the edges and the night had just begun.
Before he could decide on a course of action, the door to his quarters slammed
open admitting one of the veterans who’d been with him for years.
“Thrush’s at the West Gate with Cythen. They’ve got a body between ’em an’ they
say they won’t give it over.”
“Bloody hells,” the commander exclaimed, crumpling his cloak in one fist. “Watch
the pot, Zump. I’ll be back.”
He went down the stairs at a run. He’d believed in Kama; believed in the mugs of
ale she’d downed with Strat and him a scant week ago. He’d believed she hadn’t
put an arrow in Straton and believed she was smart and wary enough to keep
herself alive after it’d happened.
The temporary palace morgue was just beyond the public gallows. It glowed
faintly in the late twilight. With plague sign up the gravesmen were taking no
chances and had laid a fair carpet of quicklime beneath their feet. Thrush was
arguing loudly with his escort as Walegrin approached.
“As you were,” he commanded, positioning himself carefully between the gravesmen
and the shrouded corpse. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s gotta stay here,” the chief digger said, pointing to the dark object
behind Walegrin’s feet.
Thrusher sucked on his teeth. “But, Commander, he’s one of ours: Malm. He
deserves the rites inside-beside the men he served with for the last time.”
Malm had died two years back and had never stood high in Thrush’s estimation.
Walegrin peered into the darkness. His friend’s face was unreadable. Still, he’d
known Thrusher for thirteen years: if the little man wouldn’t leave Kama’s body