Gardens of the Moon
What frightened Paran most, these days, was that he had grown used to being used. He'd been someone else so many times that he saw a thousand faces, heard a thousand voices, all at war with his own. When he thought of himself, of that young noble-born man with the overblown faith in honesty and integrity, the vision that came to him now was of something cold, hard and dark. It hid in the deepest shadows of his mind, and it watched. No contemplation, no judgement, just icy, clinical observation.
He didn't think that that young man would see the light of day again.
He would just shrink further back, swallowed by darkness, then disappear, leaving no trace.
And Paran wondered if he even cared any more.
He marched into the barracks that had once housed Pale's Noble Guard. One old veteran lounged on a nearby cot, her rag-wrapped feet jutting over the end. The mattress had been stripped away and tossed into a corner; the woman lay on the flat boards, her hands behind her head.
Paran's gaze held on her briefly, then travelled down the ward. With the lone exception of the veteran marine, the place was empty. He returned his attention to her. “Corporal, is it?” The woman didn't move. “Yeah, what?” “I take it,” he said drily, “that the chain of command has thoroughly disintegrated around here.”
Her eyes opened and managed a lazy sweep of the officer standing before her. “Probably,” she said, then closed her eyes again. “You looking for somebody or what?”
“I'm looking for the Ninth Squad, Corporal.”
“Why? They in trouble again?”
Paran smiled to himself. “Are you the average Bridgeburner, Corporal?”
“All the average ones are dead,” she said.
“Who's your commander?” Paran asked.
“Antsy, but he's not here.”
“I can see that.” The captain waited, then sighed. “Well, where is this Antsy?”
“Try Knobb's Inn, up the street. The last I seen of him he was losing his shirt to Hedge. Antsy's a card-player, right, only not a good one.” She began picking at a tooth at the back of her mouth.
Paran's brows rose. “Your commander gambles with his men?”
“Antsy's a sergeant,” the woman explained. “Our captain's dead. Anyway, Hedge is not in our squad.”
“Oh, and what squad is he with?”
The woman grinned, swallowing whatever her finger had dislodged.
“The Ninth.”
“What's your name, Corporal?”
“Picker, what's yours?”
“Captain Paran.”
Picker shot up into a sitting position, her eyes wide. “Oh, you're the new captain who's yet to pull a sword, eh?”
Paran grinned. “That's right.”
“You got any idea of the odds on you right now? It doesn't look good.”
“What do you mean?”
She smiled a broad smile. “The way I pick it,” she said, leaning back down and closing her eyes again, “the first blood you see on your hands is gonna be your own, Captain Paran. Go back to Quon Tali where it's safe. Go on, the Empress needs her feet licked.”
“They're clean enough,” Paran said. He was not sure how to deal with this situation. Part of him wanted to draw his sword and cut Picker in half.
Another wanted to laugh, and that one had an edge of hysteria to it.
Behind him the outer door banged open and heavy footsteps sounded on the floorboards. Paran turned. A red-faced sergeant, his face dominated by an enormous handlebar moustache, stormed into the room. Ignoring Paran, he strode up beside Picker's cot and glowered down at her.
“Dammit, Picker, you told me Hedge was having a bad run, and now that bow-legged turd's cleaned me out!” “Hedge is having a bad run,” Picker said. “But yours is worse. You never asked me about that, did you? Antsy, meet Captain Paran, the Ninth's new officer.”
The sergeant swung around and stared. “Hood's Breath,” he muttered, then faced Picker again.
“I'm looking for Whiskeyjack, Sergeant,” Paran said softly.
Something in the captain's tone brought Antsy around. He opened his mouth, then shut it when his eyes caught Paran's steady gaze. “Some kid delivered a message. Whiskeyjack trooped out. A few of his people are at Knobb's.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Paran walked stiffly from the room.
Antsy let out a long breath and glanced at Picker.
"Two days,” she pronounced, “then somebody does him. Old Rockface has already laid twenty to that.”