by Col Buchanan
He offered the young woman a nod of his head. She smiled. The moment of connection warmed him, sent a thrill up his spine.
The Monbarri was still watching him from across the room.
Ché decided he needed to clear his head, and rose to his feet in the same moment. He paused to catch Swan’s eye, willing her to follow him, then turned and strode to the entrance as the Monbarri watched him leave.
As he stepped outside he took a deep lungful of untainted air. The sentries ignored him – just another priest of Sasheen’s entourage. Ché looked to his right, where a bonfire burned high into the night sky. Two Acolytes were throwing another empty wine crate onto it, one of many the priests had already worked their way through.
It was to be expected, Ché supposed. With the success of the crossing and the survival of most of the fleet during last night’s storm, the Matriarch and her general staff were in need of venting their tensions. Watching them tonight, feasting and gorging themselves, it had become clear to Ché that until the very moment they had reached land with their forces largely intact, no one had been entirely sure if it was possible.
Ché stepped a little further away from the noise of the tent. He waited in hope that Swan would emerge, while a slight breeze blew down the valley, carrying with it a hint of the winter still to come. They would have to make haste if they were to take Bar-Khos before the first falls of snow.
An Acolyte was escorting a scout through the entrance to the palisade, a weary middle-aged purdah covered in dirt and sporting a limp. His wolfhound was nowhere to be seen. Ché squinted. Behind the messenger and scout, a second Acolyte had been approaching the entrance, though the man had stopped as the screen was drawn across the entrance again, and had doubled over in a fit of coughing, and now was walking off in a different direction entirely.
Odd, thought Ché.
‘You there!’ Ché shouted to the guards at the entrance. They turned to see who was shouting.
Another shriek broke the night air. It recalled to Ché the sound of a scream from a boiling water-heater, the whistle that had finally obscured it.
Ché’s eyes lingered over the retreating Acolyte.
‘Never mind,’ he shouted to the guards.
He looked back to the threshold of the tent. Swan had not ventured out to join him.
Ché stalked off to his tent alone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Old Wants
Ash awoke to an iron-capped boot prodding at his ribs.
He opened his eyes, bleary with what little sleep he’d been able to snatch in the small hours of the night, and felt a warm body pressed against his own.
He tugged the blanket from his face and blinked up at the scowling face of an imperial soldier.
‘On your feet, old man.’
Ash groaned and covered his head with the blanket once again. The boot prodded him harder.
He growled and scrambled to his feet, his sheathed sword in his hand. ‘What?’ he snapped, gaining himself a precious second to take in the situation.
Three soldiers surrounded him. Others were waking people across the dunes to press them with questions. Ash relaxed a little. They didn’t know who they were looking for, not by appearance at least.
Even so, all three soldiers were staring at the confident way he held his sword and had their hands resting firmly on the pommels of their own.
‘Captain Sanson!’ shouted the man with the friendly toecap. Another soldier stepped towards them. He took one look at the old farlander and narrowed his eyes.
‘You like walks in the night, old man?’
‘Is that an invitation?’
The captain tensed. From the corners of his vision, Ash saw that other soldiers were dragging away a man they deemed to be suspicious.
‘He’s with me,’ came a voice from below. All of them looked down to see Mistress Cheer emerging from the blanket, wiping sand from her flanks as she stood up in her heavy nightdress.
Captain Sanson eyed the woman coolly. ‘In what capacity, mistress?’
‘He’s my bodyguard,’ she explained as she took Ash’s arm in her own. ‘What did you imagine he was?’
‘And when did you employ him?’
Her eyes flickered to Ash. ‘Two years ago. For all it’s got to do with you. What’s the meaning all of this, anyway?’
Captain Sanson ignored her for a moment. He took another long questioning look at Ash, then at the tents where the girls were still sleeping. He bowed his head to Mistress Cheer. ‘My apologies,’ he told her. ‘Some enemy scouts may have been in the area last night. We’re making a security sweep of the beach, that’s all.’ A flick of his hand commanded the others to follow as he strode away.
‘My thanks,’ said Ash when they were safely out of earshot.
Mistress Cheer shivered in the cool morning breeze, then released her grip on his arm. ‘I repay my debts, that’s all. Is there something you wish to tell me, Ash?’
‘You heard what he said. Enemy scouts.’
She looked away for a moment, then fixed him with a hard stare.
‘I noticed you were gone for most of the night, before I came and joined you.’
Ash tightened his lips and looked to the sand at his feet.
Last night, when he’d finally returned from his botched mission, he’d collapsed in exhaustion next to the dead fire of their small camp. Some time later, confused and still half dreaming, he’d half awakened to find a blanket placed over him, and Mistress Cheer pressing her soft body against his own.
‘Be that way, then,’ she snapped at him now, and her anger was unmistakable. She took a few steps away before rounding on him. ‘I don’t care if you were thieving or worse last night. But I can’t have a bodyguard I can’t rely on to be here when he’s needed. Nor a liar whose secrets I can’t fathom. I’ve paid my debt to you. Help yourself to some hot food when the others awake, then I’ll give you your coins. But no matter how much I may be fond of you, Ash – if that even be your real name – I think it best that you move on after breakfast.’
It was her loss of trust in him, he could see. She was a woman sensitive to past betrayals.
He cast his mind back to the early hours of the morning. Their long kisses beneath the blanket and the clouds overhead, their slow tender passion. She’d been the first woman Ash had lain with in several years, and it had made him realize how much he missed it; the intimacy, the shedding for a short time of his loneliness.
Knowing there would be no changing her mind, though, he bowed his head low. ‘You and the girls – you will be safe?’
‘I’m sure we can find another hungry blade for hire somewhere on this forsaken beach. We’ll be fine.’
He nodded again, then surprised her by kissing her full on the mouth, her scarred lip feeling strange but thrilling against his own.
‘Good luck to you, strange old man from Honshu,’ she said as he walked away.
Ché returned from the latrine feeling poorly rested after the late night before, but he was thankful not to be hungover like many of the other men and women he passed in the encampment, with their pale faces and bloodshot eyes.
It was a windy day, and the press of it against his face was cool and refreshing. He could feel the new-grown stubble on his scalp rubbing against the hood of his robe; Ché had stopped shaving his head now that he was here in Khos, preparing for whatever mission amongst the population might be required of him. It felt good to have some hair again.
In the open space of ground before the Matriarch’s tent, the spy-master Alarum was cinching a bedroll to the saddle of a zel.
‘Going for a ride?’ Ché enquired as he stopped and looked up at the spymaster, who this morning resembled nothing more than a local peasant bandit. The priest was dressed in plain civilian clothing; fur-trimmed riding trousers, an outer coat of green wool, a bandana tied across his bald head. He’d removed his facial jewellery, and had replaced it with a single loop of gold in his right ear. Two long curved knives pr
otruded from the thick leather of his belt.
Alarum glanced in Ché’s direction with one foot in the stirrup. He hopped a few times and swung his other leg over the saddle, righting himself as the zel snorted and shifted back a step. ‘Priest Ché,’ he said, tightening the reins in his gloved hands. Behind his mount, a string of two more zels stood loaded with supplies. ‘Yes, a spot of fieldwork,’ he explained a little breathlessly, a little excitedly.
‘Alone?’
‘Believe me, I prefer it this way. Much safer.’
The zel became still beneath him, and Alarum placed his hands on the pommel of the saddle and stared down at Ché with an odd, searching expression.
‘Tell me, Ché. Has your mother ever spoken of me, perchance?’
‘She’s spoken of many men. I don’t keep track.’
Alarum gathered his thoughts for a blinking moment.
‘It’s just . . . I knew her once. A long time ago, before you were born.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. And she’s a fine woman. Helped me through a difficult time. When you next see her, you must tell her that I ask after her fondly.’
Ché nodded without commitment. He was uncomfortable with this talk of his mother, and as always in moments of discomfort, his hand began to scratch at one of his rashes.
‘That skin problem of yours,’ observed Alarum. ‘You should come and see me when I return. I have ointments that may help.’
‘Thank you, but I already have some.’ He patted the flank of the zel and stepped back from it. ‘Good riding.’
Alarum raised a hand then kicked his zel into a trot, leading the string of extra mounts behind. Ché watched him leave for a few moments, then turned once more into the wind.
Back in his own small tent, he returned the bundle of graf leaves in his hand to the open backpack on the floor, then looked at the field bunk along one wall, and the stool, and the simple wash stand.
He stood and did nothing for a moment, something troubling him.
His eyes scanned the tent, each item at a time, and came at last to rest on his copy of the Scripture of Lies. It had been moved from where he had placed it on the bed, though not by much – half an inch, perhaps, little more.
Ché opened the leather-bound book and riffled through its pages roughly. A slip of paper spilled out to land at his feet.
He glanced over his shoulder, then bent to pick it up.
YOU KNOW TOO MUCH, MY FRIEND.
The handwriting was unknown to him. No signature adorned it.
Ché crumpled the note and stood and looked outside. He returned to his bunk and sat down with the piece of paper in his fist, pondering.
At last he stuffed the note into his mouth, and began to chew.
That morning, the First Expeditionary Force set forth for war.
Behind it, a contingent of soldiers, merchants and slave porters remained on the filthy sands of the beachhead, tasked with bringing in the rest of the supplies and transporting them forward to the army. The fleet would leave after that, bound for the safety of Lagos. It was too exposed here without adequate squadrons of men-of-war, and the closer harbourages of the southern mainland remained too much of a risk while the Mercian convoys ranged back and forth to Zanzahar for their vital trade. At least the army had some air support at last, for three imperial birds-of-war had finally limped in to rejoin them. The rest were still missing.
For the majority of the Expeditionary Force it was a slow start, and it required most of the morning for everyone, including the camp followers, to begin their march. Draught animals had to be fixed to carts and coaxed into pulling over terrain that seemed to include no roads; herds of livestock and zels needed shepherding up the wide valley floor.
Ahead of the vanguard, light cavalry roved the countryside, searching for enemy contingents and civilian targets to fire and plunder. It was easy work, though, for the highlands of eastern Khos were lightly populated and defended, and those who did live here had mostly hidden themselves in the rocky fastnesses of the region. Further inland, the elite purdah scouts ranged with their great wolfhounds at their sides, employing their usual methods of stealth to remain undetected. They were scouting the path that the army would need to take through the highlands in order to reach the Tumbledowns and the Cinnamon River, which it would then follow downwards into the Reach.
From the main body of the Expeditionary Force, skirmishers fanned outwards to form mobile flanks of protection for the slower troops moving in columns. The light infantry, the predasa, were at the van of the main procession, multinationals from all corners of the Empire, clad in bright cloaks and leather armour, their shields and helms slung from their backs, tramping a rough path through the grasses and heather as they marched. Behind them came the predoré, the heavy infantry, the core of the army, most with the lighter complexions of Q’os and the Lanstrada, accompanied by carts bearing bundles of pikes wrapped in oiled canvas. Behind those came the Acolytes, chanting quietly as they went, the few thousand voices adding a curious harmony to the stamp of so many feet; working to a rhythm that matched the sway of the palanquin that bore the Matriarch in their midst.
In the churned mud at the very back of the column, the carts and civilians of the baggage train stretched noisy and chaotic: blacksmiths with portable forges, wild-haired hunters from the hinterlands, animal herders and their herds, pistoleered rancheros on their fast zel ponies, meat merchants and butchers, slave traders and slave porters, stitchers, carpenters, merchant venturers, private military companies, healers, surgeons, professional scavengers, poets, prostitutes, astrologers, historians . . . everything one would expect to find in the wake of an imperial army bent on conquest.
And so the ponderous inertia of such a huge force was set into motion, and stubbornly maintained for the next three days as it snaked upwards into the rugged hill country of eastern Khos, following whatever tracks the purdahs had marked out for it.
The army camped in the places its scouts chose for it at the start of the day. The soldiers erected their pup tents and made fires from whatever scarce wood they could forage; the Acolytes put up the larger tents of the Matriarch’s encampment before surrounding it with the stakes of the palisade, which they bore with them on heavy wagons. The camp followers made do with what they had or what they could find.
It was bitterly cold here at night in the high country, and often as not Ash huddled beneath his cloak without the luxury of a fire, for what little fallen wood there was amongst the scraggly forests of yellowpine was usually scavenged early for the needs of the army. For food, he used the coins Mistress Cheer had paid him – a more than generous amount for all the work he’d done for her – and purchased what he needed from the many small food merchants that accompanied the army. The rates were extortionate, of course. Soon, he had to dip into the hidden purse slung beneath his leather leggings.
He would have grumbled more if he hadn’t seen how the soldiers of the army itself were exploited in much the same way. Like Ash, they had to buy food using their own pay, and did so either in bulk from the merchant venturers of the baggage train, or from the countless food vendors who swarmed around them every mealtime like scavenging flies.
Ash marvelled at an army that did not feed its own men. He wondered how it could possibly work, until he overheard an exchange between a soldier and a bored prostitute, in which the man was trying to pay her in rotten apples. His wages were too low to sustain him on the march, he explained, and so he was already in debt to his superior officer. Once they sacked a town or won a battle he would be on his feet again, for plunder and slaves were divided amongst the men after the officers received their cut.
It was profit, Ash came to appreciate, that drove many of these men onwards, much like the camp followers themselves, for those few followers he exchanged words with told of similar tales: bad debts to landowners and moneylenders; an inability to find anything but seasonal work in regions clogged with slaves. They were desperate, and in their desperati
on had sold what they had left and had paid to come here in droves.
Ash mainly walked alone during the long marches through the hill country. He went by his original cover story of a bodyguard whose employer had drowned during the storm. He seldom needed to use it, though. Mostly, he came and went throughout the baggage train as he liked, always making certain to keep his distance from Mistress Cheer and the girls, but it wasn’t difficult in such a multitude, and he saw them only once during the first days of the march. Mistress Cheer had hired a new man, a rangy youth in a brown woollen cloak who used his sword to chop wood.
Ash kept to himself, speaking to few but listening to many. All the while, his eyes hungered for a glimpse of Sasheen.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Juno’s Ferry
The settlement of Juno’s Ferry lay to the south of the Windrush forest, that myth-wrapped woodland that spanned the central region of Khos. In the summer months, the boughs of the trees would sway in the warm asago that blew in from the east bearing sands from the far Alhazii desert, and in the colder seasons would clatter instead in the occasional storm of the shoné, gusting across the breadth of the Midèrēs all the way from the northern continent; a wind said to cause depression and madness for those who lived in its path.
To the east, the great swathe of the Windrush was naturally bounded by the mighty Chilos, the sacred river of Khos. Known for its cleansing properties of mind and spirit, the Chilos was also renowned for never freezing over even in the depths of winter. Its source came from the hot springs of Simmer Lake, site of the ancient floating town of Tume, and as its waters wound their slow way south towards the Bay of Squalls, they cooled only gradually.
