Lorsen, treating Temple to a poisonous glare.
‘If you wanted to avoid bloodshed,’ said Cosca, ‘you really should have spoken up beforehand.’
The lawyer blinked. ‘I did.’
The Old Man raised helpless palms to indicate the mercenaries arming, mounting, drinking and otherwise preparing themselves for violence. ‘Not eloquently enough, evidently. How many men
have we fit to fight?’
‘Four hundred and thirty-two,’ said Friendly, instantly. The neckless sergeant appeared to Lorsen to have two uncanny specialities: silent menace and numbers. ‘Aside from the
sixty-four who chose not to join the expedition, there have been eleven deserters since we left Mulkova, and five taken ill.’
Cosca shrugged them away. ‘Some wastage is inevitable. The fewer our numbers, the greater each share of glory, eh, Sworbreck?’
The writer, a ludicrous indulgence on this expedition, looked anything but convinced. ‘I . . . suppose?’
‘Glory is hard to count,’ said Friendly.
‘So true,’ lamented Cosca. ‘Like honour and virtue and all those other desirable intangibles. But the fewer our numbers, the greater each share of the profits too.’
‘Profits can be counted.’
‘And weighed, and felt, and held up to the light,’ said Captain Brachio, rubbing gently at his capacious belly.
‘The logical extension of the argument,’ Cosca twisted the waxed points of his moustaches sharp, ‘would be that all the high ideals in existence are not worth as much as a
single bit.’
Lorsen shivered with the most profound disgust. ‘That is a world I could not bear to live in.’
The Old Man grinned. ‘And yet here you are. Is Jubair in position?’
‘Soon,’ grunted Brachio. ‘We’re waiting for his signal.’
Lorsen took a breath through gritted teeth. A crowd of madmen, awaiting the signal of the maddest.
‘It is not too late.’ Sufeen spoke softly so the others could not hear. ‘We could stop this.’
‘Why should we?’ Jubair drew his sword, and saw the fear in Sufeen’s eyes, and felt a pity and a contempt for him. Fear was born of arrogance. Of a belief that everything was
not the will of God, and could be changed. But nothing could be changed. Jubair had accepted that many years ago. Since then, he and fear had been entire strangers to each other. ‘This is
what God wants,’ he said.
Most men refused to see the truth. Sufeen stared at him as though he was mad. ‘Why would it be God’s desire to punish the innocent?’
‘Innocence is not for you to judge. Nor is it given to man to understand God’s design. If He desires someone saved, He need only turn my sword aside.’
Sufeen slowly shook his head. ‘If that is your God, I do not believe in Him.’
‘What kind of God would He be if your belief could make the slightest difference? Or mine, or anyone’s?’ Jubair lifted the blade, patchy sunlight shining down the long,
straight edge, glinting in the many nicks and notches. ‘Disbelieve this sword, it will still cut you. He is God. We all walk His path regardless.’
Sufeen shook his little head again, as though that might change the way of things. ‘What priest taught you this?’
‘I have seen how the world is and judged for myself how it must be.’ He glanced over his shoulder, his men gathering in the wood, armour and weapons prepared for the work, faces
eager. ‘Are we ready to attack?’
‘I’ve been down there.’ Sufeen pointed through the brush towards Squaredeal. ‘They have three constables, and two are idiots. I am not sure anything so vigorous as an
attack is really necessary, are you?’
It was true there were few defences. A fence of rough-cut logs had once ringed the town but had been partly torn down to allow for growth. The roof of the wooden watchtower was crusted with moss
and someone had secured their washing line to one of its supports. The Ghosts had long ago been driven out of this country and the townsfolk evidently expected no other threat.
‘If you wanted to avoid bloodshed,’ said Cosca, ‘you really should have spoken up beforehand.’
The lawyer blinked. ‘I did.’
The Old Man raised helpless palms to indicate the mercenaries arming, mounting, drinking and otherwise preparing themselves for violence. ‘Not eloquently enough, evidently. How many men
have we fit to fight?’
‘Four hundred and thirty-two,’ said Friendly, instantly. The neckless sergeant appeared to Lorsen to have two uncanny specialities: silent menace and numbers. ‘Aside from the
sixty-four who chose not to join the expedition, there have been eleven deserters since we left Mulkova, and five taken ill.’
Cosca shrugged them away. ‘Some wastage is inevitable. The fewer our numbers, the greater each share of glory, eh, Sworbreck?’
The writer, a ludicrous indulgence on this expedition, looked anything but convinced. ‘I . . . suppose?’
‘Glory is hard to count,’ said Friendly.
‘So true,’ lamented Cosca. ‘Like honour and virtue and all those other desirable intangibles. But the fewer our numbers, the greater each share of the profits too.’
‘Profits can be counted.’
‘And weighed, and felt, and held up to the light,’ said Captain Brachio, rubbing gently at his capacious belly.
‘The logical extension of the argument,’ Cosca twisted the waxed points of his moustaches sharp, ‘would be that all the high ideals in existence are not worth as much as a
single bit.’
Lorsen shivered with the most profound disgust. ‘That is a world I could not bear to live in.’
The Old Man grinned. ‘And yet here you are. Is Jubair in position?’
‘Soon,’ grunted Brachio. ‘We’re waiting for his signal.’
Lorsen took a breath through gritted teeth. A crowd of madmen, awaiting the signal of the maddest.
‘It is not too late.’ Sufeen spoke softly so the others could not hear. ‘We could stop this.’
‘Why should we?’ Jubair drew his sword, and saw the fear in Sufeen’s eyes, and felt a pity and a contempt for him. Fear was born of arrogance. Of a belief that everything was
not the will of God, and could be changed. But nothing could be changed. Jubair had accepted that many years ago. Since then, he and fear had been entire strangers to each other. ‘This is
what God wants,’ he said.
Most men refused to see the truth. Sufeen stared at him as though he was mad. ‘Why would it be God’s desire to punish the innocent?’
‘Innocence is not for you to judge. Nor is it given to man to understand God’s design. If He desires someone saved, He need only turn my sword aside.’
Sufeen slowly shook his head. ‘If that is your God, I do not believe in Him.’
‘What kind of God would He be if your belief could make the slightest difference? Or mine, or anyone’s?’ Jubair lifted the blade, patchy sunlight shining down the long,
straight edge, glinting in the many nicks and notches. ‘Disbelieve this sword, it will still cut you. He is God. We all walk His path regardless.’
Sufeen shook his little head again, as though that might change the way of things. ‘What priest taught you this?’
‘I have seen how the world is and judged for myself how it must be.’ He glanced over his shoulder, his men gathering in the wood, armour and weapons prepared for the work, faces
eager. ‘Are we ready to attack?’
‘I’ve been down there.’ Sufeen pointed through the brush towards Squaredeal. ‘They have three constables, and two are idiots. I am not sure anything so vigorous as an
attack is really necessary, are you?’
It was true there were few defences. A fence of rough-cut logs had once ringed the town but had been partly torn down to allow for growth. The roof of the wooden watchtower was crusted with moss
and someone had secured their washing line to one of its supports. The Ghosts had long ago been driven out of this country and the townsfolk evidently expected no other threat.
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