Tucking the letter into the pocket of his blue silk jacket Gaise moved to the small mirror on the wall, and carefully tied his white cravat. This too was silk – bought in the capital four years ago, when life was simpler. He looked at his reflection. The clothes were bright and stylish – superbly cut jacket, edged with silver embroidery, over a white shirt, with lace collar and extravagant cuffs, grey leggings merging with highly polished black riding boots. The clothes spoke of calmer days – times of nonsense and trivia, balls and parties, visits to the theatre or fine dining establishments. The face, however, was a stark contrast. The eyes were tired and had seen too much. The features were drawn and tense.
When possible resign your commission and travel north.
How good that sounded. Gaise made a final adjustment to his cravat and turned away from the mirror. Soldier lifted his great black head and watched the man. His tail wagged.
‘You have to remain here, my friend,’ said Gaise, crouching down and stroking the hound’s head.
But Soldier followed him to the front door, and Gaise had to push him back as he eased himself out. The hound barked furiously as Gaise walked away. Taybard Jaekel and his friend, the powerfully built Kammel Bard, were waiting outside. Both men saluted.
‘Have you heard from home?’ asked Gaise, as he walked out onto the main street.
Jaekel fell in alongside him, his rifle cradled across his chest. ‘Not in a month, sir. They said the winter is harsh.’
‘I’d still sooner suffer our winters than spend any more time here,’ said Gaise.
‘Amen to that, sir.’
‘You still have that golden musket ball?’ asked Gaise.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Taybard, tapping at his chest. ‘Seems a long time ago now.’
‘It was a good day, Jaekel.’
They strolled through the town. Gaise did not even glance at the bridge.
Guests had already begun arriving at the mayor’s large house. Gaise was welcomed by the man’s wife, a small and once pretty woman with rapidly blinking eyes, and a sad expression. Gaise bowed to her, and kissed her hand. She led him through to the main reception room, where some twenty people had already gathered. The mayor moved away from a small group of residents and bowed deeply. He was red-faced and – amazingly, considering the food shortages – overweight. ‘Welcome, general,’ he said, affecting a broad smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘You are most welcome. Allow me to introduce you to my friends. Some of whom I believe you have met.’ Gaise followed the man round the room, shaking hands, making agreeable comments. He was ill at ease, but masked it well. It was not his intention to stay long. This party had been arranged in haste to honour Quartermaster General Cordley Lowen. There was no way Gaise could refuse to attend without causing further offence.
Lowen, dressed in full military uniform of braided crimson, was standing by the fire, chatting to several of the town’s leading citizens. They were hanging on his every word, nodding and smiling. His dark-haired daughter was standing close by, in a figure-hugging gown of green satin. It seemed to shimmer in the lantern light.
The mayor led Gaise to the group. Lowen saw them, and his eyes narrowed. His smile, however, remained fixed.
‘Good evening, General Macon,’ he said.
‘And to you, sir. I trust you are well.’
‘As well as one can be in these dreadful times.’ He stepped aside. ‘You remember my daughter, Cordelia.’
‘I do, sir.’ Gaise felt his stomach tighten as he met her eyes. He bowed deeply. She made no attempt to disguise her contempt for him, her face remaining set, her dark eyes angry. An uncomfortable silence grew. Gaise could think of nothing to say. The fat mayor blurted out something meaningless, and one of the other guests mentioned the weather, and the moment passed.
As soon as he could Gaise moved away from the group towards the long table on which a punch bowl had been set. He felt foolish, and a little angry. Filling a glass with cider punch he sipped it.
‘So, who are we challenging tonight, general?’ asked Cordelia Lowen, appearing alongside him. ‘The mayor perhaps?’