Stilcho shivered there in the dark against the gate, his back to the river-he
still could shiver, though his flesh was less warm than formerly. And having
been rash with Janni he passed further bounds of good sense. He stared at the
ghost and saw that Janni was not his usual furious self. There was something
diminished about the ghost. And desperate. As if his arguments had told. “So you
want my help,” he said to Janni, “to get Niko back. You and he can go to hell
together for what I care. Ask Her, why don’t you?”
“I’m asking you.” The ghost wavered and resumed solid shape. “You were one of
the best of the ones we recruited. You were one-who’d have been one of us,
after. After the war. Where were those precious lads when you wanted help out on
that bridge, in that sty Downwind while the Ilsigi took you apart? Who helped
you? The Ilsigi-loving dogs Strat cleaned out? You’re Rankan.”
“Half. Half, you bloody prig, and not good enough for you till you were short of
help. No, there’s a damn lot I don’t forget. You left us as bloody meat-Ran out
on us, left us to hold this hell-hole, dammit, you knew the Nisi would hit at
your underbelly, come in here where Ranke’s hold’s weakest. Not with swords, no;
with witchery and money, the sort of thing the Nisibisi are long on and this
gods-forsaken pit of a town is apt for-“
“And corruption inside, inside the corps. Dammit, how quick did you forget? You
love the Wrigglie bastards that did that to you? You defend your Wrigglie-loving
barracksmates? Stilcho,” Janni’s face wavered in and out of solidity. “Stilcho