We struck northeast, hedging between the most direct route to Yadesh and the Imperial road which wound along the coast, which would make our travel a little longer, but much easier, though not for long.

  The road was made of locally sourced and cut limestone, placed methodically in a crosshatch, raised two metres from the surrounding earth, with sloped edges, so that it would never become bogged after a rain. It was wide enough to allow two wagons to pass, but it had not yet seen enough use of that sort that a furrow had been worn through the centre like most of the roads back home.

  On our right, the ocean glittered as if the water only existed as a membrane to contain millions of diamonds. A pleasant breeze cooled the sweat on my skin just as soon as it formed. I dreaded the inevitability of our mission taking us inland, where there was absolutely nothing to take the edge off the sun. That test would come, but for now, I was, surprisingly, enjoying being back amongst the familiarity of a marching unit.

  Not that the Guabdi marched in any way resembling a familiar unit.

  Tal - ostensibly the squad’s scout - sometimes ranged so far on our flanks that she became a lanky speck amongst the similarly spindly scrub, and any forewarning she was there to provide would be uninterpretable. Other times she’d go missing altogether, only to come sprinting up from far behind us, complaining of being left behind. The only time she was reprimanded was on one of these occasions when she loosed a bolt from her crossbow to try and spook me of an attack from behind. Dassem told her to knock it off, but said nothing of her order in the column.

  Chuckles also went missing from long stretches, but his absence was less notable and more welcome.

  The Captain sometimes strode out at the front of the column, sometimes as a rear guard, but never in the middle where it was protocol. She wore no badges of office, it was true, nothing to mark her as a target of import for enemies that might be watching us. But there was such a thing as too brazen a commitment to the ruse. It was the first of many times I would question the approach of the Guabdi, so carefree that it often verged on madness.

  The only constant was Briggs and Church, who marched in lockstep, shoulder pressed comfortably to shoulder.

  I tried to arrange myself near Dassem so that I could interrogate him further about the events at the shed, but he was as slick as a natinus, and often used the heavies as a stone in that creature’s river habitat to interrupt the flow between us. Whenever I tried to slow down, the heavies dropped their step as well. I tested them, and they matched me to a frankly ludicrous pace, and again when I sped up to a trot, until finally I resigned myself to meeting the sergeant on his terms.

  “Whose crest is that?” I said, trying to make the best of the situation by indicating the tilting shield on Briggs’ right shoulder. It had a red pale and fess on a field of teal. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “It belonged to Poot,” said Briggs stoically. “And I never asked him.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  I should have known better. The Guabdi’s gear was eclectic: mismatched gauntlets, or a pauldron of a different pattern to the breastplate, and I had assumed it was the nature of a squad like this, that had been on campaign and out of resupply for a number of years, to scrap and scrounge whatever was still functional along the way. What I had forgotten in my time away from the Corps was that squads are never simply the trenchers that currently fill its ranks, but the amalgamation of all the friends that had fallen before them. Poot hadn’t survived Shint, and Briggs had made damned sure that some of Shint’s blood had found its way onto the shield in the end.*

  The heavies increased the length of their stride, which was an easy thing to do given their height, and I refused to embarrass myself by raising a trot to keep alongside them just to keep on trying to ingratiate myself. But there still came a spiteful laugh from behind me: Chuckles, having observed the interaction, and earning his trenchname for once.

  “Your blood will join Shint’s on that fess, the way you’re heading,” he said.*

  Tal came trotting into view, for once ahead of us.

  “Better get up front, Cap,” she said.

  “Trouble?”

  Tal rolled her eyes.

  “Only if you think you can die from being too annoyed.”

  “Well, I do.”

  I had been right that we were still well within Imperial territory, such as it was. A patrol road marched the road towards us, a full column of five squads. They were infantry, in tight blocks, their demi-plate too hot and heavy for the conditions. They halted a hundred metres out from us, looking relieved for the rest. Their commander approached us.

  The Empire had tried to bring Ourobok cavalry to the continent. There was a not so quiet optimism at the beginning of that sphere of expansion that the eternally grumpy horned beasts with their skins of tough grey leather would be unassailable in the same way they had decided the Uripidees conquest. It was often said that a single troop of the riders could almost have won that campaign on their own, excepting the fact they weren’t much good at holding territory after they’d taken it.

  But the war-mounts of the Empire, feared in every culture encountered across the known world thus far, hadn’t lasted a week on the Continent. Their hooves, about the size and weight of a smith’s small anvil, and so effective at charging across rocky terrain, couldn’t take them even a hundred metres in the shifting sands without the Ourobok snapping an ankle. Their continued deployment was quickly abandoned, and imperial commanders had never adapted to the quadrupedal avian mounts which their opposing officers reigned to such effect.

  So the commander came on foot, accompanied by a large coterie. Some acting as pages brought a stool for the commander to sit on, and quickly erected a shade cloth over his head, which four of them had to hold aloft via poles at the corners. The rest of the retinue stood behind the commander, outside of the shade. As did we, the Guabdi crowding eagerly behind the Captain, not shy about our thirst for gossip. The commander was clearly disgusted by this.

  “Tor Aarodoit Alain,” he introduced himself haughtily. “Fourth Battalion of the Arradheim Regulars.”

  He had a fashionably thick and long moustache, though it drooped like a flower in the heat. Sweat beaded and then dropped from its pointed ends, though they made no obvious impressions on his drenched shirt.

  “Captain,” she said, refusing to match his pompous, formal introduction. “Special Squad.”

  “I doubt that,” sneered Alain. “You appear to me more as deserters, abandoning the fair diamond of Arradheim to the surrounding coal of this land when she most needs you upon her walls. I should have you stripped and lashed to this road to bake in the sun, as an example. I might still, if you try to run. However, the Burgher Empire does not waste goods. As such, you will be escorted back to Arradheim, where you will be outfitted -”

  The Captain reached into the inner pocket of her duster, produced a leather wallet, and flipped it open. The signet within flashed in the sun.

  Alain swallowed, his eyes stretching wide. He looked like he’d just somehow skipped right into the middle of a large field of manure and knew he’d have to take several more steps in the muck before he could extricate himself. Such a signet meant the Alain wasn’t to ask further questions under any circumstances. We were who we said we were, and we were above reproach. And Alain was worried, because Special Squads always meant trouble was on its way.*

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “We’ve been out of circulation for a while,” said the Captain. “Tell me what you know about current operations.”

  Alain did nothing to hide his sneer. He loathed her impertinence, loathed that he had to answer to her without knowing if, under any other circumstances, she would be privileged enough to shine his boots.

  “There’s maybe two other columns out there, somewhere, in the desert, and that’s it,” said Alain.

  “Whose?” said the Captain.

  “Johns, I believe, is one. You would’ve heard of him, a lowly lumberjack from some backwater Outer Realm, rising so fiercely through the ranks I fear he might snap his neck from the whiplash. And yet still trying to make a name for himself, it seems. I met him once. Tried to tell him, as I’m telling you now, that none of it mattered. Not the chip on his shoulder, nor whatever sigils he might have earnt for his breast. None of it mattered if he was dead. But he doesn’t know when to stop.”

  “And the other?” said the Captain.

  “Tor Forneir. An old hand. Still has his full compliment, last I heard: five troops of five squads each. Mostly Korysiks, and maybe some manoeuvrable cannon. Though that report is from a while back, and I doubt he’s had any reinforcements since.

  “Everyone has been recalled to Arradheim, you see. Actually, the majority have been recalled even further than that, all the way back overseas to the Core Realms. The War Council is giving up on this campaign, Captain. Some might even say we’ve lost it, and quite some time ago too.

  “We’re barely holding the city together, let alone these outlands. Too many religions, cultures, politicos - and that’s just within a single mob. These people seem to have an officiant for every minor piece of public work, and he comes with a full staff of attendants, and they all pretend that they’re really the one in charge. I feel like I’m a lowly doorman of the worst pub in the worst quarter back home. I throw one rat out, and it just leaves space for the others to grow bolder, and fatter.”

  “It was always going to take time for Arradheim and its people to learn the Empire’s way of running things,” said the Captain. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I’m a warrior, Captain, not a tutor, nor a governor,” said Alain. “I only know how to deal with combatants, corpses or captives, and they tell me these people aren’t the latter. Mark my words, whatever the Burgher Princes back home thinks - and my reports have tried to convince them otherwise, again and again - we cannot convert or coerce these people. We only have one thing in common, and that’s the fact we both bleed red. We should burn Arradheim to the ground - the spices in the market would make it pleasant smelling work! - and then rebuild a proper city, so that every brick - no! - every grain of every stone is good, pure imperial stuff. But to do that I need more men! And the war council keeps taking my best back over the seas. Just the dregs left now.

  “On the whole of the Continent, the only active operations are use, those two, and now you.”

  “That you’re privy to,” said the Captain. “And you were only just made privy to us.”

  I feared Alain might leap at her and attempt to crush her windpipe, trading one insult to his honour for another, this one possibly more damaging to his legacy because it was self-inflicted. Instead he stiffened every part of himself, and choked out: “This is not about my personal ego. I worry for the ongoing health of the Empire, and as I’ve said, and continue to say in my reports, what is there left for a Special Squad - any squad - to do here, at the tail end of all this?”

  “I don’t question my orders, Tor,” she said. “I just follow them. But, as you said to us at the start, the Empire does not waste goods. Do you really think we’d be deployed on a ghost quest?”

  She was toying with him. He was desperate to find out something, anything with even a scrap of value for him to on-sell to those who held his contract, and the more the Captain teased his lust, the more his self-loathing threatened to boil over.

  Instead, he managed to master himself, a change of tact growing even during the execution. He looked past the Captain, to cast an eye over the rest of us for the first time.

  “Looks like your squad is short a few bodies, to do any real damage,” he said.

  Special Squad meant trouble. But in that trouble was possibility, for those with ambition. If we failed, no history would mention us. But if we were successful, each and every one of the Guabdi could climb higher than the Tor could in ten years spent on a common contract.

  It was easy to forget that there were other valid currencies in the Empire beyond coin. Reputation was one, and ambitious men like this Tor were attuned to chances for acclaim. A few victories of note, and the Tor could justify raising the asking price of his contract, or secure a more comfortable position back in the Core Realms. At the very least, he could start by telling tales about how he’d duelled a Finger, and parlay that into teaching some rich young pup sword play. So perhaps there weren’t other currencies, or they were valid only as intermediary trades. It all came back to coin, in the end. How to earn it easily, and spend it fully.

  Trenchers like us could only sell our bodies, for as long as they lasted, which was slightly better than selling them in the fields or shearing sheds.

  “You wouldn’t like this work any better than what you’ve currently got, my lord,” said the Captain.

  Alain fumed. The Captain remained impassive. Finally he shot to his feet, the stool toppling behind him. A page jumped to right it again, and Alain lashed out angrily, the heel of his boot catching the boy across the brow and making him bleed. Alain stood poised, hoping for the boy to make a noise so that he could propel into a proper beating, but the boy remained admirably silent, until finally Alain huffed and shook his coat sleeves.

  “I hear there’s trouble with the border in Seyndel again,” said Alain. “Perhaps they need some good heads and good swords back home.”

  They probably did, which is why this prick was still here on the Continent.

  “In truth, we haven’t really patrolled to the end of the road in the past three tours. I do hope trouble finds you out there.”

  The prick tried to dismiss us with a wave. The Captain held up a hand to halt him.

  “Before you move on, Tor,” she said laconically. “We could use a resupply.”

  “Then head to Arradheim!” said the Tor, frustrated with us now.

  “It’s out of our way,” said the Captain. “Whereas you’re headed back. You can put your corps on half rations if you have to.”

  “And if they’re already on halfs?”

  “Then they’ll be encouraged to march faster.”

  The Tor snarled. The Captain’s signet, held breezily between two fingers, wafted beneath his nose once again. He held up a hand and used two fingers to motion over one of his adjuncts.

  “See this, Captain?”

  The adjunct had taken off his pack and opened the top flap to show it was stuffed full of parchements. Despite being tightly wound, some had the diameter of Briggs’ bicep, and the pack bulged with hundreds of them.

  “Scrip ledgers,” said the Tor, grabbing up a handful and letting them fall back into the pile. “Reams and reams of the shit. Records of what’s owing and what’s owed. Ledgers of the blood and sweat all those trenchers behind me have paid, and ledgers of what they’re supposed to have earnt for their efforts. Do you think they’ll ever hold any real coin in their dirty little hands? Do you think any of this will ever be reconciled?”

  “That’s how the Empire works, Tor,” said the Captain.

  “The Empire haltingly draws breath,” the Tor corrected her, “Thanks to the men like mine who bust their asses on the promise of payment. They do the real work, and still I ask them to trust that it is repaid - real-paid - at some point.”

  “Then go home,” said the Captain.

  “Many will,” said the Tor. “Though there are precious few ships leaving Arradheim these days, because precious few shipmasters are brave or stupid enough to come and dock on this continent in the first place, which means the price of passage will be steep. I’m sure you can’t imagine committing so much of your time and your body to this campaign, only to have any profit wiped out just to get home and try again.”

  “No doubt then you’ve seen fit to subsidise the costs of their rations, and the rent of their tents, to take the sting out of it a little.”

  “I have no control over the price of a sausage from the company stores.”

  “But you do have your own pockets to think about.”

  The Tor could say nothing to this, only huffing and blowing out his cheeks so that his face began to turn red. The adjunct stepped forward, proffering a pen and the top of a ream of parchment to the Captain. But this was far from the calming intervention he intended it to be, as the Tor’s rage finally boiled over. The Captain was untouchable, but the adjunct was fair game. The Tor slapped the paper to the ground, and continued to beat upon the man’s arms and then head and shoulders as he cowered to the ground.

  “She’ll take what she’s bloody well given, if she’s so desperate!” he roared. “And because she’s a ghost, our ledgers will never be reconciled so let’s not indulge the farce of her writing down some account numbers!”

  He turned on his heel and began to stalk back towards his column.

  “On your feet!”

  The soldiers didn’t exactly jump too, possibly because of the torpifying heat, but also, I suspected, because Alain’s temper had long lost its impact. We moved to the side of the road to avoid being trampled as they moved off once again. There would be little reprieve back at a hot and stuffy barracks.

  They dumped the agreed upon supplies in a dusty pile behind them.

  “‘These people’,” I seethed after him. “It’s folks like him that are causing the division in Arradheim. No wonder the locals won’t ‘fall into line’. He doesn’t want to work with them. He wants to exterminate them, and take everything they have for the Empire.”

  “He is right about one thing, though,” said the Captain. “If the ideals of the Empire have any hope here, the Fingers must bleed.”