‘My point, sir, was that Fiddler has actually drawn himself closer to you, if indeed he spoke of his soldiers being among the walking dead.’
‘You might think that,’ Hedge said, nodding. ‘But you’d be wrong. When you’re dead, Bavedict, you ain’t got no brothers. Nothing holds ya together. At least, not that I ever seen. Aye, the dead Bridgeburners are all together, but that’s just old memories, chaining ’em all to each other. It’s just ghostly echoes, from back when they were alive. I’m telling you, Alchemist, keep doing all you can to stay alive, for as long as you can. Because the dead got no friends.’
Bavedict sighed. ‘I do hope you’re wrong, Commander. Did you not say the Realm of Death has changed – that the Reaper himself surrendered the Unliving Throne? And that this Whiskeyjack—’
‘You never knew him. Whiskeyjack, I mean. So you’ll just have to take me at my word, he’s a stubborn bastard. Probably the stubbornest bastard ever to walk this world. So, maybe you got a point. Maybe he can make it all different. If anyone can, it’s him.’ Another slap on Bavedict’s shoulder. ‘You gave me something to think about there. Fid never did that, you know. In fact, I can’t remember what he ever did for me. I’m thinking now, I never really liked him at all.’
‘How unfortunate. Did you like Whiskeyjack?’
‘Aye, we was the best of friends. Plenty there to like, basically. In both of us. Fid was the odd one out, come to think on it.’
‘And now Whiskeyjack rides among the dead.’
‘Tragic, Bavedict. A damned shame.’
‘And you loved him deeply.’
‘So I did. So I did.’
‘But Fiddler is still alive.’
‘Aye—’
‘And you never really liked him.’
‘Just so—’
‘In fact, you love all the dead Bridgeburners.’
‘Of course I do!’
‘Just not the last one left alive.’
Hedge glared, and then slapped the man on the side of the head. ‘Why am I talking to you? You don’t understand nothing!’
Off he marched, up to where his company trudged.
Bavedict drew out a small jar. Porcelain and studded jewels. He unscrewed the top, dipped one fingertip in, drew it back and examined it, and then rubbed it across his gums. ‘Die?’ he whispered. ‘But I have no intention of dying. Not ever.’
Jastara finally found them, up near the head of the Khundryl column. It was impressive, how Hanavat managed to keep up this pace, the way she waddled with all that extra weight. It was never easy being pregnant. Sick to start, and then hungry all the time, and finally big as a bloated bhederin, until it all ends in excruciating pain. She recalled her first time, going through all that so bright-eyed and flushed, only to lose the damned thing as soon as it came out.
‘ The child did what she had to do, Jastara. Showed you the journey you will know again, and again. She did what she had to do, and is now returned to the black waters .’
But other mothers didn’t have to go through that, did they? It was hardly as if Jastara was blessed with a life of greatness, was it? ‘ Married Gall’s favourite son, though, didn’t she? That woman has ambitions, if not for herself, then for her get .’ Ambitions. That word now dangled like a bedraggled crow from a spear point, a rotted, withered clutch of shredded feathers and old blood. ‘ Watch out for widows. See how she took Gall in? What are they doing at night, when the children are asleep? Hanavat had better beware, especially as vulnerable as she is now, with a child about to drop, and her husband fled from her side. No, look hard at that Gilk, Widow Jastara .’
There were measures of disgust, and they came close and one recoiled, and then they came back a second time, and one didn’t recoil quite so far. And when they crept back a third time, and a fourth, when the hand reached out from the darkness to caress her bared thigh, to probe under the furs … well, sometimes disgust was like a mourner’s shroud, suddenly too heavy to wear any more. ‘ Look hard at her now. You can see it in her eyes .’
Comfort a broken man and you take the breaking inside. What woman didn’t know that? The cracks spread outward, whispering into everything within reach. It was the curse of drunks and d’bayang addicts, and womanizers and sluts. The curse of men who spoiled young boys and girls – their own get, sometimes. Spoiled them for ever.
Accusations and proof and then all that shame, kneeling in the dirt with hands over his eyes. Or her eyes. And suddenly all the disgust comes back, only now it tastes familiar. No, more than familiar. It tastes intimate .
