'We were just discussing that,' Mallet said, his round face flushed. 'It's healed badly. Needs serious attention-'
'Later,' the bearded commander growled. 'Captain Paran, have the squads assembled in two bells — have you decided what to do with what's left of the Ninth?'
'Aye, they'll join what's left of Sergeant Antsy's squad.'
Whiskeyjack frowned. 'Give me some names.'
'Antsy's got Corporal Picker, and … let's see … Spindle, Blend, Detoran. So, with Mallet here, and Hedge, Trotts and Quick Ben-'
'Quick Ben and Spindle are now cadre mages, Captain. But you'll have them with your company in any case. Otherwise, I'd guess Antsy will be happy enough-'
Mallet snorted. 'Happy? Antsy don't know the meaning of the word.'
Paran's eyes narrowed. 'I take it, then, that the Bridgeburners won't be marching with the rest of the Host.'
'No, you won't be — we'll go into that back at Pale, though.' Whiskeyjack's flat grey eyes studied the captain for a moment, then slid away. 'There's thirty-eight Bridgeburners left — not much of a company. If you prefer, Captain, you can decline the position. There's a few companies of elite marines short on officers, and they're used to noble-borns commanding them …'
There was silence.
Paran turned away. Dusk was coming, the valley's shadow rising up the slopes of the surrounding hillsides, a spatter of dim stars emerging from the sky's dome. I might take a knife in the back, is what he's telling me. Bridgeburners have an abiding dislike for noble-born officers. A year ago he would have spoken those words out loud, in the belief that baring ugly truths was a good thing to do. The misguided notion that it was the soldier's way. when in fact it's the opposite that is a soldier's way. In a world full of pitfalls and sinkholes, you dance the edges. Only fools jump feet first, and fools don't live long besides. He'd felt knives enter his body once. Wounds that should have been fatal. The memory sheathed him in sweat. The threat was not something he could simply shrug off in a display of youthful, ignorant bravado. He knew that, and the two men facing him knew it as well. 'I still,' Paran said, eyes on the darkness devouring the south road, 'would consider it an honour to command the Bridgeburners, sir. Perhaps, in time, I might have the opportunity to prove myself worthy of such soldiers.'
Whiskeyjack grunted. 'As you like, Captain. The offer remains open if you change your mind.'
Paran faced him.
The commander grinned. 'For a little while longer, anyway.'
A huge, dark-skinned figure emerged from the gloom, her weapons and armour softly clinking. Seeing both Whiskeyjack and Paran, the woman hesitated, then, fixing her gaze on the commander, she said, 'The watch is being turned over, sir. We're all coming in, as ordered.'
'Why are you telling me, soldier?' Whiskeyjack rumbled. 'You talk to your immediate superior.'
The woman scowled, pivoted to face Paran. 'The watch-'
'I heard, Detoran. Have the Bridgeburners get their gear and assemble in the compound.'
'It's still a bell and a half before we leave-'
'I'm aware of that, soldier.'
'Yes, sir. At once, sir.'
The woman ambled off.
Whiskeyjack sighed. 'About that offer-'
'My tutor was Napan,' Paran said. 'I've yet to meet a Napan who knows the meaning of respect, and Detoran's no exception. I'm also aware,' he continued, 'that she's no exception as far as Bridgeburners go, either.'
'It seems your tutor taught you well,' Whiskeyjack muttered.
Paran frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'His disrespect for authority's rubbed off, Captain. You just interrupted your commander.'
'Uh, my apologies. I keep forgetting you're not a sergeant any more.'
'So do I, which is why I need people like you to get it right.' The veteran turned to Mallet. 'Remember what I said, Healer.'
'Aye, sir.'
Whiskeyjack glanced once more at Paran. 'The hurry up and wait was a good touch, Captain. Soldiers love to stew.'
Paran watched the man head off towards the gatehouse, then said to Mallet, 'Your private discussion with the commander, Healer. Anything I should know?'
Mallet's blink was sleepy. 'No, sir.'
'Very well. You may rejoin your squad.'
'Yes, sir.'
When he was alone, Paran sighed. Thirty-eight bitter, resentful veterans, already twice betrayed. I wasn't part of the treachery at the siege of Pale, and Laseen's proclamation of outlawry embraced me as much as it did them. Neither event can be laid at my feet, yet they're doing it anyway.
