‘Or does it?’
He paused then, trying to think it through. Only to feel a spasm of fear. ‘You’re right, let’s move on yet again. If there’s one thing I know it’s that about some things I don’t want to know anything. So … ah, in keeping with unexpected guests, shall we speak of heroism?’
Smiles staggered to one side and dropped to one knee. Bottle took up position behind her, guarding her back. The short sword in his hand seemed to be trembling all on its own.
He watched Tarr bull his way back through the milling press. His visage was darker than Bottle had ever seen before. ‘Koryk!’ he snapped.
‘Here, Sergeant.’
‘You’ll live?’
‘Caught a look in an eye,’ the man replied, edging into view. One side of his face was sheathed in blood, but it wasn’t his own. ‘Seen hyenas looking saner.’ He pointed with a bloodied long knife. ‘That corporal there gave ’im a nudge …’
The man Koryk indicated was on his knees. A regular. Burly, broad-shouldered, with a knife handle jutting from the right side of his chest. Blood was streaming from his mouth and nostrils, filled with bubbles.
Tarr glared round, his eyes catching Bottle. He walked over. ‘Smiles – look at me, soldier.’
She lifted her head. ‘Like Koryk said, Sergeant – we ain’t blind and we ain’t stupid. Caught the same nudge, so I gave him my knife.’
Tarr met Bottle’s eyes.
Bottle nodded. ‘Twelve paces between ’em, in the dark, in a crowd.’
The dying corporal had dropped his bearded chin to his chest and seemed to be staring at his knees. Corabb edged closer and gave the man a push. He fell over. The thudding impact, as he landed on the ground, spurted one last mass of foam from his mouth and nose.
‘Two down?’ Tarr asked.
Bottle could feel the hatred in the eyes of the regulars crowding the scene, and he flinched when Corabb said, ‘Three, Sergeant. The first two were the distraction – two more came in low from behind, making for the wagon. I got the first one, then Cuttle chased the last one away – still after him, I guess.’
‘He’s out there?’ Tarr demanded. ‘Hood’s breath!’
Smiles straightened and, moving drunkenly, made her way to the dead corporal, where she retrieved her knife. ‘It ain’t right,’ she muttered. She faced the crowd. ‘We’re guarding empty casks, you damned fools!’
Someone called out, ‘Wasn’t us, marine. That was the Fist’s gang.’
Bottle scowled. Blistig. Gods below .
‘Just leave us alone,’ Smiles said, turning away.
Cuttle returned, caught Tarr’s eye and with one hand casually brushed the crossbow slung down behind his left arm.
The sergeant faced the haulers. ‘Pull up the ropes, soldiers – let’s get this moving again.’
Smiles came up to Bottle. ‘Killing our own – it ain’t right.’
‘I know.’
‘You had my back – thanks.’
He nodded.
The crowd of regulars was melting away. The wagon started rolling, the squad falling in alongside it, and the bodies were left behind.
‘It’s the madness,’ said Corabb a short time later. ‘In Seven Cities—’
‘You don’t need to tell us,’ Cuttle interrupted. ‘We was there, remember?’
‘Aye. Just saying, that’s all. The madness of thirst—’
‘That was planned out.’
‘The corporal, aye,’ Corabb said, ‘but not that fool going for Koryk.’
‘And the ones coming in from behind? Planned, Corabb. Someone’s orders. That ain’t madness. That ain’t anything of the sort.’
‘Mostly, I was talking about the rest of them regulars – the ones closing in on the smell of blood.’
No one had any response to that. Bottle found that he was still holding his short sword. Sighing, he sheathed it.
Shortnose took the blood-stained shirt and pushed it beneath the collar of the leather yoke, stuffing it across the width of his collar bones where his skin had been worn away and things were looking raw. Someone had brought him the shirt, sopping wet and warm, but all that blood didn’t bother him much – he was already adding to it.
The wagon was heavy. Heavier now with children riding atop all the bundles of food. But for all their numbers, not as heavy as it should have been. That was because they were mostly starved down to bones. He didn’t like thinking about that. Back when he’d been a child he remembered hungry times, but every one of those times his da would come in with something for the runts, Shortnose the runtiest of them all. A scrap. Something to chew. And his ma, she’d go out with other mas and they’d be busy for a few days and nights and then she’d come back in, sometimes bruised, sometimes weeping, but she’d have money for the table, and that money turned into food. His da used to swear a lot those times she did that.
