“You said you fought in Kanta, eh, Pike? In the war?”

“That’s right. I was a Sergeant there.” Pike nodded slowly, his eyes glittering in the pink mess of his face. “Hard to believe we were always too hot, eh?”

West gave a sad gurgle. The closest thing to a laugh that he could manage. “Which was your unit?”

“I was in the first regiment of the King’s Own cavalry, under Colonel Glokta.”

“But, that was my regiment!”

“I know.”

“I don’t remember you.”

Pike’s burns shifted in a way that West thought might have been a smile. “I looked different, back then. I remember you, though. Lieutenant West. The men liked you. Good man to go to with a problem.”

West swallowed. He wasn’t much for fixing problems now. Only for making them. “So how did you end up in the camp?”

Pike and Cathil exchanged glances. “In general, among the convicts, you don’t ask.”

“Oh.” West looked down, rubbed his hands together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No offence.” Pike sniffed, and rubbed at the side of his melted nose. “I made some mistakes. Let’s leave it at that. You got a family waiting for you?”

West winced, folded his arms tight across his chest. “I have a sister, back home in Adua. She’s… complicated.” He thought it best to end there. “You?”

“I had a wife. When I was sent here, she chose to stay behind. I used to hate her for it, but you know what? I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

Ladisla emerged from the trees, wiping his hands on the hem of West’s coat. “That’s better! Must’ve been that damn meat this morning.” He sat down between West and Cathil and she scowled as if someone had dropped a shovelful of shit next to her. It was safe to say the two of them were not getting on. “What were we speaking of?”

West winced. “Pike was just mentioning his wife—”

“Oh? You know, of course, that I am engaged to be married, to the Princess Terez, daughter of Grand Duke Orso of Talins. She is a famous beauty…” Ladisla trailed off, frowning round at the shadowy trees, as if even he was dimly aware of how bizarre talk of such matters seemed in the wilds of Angland. “Though I am beginning to suspect that she is less than entirely delighted with the match.”

“One can’t imagine why,” murmured Cathil, at least the tenth jibe of the evening.

“I am the heir to the throne!” snapped the Prince, “and will one day be your king! It would not hurt anyone for you to treat me with a measure of respect!”

She laughed in his face. “I’ve no country and no king, and certainly no respect for you.”

Ladisla gasped with indignation. “I will not be spoken to like—”

Black Dow loomed up over them from nowhere. “Shut his fucking mouth!” he snarled in Northern, stabbing at the air with one thick finger. “Bethod might have ears anywhere! Stop his tongue flapping or it’s coming out!” and he melted away into the shadows.

“He would like us to be quiet, your Highness,” translated West in a whisper.

The Prince swallowed. “So I gather.” He and Cathil hunched their shoulders and glared at each other in silence.

West lay on his back on the hard ground, the canvas creaking just above his face, watching the snow fall gently down beyond the black lumps of his boots. Cathil was pressed up against him on one side, the Dogman on the other. The rest of the band were all around, squeezed in tight together under a great smelly blanket. All except for Dow, who was out there taking watch. Cold like this was an amazing thing for making people familiar with each other.

There was a rumbling snore coming from the far end of the group. Threetrees or Tul, probably. The Dogman tended to twitch a lot in his sleep, jolting and stretching and twittering meaningless sounds. Ladisla’s breath wheezed out on the right, chesty sounding and weak. All sleeping, more or less, as soon as they put their heads down.

But West could not sleep. He was too busy thinking about all the hardships, and the defeats, and the terrible dangers they were in. And not only them. Marshal Burr might be out there in the forests of Angland somewhere, hurrying south to the rescue, not knowing that he was falling into a trap. Not knowing that Bethod was expecting him.

The situation was dire but, against all reason, West’s heart felt light. The fact was, out here, things were simple. There were no daily battles to be fought, no prejudices to overcome, no need to think more than an hour ahead. He felt free for the first time in months.

He winced and stretched his aching legs, felt Cathil shift in her sleep beside him, her head falling against his shoulder, her cheek pressing into his dirty uniform. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his face, the warmth of her body through their clothes. A pleasant warmth. The effect was only slightly spoiled by the stink of sweat and wet earth, and the Dogman squeaking and muttering in his other ear. West closed his eyes, the faintest grin on his face. Perhaps things could still be put right. Perhaps he still had the chance to be a hero. If he could just get Ladisla back alive to Lord Marshal Burr.

The Rest is Wasted Breath

Ferro rode, and watched the land. Still they followed the dark water, still the wind blew cold through her clothes, still the looming sky was heavy with chaos, and yet the country was changing. Where it had been flat as a table, now it was full of rises and sudden, hidden troughs. Land that men could hide in, and she did not like that thought. Not that she was fearful, for Ferro Maljinn feared no man. But she had to look and listen all the more carefully, for signs that anyone had passed, for signs that anyone was waiting.

That was simple good sense.

The grass had changed as well. She had grown used to it all around, tall and waving in the wind, but here it was short, and dry, and withered pale like straw. It was getting shorter, too, as they went further. Today there were bald patches scattered round. Bare earth, where nothing grew. Empty earth, like the dust of the Badlands.

Dead earth.

And dead for no reason that she could see. She frowned out across the crinkled plain, out towards far distant hills, a faint and ragged line above the horizon. Nothing moved in all that vast space. Nothing but them and the impatient clouds. And one bird, hovering high, high up, almost still on the air, long feathers on its dark wing tips fluttering.

“First bird I seen in two days,” grunted Ninefingers, peering up at it suspiciously.

“Huh,” she grunted. “The birds have more sense than us. What are we doing here?”

“Got nowhere better to be.”

Ferro had better places to be. Anywhere there were Gurkish to kill. “Speak for yourself.”

“What? You got a crowd of friends back in the Badlands, all asking after you? Where did Ferro get to? The laughs all dried up since she went away.” And he snorted as if he had said something funny.

Ferro did not see what. “We can’t all be as well-loved as you, pink.” She gave a snort of her own. “I’m sure they will have a feast ready for you when you get back to the North.”

“Oh, there’ll be a feast alright. Just as soon as they’ve hung me.”

She thought about that, for a minute, looking sideways at him from the corners of her eyes. Looking without turning her head, so if he glanced over she could flick her eyes away and pretend she never was looking at all. She had to admit, now that she was getting used to him, the big pink was not so bad. They had fought together, more than once, and he had always done his share. They had agreed to bury each other, if need be, and she trusted him to do it. Strange-looking, strange-sounding, but she had yet to hear him say he would do a thing, and see him not do it, which made him one of the better men she had known. Best not to tell him that, of course, or give away the slightest sign that she thought it.