Only in times of dire emergency!”
“... and regularly do so in the armies of some of the other kingdoms.”
“What?” said Trassan. “I’ll report you. I’ll have your commission stripped if you don’t stop with this nonsense this instant!”
“Too late now, she’s signed the paperwork.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Do you really think I care?” said Bannord. “I’ve won half a dozen medals, Trassan. My father is poor, but he is still in the House. I’ll be reprimanded, but so what? And if Ilona proves herself, then they will be too embarrassed to say anything whatsoever. Taking her out of the army will draw censure from the Queendom. Seeing as they’re our number one ally in central Ruthnia at the moment, my superiors will be keen to avoid that.”
“Only if they find out about it.”
“What makes you think they won’t?” said Bannord. “Ask your brother Garten, his department oversees the Maritime Regiment. I am sure he will agree with me.”
“You said she was a liability. You didn’t want to train her.”
“As with all men with a good education and the wit to use it, I reserve the right to change my mind.” said Bannord. “She has spirit.”
“You’re doing this just to spite me.” Trassan jabbed an accusing finger at Bannord. “Ilona!” he called. “Ilona!”
“She has her orders, she won’t come.”
“Get her over here then!” said Trassan.
Bannord nodded. “Trooper Kressinda-Hamafara!” he barked, but he kept his smile and his gaze glued to her cousin as she jogged up. If Trassan was appalled by her carrying a rifle before, to see the blue and black uniform visible at her throat under her parka made him livid.
“Ilona, you don’t have to do this.”
“Trassan, you moron,” she said. Bannord laughed. “I want to do it. Please let me be useful.”
“What if you get hurt? What if you are killed?”
“There’s a chance of that anyway. The weather. Persin. The Drowned King. Whatever is in there. Anything could kill me. I understand that. I could have stayed at home and died of boredom instead. I would rather die as a useful member of the crew with a weapon in my hand than as a stowaway screaming and needing protecting at every turn. It is my choice, Trassan. You are so thick-headed sometimes. You know why I came on this voyage.”
“Yes, well. I did go through that with you. I am going to be married, Ilona. There’s nothing between us, not any more.”
She punched him hard in the arm. “By Omnus’s hairy balls! Gods! Listen to you! Did you not hear anything I said to you at my parents’? I came here because I wanted to make my own choices, not because I’m some lovesick girl!”
“Ah,” said Trassan, embarrassed.
“You told Bannord to teach me.”
“I only meant for you to be able to defend yourself, not go on the offence!”
“Fine. Too late. I’m a soldier now. Live with it, or don’t. It doesn’t make any difference to me. Can I go, sir?” asked Ilona of Bannord. “The civilian leader of our expedition is getting on my nerves.”
“As you were, marine,” said Bannord.
Ilona executed a clumsy salute and walked off.
“By the bloody gods,” said Trassan. He dragged his mitten down his face. “Her mother would kill me if she were here. Then eat me.”
“I am not doing this to annoy you, despite what you might think,” said Bannord. “She is better employed, I think, than left idle. Real mischief would come of that.”
“You may be right,” said Trassan. “Very well. If anything happens to her, it is your responsibility.”
“As her commanding officer, that goes without saying.”
“Right,” said Trassan. He watched his cousin swapping jokes with her new comrades. They appeared to have welcomed her into their ranks. “Whatever. Be ready in fifteen minutes,” he said, and went back to talk some more with Antoninan.
“Now that went better than I expected,” said Bannord to himself.
CHAPTER FORTY
An Honourable Man’s Burden
SHORTLY AFTER THE explosion in the Hall of the Assembly, Duke Abing died. He did not go quietly. When he could not control the agony, he screamed his frustration at the world, and when he could he spent hours whispering frantic advice to Garten. A day after the explosion, he spoke his final words.
“I am not bloody ready!”
As he was in life, so he was in death. He produced a wild and powerful ghost that took two Guiders to send on, taxing them to the point of exhaustion. When they finally had him pointed the right way, Abing shot away from this existence to the next still mouthing advice to his successor.
Garten’s world was pitched into chaos. He found himself the acting ambassador, representative and special envoy to the Assembly of Nations all at once. Mandofar’s secretary, under secretary and Karsan liaison with the Three Comtes had perished in the explosion, leaving Garten with staff of the most junior sort. Luckily, all were capable; they would not have found employ in the diplomatic service had they not been. The pressures of foreign affairs, even more than the army, tended to weed out incompetent sinecurists and leave only the talented behind. One international incident was usually sufficient to ensure the expulsion of inadequate staff. They left with their lives, though not their reputations.
Garten threw down the sheaf of paper he was reading onto Mandofar’s desk. The deceased ambassador’s office was his base of operations, a fine room, though nowhere near as grand as his offices in Karsa City.
Mandofar’s position was the kind he had aspired to all his working life. But it was not his, he had not earned it fairly, and the stamp of the other man was on every object. He sat at Mandofar’s desk, looked at Mandofar’s pictures while he drank Mandofar’s liquor from Mandofar’s glasses.
“Damn room smells of Mandofar,” he said.
“Temper temper, Garten dear,” said Issy. Her larger case had been set up on a side table. She sat inside, taking alternate bites from a cake and the scrunched up technical specifications for a new kind of steam hoe.
“I do not know where to start!” he said. “In two days the new ambassador will be here and the whole things is a gods’ damned mess!” He rubbed his hands over his face.
“You are tired.”
“I’ve not slept for a week.”
“Not technically true,” she said.
“Alright!” he snap
ped. “Two hours snatched here or there don’t constitute a good night’s rest!”
“Do not shout at me. Sleeping is a weakness. I do not need to sleep. It is not my fault you are weak.”
“Tyn sleep,” said Garten. “You sleep.”
“You think I sleep. But what am I really doing?” Her pretty lady’s face leered at him. He could easily imagine her peering at him from the bole of hollow tree when she did that, before ripping his throat out.
“Do you have to pull that expression?”
“You object to my face now?”
“No, no. I am sorry.” He ruffled his own hair. “I could do with some exercise. It would be good to hold a sword in my hand.” As soon as he said it he realised he didn’t mean it. The dead faces of the men he’d killed haunted him yet.
“Be careful of your desires, you do not know where they will lead you,” said Issy, and took another huge bite of paper, crumpling it into her mouth bit by bit until her cheeks bulged.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” barked Garten.
Jonn Moten poked his head around the door apologetically. Garten’s mood softened. Moten had been very useful to him these last days, despite his injuries. The left side of his face was mottled by scabs. Moten hadn’t mentioned it himself, but he had been four hours in the hospital having all the debris dug from his flesh, and had had to go to a healing magister to ward off infection.
“The Countess Lucinia Mogawn is here to see you.”
Garten nodded and opened his gritty eyes wide so as to appear more awake. “Send her in, thank you Goodman Moten.”
Moten bobbed his head and opened the door. Lucinia Veritus of Mogawn limped in, leaning on a stick she gripped so hard her knuckles were white.
Garten hurried up and pulled aside a chair for her and held her arm while she awkwardly got into it. She settled into it gratefully, shoving her splinted leg out in front of her.
“Drink?” said Garten.
“I look like I need one, don’t I?” she said. The shiny scars of minor burns mottled her face. “I’m a blasted mess.” She smiled at her own joke. “Do not worry overly much, Garten, luck was with me. The break is simple, has been set well and seen to by a magister so will heal soon. The burns will also fade, although I am hoping for a discrete scar. It would only enhance my reputation.”
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