The man next to me, the man who put his gun to my head, still holds that gun. The tribal leader opposite is trying to guess if it’s loaded. This matters, because this time round, the lieutenant has it pointed at his head. Their chief offers us a quick death in return for surrender.
My lieutenant refuses.
The sun is rising, its colour splashing the dunes beyond our wall. Looks pretty, I think. No idea why. I’m not the kind to notice things like that. It just does.
Their leader says something.
Everyone stops looking at the lieutenant’s gun.
They look at me instead.
A small man, who unwraps a layer of his cloak to reveal swirls tattooed onto his face, steps forward to translate a question.
‘Why are you smiling?’
I shrug, what else am I supposed to do?
When the tribal leader speaks again it’s into perfect silence. His words are deep and guttural, paced slowly and with gaps.
‘You are facing death,’ his translator tells me.
My grin surprises him. As if I need telling. Of course I’m facing death. I’ve faced it every day of my life. It’s what keeps me alive.
He translates my reply slowly.
Beside me, Lieutenant Bonafont nods. Sweat beads his face, dark patches disfigure his uniform. The heat rises with every fraction of an inch the sun climbs in the sky. And the lieutenant’s been holding his gun to their chief’s head for five minutes. But if he stinks of sweat and alcohol, he doesn’t stink of fear.
Their leader unwraps his face.
He has tattoos, like his translator, although their ink is fading. His beard has gone grey in places. Half of his teeth are missing when he grins. Those that remain are yellow enough to be old bones, and his breath smells sour.
‘How old?’ he demands.
The gun my lieutenant holds on him might as well not exist.
His translator relays the question. Just as he relays my answer.
I tell their leader his world is prettier than mine. He says that’s why he wants it back.
‘What happened then?’ Aptitude asks.
‘We leave at noon with a single camelback of water between us. It takes eight days to reach Fort Libidad, which was where we started. For the last three of those I’m supporting my lieutenant. For the last, I carry him on my back.’
‘Fuck,’ she says.
‘Aptitude.’ Debro’s voice is sharp.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I know. All the same . . .’
Anton reaches for his wine. Lunch hasn’t begun and his glass is almost empty. He’s soaking up the alcohol in his gut with hunks of bread torn from a fat loaf the size and shape of a small rock. Aptitude’s contribution to the meal.
‘This is good,’ Anton says.
Aptitude scowls.
We’re supposed to know it’s good. She made it.
A waft of garlic hits us the moment the door opens. An old woman whose name I don’t know carries in a serving dish, four plates and a bowl of water with petals floating in it.
‘Gathered these myself,’ she says, placing the dish on the table.
‘Aptitude,’ Debro says, ‘how many?’
The girl’s good manners fight her wish to say none.
‘What are they?’ I ask.
I mean, I know what they look like. But I’m assuming this is a bluff and the snail shells are stuffed with pine nuts or something fancy. It’s not a bluff, they really are snails.
Won’t be my first, of course.
But the last time I was starving and my sister told me if I didn’t eat them I’d die of hunger anyway.
‘Sven?’ Debro says.
I hold out my plate. She has that effect on me.
I can kill without thinking. Run until my ankles are raw and my boots full of blood. And I can smash any barrier that pain tries to put in my way. But have Debro offer me snails . . .
‘What?’ Aptitude asks.
Anton’s grinning.
We’re halfway through the first course when the old woman returns to whisper in Debro’s ear. Debro glances at Anton, who follows both women out of the room.
‘Subtle,’ Aptitude says.
Her smile fades when they return. Must be the man behind them.
Tall and bearded, he’s older than Anton, who’s older than me. A scar runs down his right cheek. Since it would cost little to remove, choice obviously keeps it there. He’s wearing uniform with the purple flashes of a staff officer. The flashes are edged with pewter thread. A wolf skin is draped over one shoulder.
‘Shadow’s here in his official capacity.’
‘Although it’s always a pleasure . . .’ The words drawl from his lips. This man is high clan. One of the oldest families. People like him talk only to their own. I might as well be furniture.
‘He’s been asking about smugglers,’ Debro adds. ‘Apparently they might have crashed near here. Don’t suppose you’ve heard about it?’
‘No one’s said a thing,’ Aptitude says firmly.
Anton ignores the question. ‘General Luc,’ he says, ‘may I introduce Lieutenant Sven Tveskoeg, Obsidian Cross, Second Class.’
The man stares at me.
And I remember why his brigade is called the Grey-Eyed Boys.
They have their irises decoloured on joining. But it’s not the grey eyes, pewter buttons or the pelt across his shoulder that tells me who this is. It’s the bullet round his neck, where most officers wear an obsidian cross.
This is the Wolf.
Commander of the emperor’s guards.
That round is live, though dull with age. Letters and numbers are engraved up one side. SHADOW LUC, Z193XX79.
As a cadet, General Luc bought a .72 slug with his own name on it as a joke. When his luck held through the first of the Doubter riots and an attack on OctoV’s palace, he decided his charm worked.
So did his enemies, which was more important.
‘Death’s Head?’ he barks.
The Grey-Eyed Boys don’t like the Black Machine. That’s fine, we don’t like them either. Over-privileged and over-paid. Most of them have never faced a proper battle in their lives.
‘General Jaxx’s ADC,’ Anton says.
The Wolf sneers. As if he expects no better. Then he looks me up and down. Very obviously and very slowly. So I do the same, and he doesn’t like that.
Dumb insolence, you can’t beat it.
Well you can. A lead implant to the back of the skull tops dumb insolence any day.
We’re of equal height. But I’ve got a combat arm, minus its spikes. My hair’s cropped. My skull a little wider than most. Even out of uniform, in combats and singlet, it must be obvious what I do for a living.
Kill things.
He has thick hair, swept back in a grey mane, and grey-flecked eyes that examine me without blinking. The Wolf radiates privilege, money and power. He thinks he was born to rule. I think a strategically thrown grenade can improve most chains of command with the pull of a pin.
This is a man with little need of show.
An officer whose reputation for savagery is so extreme no one could have done even half the things he’s accused of doing. His anger is growing. Debro must feel it too, because she frowns.
And General Luc smiles.
‘Garlic snails,’ he says. ‘Always my favourite.’
Anton shoots his ex-wife a look and it’s hard to know what it is meant to say, except that it’s not kind. The woman who brought the finger bowl lays an extra place at the table. I ask Aptitude her name. It’s Katie, she’s the cook. Before that she was Aptitude’s nurse.
‘And then you got Sophie?’
Sophie was Aptitude’s bodyguard. She died the day I burnt Villa Thomassi to the ground and shot Aptitude’s husband.
When I look up, General Luc is staring at me.
I stare back and he refuses to look away. He doesn’t like my grin. But then I don’t like being stared at.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Tveskoeg.’
‘It’s an old Earth name.’
I’m only saying what Debro told me.
Until I met her I was Sven, nothing else. She gave me the other name. One day she’ll tell me what it means. The tightness that crosses his face is matched by a tightness in her own. Seems I’ve wandered into another minefield.