‘Maybe we’ll like it; maybe it’s time to die. I don’t know. I do know we can’t
leave it to the garrison – every time they find us a hawkmask he’s too damaged
to tell us anything. We’ll never recruit what’s left of them if the army keeps
killing them slowly and we take the blame. And also,’ Crit paused, dismounted
his horse, pulled the trussed and gagged hawkmask he had slung over his saddle
like a haunch of meat down after him, so that the prisoner fell heavily to the
ground, ‘we’ve been told by the garrison’s intelligence liaison that the army
thinks Stepsons fear this woman.’
‘Anybody with a dram of common sense would.’ Straton, rubbing his eyes,
dismounted also, notched crossbow held at the ready as soon as his feet touched
the ground.
‘They don’t mean that. You know what they mean; they can’t tell a Sacred Bander
from a straight mercenary. They think we’re all sodomizers and sneer at us for
that.’
‘Let ’em. I’d rather be alive and misunderstood than dead and respected.’
Straton blinked, trying to clear his blurred vision. It was remarkable that
Critias would undertake this action on his own; he wasn’t supposed to take part
in field actions, but command them. Tempus had been to see him, though, and
since then the task force leader had been more taciturn and even more impatient
than usual. Straton knew there was no use in arguing with Critias, but he was
one of the few who could claim the privilege of voicing his opinion to the
leader, even when they disagreed.
They’d interrogated the hawkmask briefly; it didn’t take long; Straton was a