Chapter 18: The Dead
First, we hit the camp. The gun's a wreck – touch-hole spiked and trunneons busted in. And there's corpses lying everywhere. But the boys that hit us are gone, and they took their fallen friends with them, including Dismas. Damn it – I coulda used Vvulf's gold.
Just like I guessed, they took the valuables and left the supplies behind. There's food could feed twenty men for a week, never mind three for five days. Torches, bandages, medicine. All the loot from that damn carriage, all left behind for the three of us. We stuff our packs to bursting, and we scavenge knives and rifles from the fallen so each of us got two blades, a gun, and twenty bullets. Then we head south along the Old Road, following the compass.
It takes us five days to get there, but we get there. I shit out the ruby I swallowed on the first night; wipe it off best I can then pocket it for myself. Extra money for all the trouble I been through. We get in one or two fights – some cultists, and a couple oozes – which we win. After three days' march we're outta the Weald and into the highlands – then it's easy. We stagger into town at dusk the fifth day.
The first thing we do is sell the speed stone. We get a thousand pieces of gold for it – three hundred thirty three pieces each, with the extra piece going to Rodin. After all, despite everything, he's still the boss. Then we buy ourselves a proper meal – steak, and potatoes, and asparagus and ripe tomatoes in season. Then we go and take a bath, and get our clothes cleaned while we're at it. I spend an hour and a half in the bath, scrubbing off weeks' worth of filth and dirt and blood. I have to get 'em to change the bathwater twice, but I'm squeaky clean in the end. When it's done, I shave off my beard, too – I hadn't had a chance to since the day before we lost the cannonballs, and it was getting scruffy.
Once we're fed and clean, we go looking for Rodin's man in town. We find him that evening, and corner him in an alley – a fat, balding man with a drooping moustache. He recognizes Rodin immediately, and goes pale.
"It was a m-m-mistake!" he stammers, sweat beads showing up on his forehead. "I h-had bad infor, infor, information!"
"Yeah," says Rodin coldly, as we draw our knives. "Big fucking mistake."
We cut his tongue out first. Then his lips. Then his nipples. Then his cock. Then his nose. He's died of shock and blood loss before we get to the eyes, but we cut 'em out anyway and Rodin stomps on 'em before we throw the body into the trash.
"Less'n he deserved," says Rodin, as we're heading back to the inn.
We spend the rest of the week resting and buying new clothes and gear. Rodin and the matchman do a fair bit of drinking and gambling – selling their gemstones to cover it – but I make sure not to spend too much money. Hellion was right about one thing: we're real good at pissing our earnings away. I, at least, intend to start saving up. Don't wanna do this forever.
At the end of the week, the three of us meet at the inn and order a round of drinks. We've all got new kit on, although Rodin's changed his look completely. He ditched his old gear for shiny boots, a sable coat and, of course, a blue scarf. Always gotta be blue, with Rodin.
"Suits you," says the matchman.
We're quiet for a bit, until the barmaid brings us our mugs of porter. Then we drink to the dead, with the matchman first to break the silence.
"Clairwil," he says, raising his glass.
"Florent," I say, raising mine.
"Guy," contributes Rodin. Then the three of us take a big lug from our beers.
"Jean," Rodin says next.
"Philippe," says the matchman.
"Bressac," says I.
Another drink.
On and on we go, saying the names of dead friends, enemies, acquaintances, all the men from our crew who'll never leave the Weald. Seventeen names, all in all, seventeen men dead for the sake of a speed stone. We're all done our first mugs of beer and well into our second by the time we've said the last name.
As we sip to the last man, we listen to the music. A pretty girl, with black hair and almond eyes, has stood up in the corner, and is singing – what else? – The Highwayman. She's got a beautiful voice.
"He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead," she sings. "And a bunch of lace at his chin. A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin…"
"Now there was a proper fuckin' brigand," slurs Rodin, with a wave at the woman. "Fancy suit. His own horse. Pretty girl waiting for him at home…"
"Yeah," I sneer, "and he gets himself killed at the end of the song. Ask me, the man was an idiot, going back there. I'd rather get a decent day's pay, than be a corpse with a dead mistress and a fancy suit covered in blood."
"Guess you got a point," Rodin admits.
"One kiss, me bonny sweetheart," sings the woman. "I am after a prize tonight…"
"Fuck's sake," I mumble, and take a swig of my porter.
We listen to her for the rest of the story. The Highwayman has a girl name of Bess who's sweet on him. Soldiers come looking for him and they hold her up, layin' a trap for the man for when he comes to see her that night. Bess manages to get hold of a musket, and blows her own brains out hoping the noise will warn her lover off. It does, but when he hears of it in the morning, he rides back to avenge her and gets himself shot down for it. Like I said – man's an idiot, even if it's a pretty song.
"So, what are you all gonna do now?" I ask, when she's through singing. "Now we've got our payday."
"I'm heading east," says the matchman, "to the sea. Try and work as a sailor."
"You ever done it before?" asks Rodin. The matchman shrugs.
"Been a sailor? No. But I been on a boat, once, and you better believe I know how to use a cannon," he says. "Always need of a gunner on a ship. And I got a decent strong back. Think the sea air might do me good, too, after all those months inhaling fungus. What about you, Rodin?"
"I'm going back," he says. "Next carriage north."
"You gotta be fucking crazy, going back there," says I, shaking my head. "I ain't never going back to that fucking place."
"I'm getting even," he says grimly. "They took everything from me."
"You got no boys," I point out. "You're gonna tough it out alone? You won't last a minute!"
"I got a plan," he replies. "Like I said: there's another carriage to the Hamlet going north from here at dawn. I'm gonna be on it. Blend in with the other adventurers on their way there. I figure I'll say I'm an ex-bandit looking to join up. Once I'm at the Hamlet, I'll spend a couple days scoping the place out, then I'll slip off into the Weald and link up with Vvulf. I bet he could use a man on the inside. Bet a man like that might be worth a fat share of loot."
I guess that's why he changed his outfit – trying to make himself look like a different man. Still, I see the flaw in his plan almost immediately.
"Yeah, but what if the Hellion recognizes you?" I point out. "She'll be there, and she ain't the forgiving sort."
Rodin just looks confused.
"The who?"
"The glaive-bitch," I clarify. "If she makes you, you're dead."
He just shrugs.
"So I keep my collar up and my head down. If I do get caught, I say I thought I'd join up same as Dismas done. My word against hers."
I grunt acknowledgement, but privately I think he's acting like a fool. Then again, if he had any sense at all, he wouldn't be going back to that fucking hellhole in the first place. Any case – he ain't my problem no more.
"What about you?" asks Rodin. "What's your plan?"
"Gonna go south," I say. "Think I might try and go legit for a while, same as him." I jab a thumb at the matchman. "Maybe find work in lumber, or a road gang, or something. Anything's gotta be better than here."
"Well," says Rodin, standing up. "Good luck to you both."
"You're leaving?" asks the matchman.
"Carriage leaves early," he says. "Gotta get my beauty sleep."
"Well, Rodin," I say, "as long as we're parting ways, I just wanna take the opportunity to tell you one thing."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"You're a fucking asshole," I deadpan, "and I hate your guts."
"Go fuck yourself," he snaps. "You're an asshole too."
"I'll drink to that," I grin. "One asshole to another."
After a moment, he bursts out laughing, and we clink our glasses together then drain 'em.
"Fare ye well," he says, then he's gone.
The matchman and I sit quietly together for a while. The woman's started singing again; song I don't recognize. Sounds nice though.
Near Banbridge town in the County Down one mornin' last July…
"One thing's been bothering me," I say to the matchman. He raises an eyebrow.
"I don't think I ever got your name," I confess. "Don't seem right, we should part ways not knowing one another's names. All this crap we been through together and all."
He nods, and extends a hand.
"Dubourg," he says.
I reach over and grip his hand in my own.
"Séverin," says I.