Chel pressed handfuls of snow to his face as he trudged, trying to numb the throbbing. His adrenaline had drained away and the exhaustion of the night, and the preceding week, was sapping at his steps. He walked between Foss and Tarfel, hoping one or the other would catch him if he fell. Presumably Foss.
‘Why did you pray?’
Tarfel had hardly spoken since they’d left the trapper’s hut for the second time. Foss nodded at the prince’s question, taking a long breath through his nose.
‘For their departing souls.’
‘But they were trying to kill you. All of us, really.’ Chel thought of the Fly, and his own lingering guilt.
Foss gave a half-smile, a little crack of white on one side of his mouth. ‘They were still people, and they still died before their time.’
‘And that man on the boat? You threw him in the water.’
Foss looked a little uneasy. ‘I may have loosened his bonds before he went overboard.’
‘But what if he couldn’t swim?’
‘Sometimes, princeling, you have to trust in God’s mercy.’
Something stirred in Chel’s memory, and he spoke almost without meaning to. ‘My father once said that every premature death is a tragedy, no matter the circumstances. Even if someone was a bad seed, like Hurkel, the tragedy was that they couldn’t be saved.’ He blushed, suddenly conscious of the attention of the group.
Foss nodded. ‘Your father a churchman?’
‘No. Well, yes. I …’ His father had claimed he’d intended to join the Church, but it hadn’t been God’s plan after all. He’d certainly brought sacrament and faith to his duty as a minor lord. Chel’s chest tightened at the thought of the cost of his father’s devotion. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Foss’s eyes were gentle. ‘Suit yourself, friend. We all have our intimates.’
‘I had an intimate once,’ Lemon said from Foss’s back. ‘Gave me terrible gas, it did. Burned with a blue flame.’
‘You,’ Foss said, levering her down to the ground, ‘sound much recovered. On your feet.’
‘Bah. You’re only saying that because of the smell.’
Chel started to find Loveless keeping easy pace beside him. She looked placid, although a thin arc of what he guessed was Hurkel’s blood stained her cheek below the scar. She said nothing for a time, walking in comfortable silence, then as they crossed a bright snowfield, she spoke.
‘You’re a dutiful sort, aren’t you, cub?’
‘I, uh …’
‘We know what you did at the palace. What you’ve done since. You’re dedicated. Loyal. Where does that come from?’
‘Come from?’
‘Is it from your father? Is he a dedicated sort?’
‘He …’ More memories swamped him. His father’s smiling, open face, his impassioned words, all blurred by time. The great locked door, the coughing beyond. The black wagon that came in the moonlight. Chel felt his throat close, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. ‘He’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry, cub.’
‘He was dedicated.’
‘I’m sure he was. And you want to make him proud, don’t you?’
Chel stopped, his aching legs grateful. ‘Do you always do this?’
She stopped with him, her head tilted on one side, blue hair gleaming in the morning light. ‘Do what?’
‘Analyse people. Pick them apart. Like with that man on the boat. Like with Hurkel.’
She snorted. ‘That fucker required bugger-all analysis, cub. I’ve seen his type infesting the Rose for years.’
‘His type?’
‘Bullies and frustrated sex-pests. The insecure and power-hungry.’
‘Sex-pests?’
‘It’s always about sex, cub. Deep down. You think any man who gives a damn about himself takes a vow of celibacy? Either they have no intention of keeping it, or they thought themselves a lost cause to begin with. And when people deny their nature, they’ve taken a step down a dark road.’
‘And what’s their nature?’
‘Humans are sexual creatures, cub. We rather need to be, don’t we? Propagation of the species and all?’ She stretched her arms high and wide, and Chel watched and tingled.
‘I suppose so.’
‘But pretending things are otherwise, no matter how fierce or how grandly, don’t make them so, cub.’
Rennic’s angry shout from ahead set them moving again, Chel wincing with every step.
‘It’s always about sex. Shepherd knows how much of human history has been steered by some central figure’s urge to fuck someone or something.’ She nodded at Tarfel, who walked a few paces ahead of them. ‘You know how the wars of the provinces began?’
‘The reunification? It was a holy mission, wasn’t it? The schism, the corruption of the old church, the rebel provinces who wouldn’t abandon their discredited faith …’ Even as he spoke, he found his own words ludicrous, trailing off in the face of her wry smile. ‘Fine, how did the wars begin?’
‘Oh, Old Man Rennic can tell you that some day. But rest assured, it has sex at the very heart of it. It always does.’
Tarfel had stopped to let them catch up. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘History,’ Loveless said with a straight face.
‘Oh. Did you notice those ruins back there? They were Taneru, late empire. They were big on circles of things in remote places.’ Then: ‘Where did you get your sword?’
She laughed. ‘That one’s not for telling, princeling. As the Foss says, we all have our intimates.’
‘I had an intimate once,’ came Lemon’s voice from beside them.
‘Lemon, hush,’ said Foss.
***
They made it to late afternoon before the weaker members of the party could go no further. By then, despite the applications of snow, Chel’s face had swollen to what Lemon considered hilarious proportions. The crew made camp in the cleft of a rocky runnel, steep stone to their backs and a clear view over the surrounding woods that covered the mountainside beneath the snow. To Lemon’s roaring approval, Rennic and Whisper allowed a fire, and a moment later she was scampering around gathering wood, barking at Tarfel to assist.
Chel slumped against a fallen trunk. Whisper, Rennic and Loveless stood at the runnel’s edge, conversing in the ruby light of the setting sun. Whisper had led since they’d left the clearing, ranging over the snowscape without apparent difficulty or fatigue. It was hard to read her mood, but Chel thought she looked unsettled. Rennic wore his perpetual scowl, which helped little, but Loveless seemed expressionless, distant. Chel wondered if she was thinking back to her encounter with Hurkel. He’d barely processed the day’s events himself; the Fly’s keening death beneath the starlight seemed altogether like something from a dream.
‘How’s the face?’
Foss knelt beside him, surveying his damaged visage with professional care. ‘Still rotten!’ Lemon called from the fire, and Foss shook his head with a half-smile.
Chel pushed a gentle finger against his cheek and hissed. ‘Not good.’
‘Go easy on the snow, friend. You don’t want frostbite on top of the rest. The lip will heal fast – lots of blood-flow there – and your cheek will repair in time, but you might be a bit lopsided once it settles down.’
Chel tried to grimace, but it hurt too much, and Foss gave a gentle laugh. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of lopsidedness, my friend. Here, look.’ He pushed the side of his nose, and it went completely flat across his face. He released it and it sprang back.
‘What the … What happened?’
‘Years of bad choices. Rest up now. You did well today.’ He clapped a hand on Chel’s good shoulder and stood. Chel afforded himself a smile of satisfaction.
‘Aye, right, my go.’ Lemon appeared next to him, one of her satchels open on the snow before her, rummaging for fresh dressings. ‘Let’s get those wounds looked at.’
‘What about yours?’ Lemon had a pattern of dark bruises staining her face, the result of Hurkel’s crushing grip. He wondered what damage she had taken from the punch. She gave no sign of pain or discomfort.
‘Ah, bollocks to that, bear-man. Nothing that fat bastard could do to me I haven’t already done myself. Now, let’s see how that arm’s doing.’
He let her strip his bandage, shivering in the chill air as she moved his damaged arm around, testing its range of movement. As Lemon worried at him, Chel looked over at the grumpy conference at the stream’s edge and said, ‘What are they talking about?’
‘Well, I couldn’t say for certain, but it’s probably relating to the fact we’re miles from where we’re supposed to be, down on manpower, we’ve lost or abandoned a load of supplies and the seasonal storms will be breaking any day. Now hold still while I— Sweet mercy!’
The arm did not smell good.
‘You’re going to need to start using this again now,’ Lemon said, nose wrinkled from its flaky stink. ‘Or you’ll be a shrivelled cripple-bear for years to come. Just elbow down for now, we’ll get to the shoulder in another couple of weeks. Make sure you can see your hand at all times. And give it a fucken wash!’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Like I said, an education. A real one.’ She began to re-sling his upper arm, leaving the elbow free.
Chel watched Whisper say something in her hand-language to Rennic and Loveless, then stalk off into the woods, her bow in her hand. She seemed to leave only the faintest impressions in the snow.
‘Does she ever talk?’
Lemon followed his gaze. ‘Oh aye, she talks plenty. Right gobby, she is.’
‘But, you know, with her mouth?’
Lemon said nothing.
‘Why doesn’t she speak? What’s her story?’
Lemon finished the sling and began to pack up her satchel. ‘A person’s story is their own, wee bear. You want it, you ask them, and if they want to, they’ll tell you. And if they don’t, they won’t, and you’ll have to go on living your bear-life.’
‘So I’m supposed to ask her?’
‘Yep.’
‘But I won’t understand the answer!’
‘Aye, right. Well, that would be your problem.’
Chel frowned. ‘Then what’s your story, Lemon?’
‘Aha, clever Trevor. I’ll tell you this much, if only for persistence: I’m from over the waters, south-easterly, originally.’
Chel sighed. ‘Say it isn’t so.’
Lemon grinned. ‘I know, shocking, eh? Most folks is stunned by that revelation.’
Whisper reappeared, two braces of mountain wildlife dripping blood from her grip. She passed them to Foss and Spider, who set about plucking and dressing the meat, then setting it over the now-roaring fire. The crew ate in exhausted silence as the sun dropped below the peaked horizon, their bedrolls already laid as close to the fire as safety would allow.
‘What happened back there, Chel?’ Tarfel was right beside him, pale hands to the fire. ‘What did they want, do you think? That church fellow and his hirelings.’
‘I think they wanted you, highness.’
‘How flattering. Although their manners were rather rough, eh?’
‘I think they’re trying to finish what they tried at the winter palace, highness. We’re loose ends, and they’re looking to trim us.’
‘But who? Who wants me trimmed?’
Chel bit at his thumb. He hardly dared voice his fears. ‘Someone with the command of some senior prelates.’ Someone at the top of the Church. That could only mean Primarch Vassad. He thought of Balise da Loran, the messages at the League’s camp, how she’d plucked the correspondence from Prince Mendel’s table. He thought of his sister, travelling with the court. Travelling at the prelate’s mercy.
‘Are you all right, Chel? You look unwell.’
‘I was thinking … that I left my sister with the Star Court. I worry for her safety.’
‘I worry about Mendel, ever more so since the attack those years ago, since our brother Corvel died. He was the same age as I am now, you know? Mendel was lucky to escape with his life.’
Chel nodded, offered a sad smile. Of course he knew. Everyone did.
‘Who do you think they’re taking us to, highness?’
‘What did the blue girl say? Someone who can bring me back from the dead? Let’s hope it’s not another stalwart of the cloth …’
Despite the dispatch of their pursuers, Rennic ordered a two-man watch overnight. Chel and Tarfel were excused, for which Chel was both relieved and a little insulted. Spider was paired with Foss, and Chel made sure his and Tarfel’s bedrolls were on Foss’s side of the fire. He watched Spider from the corner of his eye, but the bald man never looked at him, never repeated his threat from the night before. He didn’t need to.
‘This is no surprise,’ Rennic said as they finished their meal in the twilight, ‘but we’re not where we’re supposed to be. After that fuck-up, we’ve gone further off course. We don’t have the time to retrace, even assuming we wouldn’t run into more red bastards.’ Those around the campfire nodded, including Tarfel, to Chel’s wry amusement.
‘We were aiming for Lizard Pass. That’s shot now. New plan is to cut all the way to the High Passes, get up, round and down before the storms hit.’
Mutters and tuts filled the air. ‘That’s Nanaki territory,’ Foss said.
‘I know.’
‘They’re … unpredictable.’
‘I know.’
‘Especially with people who look like him.’ Foss nodded to Tarfel, who looked blank.
Chel spoke up, his defensive instincts prickled. ‘What’s the Nanaki’s problem with the prince?’
‘Come on,’ Lemon said, ‘milky skin, yellowish hair? Looks like a fucken Horvaun to them.’
‘They’re not fans of the Horvaun?’
‘Aye, no – who do you think drove their people out of the southern coastlands, eh?’
‘Reavers did? I didn’t know that.’
‘Not like they were welcomed elsewhere, was it? Hence their remote habitat and general lack of amity.’
‘What about you? You’ve got pale skin.’
‘Aye, fuck off, wee bear. The noble Clyde is friend to all.’
Rennic offered a grim smile in the firelight. ‘We’ll just have to keep the princeling’s ugly mug under wraps, won’t we? Besides, this late in the year, they’ll all have moved beneath the snow-line. We should have a clear run.’ He stood. ‘Make the most of those bones. We’re on half-rations until further notice. Whisp and I have first watch.’ He turned to walk away.
‘Wait, no circle, boss? We lost—’
‘Not from me. Ask Spider what he wants.’ With that he strode away.
‘Spider? Want me to—’
‘Fuck off, fatso. All your weepy gibbering won’t make a sloppy shit of difference. She’s good and dead either way.’ Spider glared after Rennic, then stalked off into the twilight in the opposite direction. Chel watched him go with a mixture of relief and lingering unease.
‘Ignore him, Fossy, friend Spider’s taking his lack of vengeance a little personally, I’d hazard.’
‘I realize, but—’
‘And could have been a little more perilous for us if boss-man hadn’t met his wee friend among the Mawn, eh? Those buggers don’t take prisoners – or leave survivors.’
‘Not true,’ said Loveless, gaze distant.
‘Oh aye? You know better, Ell?’
‘They take prisoners all right.’ Loveless spoke with a cold detachment that Chel found unsettling. ‘They use them. On their recruits. On their children.’
‘Use them how?’ Even Lemon sounded unnerved.
‘They whip the kids up into a frenzy, then give them a blade and set them on their prisoners. Over and over, chanting, wailing, cheered on by all around them. They’re promised all the delights of adult existence as a reward – booze, sex, adulation, independence. So they stab, and they keep stabbing, until it’s normal, natural, wonderful. Then they wheel in another.’ She paused, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, speaking only to the crackling fire. ‘They train their children to exalt in the act of killing.’
Nobody spoke. Lemon slowly replaced the stopper on a wine-skin. Somewhere distant an animal screeched.
‘And tomorrow it’s the High Passes on half-rations. Twelve hells,’ Foss sighed, and those around the fire sighed with him.
‘Twelve hells? There’s only five, right?’ Chel said.
‘It’s nine,’ Loveless said, preparing her bedroll, her reverie passed. ‘The Foss is double-counting.’
‘Nonsense, friend, it’s twelve.’
‘You’re all correct, really,’ Tarfel said, his voice quiet. The company turned to look at him. He cleared his throat. ‘Different churches have counted the hells according to different scales, but even within the New Church—’
‘True Church,’ Foss corrected.
‘—there’s disagreement between the Articles over the precise number. All that’s certain is that it’s more than one.’
Loveless arched an eyebrow. ‘And how do you know that, princeling?’
Lemon chuckled. ‘Didn’t you hear? Yon princeling has hattended the Hacademy.’
Tarfel coloured and looked at his feet.
‘Anyway,’ Lemon continued. ‘Doesn’t matter, right? It’s all the same old, same old.’
‘How can you say that, Lem?’ Foss looked more animated than Chel had seen previously. ‘The hell of usury is very different from that of infanticide or simony.’
Loveless jammed another branch onto the fire. ‘Funny how these old priests have such a clear and vivid picture of the punishments on offer for whatever they’ve decided doesn’t suit the Church that week. No wonder the hell count keeps rising.’
‘Aye, right,’ Lemon said over the top of Foss’s objections. ‘Not real, though, are they? I mean, hells as physical places, like.’
Foss’s expression had darkened. ‘You’re saying there are no hells, Lemon?’
‘Aye, no, they’re a whatsit, metaphor. Like, the concept of eternal punishment, it’s a … a … metaphysical construct, so it is.’
‘What in His name are you talking about, Lemon?’
‘Aye, never mind. Night night.’
***
Chel slept as close to the fire as he dared, on the hard, moist ground where the snow had melted. Tarfel was a lump beside him, Loveless a sighing bundle beyond. Spider lay opposite, his gaunt features exaggerated by the lick of flames, sneering even in sleep. Chel slept fitfully, struggling to find comfort. He woke in the death of night, the frigid air chilling his marrow, stinging his swollen face like a slap. Spider crouched beyond the subdued fire, glittering eyes fixed on Chel and a long, curved blade swaying in his hand. Chel blinked long and slow, the rest of his mind some way behind his eyes. A moment later, when they snapped open with grim unease pricking his innards, Spider was gone.
It took him a long time to go back to sleep.