‘I thought you were a favourite of his,’ grumbled the tribesman. ‘Why then do you have a leaky tent?’
‘Just bad luck,’ said Valanus, ignoring the steady drips that spattered him. ‘I am a soldier out of necessity. I do not come from a wealthy family. Therefore I receive only standard issue. Most of the tents are dry. I’ll try to find a better one tomorrow.’ His smile widened. ‘It should amuse Jasaray when you walk in like a drowned rat.’
‘Why do you think I risk a flogging?’
Valanus shrugged. ‘There are only two reasons the Scholar sends for tribesmen – to reward or punish them. You have done nothing to deserve punishment, so I expect you impressed him.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Conn, doubtfully. ‘But then none of us have done anything impressive so far, save to march and ride and build enormous fortresses that we leave deserted the next day. When will the Perdii fight?’
‘When they are ready, I expect,’ said Valanus. ‘And when they do we shall defeat them, and you will have more revenge. Ostaran tells me you are a terror. Three skirmishes, five dead Perdii to add to your tally. You know what the Gath call you? Demonblade.’
‘I don’t care what they call me. As you said, they were skirmishes. And my revenge will not be complete until I draw my dagger across Carac’s throat.’
The smile left the officer’s face, and when he spoke there was an echo of sadness in his voice. ‘And when he is dead you think the hurt and the pain will go away?’
‘It will or it won’t,’ said Conn, watching the white-haired young man closely. Valanus seemed lost in thought.
‘I had a friend once,’ he said. ‘More than a friend. He was captured in the Tribante campaign. They put out his eyes, then cut off his hands and feet, then his balls. When we found him he was still alive. They had cauterized his stumps, you see, with boiling tar.’ The candle flickered as a drop of water splashed close to its flame. Valanus shivered, then gathered himself and forced a smile. ‘I have made no friends since. Nor will I among soldiers and warriors.’
From outside the tent came the tolling of a bell. It rang four times. ‘Well,’ said Valanus, ‘it is time for you to attend the general. If it is a reward he offers you perhaps you could think about a new tent for me. Or a servant.’
‘You have a servant. I saw him put up this tent.’
‘I share him with eight other poor officers. And I cannot afford to slip him extra money. Hence—’ He waved his arm and pointed to the rivulets running down the canvas walls.
Conn said nothing, but rose smoothly, ducking under the tent flap and stepping out into the storm. Lightning flashed to the west, followed by a rolling clap of thunder. There were still three hours before midnight. On a clear day at this time of the year it would still be light. But the storm covered the land like a dark shroud. Conn trudged across the camp site, passed the lines of horses picketed nose to nose, and the baggage wagons, then threaded his way through the ranks of round tents which housed the common soldiers.
Jasaray’s tent was forty feet long and at least fifteen feet wide. Its walls glowed gold from the many lanterns within. Two spear-carrying soldiers stood outside, shielded from most of the rain by a jutting flap supported by two poles. As Conn approached they crossed their spears against him.
‘What . . . you . . . want?’ asked the guard on the left, in fractured Keltoi.
‘I have been invited to see the general,’ Conn told him, in Turgon.
The guard looked surprised. ‘Wait here,’ he said, handing his spear to his comrade and stepping inside the tent. He was gone only a few seconds. When he returned he told Conn to wait, and the tribesman stood in the rain, his mood darkening. He could hear voices from within the tent, but with the rain hissing down around him could not make out the nature of the conversations. After some minutes officers began to emerge from the tent and hurry away through the storm. Even then he was not invited inside. His anger mounting, he was on the verge of striding away when he heard a voice call out from inside.