~ DAVID ~

The messenger woke him in the dead of night. It had been an uneasy sleep on the stiff mattress he’d still not got around to replacing, but that didn’t mean David wanted to throw it all away. Still, he could do only so much to resist the messenger’s insistence, and three minutes of being shaken while a piping voice hissed his name over and over was the limit. So he opened his eyes—to this pimply messenger standing over him.

“The Lieutenant sent me,” he said, breathless, while David was still bleary-eyed and chasing pointless trains of thought. His face was red and drenched in sweat, and dark patches stained the front of his sodden uniform. He’d run a fair stretch.

He was only a boy, an academy youngster with a fresh face who had somehow wound up at the edge of the universe. His hair, overlong and in need of a cut, hung in blond curls to frame his face. It was a long face, but slender and refined rather than horsy and gaunt. He had a perfectly dimpled chin. No doubt he’d enjoy success with the ladies, once he’d grown into his face. Or the men. But he was too pretty to make a good soldier, David thought.

Yet he’d survived thus far, and the recruiters were cruel masters to pretty boys. Clearly there was something more to this messenger than a boyish charm.

David sat up, blinking rapidly. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a dozen questions came to mind. He asked most of them, sending them pouring forth in a single breath. “Who are you? What do you want? How did you get in here? What Lieutenant?”

“Lieutenant Baxendale, sir,” said the boy, helpfully choosing to answer only the least important of the questions. David didn’t know who Lieutenant Baxendale was, though he had heard the name somewhere. He’d always made an effort to know everyone in his command. And Lieutenants in particular were a memorable breed. Nobody could spend even a week in charge of Anna Bennett or Kenneth Chalmers and not have them burned into his memory by the end of it.

Which meant Lieutenant Baxendale probably wasn’t all that important. Certainly not as important as David’s dignity. David wasn’t even sure why he was the one to receive a messenger. Surely Lieutenant Baxendale had a commanding officer of his own, and Mannam and Munro were both less likely to be pissed off about being woken in the night. Munro in particular must have been used to the General slithering through her door for some release. If the gossip was half true, her sleep cycle would have gone to pot long ago, owing to General Bradshaw’s need to come calling at all hours.

Angie Munro’s sex life aside, the fact remained that Lieutenant Baxendale had sought out David. Which meant he had to get up. “Wait outside while I dress,” he said, pointing at the door which the messenger had left open. “Whatever Lieutenant Baxendale wants, it’ll keep.”

“But sir—”

“It’ll keep. Wait outside. I won’t ask you again.”

The messenger opened his mouth to protest, but clearly thought better of it, and scuttled out.

When the boy had gone, David stretched out his tired muscles. There was no need to hurry. He’d been a messenger himself, when his career was nascent, running errands for old Captain Ivingden. It was a skive. Passing on a message was far easier than getting down to a hundred push-ups with the other cadets. The boy would stand there all night if need be.

In the end the warmth of his duvet pressed him into action. He wanted to nestle back under, and he could, once he’d taken the message. So with a sigh he got himself up. The still air of his chambers was cold in contrast. David shuddered, stretched his toes before he stood. He threw on yesterday’s clothes, still crumpled on the floor, and went out to the messenger.

The corridor was otherwise deserted. It always was. Even during the flight, nobody wandered here at night. There were only the senior officers’ chambers in this part of the ship. Few had a reason to venture this way. As people had left the Eia for the valley’s greener pastures, the already faint trickle had hardened to nothing. Maybe there’d be Angie Munro coming back from conjugating with General Bradshaw, naked and dripping beneath her nightgown, but she always took great care not to be seen.

The messenger boy was leaning against a wall. “There’s been an accident,” he said, rising to stand straight, when David stepped out. “Captain Mannam’s hurt.” That was when David remembered Lieutenant Baxendale. How could he have forgotten Jessica Baxendale, darling to women’s advocates the Unity wide? She’d caused a stir in the Unity some years back. Her promotion to sergeant had come from some sleazy officer who wanted to hold it over her in exchange for sexual favours, when she was just turned sixteen and scarcely the legal age. She refused him, reported him, sued him. As a prize, she got a hefty pay-out and a transfer to Captain Mannam’s team. Clearly she was as good at her job as her rank suggested; Mannam had kept her close for a decade, through half a dozen postings. She’d made Lieutenant by twenty, and thereafter Mannam had nurtured her as his protégé.

Mannam must have been hurt bad if she’d felt the need to alert David. He wasn’t medical, and Baxendale was in an entirely parallel command pillar. He wanted to kick himself. What an arse. Why had he been so quick to assume it could wait? Things that could wait didn’t warrant messengers in the night—especially not coming from soldiers who wouldn’t usually be reporting to him. “Take me there,” he yelled, all thoughts of going back to sleep forgotten.

It was bracing out tonight; David hadn’t been prepared for the plummeting temperatures, after the lazy heat of the afternoon. He shivered as he left the ship, giving himself over to the mercy of the weather. It was at least dry. The exercise of a walk across the valley got the blood rushing, warmed him through. The shivering had stopped by the time they reached the other side of town.

He could see why this particular messenger had been sent. The boy was wicked fast and seemed to have committed the town’s layout to memory already, even before half of it was built. Twice he moved so fast, and ducked down obscure side-paths, that David lost sight of him and had to call out. On both occasions the boy had appeared a few seconds later, looking thoroughly bemused that David had needed him to wait.

Their route took them all the way out of the town, heading northward, onto the green fields of the surrounding valley, the rock-strewn plains that had scarcely seen civilisation. Cliffs loomed ever closer, great monoliths reaching easily more than a hundred feet into the sky. Near the western corner, the Clearwater tumbled in a raging cascade from high above. From the Eia, even from the plaza, these cliffs didn’t seem that big. He’d assumed they were around the same height as the slopes on the southern and eastern edges of the valley, where the mettysnatchers roamed. The reality was that they were a lot further away.

North of the town, they hewed close to the Clearwater, moving adjacent to the water and close enough to the bank that a misstep would easily lead to a wet tumble. As the river cut across from east to west, so did they. At one point the stench of shit became overpowering. David held his breath as he ran after the messenger, but when he dared a sniff again he found the smell hadn’t dissipated. It followed him all the way, strong as ever. He must have stepped in it. That was the sort of risk that came with running the wilds in the black of night.

The ground was wet, he noticed. It must have rained while he slept. The grass upon which they tracked was slick with water. In places it had pooled into puddles wide enough to submerge his boots up to the ankle. This had its blessings—it was great for washing the shit off his boots. But the downside was moist socks, clinging heavy to his feet and making him acutely aware of every step. The shit would probably have been more fun.

It had been wet like this on Tol Manase. Interminable. The outlaws—defenders, as they’d have it—were tenacious to a fault. The more ground they lost, the harder they fought for the miles they still had. One group had made its stand at Garrenton, an old town along the River Vithe. For four months, David had served in a dug-in encampment outside Garrenton. Outside was nothing but a festering wetland. Tebby Niles had come on with a nasty case of trench foot. The foot could not be saved. David had been witness to the amputation. Since then, wet feet always made him shudder just a little.

For whatever reason, the boy was leading him all the way to the foot of the cliff. It didn’t make sense to begin with—why would Captain Mannam be there? As they approached, he began to fill in some of the missing pieces. Two foldout panel lights had been set up, shining on the rocks at the base, and about twenty people were huddled around them. One diminutive woman was crouched down, a tie of yellow in her hair, facing away from the cliffs and retching violently into the tall grass. She wasn’t the only one. A man sat beside a pile of upchuck, gasping for breath, red rims around his eyes.

David turned away. This wasn’t something pleasant to see.

Lieutenant Baxendale turned to them as they approached. David had met her just the once, at a dusty parade ground five years earlier, when happenstance had brought his squad and Mannam’s together. She looked like she’d had a growth spurt since then. Her face had thinned, making her cheekbones more pronounced. She seemed gaunt, but that might have been a trick of the light. Short though it was, somehow her hair was still sticking up untidily.

“Captain,” she said, with a curt nod, dismissing the messenger with a flick of her wrist.

“I ran as fast as I could.”

She sniffed the air around him and grimaced. “Smells like it.”

“Your boy said Captain Mannam’s hurt. How is he?” he asked. There didn’t seem to be any medics here.

Lieutenant Baxendale looked to the floor. “He’s dead. Fell.” She glanced up towards the cliffs, and David followed her gaze. She needed say no more. Up this close, they seemed to reach impossible heights. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the Gods themselves living there, looking down on their mortal peons. That sort of fall was a guaranteed death sentence; they’d be lucky if there was enough of him left in one piece to give him a proper funeral. What was he doing so close to the edge?

“How?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Lieutenant Baxendale shook her head. “No, that was rude of me. I don’t know how it happened, I’m afraid. There’s cloud blocking the moons—has been all night. It’s as dark as ever, and it’s been pissing it down since sunset. Everything’s sodden. You can have the best will in the world and still slip on the grass. The Captain was unlucky, I suppose.”

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David became aware of somebody stood beside him. He turned to see the retching man, orange stains around his mouth and drips of vomit spangling what would have otherwise been a majestic beard. “Uh, Lieutenant? Might I be excused?”

She nodded. “Take tomorrow if you need it, just to get your head together.” The man’s face dropped, and Lieutenant Baxendale’s mouth fell open. She covered it with a hand. “Shit. Sorry, Sergeant. That was a horrible choice of words.”

He said nothing. His mouth was a strained smile, the lips wafer thin with barely a hint of curvature. He walked off into the darkness, towards the town. David watched him go for a few seconds, and then he was suddenly out of sight.

“Sergeant Poulton,” said Lieutenant Baxendale, by way of explanation. “He’s lost a good friend tonight. Best man at each other’s weddings, friends since before they could walk. Anderson, his name. Catastrophically unlucky. He had the misfortune to be in exactly the wrong place. It seems when the Captain fell, some of the cliff broke off with him. Landed right on top of Anderson.”

“Godsouls...”

“He couldn’t have known anything about it. Head turned to paste. His wife’s in the valley somewhere, I think. I’ll have to tell her come tomorrow.” She pulled a face. “It’s the worst part of the job. The way they scream...”

“I’ll do it.” He wasn’t sure why he’d spoken, but there was no taking it back. “I’ll tell Anderson’s wife. You focus on your soldiers, Lieutenant. Sergeant Poulton in particular.”

“They’ll need it,” she agreed, smiling despite pained eyes. “Poulton was the one who found them—him and Onslow.” She pointed at the vomiting woman. “They’re cut up pretty bad.”

“Let’s get her to water,” said David, “before her night gets even worse.” Poor Onslow had managed to get puke stuck in her hair. It was like a foul glue, sticking strands of blonde fast to her face. She hadn’t yet noticed, which could only be a blessing. The others around her turned away, kept their distance. None seemed to want to let her know why. David followed the Lieutenant over to Onslow. “I’ll have to see the bodies, too.”

Lieutenant Baxendale shook her head. “Trust me. You don’t.”

She was probably right, from the view of his mental wellbeing. But he had a job to do, horrible as it was, and he’d be lacking in his duties if he didn’t see to Captain Mannam one last time. “I’ll find the site on my own, if you don’t want to subject your soldiers to the Captain again—but it does have to be done.”

Onslow, apparently, had gone into a catatonic state. She barely acknowledged Lieutenant Baxendale shepherding her to the Clearwater, sitting her down on the bank, dipping her head underwater until her face was clean. She only murmured something. “Let her rest,” said David, “and send her to Doctor Paysen in the morning.”

Baxendale nodded. “The bodies are this way,” she said, once a man had been dispatched to escort Onslow home. “Right at the base.”

Getting to the base of the cliffs required crossing the Clearwater, which suddenly veered due west. Handily, the water surrounding this sudden corner was shallow enough that the current wasn’t an issue. Several boulders poked above the surface, coyly breaking the water to serve as stepping stones, and Lieutenant Baxendale led David across them. A short walk the other side and they were there.

The site was tightly hemmed in by the craggy face of the cliffs on one side, and thick dark trees on two more. The terrain was uneven. Grass covered much of it, save for where mossy rocks stood tall above it. In parts the grass acceded to dirt, dusty sand, and it was on one such place that Captain Mannam lay. It was unmistakeably him. Broken as the body was, his head remained intact. Etched on his face was the fleeting surge of terror that falling such a height would have brought.

Anderson was a few yards away, and a sorrier sight by far. David didn’t know Anderson, but even if they’d been firm friends he’d have been hard pushed to recognise the man. His head was a bloody pulp. A large portion of his scalp had been cleaved away, and as Lieutenant Baxendale shone her torch over the body David saw that the ground was red with blood. The whole area had the smell of meat just starting to turn.

David looked away. He’d seen enough—more than enough.

“Cover them,” he said, to Baxendale. “And wait for the mortician.”

The dead were buried two days later beside a quiet rill, on the southern slopes of the valley where man’s hand had not yet come. Mistress Anderson had flooded the valley with her tears; she’d wept before an intimate congregation, hand in hand with a son scarcely old enough to walk. Hers was a silent eulogy.

Captain Mannam was married to the job. That was the epithet his subordinate used, in the passing rites. Lieutenant Baxendale had no end of words to say about his character, about the debt she owed him. But when it came to his personal life, she said only that he was a man content with his lot. It was just about the only thing that could be said. Mannam was a man of few words. Duty was his first priority, and his last, and the three decades of his adult life were marked by his leal, unchanging service. Even his rise to captaincy had been a consequence of his longevity rather than a reward for any specific instance of excellency.

A shabby priest with a pockmarked face had come down from the church on the north-western side, at the behest of Ian Fitzhenry. Drab and droning, he’d venerated the dead in token words. “They will find the Lightness,” he said, half a dozen times. “They will walk through the endless Shadow and beyond it find paradise born anew.” It was all bullshit, the same unfeeling message regurgitated by every priest at every funeral since the Era of Kings. If any mourners had ever listened, they were long since dead themselves. The priest had other crap to spew, too. “Even the darkest night will end,” he said, as though the mourners wanted optimism. Mistress Anderson would no doubt trade a bright future for her husband restored to life.

The priest didn’t seem to get that. He moved on from sappy aphorisms to tone-deaf fragments. “Cold is the grave, and lonely, and regrets are the soil around it, and it is through these regrets that we all must pass when our time comes, that we might hope to touch the bright.” Mistress Anderson wailed when he said that, and her son squeezed her hand in an appeal borne of his confusion.

He did, at least, hold aloft the death masks. That was all the priest was supposed to do, all they wanted from him, and it only took half an hour of sermon for him to get to it. He anointed them with wax from a gilded amphora, and recited more old religious words. Mistress Anderson wept anew when her husband’s mask was presented. It would never be worn. His head had been obliterated. Instead the mask would be interred beside the body.

Only a dozen were there to witness it. Even Mannam’s own Constabulary hadn’t braved the mild chill, save for a handful. Those same soldiers would be demanding the opportunity to drink themselves into a stupor tonight, in remembrance of their lost captain. Funny that.

David lingered after the ceremony finished. It felt coarse to leave straight away, and neither Mannam nor Anderson deserved that. He watched Mistress Anderson, her arms shaking as she held her little boy close. Perhaps he should go over to her, give her a few words of comfort. Perhaps. But that would require him to know which words to say. He doubted he could manage that.

Instead, he waited until her tears were run dry, and the wind numbed her feelings as much as it numbed her fingers. She scooped up her son and shepherded him back down the hill. Two church acolytes stepped forward as she left. They began to sprinkle dirt atop the mournful crates that held these dead—a handful here, a handful there.

“Use a shovel,” someone shouted. “It’ll be quicker.” Mark Bradshaw was there. David hadn’t noticed him at the funeral. Possibly he’d just missed him. He caught General Bradshaw’s eye and tried to look away. Too late. Bradshaw beckoned him over.

“How can I help, General?”

“You came to pay your respects.” Bradshaw smiled.

David nodded. “I expected there to be more people. I thought Captain Mannam was well-liked.”

“He was,” Bradshaw nodded, “and the man Anderson as well. But they’re being buried all the way at the south end of the valley. That’s a long way to walk. It won’t take long for them to be forgotten.”

“Anderson’s wife won’t forget. Nor will Lieutenant Baxendale.”

“No.” Bradshaw pointed towards the graves, which were being filled still at a painfully slow rate. “Everyone else will. History won’t record them, sad as it is. Not as more than a footnote. There wasn’t a day went by that I didn’t go to my wife’s grave, to read poetry she liked or to tell her about my day. Even now I keep her close.” He fingered a metal locket around his neck. David had never noticed it before. “I’ll think of Romilly until my dying day. The young woman she was will die with me. Through my daughters, she’ll linger as a mother for a few decades more. After them she’ll be forgotten, and nobody again will come to remember her. It’s the fate of us all. They say two hundred billion people have walked this universe. Two hundred billion. I can’t fathom such a number. How many of them are remembered?”

“Point taken.”

“Still, it was good of you to come. Mistress Anderson would have been happy to see your face.”

David frowned. “Does she know me? Sorry, I didn’t recognise her—”

“You and she have met,” said Bradshaw. “Perhaps only once. She didn’t elaborate. Walk with me, Captain Clifford. I’d like to speak with you.” He turned on his heel and started down the hill, towards the town. His pace was brisk; David had to jog to catch up to him. “Captain Mannam’s role was an integral one. Without a Constabulary, it’s hard to keep the law. Anarchy descends.” General Bradshaw paused. “I’m sorry, I’m over-explaining. My dear Molly tells me it’s something I need to work on.”

“It’s fine,” David shrugged. He was only half-listening anyway—what did it matter how much he half-listened to?

“They’re wilful, my girls,” Bradshaw continued. “I know you’ve not had luck with children. Believe me, this is the hardest time. They respect me well enough, but that doesn’t mean they’ll listen to a word I say. Sorry, I’m still doing it. I know you’re the worst person on this planet to talk to about women. Have you ever met one?”

“I’ve met plenty,” said David, shortly. “Some were even pleasant.” He knew where Bradshaw was going. He’d had it all before. He always used to swear that he would get married one day, he just hadn’t met the right girl. Over thirty years, he’d come to understand that no girl was the right girl. Bradshaw knew it well enough. David didn’t care to make a secret out of it. It was just fodder for the General to be a nuisance.

David refused to rise to it.

All of a sudden, Bradshaw clapped his hands together. “Forgive me, Captain Clifford, I’ve been rude. Worst of all, I’ve been sidetracked. With Captain Mannam committed to the dirt, a vacancy has emerged. The Constabulary needs a leader, and a leader turns up to his peers’ funerals. It’s an admirable trait, and one we both share. Captain Clifford, I want you to take Mannam’s place.”

That took him by surprise. He’d assumed Angie Munro was a cinch for the job. She usually got whatever boon Bradshaw was granting—and whatever bone as well, though that was being coarse. “I’m not sure, General. It’s a very different skillset to what I’m used to.”

“I couldn’t disagree more, Captain. You still get to boss soldiers about just as much as you do anyway, but in addition you get to beat up drunkards who won’t move out of your way. Haven’t you ever wished you could beat up those drunkards?”

“Not particularly, no.” He chose not to get drunk himself, but that didn’t mean he harboured some hatred for drunk people. He’d prefer to beat up generals who kept themselves busy winding him up because of his choice of bedfellow.

Still, there might be some perks to the job. Those annoying subalterns who always wanted a word about something inane might have to find somebody else to bother. He couldn’t lie and say he’d be sad to see the back of Anna Bennett, for instance.

And if they insisted on bothering him, he could stick them in a cell for a few days. They’d quickly get the picture.

Then there was the case of the missing trio. Someone had to orchestrate their search. David had been trying, but it was hard. He didn’t have the advantage of a position where he could expend men and money on their search, not freely, and General Bradshaw had been nothing if not stubborn in his refusal to allow Captain Mannam to share the fruits of his investigation with David. Being the Lord Constable would grant him access to all of Mannam’s files, and the resources he’d need to carry out a proper search.

Even if the three soldiers turned up dead, they deserved to be found.

And Chris would be pleased. It surely served his plans to have the Constabulary on side.

He grinned. “General, I’d be more than happy to take over from Captain Mannam.”

“Excellent,” said Bradshaw. “That’s great to hear. Lord Constable.”