Jacrys lunged, as Brexan had expected, and she calmly parried his attack and moved back, content to let Carpello’s desk stand between them for a moment.
‘Not bad, my dear.’ Jacrys circled again. He wasn’t breathing heavily; Brexan tried to mask her own, heavier, breathing. ‘Most of my opponents don’t survive even this long. Sad, isn’t it, that fighting with a short blade has become such a lost art. Too many have gone over to great heavy weapons, rapiers, and-’
Jacrys took the blow behind one ear and crumpled soundlessly to the floor beside the desk. Stepping over the spy’s legs, Sallax delivered another hefty blow to his temple. The spy’s body twitched several times before he lay still.
‘Is he dead?’ Brexan asked, retrieving the fancy tunic from the bag and helping Sallax into it.
Sallax shrugged and tossed his makeshift club – a table-leg, Brexan thought, towards the fireplace. She was pleased – and grateful – to see that he had not lost his skill.
She packed the breakfast Jacrys had so thoughtfully provided into another of the spy’s shirts and picked up the flagon. As she stepped over the spy’s body, she said, ‘You know, Jacrys, you are so right: fighting with a short blade is a lost art – just as well cracking someone’s skull with a piece of bedroom furniture just never seems to go out of style.’
She looked up at Sallax, who stared back at her, apparently oblivious to the fact that he had probably killed a Malakasian officer. ‘You’ll have to go without boots for now,’ she said, ‘his are too small for you, but I’ll get you some as soon as we get to the Redstone. Here, wrap that blanket round you too; it’s cold out there. Can you make it?’
‘Versen?’ Sallax asked.
‘Yes, I have news of Versen.’ Brexan uncorked the flagon with her teeth and took a drink. It was tecan, warm and tasty. She took another swallow, passed it to Sallax, who did likewise, and took him by the arm. ‘Come,’ she said calmly, ‘let’s get going.’
TRAVER’S NOTCH
‘That coffee smells great,’ Steven said, opening a saddlebag and rooting around for the last of the venison strips. ‘When I was driving from Charleston to Denver, I must have drunk three gallons of the stuff.’
Mark looked up from where he had been carefully pouring hot water through one of the filters Steven had stolen from Howard’s kitchen. ‘I can’t wait. I’ve grown so used to tecan, I’m worried I’ve lost my taste for it.’ On the outskirts of Traver’s Notch, a farm had provided milk, cheese, bread and vegetables to complement their venison. Mark had negotiated for a small metal pot for the brewing of coffee. Now he gripped the thin paper filter awkwardly between two fingers and trickled water slowly through the mound of ground coffee, trying to imitate the timing of their coffee maker at home. ‘It’s not the easiest thing in the world,’ he admitted, ‘but so far, it certainly smells like coffee.’
‘I think it smells like burned dirt,’ Garec said. ‘And you prefer this muck to tecan? Look at the colour of it!’
‘You need learn to have some faith, Garec,’ Steven said. ‘Just wait until you try some with a little milk and a few drops of that sugar extract Gilmour pretends he doesn’t carry in his tunic next to his three hundred pipes.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Garec,’ Mark said, ‘you want it barefoot.’
‘Barefoot?’
‘Exactly,’ Mark nodded, ‘as it comes, direct from the pot, none of that creamy, sugary nonsense, just insert the needle and open the IV.’
Garec looked askance at the foreigner. ‘I think Steven’s way sounds better,’ he said, ‘but neither sounds good!’
Gilmour broke in, ‘That aroma does bring back memories. My last cup must have been outside Gettysburg. Jed Harkness from Maine had a pot that brewed it right beside the fire, the water bubbled up in a little compartment, first clear, then brown and then almost black. It was wonderful…’ He sighed, and pulled his cloak close around his shoulders. It had grown noticeably colder in the days since they had resumed normal travelling, without the aid of what Garec had dubbed the Larion push. The ground was hard this morning and there was frost on the leaves and shrubs. The sky was slate-grey, and a glimmer in the southeast was all the sun they had seen that morning.
‘Don’t admit that, Gilmour,’ Mark said, ‘you’re showing your age.’
‘I am?’ He looked at Steven. ‘You’ve calculated the difference. How old would a two-thousand-Twinmoon grettan like me be in Colorado?’
Steven breathed a sigh through his nose. Mark recognised it: his maths sigh, a deep breath that said, there are numbers and figures lining themselves up inside my head, so don’t interrupt.
‘That’s about two hundred and eighty years old, Gilmour.’
‘Holy shit.’ Mark stopped pouring and stared at the former Larion Senator. ‘I have to apologise, Gilmour. The fact that you have any memories from your last visit at all is an impressive feat, never mind that they come from a time when my mother’s mother’s mother’s mother was still in nappies. And I am embarrassed for my world that this little cup of trail coffee is the first you’ll have to drink in a century and a half. I wish I could take you to the diner on I-84 just across the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. That’s the best coffee in America. I used to run up there when I was on break from school just to get a mug. It took all day.’
‘If we ever get through this, I promise I’ll go with you for a cup.’ Gilmour forced a smile and rubbed his neck bruises absently.
‘Speaking of which,’ Steven changed the subject, ‘we’re about a Twinmoon early to meet Gita and the rest of the Eastern Resistance – when we made plans to meet in Traver’s Notch, we thought you were dead. We figured we might need them to get us across the border.’
‘Had I been dead, you would have needed them,’ Gilmour said. ‘But given our current situation, it’s just as well that she is rallying the remainder of the Falkan forces here, for if we do succeed in vanquishing Nerak, we’ll need a fighting force – however ramshackle they may be – to help with any pockets of occupation personnel who make the decision to stand fast.’
‘I think they would relish that assignment,’ Mark agreed. ‘So how do we get across the border?’
‘Magic, or if we don’t want to be noisy, we creep in after dark, between the pickets,’ Gilmour said. ‘It’ll be the only way – unless you fancy fighting your way through Malakasian soldiers whose sole purpose is to keep me – and Kantu, I suppose – from re-entering Gorsk.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ Mark said quickly, ‘I’m quite happy with door number two.’
Traver’s Notch was a small village nestled between hills in a ridge running east to west along the Falkan-Gorsk border, south of the Twinmoon Mountains. The only road into town led between the hills through a miniature pass that ran up the draw and then down a series of gentle switchbacks until it reached the main town on the valley floor. It wasn’t hidden – several homes and what looked like shops were clearly visible on the slopes above the city – but flanked to the north as it was by deeper valleys and steep foothills, Traver’s Notch was well protected and easily defensible from any force, either approaching over the mountains or along the Falkan plain. It looked like it was engaged in a daily battle to keep from being swallowed entirely by the mixed hardwood and evergreen forests that spilled over from Gorsk.
As they crested the final hill, Traver’s Notch spread out before them. Steven guessed the valley was over a mile wild and perhaps half a mile across, with most of the buildings tucked neatly into the great natural bowl. A narrow river ran through the middle of the valley, and the centre of town, spanned here and there by bridges. Along the river were a handful of large stone buildings, colourful standards waving in the midday breeze.