‘I’m sure you have, major, I’m sure you have,’ said Blenner. ‘You understand it too, don’t you? The importance of something like that. Just in strategic terms. Now… Pet-trush-kevs-kaya… That’s right, isn’t it? Quite a mouthful. We should think about shortening that to something the men can get their tongues around.’
‘Commissar Blenner,’ growled Gaunt. ‘Major Petrushkevskaya’s name is Petrushkevskaya. That’s what the men will call her. They’ll damn well learn how to say it. Anything else would be disrespectful.’
‘Of course,’ said Blenner. ‘I only meant–’
‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Petrushkevskaya. ‘Actually, it has been an issue. I’m generally known as Major Pasha. It’s what I was called in the scratch companies, before my rank was official. Sort of an affectionate name, but it has its uses. Simplicity being one of them.’
Gaunt nodded.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s fine. Though I generally discourage the ranks from adopting informal names. A lack of discipline in anything, even the form of words, represents a lack of discipline that could spread.’
‘That must be why we’re called Gaunt’s Ghosts,’ said Blenner.
Zhukova laughed.
Gaunt had to bite his lip to prevent himself from snapping at Blenner in front of them. He looked for another outlet to vent at.
‘Where did that feth-awful band come from?’ he asked.
‘Uhm, sir?’
He turned. The others turned with him. Major Baskevyl had joined them, bringing another new face, an officer of Belladon extract. The man’s face was oddly familiar, and clearly tinged by anger.
‘Sir,’ said Baskevyl, this is Captain–’
‘It’s my feth-awful band, sir,’ said the officer. ‘My command is a fighting unit of three sections that happens to carry the role of colours band for ceremonial occasions. Its presence is meant to reflect the martial prowess and splendour of Belladon, and to enhance this regiment. It is honourable and dignified. It has been devoted to the matter of joining this command for years, and has made considerable efforts to arrange transfers to do so. It is the marching band my brother personally requested.’
Gaunt waited a second before replying. He looked the man full in the face.
‘You’re Wilder’s brother.’
‘I am.’
‘I meant no disrespect. I didn’t know your brother–’
‘No, you did not. And precious little trace of him remains here. When he took command of this regiment, the previous names were merged. I see all sign of the 81st has now vanished from the regimental title. A revision you made, I presume?’
‘The new title was clumsy,’ said Gaunt, showing no emotion. ‘Belladon has, however, left a profound and positive mark on our ranks, and your brother’s stewardship of this regiment, and his legacy, is not forgotten.’
Wilder jutted out his chin a little, but remained silent. Gaunt saluted him.
‘Welcome to the Tanith First, Captain Wilder. The Emperor protects.’
Wilder returned the salute.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It must be said, captain, that we were not expecting to be reinforced by a colours band.’
‘They’re fighting troopers, damn you!’ Wilder cried. He swung at Gaunt. His fist stopped dead, the wrist clamped tightly in Blenner’s right hand. The speed with which Blenner had moved to intercept was quite impressive.
‘I don’t think, Captain Wilder,’ said Blenner, holding the wrist firmly and speaking directly into Wilder’s furious face, ‘that striking your commanding officer would be a great way to end your first day in this regiment. It might even be a way of making it your first and only day.’
He laughed at his own joke. Zhukova laughed too, brightly and rather over-emphatically. The band had stopped playing and everyone in the hall was watching.
‘But it is your first day,’ said Blenner calmly and clearly, ‘and this is an emotional moment. It has perhaps sharpened your grief over the memory of your brave brother. That’s understandable. It’s taken you a long time to get here, and you’re standing here at last. We’ve all taken a drink. It’s the end of a long day and there are longer ones ahead. So, why don’t we make the fresh start here, and not five minutes ago?’
He looked at Gaunt.
‘I think that would be a prudent idea,’ said Gaunt.
Blenner let Wilder’s wrist go. Wilder lowered his hand and straightened up. He smoothed the front of his jacket.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I apologise. Thank you.’
‘Nothing more will be said about it,’ said Blenner. He raised his glass high and addressed the room.
‘Welcome to the Ghosts. Fury of Belladon!’
Fury of Belladon! they all sang back, even Petrushkevskaya and Zhukova, and glasses clinked.
Gaunt turned to the band and gestured encouragingly.
‘Play up! I was just getting used to it.’
Sergeant Yerolemew smiled, nodded, and brought the band back into full order. The music blasted out again.
‘Deft,’ Gaunt whispered to Blenner.
‘I have my uses,’ Blenner replied.
‘I still don’t need a band,’ Gaunt added quietly. ‘Can we see if we can at least lose their instruments in transit?’
‘I’ll have some people look into it,’ whispered Blenner.
‘And keep an eye on Wilder. He’s trouble.’
‘There’s an old saying, Ibram. Keep your friends close, and the brother of the dead hero you replaced as commander closer. Or confined to quarters.’
The undercroft of the barrack hall was an extensive warren of vaulted wine cellars, pantries, larders and basements. Light shone out of the noisy scullery. The kitchens were filled with heat and steam and the smell of herbs and roasted meat, and kitchen staffers were loitering in the cool scullery entrance, beaded with sweat, as they took quick breaks between servings. From overhead, the boom and muffled clash of the enthusiastic band rang like a minor seismic disturbance.
Viktor Hark walked down the stairs beside the scullery, through a waiting group of overheated servers and pot boys, and turned left into the main undercroft space. The arched stone was whitewashed, and it was cool and dry, with just the hint of cold brick and the background top note of chemical smog that got into everything in Anzimar.
Lamps had been lit down here. Glow-globes and candles had been set at the long bench table.
First Platoon, B Company, had assembled. Varl and Brostin, Mach Bonin the scout, Kabry and Laydly, LaHurf, Mkaninch and Mktally, Judd Cardass and Cant the Belladonians, Mkrook, Senrab Nomis the Verghastite. Rawne, the presiding genius of B Company and the regiment’s second officer, stood in a corner, leaning against the wall.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Hark, and held up his hand as they began to scrape back chairs and rise. ‘As you were.’
There were bottles and glasses on the table, and an earthenware pitcher of water. None of the bottles had been opened.
‘Trouble on the island this morning, so I hear,’ Hark said to Rawne.
‘I handled it,’ said Rawne.
‘You certainly did,’ replied Hark. He reached into his coat, took out the message wafer that had been delivered to him in the quad, and handed it to Rawne.
Rawne unfolded it and read it.
‘Congratulations, major,’ Hark said.
Rawne allowed himself a small smile. The men began to whoop and pound their fists on the table.
‘Further to the incident this morning,’ said Hark over the row, ‘and in light of the serious security failings demonstrated by Major Rawne, First Platoon, B Company, the Tanith First, is hereby charged with the secure management of the prisoner for the duration of this operation. In such respect, First Platoon, B Company, the Tanith First, will be designated an S company by the Commissariat for purposes of authority and powers.’
The men whooped even more loudly.
‘Major Rawne is supervising officer. I wil
l consult directly on S Company procedure. That’s “S” as in security.’
‘I thought it was “S” as in special,’ Cant called out.
‘It’s “S” for shut your hole,’ replied Cardass. Men laughed.
‘One word of advice,’ Hark shouted over the hooting and thumping. ‘Don’t screw this up.’
‘Would we, sir?’ replied Varl. ‘Would we screw anything up? Ever?’
‘We screw some things up,’ said Bonin.
Varl frowned. ‘Yes, we do,’ he admitted. He looked at Hark and grinned. ‘We’ll try really hard not to do that this time, sir,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what I was worried about,’ said Hark. He started to walk towards the exit. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Your first duty shift starts tonight. You take over when the prisoner is transferred for embarkation.’
‘Wait!’ Rawne called after him. ‘If you’re our liaison officer, Commissar Hark, you ought to witness the whole of our little founding.’
The men had quietened down.
‘Whose “founding”?’ Hark asked, turning back.
Rawne smiled, and picked up an empty ammo box that had been standing on the floor at his feet. He shook it, and metal objects inside it clinked together.
‘The Suicide Kings,’ Rawne said.
The men whooped and hollered again.
‘That’s a card game, major,’ said Hark.
‘Lots of versions of that game around the sector,’ Rawne said. He handed the ammo box to Cant, who reached in, rummaged, and took something out. The box then passed to Varl.
‘Lots of versions,’ Rawne repeated, watching the box get passed around, each man taking something out. ‘Lots of variations. The version we call Suicide Kings, that came from Tanith in the first place, you know.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Hark.
‘The Suicide King himself,’ said Rawne, ‘in a standard deck, that’s the King of Knives.’
‘The King of Knives!’ Brostin echoed lustily as the box reached him and he took something out of it.
‘You see,’ Rawne continued, ‘the Tanith called the game Suicide Kings because of that card. The King of Knives. You know why?’
‘No, but I am convinced you’re about to tell me,’ said Hark.
Rawne smiled. ‘Back in the old times, ages past, the ruler of Tanith, the High King, was protected by a bodyguard company. The finest warriors, Nalsheen. They were his close protection, his last line of defence. Instead of blade-tipped staffs, they used straight silver blades, just warknives, so they could close around the High King and protect him with their bodies, and not endanger him with the swings of long reach weapons. It was a great honour for a man to join the bodyguard company, but the chances were he’d die in that service. So when a man took up the duty, the Tanith granted him the powers of king in his own right. The High King was protected by men who had the authority of kings themselves. Absolute power in return for absolute service.’
Rawne looked at Hark.
‘They were known as the Suicide Kings,’ he said. ‘They lived the lives of kings because their lives could end at any second, and they never questioned the sacrifice.’
The box had come back to him. There was one item left in it. Rawne took it out and held it up.
It was a Tanith cap badge, the skull and daggers, but it was dulled down matt black to hide its glint, and the side daggers had not been snapped off, as was the Tanith custom. A letter ‘S’ had been etched onto the forehead of the skull. Every man in the room apart from Hark had one.
‘That’s what we’ll be,’ Rawne said. ‘Suicide Kings. That’s what the “S” stands for, and this’ll be our mark.’
‘You’ve left the side blades on,’ said Hark.
‘For this mark,’ Rawne nodded. ‘Surrounded by straight silver, the way a high king should be.’
‘You surprise me with your sentimentality sometimes, major,’ said Hark.
‘Open the bottles,’ Rawne said to Brostin. ‘We’ll celebrate. Except for the four men who have drawn a badge with a cross scratched on the back.’
The men turned their badges over. Bonin, Mkaninch, Nomis and Laydly had drawn the crosses.
‘Water from the jug for you four, because you’ll be taking the first turn of duty,’ said Rawne. ‘Luck of the draw. Sacra for the other kings. And one for the good commissar, I think.’
Hark took the small glass of eye-watering sacra that Mktally passed to him.
‘Suicide Kings,’ he said, tipping it back.
Though not drunk, Jakub Wilder was by no means sober. The reception was dire and dull in equal measures, and he’d drunk a skinful to try to blot out the fool he’d made of himself with Gaunt. The man made him sick, made him angry. He should have landed that blow. He should go right back, take out his service pistol and shoot the arrogant bastard between the eyes.
They were serving junk too. Some kind of fortified wine. Wilder wanted a proper drink. A grown up drink.
He left the hall and stood in the open for a while to get some fresh air. When he started to feel cold, he went back inside. He bumped into a woman in the entranceway. A damn fine looking woman, damn fine, in a blue dress. An officer’s wife, probably. An officer’s woman.
‘I’m sorry, mam,’ he said, and realised he was slurring slightly.
‘Not at all,’ she replied.
There were stairs down into the undercroft. Wilder had seen the servers bringing bottles up from the cellars. Maybe he could find himself some amasec, some of the stuff that had run out so damn fast at the start of the evening.
He went down the stairs. It was cool and gloomy. He could hear the main reception party, and also the sounds of men celebrating something in one of the undercroft spaces. Some private drinking party, no doubt. He’d avoid them.
Wilder found his way to the cage sections of the pantry where the bottles were racked. He shook the bars, but the cages were locked. The storekeeper would have the key. Damn.
‘There’s always a way to open things,’ said a voice from behind him.
Wilder turned. There were three men behind him. They were sitting out of the way in a corner of the pantry area, crowded in around a small table under an arch. Coming in, he hadn’t seen them.
‘Excuse me?’ he said.
They were Tanith. Two were Tanith born and bred. They had the pale skin and the black hair. One was a red-faced, drunken-looking bastard, the other… well, he just looked like a bastard. Handsome but hard-faced, like there was a bad smell right under his nose. He was a captain from his pins, the red-faced sot a common trooper. The third man wore the black uniform of the regiment, but he was fair-skinned and blond. His eyes were watery blue and his hair was thin, like white gold. There was an aristocratic air about him, a slight snootiness. A cross between a haughty aristo and a deep sea fish that never sees the light and becomes translucent.
‘I said,’ the captain spoke cooly, ‘there’s always a way to open things.’
‘You got a key, have you?’ asked Wilder.
‘As it happens, I have.’ The captain reached into his pocket and held up a small brass key.
‘What are you… the pantry keeper?’ asked Wilder.
‘No,’ said the captain. ‘I’m the guy who knows how much money to pay the pantry master to get a second key cut.’
‘You were looking for a drink?’ asked the aristocratic fish, looking down his nose at Wilder with his milky blue eyes. That hair of his, it only looked white gold because it was so thin. It was pale, like his eyelashes. He’d probably been red-headed as a kid. A little snooty kid in the scholam.
‘I was looking for a drop of proper amasec,’ said Wilder.
‘Then you don’t even need the key,’ said the captain. ‘That is, if you’d care to join us.’
Wilder blinked. He realised he was swaying a little, so he steadied himself against the cellar arch. He realised there was a very expensive bottle of amasec on the table between the three
men.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said.
‘Get another glass, Costin,’ said the captain.
The red-faced drunk reached up onto a side shelf and took down a heavy lead-glass tumbler. He put it on the table and carefully filled all four from the bottle.
‘You’re Wilder, right?’ asked the captain.
‘Yes.’
‘Welcome to the First,’ the captain said. ‘I knew your brother. He was a good man. I’m Captain Meryn, E Company. These gentlemen are friends of mine. Trooper Costin.’
The raddled Tanith nodded at Wilder.
‘And this is Sergeant Gendler. Didi Gendler.’
‘A pleasure,’ said the aristo fish. The accent was strong, hard. Wilder had heard enough to know it wasn’t Tanith, and it certainly wasn’t Belladon.
‘You’re a Vervunhiver?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ said Meryn. ‘Didi’s not just a Vervunhiver. He’s not some scum off the bottom of your boot. Are you, Didi?’
‘Captain Meryn does like his little jokes,’ said Gendler.
‘Sergeant Gendler is better than the rest of us,’ said Costin. ‘It’s well known. He’s proper breeding, is Sergeant Gendler.’
‘I’m just an honest soldier,’ said Gendler.
‘Didi is nobility,’ said Meryn. ‘He’s up-hive blood. Noble-born to a good main-spine family.’
‘Really?’ asked Wilder. ‘How’d you end up in a shit-hole like this, then?’
Gendler stiffened and his languid eyes narrowed.
‘It’s all right,’ said Wilder. ‘No offence meant. I ask myself the same question every morning.’
Meryn grinned. He held up one of the brimming little glasses.
‘Come and join us, Captain Wilder.’
Wilder took the glass and pulled up a stool.
‘What will we drink to?’ he asked. ‘What will we talk about?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Gendler, ‘if you’re down here and not upstairs, it rather suggests you don’t want to be upstairs, or that you’re not welcome. Which, in turn, suggests that we’ve already got something in common, the four of us.’