Best Served Cold

“You need not worry. I am very picky about my food.”

“I tangled with your kind before, in Dagoska.” Morveer did not fully understand what was being said, a sensation which was among his least favourite, but Vitari seemed worried, and that made him worried. She was by no means a woman prone to high-blown fancies. “What deals have you been making, Murcatto?”

“The ones that needed making. She works for Rogont.”

Ishri let her head fall to one side, so far that it was almost horizontal. “Or perhaps he works for me.”

“I don’t care who’s the rider and who’s the donkey,” snapped Murcatto, “as long as one or the other of you is sending men.”

“He is sending them. Two score of his best.”

“In time?”

“Unless the Thousand Swords come early, and they will not. Their main body are camped six miles distant still. They were held up picking a village clean. Then they just had to burn the place. A destructive little crowd.” Her gaze fell on Morveer. Those black eyes made him unnecessarily nervous. He did not like the fact that she was wrapped up in bandages. He found himself curious as to why “They keep me cool,” she said. He blinked, wondering whether he might have spoken the question out loud. “You did not.” He felt himself turn cold to the roots of his hair. Just as he had when the nurses uncovered his secret materials at the orphanage, and guessed their purpose. He could not escape the irrational conclusion that this Gurkish devil somehow knew his private thoughts. Knew the things he had done, that he had thought no one would ever know…

“I will be in the barn!” he screeched, voice far more shrill than he had intended. He dragged it down with difficulty. “I must prepare, if we are to have visitors tomorrow. Come, Day!”

“I’ll just finish this.” She had quickly grown accustomed to their visitor, and was busy buttering three slices of bread at once.

“Ah… yes… I see.” He stood twitching for a moment, but there was nothing he could achieve by staying but further embarrassment. He stalked towards the door.

“You need your coat?” asked Day.

“I will be more than warm enough!”

It was only when he was through the door of the farmhouse and into the darkness, the wind sighing chill across the wheat and straight through his shirt, that he realised he would not be warm enough by any stretch of the imagination. It was too late to return without looking entirely the fool, and that he steadfastly refused to do.

“Not me.” He cursed most bitterly as he picked his way across the darkened farmyard, wrapping his arms around himself and already beginning to shiver. He had allowed some Gurkish charlatan to unnerve him with simple parlour tricks. “Bandaged bitch.” Well, they would all see. “Oh yes.” He had got the better of the nurses at the orphanage, in the end, for all the whippings. “We’ll see who whips who now.” He peered over his shoulder to make sure he was unobserved. “Magic!” he sneered. “I’ll show you a trick or-”

“Eeee!” His boot squelched, slid, and he went over on his back in a patch of mud. “Bah! Damn it to your bastard arse!” So much for heroic efforts, and new beginnings too.

The Traitor

S hivers reckoned it was an hour or two short of dawn. The rain had slacked right off but water still drip-dripped from the new leaves, pattering in the dirt. The air was weighty with chill damp. A swollen stream gurgled near the track, smothering the muddy falls of his horse’s hooves. He knew he was close, could see the faintest ruddy campfire glow at the edges of the slick tree-trunks.

Dark times are the best for dark business, Black Dow always used to say, and he should’ve known.

Shivers nudged his horse through the wet night, hoping some drunk sentry didn’t get nervous and serve him up an arrow through the guts. One of those might hurt less than having your eye burned out, but it was nought to look forward to. Luckily, he saw the first guard before the guard saw him, pressed up against a tree, spear resting on his shoulder. He had an oilskin draped right over his head, couldn’t have seen a thing, even if he’d been awake.

“Oy!” The man jerked round, dropped his spear in the muck. Shivers grinned as he watched him fumbling for it in the dark, arms crossed loose on his saddle-bow. “You want to give me a challenge, or shall I just head on and leave you to it?”

“Who goes there?” he growled, tearing his spear up along with a clump of wet grass.

“My name’s Caul Shivers, and Faithful Carpi’s going to want to talk to me.”

The Thousand Swords’ camp looked pretty much like camps always do. Men, canvas, metal and mud. Mud in particular. Tents scattered every which way. Horses tethered to trees, breath smoking in the darkness. Spears stacked up one against the other. Campfires, some burning, some down to fizzling embers, the air sharp with their smoke. A few men still awake, wrapped in blankets mostly, on guard or still drinking, frowning as they watched Shivers pass.