Blenner sighed.
‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t even considered that. I was still hung up on the dying part.’
Dorden smiled. He got up and took a small brown bottle down from a crowded shelf. He handed it to Blenner. It was full of little oval pills.
‘One of these every day, or when you feel agitated. They will improve your fortitude and help you think clearly. Come to me when you need more.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Blenner. ‘Now listen. I don’t want this–
‘I can assure you that what’s just passed between us will remain in confidence.’
‘Thank you.’
‘One last thing, commissar. If you really want to fortify yourself, you should do what I’m about to do.’
‘Yes?’ said Blenner.
‘Prayer and worship, commissar. I have become a regular shrine-goer. I think it’s kept me alive longer than any pills. Look after the soul, and it benefits the man built around it.’
Shore services were usually held in the camp chapel, but during the Makeshift Revels, the ecclesiarchs had taken to preaching and blessing in the open, out in the fair.
Ayatani Zweil was just beginning his morning address when Dorden arrived. Zweil was standing on a munitions box, codex in hand, with two young boys from the camp train stood either side of him swinging censers. They looked bored, but he’d paid them to do it. He’d chosen a site at the end of one of the stall rows, and a crowd had gathered. Dorden joined the back of it.
‘The Saint, Saint Sabbat, made these worlds,’ Zweil said. ‘She made these worlds with her grace for us to live in, and that’s why we’re fighting to free them. She watches us, you see. When we work and fight and sleep and eat. She even watches us when we’re on the privy, which is disconcerting, I know, yet reassuring. Where was I?’
The old priest’s sermons were certainly unconventional. When he had finished, he came down through the dispersing crowd to find Dorden.
‘I’m always happy every morning to see you in my congregation,’ he said, taking Dorden’s hands.
‘Because I’m evidence of another soul brought into the fold?’
‘No, just pleased you haven’t died in your sleep. I had a dream.’
‘You do have those…’
‘Last night. Lovely young ladies in it. Very distracting. Then I had another dream. The Saint came to me.’
‘Did she?’ asked Dorden.
‘No, she was busy with something else, so she sent a dog. The dog said, ayatani, it said, you have to pray and do good works. It’s your job to make sure that Dorden outlives you.’
‘I see.’
‘Have I told you this before?’
‘Yes, last week.’
‘Ah, I ought to get some new material. Maybe a parable. Parables are good. I had one once, a very nice blue it was, but rather too tight.’
‘You don’t really know what a parable is, do you?’
‘How obvious is that?’
‘Father, coming to you each day to pray is doing me good. I know it. I have been granted more life than I had reason to expect.’
Zweil took him by the arm and they began to walk along the bustling row, two old men together. The boys with the censers followed.
‘I’m going to look after you,’ said Zweil. ‘I am. It’s only right. I sort of got you in this terrible pickle. If I hadn’t swapped blood samples on you, it would have been me with the cancer.’
‘Father, medicine’s not really a strong field of expertise for you either, is it?’
‘Balls. I know what I mean. I’m going to look after you. Of course, taking you to war’s probably not the best plan in that case.’
‘I’ve always liked the Makeshift Revels,’ said Dorden. ‘Great spirit to them. Great anticipation.’
‘Bag o’nails.’
‘What?’
‘Bag o’nails. It’s another name for these revels. A corruption, you see, from “bacchanals”. I’m thinking of getting a tattoo. The face of the beati. Your boy Lesp, he does ink, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. The beati. With illumined clouds.’
‘Where are you going to get it?’
‘Here on Menazoid Sigma,’ said Zweil. ‘Oh, now doesn’t he look disturbingly smart!’
They had crossed the path of trooper Wes Maggs. Maggs was wearing full dress uniform and looked very uncomfortable.
‘Don’t mock me, father,’ he said. ‘I hate getting gussied up.’ The uniform was a blue so dark it was almost black, with silver braiding and insignia, including the old 81st emblem. There was a red sash, silver aiguillettes and, on the left breast, the formal medal of Belladon: the belladonna flower, its stylised scarlet petals shedding a single drop of blood like a tear.
‘What’s this all in aid of?’ asked Dorden.
‘I’m part of the honour guard,’ said Maggs. ‘For the influx. I don’t know why they picked me. I don’t do ceremonial.’
‘Which influx?’ asked Dorden.
‘The Belladon one,’ said Maggs.
‘Don’t keep them waiting,’ said Zweil.
‘Is it true?’ asked Dorden.
‘Is what true, doctor?’ asked Maggs, fiddling with his cap band.
‘About Wilder?’
‘So I hear,’ Maggs called as he hurried away.
‘You’re late,’ said Major Baskevyl as Maggs ran up.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Take your place.’
Two full companies had assembled on the landing skirts in dress uniform. Banners were flapping in the wind. There was the flower of Belladon and the Tanith crest. The landing ship had just come in.
‘Stand ready,’ said Baskevyl as he walked to join the other officers.
D Company was his, and F belonged to Ferdy Kolosim. Both companies snapped to attention. Kolosim nodded as Baskevyl approached.
‘A good day for us,’ said Kolosim. ‘A new company. A Belladon company. Yes, sir. Just the sort of reinforcements this regiment needs.’
‘This regiment does all right,’ said Baskevyl. ‘But the point is well made.’
‘Is it true? It’s Wilder’s brother?’ asked Captain Sloman.
‘That’s what I hear,’ Baskevyl replied. ‘It’s his brother. He personally requested the transfer to join us. They’ve been trying to catch up with us for three years.’
‘Just in time for this show,’ said Kolosim. ‘Do we know what sort of strength he’s bringing? A full company? What specialism?’
‘We don’t know anything,’ said Baskevyl.
‘We could use heavy infantry,’ said Sloman. ‘Maybe some serious crew weapons.’
‘Start showing those damn Tanith scouts how to fight a war Belladon style,’ said Kolosim.
They all heard something. A sudden loud crash and blast.
‘What the–?’ murmured Baskevyl.
Drums. Marching drums, rattling and hissing, beating a perfect pace. Cymbals. The thud of bass kettles. Over that, suddenly like sirens, the bellow and parp of brass.
The reinforcement company came down the ramp of the landing ship into the suns-light to meet them.
‘Is this a joke?’ said Ferdy Kolosim.
It was a full colours band. They came out in match step, hammering their slung drums. The brass of their instruments gleamed. Their banners were bright and crisply new. At least half of the musicians were women.
‘Fury of Belladon…’ said Sloman.
‘Quiet!’ snapped Kolosim.
The band wheeled and marched until it was formed up and facing the reception guard. Their parade drill and formation work was certainly impeccable. They halted, and the bandmaster timed the music to a precise finish.