Gardens of the Moon

Whiskeyjack's momentary relief was shattered by what he only now realized was the secret hope that Sorry had deserted. So his men had found her after all, or she had found them. Either way, his veterans did not sound happy to see her. He couldn't blame them. 14aa she tried to kill Paran? That seemed to be the suspicion of Quick Ben and Kalam.



Kalam was doing most of the bellowing, putting more into his role as corporal than was warranted, and Dujek's searching glance at Whiskeyjack was enough to push him towards the trap-door. He came to the edge and glared down into the room below. Everyone was there, standing in a menacing circle around Sorry, who leaned against the ladder as if bored by the whole proceedings.



“Quiet!” Whiskeyjack roared down. “Check your supplies and get up here, now!” He watched them scamper, then gave a satisfied nod and returned to where the High Fist waited.



Dujek was rubbing the stump of his left arm, frowning distractedly.



“Damn this weather,” he muttered.



“Mallet could ease that,” Whiskeyjack said.



“Not necessary,” Dujek replied. “I'm just getting old.” He scratched his jaw. “All of your heavy supplies have been delivered to the drop point. Ready to fly, Sergeant?”



Whiskeyjack eyed the ridged second saddles on the Quorl where they rose up at the back of the thorax like cowls, then nodded sharply.



They watched as the squad members emerged from the square doorway, each wearing a raincape and burdened with a heavy pack. Fiddler and Hedge were engaged in a whispering argument, the latter casting a glare back at Trotts who'd trodden on his heel. The Barghast had attached his entire collection of charms, trinkets and trophies to various parts of his burly body, looking like a bedecked leadwood tree during the Kanese F&e of the Scorpions. Barghast were known for their odd sense of humour. qUV&%e_n wab, Mtn waiting Quorls. Her satchel was no bigger than a bedroll, and the raincape she wore was more like a cloak-not standard issue-reaching down to her ankles. She'd raised the hood. Despite the dawn's burgeoning light her face remained in shadow. This is all I have left. Whiskeyjack sighed.



Dujek asked quietly, “How is she doing, Sergeant?”



“Still breathing,” Whiskeyjack replied stonily.



The High Fist slowly shook his head. “So damn young these days. .”



A memory returned to Whiskeyjack as he considered Dujek's words.



On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Mott Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog. He'd watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they'd taken prisoner in Greydog-ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that. Not an act of expedience. He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins. He remembered meeting Kalam's gaze, and the desperate gesture that sent the black man surging forward, knives bared. Kalam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men's throats. And then came the moment that still twisted Whiskeyjack's heart. In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had blessed Kalam.



Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon, then walked away.



Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they would probably do so until the day they died. There was a meaning there, and Whiskeyjack understood it well. Recruits were not Bridgeburners. The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds. Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the Bridgeburners burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad. And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.



As all of this flashed through Whiskeyjack's thoughts, his usually impassive expression failed him. In his head, he replied: Young? No, you can forgive the young, you can answer their simple needs, and you can look in their eyes and find enough there that is recognizable. But her?



No. Best to avoid those eyes, in which there was nothing that was young-nothing at all.



“Let's get you moving,” Dujek growled. “Mount everyone up.” The High Fist turned to say a few last words to the sergeant, but what he saw in Whiskeyjack's face killed those words in his throat.



Two muted thunderclaps sounded in the city as the east spread its crimson cloak skyward, the first report followed scant minutes later by the second. The last of the night's tears churned down gunnels and swirled along street gutters. Muddy puddles filled potholes, reflecting the thinning clouds overhead with an opaque cast. Among the narrow crooked alleys of Pale's Krael Quarter, the chill and damp of the night clung to the dark spaces with tenacity. Here, the mould-laden bricks and worn cobbles had swallowed the second thunderclap, leaving no echo to challenge the patter of water droplets. Down one aisle, winding south along the outer wall, loped a dog the size of a mule. Its massive head was slung low forward in front of the broad, bunched muscles of its shoulders. That it had seen a night without rain was marked by its dusty, dry, mottled grey and black fur.