The other man raised the stump of his left arm. “We could buy gloves together,” he said.
Master Smythe lay back, and laughed. “Humans are terrifying,” he said quietly.
The next day, the Red Knight-the Duke of Thrake, and the Queen’s Captain-was dressed, carefully, by his leman and his squire, and then put-somewhat ceremoniously-into those parts of his armour that were still presentable and were light enough for him to wear.
Armed, and armoured, he left the hospital tent raised by the Order of Saint Thomas, to where Ataelus, his war horse, untouched and unused through the great battle, waited for him with fondness and was rewarded with an apple.
Then, with some help from Bad Tom, Toby and Ser Michael, he managed to mount.
Tom rode by his side. He wore the full harness and surcoat of the primus pilus of the company.
Out there, on the ground in front of the tents, waited the army.
Gabriel didn’t flinch from his duty. He accepted the cheers, and then he rode slowly along the ranks. He felt curiously detached. He knew the butcher’s bill-but he still kept expecting to see men where they were not. Ser John Crayford, Count of Albinkirk, would never again lead the Albinkirk Independent Company. There was no company to lead, and the Captain of Albinkirk was dead. Nell was not by his side, and Kit Foliak would never buy another gold embroidered sword belt. The north Brogat levy was led by a man he’d never met, a northern knight. Lord Gregario was in one of Amicia’s wards, with the Grand Squire in the next bed.
There were thousands gone, and the dead were all about him, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d begin to think that Nicholas Ganfroy was just at his elbow. Or Cuddy, killed in the last of the fighting with the Galles, or Flarch.
Gelfred was so badly wounded that even Amicia despaired for him. It was Sauce who took his salute, and Long Paw who rode by his side as he inspected the green banda at the right of the line-Amy’s Hob was dead, and Will Starling was lost and presumed dead. And more, and their losses were not the worst.
In the white banda the scars showed-a new generation, dead, in a single dragon’s breath. But where Morgon had stood, the company lived-there was Milus, and there George Brewes. And Gonzago D’Avia and young Fitzsimmons. And many men Milus had recruited and he’d never met-Moreans and Occitans, and even some Galles.
And the red banda-luckier. Still decimated, but only just. Ser Michael sat like a rock on his war horse, Attila, and gave him a crisp salute. Men all along the line were cheering.
Some were also coughing.
Gabriel ignored them. He smiled as much as he could, and passed among the men he’d known for five years and more-the ones left alive. Parcival D’Entre Deux Monts. Gavin Hazzart. And there was Wilful Murder, and there, Robin Hasty, and there, still alive, No Head. And beyond, just barely sober, Oak Pew. She coughed hard and spat something in her hand. Daniel Favour. Ser Ranald. Smoke. Adrian Goldsmith. Ser Bescanon. Ser Danved, talking even now, and Ser Bertran, still silent. His squire, Jean, was grinning, and Petite Mouline in a new red arming coat was beaming, brimful of happiness.
He walked his horse to where Wilful Murder sat. “You, and Cully, Tippit, and No Head and Long Paw. And some knights and squires. I guess we still have a company.”
Wilful looked at Tippit, a few files away, and a small smile creased his aging face. “We could use some fucking archers,” he said. “Ones not like some awkward sods I could mention.”
It shouldn’t have mattered.
But they weren’t all dead.
He finished his inspection of his own company, aiming for that polite level where every man feels his polishing was not in vain and no one feels he’s dying on parade, and then he moved off to the left, to the Moreans, who were in many ways the heroes of the hour and were cheering like fools. There he saw Janos Turkos, soon to be knighted, and Ser Giorgos Comnenos, who had saved Blanche, with the help of the Ifriquy’an, Ser Pavalo. And Count Zac, back where he belonged at the head of his easterners. Beyond them stood the Royal Guard, which had never felt the breath of the dragon and yet looked as if they had, and all the Occitans and western levies under Prince Tancredo and Lord Gareth, none of whom seemed to have polished anything. The Royal Foresters were not on parade. The Redmede brothers had taken the Jacks and the Foresters into the woods together, pursuing the broken enemy, trying to make sure that the victory had consequence.
Gabriel began to inspect at a fast trot.
Just the survivors amounted to nine thousand men.
At his shoulder, Tom Lachlan waited until he came to the end of the line of men. There, on the other side of the camp, stood a motley horde of other things, led by a magnificent knight on a white stag. By him stood Pavalo Payam, the Ifriquy’an, and Harmodius. They looked bored.
“You won,” Tom Lachlan said. “Just take it in and let go.”
“I-”
“Let go,” Bad Tom said. “Drink hard. Ha’ a tumble wi’ your lass. Make up some lies to paste over what you mislike. It’s fewkin’ war, whether there’s great dragonish Wyrms or just a wee huddle o’ stupid men, tryin’ to steal yer purse. Let it go.”
Gabriel turned and met Tom’s eye.
The Faery Knight saluted with a flourish. “Thisss isss the mossst foolisssh of human traditionssss,” he said. “I have no glory in war. Let’sss go sssomewhere, and sssit in the ssshade. And drink. And sssee all your pretty peoplesss.”
Gabriel frowned. “It’s all to be done again, like a lesson learned wrong.”
The Faery Knight shrugged. “I have a few sssenturiesss on you, little captain. It isss alwaysss to be done again.”
But he didn’t leave then and there, and they all bowed to the great duchess, Mogon, who stood with the Queen.
The Queen was frowning, the rarest of expressions on her face.
“Your grace?” Gabriel called.
She nodded. “What are they all shouting?” she asked. “My Archaic is not that good.”
Gabriel had been deaf to the cheers-they oppressed him. And there was Blanche, smiling at him, and he blew her a kiss, to the delight of a thousand farmers and camp followers. There was Lady Mary Montroy, and there was Lady Rebecca Almspend, and the Earl of Towbray whispering in the Queen’s ear.
The cries-the cheers-grew more coordinated, and Ataelus showed his distaste for the noise, turning a curvet and nipping at Tom’s horse.
Bad Tom looked back at Ser Gavin. By him, Ser Alcaeus was smug. The Morean grinned.
“They’re shouting ‘Ave, Imperator,’” Ser Alcaeus said with intense satisfaction.