He stepped forwards beside his commanding officer to meet Baskevyl’s group.
‘Major Baskevyl, Tanith First,’ said Baskevyl, taking the salute. ‘With me, Captain Kolosim, Captain Sloman and Commissar Blenner. Commissar Blenner has been recently instructed to focus on discipline for the Belladon contingent.’
‘An honour,’ snapped Blenner.
Baskevyl was relieved to see Blenner. The commissar had arrived late, only taking his place during the band display.
‘Captain Jakub Wilder,’ said the commander. ‘This is Bandmaster Sergeant Major Yerolemew.’
Baskevyl could see it. Wilder had the look of his late brother, the man who had led the 81st and been Baskevyl’s commander and friend. Lucian Wilder, war hero, had given his last command on Ancreon Sextus more than five years earlier. Jakub looked like a younger, slighter version.
‘We stand ready to join the Tanith First,’ said Wilder. He held out a scrolled document with a red ribbon to Baskevyl. ‘Our attachment paperwork is in order, and has been approved by the Munitorum.’
‘You’re a ceremonial band,’ said Kolosim.
‘Three sections, with a fourth reserve,’ said Wilder.
‘The thing is, we don’t… we don’t really need a marching band,’ said Kolosim.
‘Captain Kolosim means,’ said Baskevyl quickly, ‘that we weren’t expecting to have the ceremonial aspect of our regiment enhanced in this way.’
‘We don’t just play instruments. We have weapons,’ said Wilder, his mouth tight. ‘We know how to fight.’
‘No insult was intended,’ said Baskevyl.
‘If I may?’ asked the bandmaster, stepping forwards. He was a tall, older man, with a lined face and a vague trace of white hair. He wore a mighty, square-cut beard and a monocle. In his left hand was his golden baton. He had no right hand. The right sleeve of his long tunic coat was pinned up, empty.
‘Nearly seven years ago, we were instructed to join the 81st,’ he said. ‘Captain Wilder, my commander’s brother, had requested us, for morale purposes.’
I remember, thought Baskevyl. I remember him saying ‘I’ve written for them to send us a band, Bask. I think it’ll put a spring in our step.’ Throne, I thought he was joking.
‘You know what transit connections can be like,’ said Yerolemew. ‘We were delayed. We arrived at Ancreon Sextus long after you had departed. I assumed we would be rerouted to join another Belladon regiment. But Captain Wilder here, he… he was very keen to join his late brother’s command. He got himself assigned to us and pushed for the posting to be ratified.’
‘It’s difficult,’ said Wilder. ‘There were other delays. A squad of bandsmen and their instruments is easily subbed out for a combat team if transport is limited. We were always a lower priority. But I wanted to be here. We wanted to be here.’
He swallowed hard. Baskevyl saw a boy trying to do his best, desperate not to let down his big brother. He made the sign of the aquila and held out his hand.
‘I knew your brother,’ Baskevyl said. ‘It was an honour to call him friend. And it’s an honour to have you here. Welcome to the Tanith First, Captain Wilder.’
At his side, Commissar Blenner palmed another pill from the bottle in his stormcoat pocket, dry-swallowed it behind a pretend cough, and then smiled.
He felt better already. Whatever the poor doctor had given him was splendid stuff.
A colours band. A colours band. He could manage that. It was precisely his kind of thing. Soldiers, but without the annoying fighting part.
‘What the feth?’ murmured Larkin. ‘Is that a band?’
‘Nah, you’ve been at the hard stuff again, you mad old bugger,’ replied Jessi Banda. ‘It’s a hallucination.’
‘Actually,’ said Raess, ‘Larks is right. It’s a fething colours band.’
With Larkin in the lead, ten company marksmen, the ten best, had been making their way through the revel crowds together. The going was slow, because the old sniper wasn’t as fast on his feet as he used to be. He limped on the artificial foot. Mad or not, they were all deferential to him, even the cocky Verghastite Banda and the hard-as-nails Belladon Questa. They all had lanyards, but Larkin could outshoot any of them.
The crowd had parted, affording them a brief view down onto the landing skirts where the transports were coming and going. They could see the Belladon banners, the flash of suns-light on brass.
‘Throne,’ muttered Lyndon Questa. ‘My lot have brought a bloody band with them.’
‘Good to see the Belladon adding to the combat strength of the regiment,’ said Banda.
‘Screw you,’ said Questa.
‘In your dreams,’ she smiled.
Nessa signed a question, and Larkin signed back, pointing her towards the scene below. She hadn’t heard the drumming.
A smile crossed her face.
‘Do they sound good?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that’s the important bit to focus on, Nessa,’ said Banda.
They left the crowd and entered a loading dock hall where Munitorum crews and servitors were unloading supply crates from long-bed trucks.
‘What are we gn… gn… gn… doing here, Larkin?’ asked Merrt, his crude augmetic jaw forcing his trademark stammer.
‘It’s a surprise,’ said Larkin. ‘Gather round.’
A group of Tanith lasmen were already present, led by Captain Domor.
‘Morning, Shoggy,’ said Larkin.
‘What’s this all about?’ asked Domor.
‘Well,’ said Larkin. ‘Commander said we’re going to be doing some specialist training, didn’t he? My shooters, your boys?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t say what, and he didn’t say why,’ said Domor.
‘Ah, but one has got to be smart,’ said Larkin. ‘One has got to sneak past Gaunt’s adjutant, perhaps by distracting him. I find Banda works well.’
‘Beltayn’s putty in my hands,’ purred Banda.
‘Then, while Bel’s got his hands full–’ said Larkin.
‘Metaphorically speaking,’ Banda put in.
‘–one has got to take a look at the regimental supply manifests. See what sort of kit is coming in, and who it’s been assigned to. One can then build a picture.’
‘Is one going to share this picture,’ asked Raglon, ‘or is one going to get a punch in the mouth?’
‘Patience, Rags,’ said Larkin. He hobbled over to a stack of crates. ‘These are yours, Shoggy. Full of kit for your boys. These are mine. Give me that crowbar, Raess.’
Raess handed Larkin the bar. The old marksman began to lever the lip off one crate.
‘You can’t do that!’ a Munitorum tech exclaimed.
‘Feth off,’ Banda growled at him. The man scurried away.
‘Well, look at that,’ said Larkin, lifting the first item out of the packing crate with a smile.
‘What in the name of the God-Emperor is this?’ asked Raess.
‘Hard-round rifles,’ said Banda, taking one for herself. ‘Old, shoddy, bolt action hard-round rifles. What the gak?’
‘What’s this ammo?’ asked Questa. He held up a large calibre round. It had a brass firing cap and a head that looked like it was made of glass.
‘I want my longlas,’ said Banda. ‘I don’t want this.’
‘What are we supposed to be hunting?’ asked Nessa.
Larkin tucked the rifle he was holding up to his cheek, eased the old but well-maintained bolt action, and took a sample aim.
‘Larisel,’ he said. ‘Like in the old days.’
‘The old coot’s finally lost it,’ said Banda.
Larkin swept his aim, and suddenly found he had a target squared in his iron sights.
‘Sorry!’ he exclaimed, lowering the rifle. ‘Didn’t see you there, mam.’