‘Well,’ says the general. ‘That was impressive.’
I look for a subtext but he seems to mean what he says. So I thank him, dump the heads on the table and reach for my glass. It’s full again. You can say what you like about General Tournier, but he runs a tight ship.
‘To a good death,’ I say.
It’s a well-known Legion toast and he looks at me strangely.
Although that might be because my two trophies are making a mess of his spotless linen tablecloth. Also, everyone else at the table has stopped eating. So I lean over and take the rest of a chicken for myself, chewing chunks of meat from its carcass.
Fighting makes me hungry. Actually, everything makes me hungry.
One of the reasons having a kyp in my throat pisses me off so badly is I like food; what I don’t like is everything I eat exiting the arse of some parasite before it reaches my stomach.
‘You might want to clean up,’ the general says. Sounds like an order to me.
‘Of course, sir.’
He nods. ‘Oh, Sven . . .’
I pause, about to zip up my trousers.
‘Welcome aboard.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Slinging my holster over my shoulder, I grab my shirt and jacket, toss them over my new arm and look around me. Time to get my other arm sewn. Vijay is looking at me strangely.
It makes me remember to ask, ‘What about my ADC?’
The general raises his eyebrows. ‘What about him?’
‘Your men can look after him?’
‘Oh yes,’ says General Tournier. ‘I’m sure they’ll manage.’
Someone laughs. I am not sure why, but I glare anyway.
A major looks away. He has tiny braids growing from the rear of his skull, three of them. Gratefully, he fixes his attention on an approaching woman. Anything to avoid having to look back at me. ‘Yes?’ he demands.
Dipping her head, Shil says, ‘I’ve been sent to clear, sir.’
Her voice is tight, but her face is neutral. So I doubt anyone else at the table catches her simmering anger. Perhaps I am wrong.
‘Name?’ demands the five-braid.
‘Shil, sir,’ she says.
‘You’re from Hekati?’
‘Yes, sir . . .’
‘Shil,’ says the five-braid. ‘Why won’t you look at me?’
As I watch, her fingers tighten on the tray. She’s wondering if she can use it as a weapon. The answer is yes. Also that cup, that knife, that glass. Anything is a weapon if you approach it with the right attitude.
‘Well?’ the five-braid demands.
She looks up and looks away. Shrugs.
‘Tell him,’ Colonel Vijay says. ‘He’s not going to hurt you.’
One thing you can guarantee. Patronize Shil and she’s going to want to rip out your heart. Only she is trapped, being watched by a dozen Death’s Head officers, and the five-braid is still waiting for his answer.
So I drape my arm around her shoulder.
And then reach round a little further, cupping the underside of one breast. Half of the table laughs as she twists free. As Shil’s face flushes, her eyes fill with tears. They’re from anger. Although I’m probably the only person to realize that.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘you can tell us.’
‘Can’t,’ she says, scowling at the floor. Any minute now, she is going to start kicking her heels like a brat . . . If in doubt, play dumb; first rule of survival in the militia.
‘Yes, you can.’
She tilts her head, considers this.
‘He’s got snakes for hair,’ says Shil, flicking a sign against the evil eye. It’s meant to be out of sight, but the braid sees it anyway. Or maybe he’s meant to see it and Shil is only pretending to keep it out of sight.
He laughs loudly, and I decide to end this conversation. Grabbing her, I slide my hand under her skirt. She moves so fast it is all I can do to catch her wrist before she slaps me. Half the table joins in the five-braid’s laughter as I kiss her.
‘Let’s get you out of here,’ I whisper.
Shil glares at me.
‘Need a bath,’ I tell the general. ‘If that’s all right, sir? A bath, maybe another drink, some sleep . . .’
‘And her?’
‘Oh . . . She gets to scrub my back.’
‘Level five,’ he says. ‘A full suite.’ Turns out he is talking to his ADC, who nods and hastily does something to a key card, which he hands me with a slight bow.
The general watches us go with a grin on his face. Shil walks behind, more furious than ever now I’ve told her to carry the Vals for me. Picking our way between clapping tables, we head for an exit.
Although I take care to pass Neen on the way.
‘See you later,’ I tell him.
My sergeant wants to say something. But doesn’t know where to begin, and I don’t have time for him to work it out. So I nod to the Aux, then turn back and take a bottle of brandy from their table.
‘Later,’ I tell Neen. He gets it this time.
‘Yes, sir . . . Later. Hope you have a good evening, sir.’
Shil looks like she wants to slap him.
We make it to the door, watched by six hundred Death’s Head and fifteen hundred Silver Fist, plus more braids than I have ever seen in one place. Almost nobody meets my eyes. A few are obviously scared of me, but most are too busy looking at the trophies hanging from Shil’s hands.
A servant steps back.
He also looks, but his gaze is on Shil and there’s pity in his eyes.
A dozen servitors step out of my way in the corridor. None of them looks me in the eyes. Tells me all I need to know about the Ninth; they’re as big a bunch of bastards as their Silver Fist allies. Hardly news. It goes with the uniform.
‘In here,’ I tell Shil, punching a button.
The elevator opens to reveal a surprised Death’s Head officer. As I watch, a serving boy twists out of his grip and sprints away. He is at least thirty years younger than the major and lacks a paunch, so that’s him gone then.
Swinging round, the major registers that I outrank him and shuts his mouth with a snap. ‘Find another lift,’ I say.
We leave him tight-lipped and dangerous to anyone junior. I know I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am. Can’t help the way I’m made.
Don’t want to help it either.
It’s got me this far.
As the elevator opens onto the fifth level, three Silver Fist corporals step back to let us through. One sees blood on the lift floor, glances back to check where it’s coming from and sees what Shil is holding.
‘Fuck,’ he says, then realizes I’m an officer.
I wave his apologies away.
‘You see the other fights?’
He nods, wondering how I missed them.
‘Just arrived,’ I tell him. ‘So, what were they like?’
‘Fierce, sir.’
He has his eyes on my arm, which still juts its spike at the elbow and has a row of blades. They’ve ripped my sleeve, obviously. You can’t force a combat arm into a jacket cut for elegance without something giving.
‘Who fought?’
‘Volunteers . . .’ Catching my grin, he shakes his head. ‘I mean it, sir. I was thinking of volunteering myself. Our braid promised ten gold pieces and promotion to the pair that killed them.’
‘The pair?’ I say.
Eyes go wide. ‘Sir,’ he says. ‘You didn’t-’
‘Fight as one of a pair?’ I shake my head, grinning sourly. ‘No,’ I say. ‘General Tournier forgot to mention that bit of the tradition.’
This is the point the Silver Fist decides he needs to be elsewhere. Understandable really.