‘I expect so.’
‘With all his men?’
‘Those that remain.’
‘Which is how many?’
‘Some died in the mountains, a lot deserted—’
‘How many?’
‘I would guess at least a hundred still.’
The Mayor’s nails dug at her palms as she clenched her fists. ‘And the Inquisitor?’
‘Very much present, as far as I am aware.’
‘What do they want?’
‘The Inquisitor wants to torture his way to a brighter tomorrow.’
‘And Cosca?’
‘Cosca wants a fortune in ancient gold that he stole from the Dragon People, and that…’ Temple picked nervously at his frayed collar. ‘I stole from him.’
‘And where is this twice-stolen fortune now?’
Temple grimaced. ‘Stolen. The woman Corlin took it. She turns out to be the rebel leader Conthus. It’s been a day of surprises,’ he finished, lamely.
‘So… it… appears,’ whispered the Mayor. ‘Where is Corlin?’
Temple gave that helpless shrug of which he was so fond. ‘In the wind.’
The Mayor was less fond of that shrug. ‘I have not the men to fight them,’ she said. ‘I have not the money to pay them off. I have no ancient hoard for Nicomo bloody Cosca and for damn sure no brighter tomorrow for Inquisitor fucking Lorsen! Is there any chance your head will pacify them?’
Temple swallowed. ‘I fear not.’
‘So do I. But in the absence of a better suggestion I may have to make the offer.’
‘As it happens…’ Temple licked his lips. ‘I have a suggestion.’
The Mayor took a fistful of Temple’s shirt and dragged him close. ‘Is it a good one? Is it the best suggestion I ever heard?’
‘I profoundly doubt it, but, circumstances being what they are… do you have that treaty?’
‘I’m tired,’ said Corporal Bright, glancing unimpressed at the piled-up hovels of Crease.
‘Aye,’ grunted Old Cog in reply. He kept having to force his eyelids up, they were that heavy from last night’s revelry, then the terror o’ the stampede, then a healthy trek on foot and a hard ride to follow.
‘And dirty,’ said Bright.
‘Aye.’ The smoke of last night’s fires, and the rolling through the brush running from stomping horses, then the steady showering of dirt from the hooves of the galloping mounts in front.
‘And sore,’ said Bright.
‘No doubt.’ Last night’s revelry again, and the riding again, and Cog’s arm still sore from the fall in the mountains and the old wound in his arse always aching. You wouldn’t think an arrow in the arse would curse you all your days but there it is. Arse armour. That was the key to the mercenary life.
‘It’s been a testing campaign,’ said Cog.
‘If you can apply the word to half a year’s hard riding, hard drinking, killing and theft.’
‘What else would y’apply it to?’
Bright considered that a moment. ‘True. Have you seen a worse, though? You been with Cosca for years.’
‘The North was colder. Kadir was dustier. That last Styrian mess was bloodier. Full-on revolt in the Company at one point.’ He shifted the manacles at his belt. ‘Gave up on using chains and had to go with hangings for every infraction. But all considered, no. I ain’t seen a worse.’ Cog sniffed up some snot, worked it thoughtfully about his mouth, gathering a good sense of its consistency, then leaned back and spat it arcing through a hovel’s open window.
‘Never saw a man could spit like you,’ said Bright.
‘It’s all about putting the practice in,’ said Cog. ‘Like anything else.’
‘Keep moving!’ roared Cosca over his shoulder, up at the head of the column. If you could call eighteen men a column. Still, they were the lucky ones. The rest of the Company were most likely still slogging across the plateau on foot. The ones that were still alive, anyway.
Bright’s thoughts were evidently marching in the same direction. ‘Lost a lot o’ good men these last few weeks.’
‘Good might be stretching it.’
‘You know what I mean. Can’t believe Brachio’s gone.’
‘He’s a loss.’
‘And Jubair.’
‘Can’t say I’m sorry that black bastard’s head ain’t attached no more.’
‘He was a strange one, right enough, but a good ally in a tough corner.’
‘I’d rather stay out o’ the tough corners.’
Bright looked sideways at him, then dropped his horse back a stretch so the others up front wouldn’t mark him. ‘Couldn’t agree more. I want to go home, is what I’m saying.’
‘Where’s home to men like us?’
‘I want to go anywhere but here, then.’
Cog glanced about at the tangled mass of wood and ruins that was Crease, never a place to delight a cultured fellow and less so than ever now by the looks of things, parts of it burned out and a lot of the rest near deserted. Those left looked like the ones who couldn’t find a way to leave, or were too far gone to try. A beggar of truly surpassing wretchedness hobbled after them for a few strides with his hand out before falling in the gutter. On the other side of the street a toothless old woman laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Mad. Or heard something real funny. Mad seemed likelier.
‘I take your point,’ said Cog. ‘But we’ve got that money to find.’ Even though he weren’t entirely sure he wanted to find it. All his life he’d been clutching at every copper he could get his warty fingers around. Then suddenly he had so much gold none of it seemed worth anything any more. So much the world seemed to make no sense in the light of it.
‘Didn’t you keep a little back?’
‘O’ course. A little.’ More than a little, in fact, the pouch under his armpit was heavy with coins. Not so much it made him sweat, but a tidy haul.
‘We all did,’ muttered Bright. ‘So it’s Cosca’s money we’re after really, ain’t it?’
Cog frowned. ‘There’s the principle ’n all.’
‘Principle? Really?’
‘Can’t let folks just up and rob you.’
‘We robbed it ourselves, didn’t we?’ said Bright, an assertion Cog could by no means deny. ‘I’m telling you, it’s cursed. From the moment we laid our hands on it things have gone from shit to shitter.’
‘No such thing as curses.’
‘Tell it to Brachio and Jubair. How many of us set off from Starikland?’
‘More’n four hundred, according to Friendly, and Friendly don’t get a count wrong.’
‘How many now?’
Cog opened his mouth, then closed it. The point was obvious to all.
‘Exactly,’ said Bright. ‘Hang around out here much longer we’ll be down to none.’
Cog sniffed, and grunted, and spat again, right into a first-floor window this time around. An artist has to challenge himself, after all. ‘Been with Cosca a long time.’
‘Times change. Look at this place.’ Bright nodded towards the vacant hovels that a month or two before had boiled over with humanity. ‘What’s that stink, anyway?’
Cog wrinkled his nose. The place had always stunk, o’ course, but that healthy, heartening stench of shit and low living that had always smelled like home to him. There was an acrid sort of a flavour on the air now, a pall of brownish smoke hanging over everything. ‘Don’t know. Can’t say I care for it one bit.’
‘I want to go home,’ said Bright, miserably.
The column was coming to the centre of town now, in so far as the place had one. They were building something on one side of the muddy street, teetering scaffold and lumber stacked high. On the other side the Church of Dice still stood, where Cog had spent several very pleasant evenings a month or two before. Cosca held up his fist for a halt in front of it and with the help of Sergeant Friendly disentangled himself from the saddle and clambered stiffly down.