“How?”
“Tube-charge. She’s annoyed. I think she’d have taken a team down it to see what was what if things hadn’t woken up.”
“She did the right thing.” Daur nodded. “Seventeen?” asked Gaunt.
“Nothing yet. No sign. Zero on the vox. Soric and Criid both confirm the commotion came from Raglon’s area.”
Gaunt put the porcelain cup down on the table carefully because he was aware he’d been about to throw it. He’d sent four platoons out on this first night to play the Alliance’s new game, and he’d only got three back. Raglon. He’d been Gaunt’s vox-officer for several years. He’d been so proud to get his pins and his command.
“What do we do, sir?” asked Daur.
“We do it by the book,” Gaunt replied. “Stand everyone down. Tomorrow night, four more platoons, four new areas. Haller, Bray, Domor, Arcuda. Get them ready. Tell them—”
“What sir?”
“Tomorrow night, I’m going with them.” Daur paused. “As your XO, sir, I have to recommend you don’t.”
“Noted.”
“Just for the record, you understand, sir.”
“I do. Thank you for observing your duty, Ban.”
“I’d like to go too, sir.”
Gaunt managed a thin smile. “You know I can’t allow that. Not both of us.”
“Then let me go in your place.”
“Not this time. Ban. I won a decent operation for half the Ghosts. I’m damn well going to stand by the ones who got the lousy half of the deal. Maybe you go the night after Deal?”
“Deal, sir.”
Daur had been gone for some minutes when the gas curtain was pulled back again. It was Zweil.
“I hear we’re missing some people,” said the old Hagian cleric setting down without being invited. “Raglon’s platoon.”
“I want to go out tonight. If there’s a chance we find them, I’d like to be there.”
“We won’t even be covering that area again, father. There’s no point.”
Zweil frowned. “You won’t even go back to look?”
“We are obliged to try other areas, father. Not the zones where the Shadik are expecting us. Standard field policy.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“Hmmmm,” said Zweil. He sat down facing Gaunt. “Tough job you’ve got here.”
“It’s always a tough job.”
“Yes, but sending your platoons out into that… wasteland… hoping you’ll find a gap in their lines. Why would that be again?”
“You know damn well, Zweil. Don’t pretend Daur hasn’t told you.”
Zweil grinned. Gaunt had always liked that grin, from the moment he’d first met the old priest on Hagia. It was confident, wise.
“Very well, Ibram. Pretend I’m Daur. Confide in me your plans.”
“I don’t think so. You haven’t got the clearance.”
“I could have the clearance, if you allowed it.”
“No, Zweil.”
The old man held out his hand, knuckles bunched, palm down. “Play you for it. Knuckles.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake…”
“Unless you’re afraid an old priest’ll beat you?”
Gaunt turned round smartly and put his bent knuckles against Zweil’s. “Never taunt a Guard officer,” he said.
Zweil nodded. In a flash, he’d cracked Gaunt’s knuckles with a blow from the right.
“Ow!” cried Gaunt. “I didn’t think we’d started!”
“Now you do. Best of three?”
Gaunt paused, then rapped down, missing as Zweil’s hand pulled away.
In reply, Zweil snapped his hand round in a feint, and then smacked Gaunt’s knuckles again from the right. “Best of five?” asked Zweil, grinning.
“No. Enough.”
“So you’ll grant me clearance?”
“No.”
Zweil sighed and sat back. “Got you twice.”
“Yes, yes—”
“Both from the same angle.”
“What?”
“The same angle.”
“Do you have a point?”
Zweil nodded. “I caught you because you didn’t think I’d try the same thing twice. What if the Shadik think the same way?”
“Very clever. Now get out.”
Zweil got to his feet. “Promise me something. I think that’s the least you can do seeing as how I won.”
“Go on.”
“If you decide to go out into the same zones again tonight, take me with you.”
Gaunt hesitated. “Yes, father.”
“Bless you,” said Zweil.
Gaunt had called Criid to his dugout. He wanted to know more about this mill she’d found. But when the knock came, it wasn’t Criid. It was Count Golke.
He was wearing battledress.
“Going somewhere?” Gaunt asked.
“When you head out again tonight, I’ll be with you.”
“Why would you do that, sir? You’re liaison. Front-line work is behind you.”
“I know the Pocket, Gaunt. I served here. I got you into this mess, though it wasn’t my intention. I think I can help you.”
“Really?”
Golke nodded.
“So… what about the mill.”
“I’m guessing it’s the old Santrebar watermill. I didn’t know any of it was still standing.”
“Well,” said Gaunt. “You’ve given it a name. But I don’t think—”
“I was a soldier, Gaunt, before I was anything else. Before I got drawn into the political nonsense running this war. I think I’ve outlived my usefulness as a staff officer. Let me be a soldier again.”
There was a knock.
Criid entered. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” she said. “Sit down, sergeant and tell me and the count about this mill…”
NINE
THE MANSE
“Haunted? Well, there are ghosts here, that’s for certain.”
—Trooper Brostin
The storm that had begun the previous evening showed no sign of easing up. Rain drummed the roof of the manse and pattered against the windows all night. Past midnight, peals of thunder and brilliant flashes of lightning had made it seem like they were still back at the line, enduring shelling.
By dawn, the electrical tumult had stopped, but the rain had got harder It was as if the vast, black thunderheads were too heavy to clear the peaks of the Massif and had hooked there, deluging the forest like dirigibles trying to shed ballast.
From the streaming porch windows of the manse, Caffran could see out onto the gloomy garden at the front. Already overgrown by the time they’d pitched up the night before, it was now littered with torn leaves and broken boughs brought down in the night. Swirling rivers of rainwater gushed from the higher slopes of the rear gardens, via a hedged ditch on the east side of the manse, to the gate. A lower part of the lawn was actually underwater.
He went back down the hall to the kitchen. It was early still. From the drawing room, he could hear loud, bellicose snoring. No point disturbing those sleepers, he decided. Various pots and pans from the kitchen shelves stood on the floor of the hall and up some of the stairs, pinging and beating as they caught steady drips coming in from above. Caffran nudged one around with his foot, so it was more completely under a particularly busy trickle.
Mkvenner, Jajjo and Muril were in the kitchen. Ven was sitting at the table, studying the map and chewing on a C-bar ration. Muril was occupying the window bench, sipping a can of caffeine. Jajjo greeted Caffran and offered him a cup from the pot on the stove. He was munching on some leftovers from the previous night’s meal.
Muril and Larkin had caught up with them about an hour after they’d entered the manse. Soaked through, they were carrying a knife-trimmed branch from which hung a plump buck. Nineteen detail had eaten well. Some of them had drunk well too.
“What’s the plan?” Caffran asked, sitting down opposite Mkvenner.
“Don’t
ask me,” Mkvenner replied tersely, without looking up.
Caffran held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Only asking,” he said.
Mkvenner sighed and sat back. “Sorry, Caff. Didn’t mean to snap.” He folded up his map, got up, and pulled his camo cape around him. “I’ll be outside, checking the perimeter.”
He stepped out into the torrential downpour and closed the door after him. The old latch fell with a clack.
“Feth!” said Caffran. “What bit him on the arse?”
“He seems pretty normal to me,” muttered Muril. Her tone was as dreary as the daylight.
“Come on, that’s grim, even by Ven’s standards,” said Caffran.
“I think he’s pretty gakked off with Feygor’s attitude,” Jajjo said. “He wanted to get an early start, move on into the woods, but they’re all still sleeping it off. And… no one stood watch last night.”
“I did,” said Caffran.
Jajjo nodded. “Yeah, all three of us did. But Brostin and Cuu were meant to do the small hours, and they didn’t bother. They were too busy being unconscious.”
“Feth…” Caffran said. The idea alarmed him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent a night in the field without someone on perimeter. Anyone could have snuck up in the dark. The whole fething Shadik Republic could have snuck up in the dark.
“I’m gonna go wake Feygor up,” Caffran announced.
“Is that really a good idea?” asked Muril.
“No, maybe not.” Caffran reconsidered, sitting back down. “The amount he was putting away last night, it’s not going to be pretty this morning.”
“Him and Brostin and Gutes and Cuu,” said Jajjo, the level of his disapproval obvious. “Like they were off duty.”
Caffran smiled. He liked Jajjo, but the man could be a real stuff-shirt sometimes. Though only Feygor and his drinking buddies had got wasted the night before, everyone had enjoyed the luxury of a glass or two, even Ven. But not Jajjo. Come to think of it, Caffran had never seen Jajjo drink.
“You got to cut them some slack,” Caffran told the Verghastite. “I know we’re on a tour here, but this is easy-hive compared to the line we were in. They’re gonna blow off steam a little, given these opportunities.”
Jajjo sniffed. “Whatever,”
They heard voices in the hall, and Larkin and Rerval entered the kitchen. Neither one of them had disgraced themselves the night before either, though Rerval had become a little tipsy. Larkin had disappeared early.
“Could be the weather,” Larkin was saying.
“It doesn’t feel right,” replied Rerval. “I’m not getting a signal at all.”
“What’s the problem?” asked Caffran.
“Vox is down,” said Larkin, helping himself to caffeine.
“Vox isn’t down,” Rerval insisted. “There’s something up with the caster set.”
“You sure?” said Muril. “Could be the weather.”
“Don’t you start,” Rerval said, shaking his head. “I’m gonna have to strip it down. Once I’ve got some brew inside me.”
“Heavy head?” Jajjo asked, without sympathy.
“No,” replied Rerval. The intended rebuke had annoyed him. “I slept badly. Kept waking up. This place is full of the strangest noises.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Caffran. “How’d you sleep, Larks?”
“Like a baby,” said Larkin quietly. Caffran wondered where. The heavy drinkers had spent the night in the drawing room by the fire. The rest of them had occupied bedrooms on the first floor: Jajjo and Mkvenner in one, Rerval, Muril and Caffran in another.
“Well, I’m going to do something useful,” Jajjo announced. “Cleaning up, maybe.”
“You’re kidding!” said Muril.
“We left a mess in that dining room last night. This is somebody’s house.”
“Somebody who left years ago,” said Rerval. “This whole sector has been evacuated. Corbec told us so.”
“I still think it’s polite. We’re not looters. Well, I’m not anyway. Someday maybe, someone will come home here again.”
They were all looking at him.
“Oh, all right. If we stay here another day, we’re going to need clean plates ourselves.” Caffran sighed. “I’ll help,” he said.
The pair of them left the kitchen and walked back down the hall towards the dining room. The hall was dark, and they easily saw the little flash that briefly lit the windows. A short delay, and thunder growled distantly.
“Feth,” said Caffran. “Is it ever going to let up?”
Jajjo paused in the doorway of the dining room. He was staring at something.
“What’s up?” asked Caffran.
“That raincoat. It was on the coatstand last night when we came in.”
“Yeah, and it’s still there.”
“Right. But now it’s wet.”
A little puddle had collected on the tiles under the wooden stand.
Caffran glanced round and saw the look on Jajjo’s face. “Don’t start. Someone used it last night, that’s all.”
“Who?”
Caffran shrugged. “I don’t know! Someone very drunk, maybe? There are several candidates.”
Jajjo smiled, reassured. They went into the dining room and stopped dead.
The table was clean and wiped. The chairs set back in place. All the crockery was gone.
“What the feth—?” Caffran began.
“I thought we were supposed to be the ghosts,” Jajjo muttered.
“I said don’t start—” Caffran snapped. His words were cut off by a sudden yelling from the drawing room. And by a blast of las-fire.
“You fethers! You fethers!” Feygor was howling. Naked except for his undershorts, he was sitting up on his crumpled bedroll, his rifle in his hands. Caffran and Jajjo rushed in, blades drawn. A second later, Rerval, Larkin and Muril burst in from the kitchen.
The stuffed behj was lying on its back in front of Feygor, its head shot off. Sawdust drifted down in the air. On their own bedrolls around the room, Brostin, Gutes and Cuu were blinking awake.
“What the feth’s going on?” asked Caffran.
“Those fethers!” Feygor squawked. “I woke up and that fething thing was standing over me! Ha ha… very fething funny, you bastards! Who put it there?”
“You killed it for sure this time,” said Cuu and slumped back onto his mat.
“Who put it there?” demanded Feygor again.
Gutes shook his head.
“Bastards!” cried Feygor and kicked out at the stuffed beast.
“Did anyone put it there?” asked Caffran. There was a chorus of “no” and “not me”. He glanced at Jajjo before the dark-skinned trooper could speak. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned.
“I think this place is haunted,” Jajjo said anyway.
“Feth off!”
“You dumb gak!”
“I said don’t go there,” Caffran admonished.
“Well, who washed up then, eh?” asked Jajjo. There was a pause.
“I did,” said Gutes. Rerval and Caffran groaned.
“Feth you! Old habits die hard.” Gutes got to his feet and wandered off to find the can.
“Good old wash-bin Gutes,” smiled Larkin.
“I heard that, you fether,” Gutes’ voice trailed back from the hall.
“And the stuffed animal?” snapped Caffran. “Brostin? Had to be someone with a bit of muscle to move that thing.”
Brostin turned over in his bedroll, and put his hands behind his head. The pose emphasised the huge girth of his arms and pecs. He stared at Caffran. “You accusing me, Caff?”
“Seems like your style, yeah.”
“Yeah, well… it was. Funny as feth, eh?” He closed his eyes and rolled over again.
“Bastard!” Feygor snarled, and threw a boot at him.
Caffran turned and ushered Larkin, Rerval, Muril and Jajjo out. “Leave them to it,” he said.
Gutes was i
n the kitchen, drinking the last of the brewed caffeine.
“Thanks for putting the stuff away, though,” he said. “What?” asked Caffran.
“The plates and stuff. I washed it all up, but I didn’t know where it went, so I left it by the sink.” He looked at their faces. “What? What?”
By noon, everybody was up. Brostin, Feygor and Cuu were still in their underwear, grim and hungover. The rest of nineteen were kitted up, filling time.
Muril had found a regicide set from somewhere, and was playing a game with Larkin.
Rerval came into the kitchen. “Which of you fethers took it?” he asked.
“Took what?” Feygor asked.
“The caster’s down because someone took out the main transmission circuit. I don’t carry a spare for that. Who’s got it?”
There was a general shrugging and shaking of heads. “Come on.”
“We’re not tech-heads, Rerval. We don’t feth around with tech-kit,” said Brostin. “Do I look like an adept of the Mechanicus?”
“Someone did it. Clean job too. Mister Feygor?”
“Why are you looking at me, trooper?”
“Maybe you thought we’d get to stay here an extra night or two and enjoy the facilities if we unexpectedly lost contact.”
Feygor set down his mug. “You know what, Rerval? I wish I’d thought of that. I really do. It’s neat, it’s sneaky. It serves my purpose. But I was planning on staying here a while anyway, vox-link or no vox-link. I didn’t feth with your beloved caster.”
He leaned forward, staring Rerval in the face. “Don’t ever fething accuse me of crap again, you little bastard.”
Rerval blinked and looked away suddenly. “Sorry,” he said.
“Sorry what?” snapped Feygor. Everyone looked on, stony-faced. Caffran didn’t like what he was seeing. Feygor was a bully, with a mean-streak as wide as the Kottmark Massif.
“Sorry, ‘Mister Feygor’.”
“Better,” said Feygor, leaning back.
“Sure as sure,” murmured Cuu from the rear of the room.
Feygor yawned. “Anyone want to tell me about this circuit? While we’re on the topic? Like I said, it suits me fine, the vox being down, but I’d like to know who sabotaged it. Anyone?”