‘It would,’ says Rawne.
Varl sniffs. ‘Anyway, this charming fellow Blenner says he can’t believe Gaunt would have taken the field promotion willingly. Listen to this, he says, “what was Slaydo thinking? Surely the Old Man had made provision for you to be part of the command structure that succeeded him. Throne’s sake, Ibram! You know he was grooming! How did you let this slight happen to you? Slaydo’s legacy would have protected you for years if you’d let it”.’
Varl looks up at the Tanith men around the table. ‘Wasn’t Slaydo the name of the Warmaster?’ he asks. ‘The big honking bastard commander?’
‘Yup,’ says Feygor.
‘Well, this can’t mean the same Slaydo, can it?’ asks Costin.
‘Of course it can’t,’ says Caober. ‘It must be another Slaydo.’
‘Well, of course,’ says Varl, ‘because otherwise it would mean that the feth-wipe commanding us is a more important feth-wipe than we ever imagined.’
‘It doesn’t mean that,’ says Rawne. ‘Costin’s right. It’s a different Slaydo, or this Blenner doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Go on. What else is there?’
Varl works down the sheet.
‘Blenner finishes by saying that he’s stationed on Hisk with a regiment called the Greygorians. He says he’s got pull with a Lord General called Cybon, and that Cybon’s promised him, that is Gaunt, a staff position. Blenner begs Gaunt to reconsider his “ill-advised” move and get reassigned.’
‘That’s it?’ asks Rawne.
Varl nods.
‘So he’s thinking about ditching us,’ murmurs Rawne.
‘This letter’s old, mind you,’ says Varl.
‘But he kept it,’ says Feygor. ‘It matters to him.’
‘Murt’s right,’ says Rawne. ‘This means his heart’s not in it. We can exert a little pressure, and get rid of this fether without any of us having to face a firing squad.’
‘Having fun?’
They all turn. Dorden is standing nearby, watching them. The boy Milo is behind him, looking pale and nervous.
‘We’re fine, Doc,’ says Feygor. ‘How are you?’
‘Looks for all the world like a meeting of plotters,’ says Dorden. He takes a step forwards and comes in amongst them. He’s twice as old as any of them, like their grandfather. He’s no fighter either. Every one of them is a young man, strong enough to break him and kill him with ease. He pours himself a mug of caffeine from their tray.
Costin makes a hasty but abortive attempt to stop him.
‘There’s a little–’ Costin begins, in alarm.
‘Sacra in it?’ asks Dorden, sipping. ‘I should hope so, cold day like this.’
He looks across at Varl.
‘What’s that you’ve got, Varl?’
‘A letter, Doc.’
‘Does it belong to you?’
‘Uh, not completely.’
‘Did you borrow it?’
‘It fell out of someone’s pocket, Doc.’
‘Do you think it had better fall back in?’ asks Dorden.
‘I think that would be a good idea,’ says Varl.
‘We were just having a conversation, doctor,’ says Rawne. ‘No plots, no conspiracies.’
‘I believe you,’ Dorden replies. ‘Just like I believe that no lies would ever, ever come out of your mouth, major.’
‘With respect, doctor,’ says Rawne, ‘I’m having a private conversation with some good comrades, and the substance of it is of no consequence to you.’
Dorden nods.
‘Of course, major,’ he replies. ‘Just as I’m here to find a plate of food for this boy and minding my own business.’
He turns to talk to the cooks about finding something other than slab in the ration crates.
Then he looks back at Rawne.
‘Consider this, though. They say it’s always best to know your enemy. If you succeed in ousting Colonel-Commissar Gaunt, who might you be making room for?’
‘Where’s the chief?’ Corbec asks, ducking in.
‘Frankly, I’ve been too busy to keep tabs on that gigantic fether,’ Larkin replies.
‘Oh, Larks,’ murmurs Corbec over the drumming of infantry weapons, ‘that lip of yours is going to get you dead before too long unless you curb it. Disrespecting a superior, it’s called.’
Larkin sneers at his old friend.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘You’d write me up.’
He is adjusting the replacement barrel of his long-las, hunkered down behind the cyclopean plinth of a heap of rubble that had once been a piece of civic statuary.
‘Of course I would,’ says Corbec. ‘I’d have to.’
Corbec has got down on one knee on the other side of a narrow gap between the plinth and a retaining wall that is leaning at a forty-five degree angle. Solid-round fire from the enemy is travelling up the gap between them, channelled by the actual physical shape, like steel pinballs coursing along a chute. The shots scrape and squeal as they whistle past.
Corbec clacks in a fresh clip and leans out gingerly to snap some discouraging las-rounds back up the gap.
‘Why?’ Larkin asks. ‘Why would you have to?’
Larkin laughs, mirthlessly. Corbec can almost smell the rank adrenaline sweat coming out of the wiry marksman’s pores. The stress of a combat situation has pushed Larkin towards his own, personal edge, and he is barely in control.
‘Because I’m the fething colonel, and I can’t have you bad-mouthing the company commander,’ Corbec replies.
‘Yeah, but you’re not really, are you?’ says Larkin. ‘I mean, you’re not really my superior, are you?’
‘What?’
‘Gaunt just picked you and Rawne. It was random. It doesn’t mean anything. There’s no point you carrying on like there’s suddenly any difference between us.’
Corbec gazes across at Larkin, watching him screw the barrel in, nattering away, stray rounds tumbling past them like seed cases in a gale.
‘I mean, it’s not like your shit suddenly smells better than mine, is it?’ says Larkin. He looks up at last and sees Corbec’s face.
‘What?’ he asks. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
Corbec glares at him.
‘I am the colonel, Larks,’ he snarls. ‘That’s the point. I’m not your friend any more. This is either real or there’s no point to it at all.’
Larkin just looks at him.
‘Oh, for feth’s sake!’ says Corbec. ‘Stop looking at me with those stupid hang-dog eyes! Hold this position. That’s an order, trooper! Mkoll!’
The chief scout comes scurrying over from the other corner of the plinth, head down. He drops in behind Larkin and looks across the gap at Corbec.
‘Sergeant Blane’s got the top end of the line firm. I’m going back down that way,’ Corbec says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘We seem to have lost Gaunt.’
‘It’s tragic,’ says Larkin.
‘Keep this section in place,’ Corbec continues.
Mkoll nods. Corbec sets off.
‘What’s got into him?’ Larkin mutters.
‘Probably something you said,’ says Mkoll.
‘I don’t say anything we’re not all thinking,’ Larkin replies.
Outside, the flamer makes its sucking roar again.
All four of the Tanith men with Gaunt express their unhappiness in strong terms. Gutes and Domor are cursing.
‘We’re done for,’ says another of them, a man called Guheen.
‘They’ll just torch us out like larisel in a burrow,’ says the fourth.
‘Maybe–’ Gaunt begins.
‘No maybe about it!’ Gutes spits.