'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-'