“Where am I? Bloody wind. I can’t see. Help. Help. Where am I?”
“Fucking shut up!” West shouted, but the words died in his dry throat. All that came up was a hollow cough that set his ribs on fire again.
“Shhhh.” A soft touch on his chest. “Just be still.”
A blurry face swam into view. A woman’s face, he thought, with fair hair, but it was hard to focus. He closed his eyes and stopped trying. It hardly seemed to matter that much. He felt something against his lips, the neck of a bottle. He drank too thirstily, spluttered and felt cold water running down his neck.
“What happened?” he croaked.
“You were wounded.”
“I know that. I mean… in the city. The wind.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows.”
“Did we win?”
“I suppose that… the Gurkish were driven out, yes. But there are a lot of wounded. A lot of dead.”
Another swallow of water. This time he managed it without gagging. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ariss. Dan Kaspa.”
“Ariss…” West fumbled with the name. “I knew your cousin. Knew him well… a good man. He always used to talk about… how beautiful you were. And rich,” he muttered, vaguely aware he should not be saying this, but unable to stop his mouth from working. “Very rich. He died. In the mountains.”
“I know.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Trying to help with the wounded. It would be best for you to sleep now, if you—”
“Am I whole?”
A pause. “Yes. Sleep now, if you can.”
Her dark face grew blurry, and West let his eyes close. The noises of agony slowly faded around him. He was whole. All would be well.
Someone was sitting next to his bed. Ardee. His sister. He blinked, worked his sour mouth, unsure where he was for a moment.
“Am I dreaming?” She reached forward and dug her nails into his arm. “Ah!”
“Painful dream, eh?”
“No,” he was forced to admit. “This is real.”
She looked well. Far better than the last time he had seen her, that was sure. No blood on her face for one thing. No look of naked hatred, for another. Only a thoughtful frown. He tried to bring himself up to sitting, failed, and slumped back down. She did not offer to help. He had not really expected her to. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Nothing too serious, apparently. A broken arm, a few broken ribs, and a leg badly bruised, they tell me. Some cuts on your face that may leave a scar or two, but then I got all the looks in the family anyway.”
He gave a snort of laughter and winced at the pain across his chest. “True enough. The brains too.”
“Don’t feel badly about it. I’ve used them to make the towering success of my life that you see before you. The kind of achievement that you, as a Lord Marshal of the Union, can only dream of.”
“Don’t,” he hissed, clamping his good hand across his ribs. “It hurts.”
“No less than you deserve.”
His laughter quickly stuttered out, and they were silent for a moment, looking at each other. Even that much was difficult. “Ardee…” His voice caught in his sore neck. “Can you… forgive me?”
“I already did. The first time I heard you were dead.” She was trying to smile, he could tell. But she still had that twist of anger to her mouth. Probably she would have liked to dig her nails into his face rather than his arm. He was almost glad then, for a moment, that he was wounded. She had no choice but to be soft with him. “It’s good that you’re not. Dead, that is…” She frowned over her shoulder. There was some manner of commotion at one end of the long cellar. Raised voices, the clatter of armoured footsteps.
“The king!” Whoever it was nearly squealed it in their excitement. “The king is come again!”
In the beds all around men turned their heads, propped themselves up. A nervous excitement spread from cot to cot. “The king?” they whispered, faces anxious and expectant, as though they were privileged to witness a divine visitation.
Several figures moved through the shadows at the far end of the hall. West strained to look, but could see little more than metal gleaming in the darkness. The foremost shape stopped beside a wounded man a few beds down.
“They are treating you well?” A voice strangely familiar, strangely different.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“A kiss from a good woman?”
“I would love to oblige you, but I fear I’m only a king. We’re a great deal more common than good women.” Men laughed, even though it was not funny. West supposed that people laughing at your poor jokes was one advantage of being a monarch. “Anything else?”
“Maybe… maybe another blanket, sir. Getting cold down here, at night.”
“Of course.” The figure jerked his thumb at a man behind. Lord Hoff, West realised now, dragging along at a respectful distance. “Another blanket for every man here.”
The Lord Chamberlain, that fearsome scourge of the audience chamber, humbly nodded his head like a meek child. The king stood, and moved into the light.
Jezal dan Luthar, of course, and yet it was hard to believe that it was the same man, and not only because of the rich fur mantle and the golden circlet on his forehead. He seemed taller. Handsome, still, but no longer boyish. A deep scar on his bearded jaw had given him an air of strength. The sneer of arrogance had become a frown of command. The carefree swagger had become a purposeful stride. He worked his way on slowly down the aisle between the cots, speaking to each man, pressing their hands, giving them thanks, promising them help. No one was overlooked.
“A cheer for the king!” someone gurgled through gritted teeth.
“No! No. The cheering should be for you, my brave friends! You who have made sacrifices in my name. I owe you everything. It was only with your help that the Gurkish were defeated. Only with your help that the Union was saved. I do not forget a debt, that I promise you!”
West stared. Whoever this strange apparition was who looked so like Jezal dan Luthar, he spoke like a monarch. West almost felt a preposterous desire to drag himself from his bed and kneel. One casualty was trying to do just that as the king passed his bed. Jezal restrained him with a gentle hand on his chest, smiled and patted his shoulder as though he had been offering succour to the wounded his entire life, instead of getting drunk in shit-holes with the rest of the officers, and whining about such meagre tasks as he was given.
He drew close and saw West, lying there. His face lit up, though there was a tooth missing from his smile. “Collem West!” he said, hastening over. “I can honestly say that I have never in my life been so pleased to see your face.”
“Er…” West moved his mouth around a bit, but hardly knew what to say.
Jezal turned to his sister. “Ardee… I hope you are well.”
“Yes.” She said nothing else. They stared at each other, for a long and intensely awkward moment, not speaking.
Lord Hoff frowned at the king, then at West, then at Ardee. He insinuated himself somewhat between the two of them. “Your Majesty, we should—”
Jezal silenced him effortlessly with one raised hand. “I trust that you will soon join me in the Closed Council, West. I am in some need of a friendly face there, in truth. Not to mention good advice. You always were a mine of good advice. I never did thank you for it. Well, I can thank you now.”
“Jezal… I mean, your Majesty—”
“No, no. Always Jezal to you, I hope. You will have a room in the palace, of course. You will have the royal surgeon. Everything possible. See to that, please, Hoff.”
The Lord Chamberlain bowed. “Of course. Everything will be arranged.”
“Good. Good. I am glad you are well, West. I cannot afford to lose you.” The king nodded, to him, and to his sister. Then he turned and moved on, pressing hands, speaking soft words. A pool of hope seemed to surround him as he passed. Despair crowded in behind it. Smiles faded as he moved away. Men dropped back onto their beads, faces clouding over with pain.