‘No.’
Almost hoarse with the strength of her emotion, she ground out: ‘It is because our lands have already been conquered. We just don’t realize it.’
Kyle, she saw, shared a look with the High Fist and something eased within her chest. They know. Somehow, they understand.
‘Devaleth…’ Greymane began.
‘Yes?’
‘Remain with the Admiral. Give him all the help you can for the coming battle.’
She flinched, considered explaining how outnumbered she was — thought better of it — bowed curtly. ‘Yes, High Fist.’
Greymane gestured to Kyle. ‘And you…’
‘Yes?’
‘The assault. I want you with them in case there’s trouble.’
‘Me? What of you?’
‘I will be with the last transport.’
‘What? The Marese will pick you off!’
‘Kyle… consider the men. It won’t look like flight if my banner is with the rearguard.’
‘Admiral, talk some sense into him.’
Carefully pouring himself some wine while the vessel rolled and heaved, Greymane was almost chuckling. ‘The Admiral, Kyle, agrees.’
The youth sent a wordless appeal to Devaleth but she shook her head; she agreed as well. The least hopeless of all the hopeless options, it seemed to her.
Kyle stared from man to man, unable to find the words. The two commanders exchanged amused looks. Finally Kyle waved his disgust. ‘Lunatics — both of you!’ He stormed out.
Bowing, Devaleth followed.
Alone, the two were quiet for a time; Nok accepted a glass from Greymane. ‘Your Adjunct,’ Nok said, savouring the drink. ‘Are you sure the lad is up to the job?’
Greymane swallowed, then frowned over his answer, considering how to reply. Eventually he cleared his throat. ‘Nok… I tell you this in all trust. Kyle is from Assail.’
The old Admiral straightened, his eyes widening. ‘That is impossible.’
‘I was with the Crimson Guard when it slunk its way wide south of Assail lands. Kyle was recruited then. He’d come down from the north.’
‘There’s so much I would ask… What of the Imass?’
But the High Fist was shaking his head. ‘No. He’s just a tribesman. He knows nothing of wars or fighting further north. Although…’ and here the High Fist looked away, thoughtful, ‘there were three lads — friends of his — I believe they knew more of what was going on up north. They kept damned mum about it all, understandably.’
Nok raised his glass. ‘One mystery at a time then.’
Greymane answered the salute. ‘Yes. A slow fighting retreat, yes? Give us all the time you can, Admiral.’
The old man smoothed his white moustache, grinning. His eyes, deep in their nest of wrinkles, flashed an almost fey anticipation. He extended a hand. ‘Until we meet again on the west coast.’
Laughing, Greymane took the hand as hard and dry as wood. ‘Until then, Admiral.’
*
A shake of his foot woke Suth. The hold was almost completely black.
‘Collect your kit,’ Goss’s voice whispered from the dark. ‘We’re shipping out.’
Suth grunted his acknowledgement. He swung from his hammock, began pulling his gear together. Around him the 17th stirred to life.
He’d been thrown around below and so he knew what to expect when he climbed up on to the deck. Tall waves crashed into the Lasana, sending a biting spray across his face. Beside him a sailor was ordering a coil of rope. ‘There would be a storm, wouldn’t there?’ he said to the fellow.
The sailor looked up. He was chewing a great wad of something that he spat out. He glanced around at the low slate-grey clouds, the heaving rough seas. ‘Call this a storm?’
Smart arse. The 20th was gathered at the port rail. Suth carefully edged his way over. Next to the tall Lasana a small launch was struggling to come alongside. The waves alternately threw it up then dropped it suddenly and the waters threatened to suck it under the Lasana’s hull. On board, Blue marines used poles to fend it away from the giant transport. Sailors from the Lasana threw down rope ladders. ‘After you!’ one shouted gaily to the gathered heavies, laughing.
A trooper sent the man an evil eye.
‘Hey, Yana!’ a woman from the 20th yelled: Coral, its sergeant. Suth glanced back to see Yana running up. ‘This is stupid! We want a cradle.’
‘What’s the hold-up?’ Yana asked, her eyes puffy with sleep.
‘Ha! Very funny. We should have a cradle for this.’
‘Fuck, I hate all this fucking water,’ someone said next to Suth. Surprised, he glanced down to see Faro. Though the small man wore heeled boots, he barely came up to Suth’s shoulder. He held his pipe in his teeth, unlit, and wore a loose dark jacket over a vest and shirt. ‘Let’s get going,’ he said mostly to himself, set both gloved hands on the rail, and promptly vaulted over.
A horrified shout went up from everyone crowding the rail. Suth threw himself forward to peer down. The man was hanging from a rope ladder, being knocked about, swinging wildly.
‘Who in Hood’s name is that?’ someone said.
‘One of Goss’ boys.’
‘His pet knife.’
‘Get hisself killed.’
The Blue marines allowed the launch to lurch closer. Faro let go and flew, landing and rolling in the broad belly of the launch.
‘Blast it!’ Coral snarled. ‘Bring rope! Tie your gear to ropes.’
One by one the squads lowered bundled gear until the wide belly of the launch was fairly covered. Then they descended by rope ladder. By the end, the launch was riding insanely low in the rough seas. The Blues pushed off and set long sweeps. They gestured that everyone should lend a hand. Some thirty men and women scrambled to help, displaying more eagerness than they had the entire journey.
They crossed to a Blue vessel waiting nearby. Troopers were climbing netting hung at its sides while launches bobbed like insects and empty ones were being raised. Despite his fear of either drowning or being dashed to pieces, Suth was curious to see the inside of one of these ships. Eventually their turn came, but not soon enough for some of the men and women, who had thrown themselves to the sides, heaving up their guts.
Suth waited in line for the dangerous task of climbing the netting. When he finally pulled himself up on to the decking he lay soaked and exhausted. Their gear followed, heaved up on ropes. They collected their kits then were directed below decks to quarters. Rain lashed down now, as cold as ice. A Blue marine directed them to the companionway. On the way Len, next to Suth, touched his shoulder then brought a finger to his eye, glancing aside. Suth followed the man’s gaze to where a soldier leaned against the side, arms crossed. He was a young fellow, broad with a long moustache, in a sheepskin jacket under thick cloaks.
‘The Adjunct,’ Len murmured. It was the first Suth had seen of him. ‘Some say he’s Greymane’s hatchet-man.’ Suth merely grunted, knowing nothing of him. ‘Maybe he’ll lead the landing.’
‘Or maybe he’s here to execute anyone who holds back,’ said Pyke, who’d come abreast of them.
‘Then I guess that would be you,’ said Len, aside.
Suth laughed out loud as they took the stairs.
Like a curtain of night a dust storm hung in the distance, cutting the horizon in half. It was, Kiska finally decided, strangely beautiful in its own stark way. She had no idea how much time she’d spent watching the front’s grave, stately advance across the far plain. An afternoon? A day? Two days? Who was to know here in Shadow? Or were these even the right questions to ask?
Her companion in their unofficial captivity lay curled up asleep, or at least pretending. He was good at both: relaxing and pretending. She saw him as a natural hunter, with that ability to wait indefinitely for prey to wander by, while the pretending part was all the camouflage necessary. Indeed, so far he had learned much more about her than the reverse.