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Paran entered Knobb's Inn and stopped just inside the doorway. The place was packed with soldiers, their voices a jumbled roar. Only a few showed on their uniforms the flame emblem of the Bridgeburners. The rest were 2nd Army.Advertisement

At a large table beneath an overhanging walkway that fronted rooms on the first floor half a dozen Bridgeburners sat playing cards. A wideshouldered man whose black hair was braided into a pony-tail and knotted with charms and fetishes sat with his back to the room, dealing out the cards with infinite patience. Even through the high-tide roar Paran could hear the man's monotone counting. The others at the table deluged the dealer with curses, to little effect.

“Barghast,” Paran murmured, his gaze on the dealer. “Only one in the Bridgeburners. That's the Ninth, then.” He took a deep breath, then plunged into the crowd.

By the time he arrived behind the Barghast his fine cloak was drenched with sour ale and bitter wine, and sweat cast a shine on his forehead. The Barghast, he saw, had just finished the deal and was setting down the deck in the table's centre, revealing as he did so the endless blue woad tattooing on his bared arm, the spiral patterns marred here and there by white scars.

“Is this the Ninth?” Paran asked loudly.

The man opposite the Barghast glanced up, his weathered face the same colour as his leather cap, then returned his attention to his cards.

“You Captain Paran?”

“I am. And you, soldier?”

“Hedge.” He nodded at the heavy man seated to his right. “That's Mallet, the squad's healer. And the Barghast's name is Trotts, and it ain't because he likes jogging.” He jerked his head to his left. “The rest don't matter-they're Second Army and lousy players to boot. Take a seat, Captain. Whiskeyjack and the rest been called out for the time being. Should be back soon.”

Paran found an empty chair and pulled it up between Mallet and Trotts.

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Hedge growled, “Hey, Trotts, you gonna call this game or what?”

Releasing a long breath, Paran turned to Mallet. “Tell me, Healer, what's the average life expectancy for an officer in the Bridgeburners?”

A grunt escaped Hedge's lips. “Before or after Moon's Spawn?”

Mallet's heavy brows rose slightly as he answered the captain. “Maybe two campaigns. Depends on a lot of things. Balls ain't enough, but it helps. And that means forgetting everything you learned and jumping into your sergeant's lap like a babe. You listen to him, you might make it.”

Hedge thumped the table. “Wake up, Trotts! What are we playing here?”

The Barghast scowled. “I'm thinking,” he rumbled.

Paran leaned back and unhitched his belt.

Trotts decided on a game, to the groans of Hedge, Mallet and the three 2nd Army soldiers, since it was the game Trotts always decided on.

Mallet spoke. “Captain, you've been hearing things about the Bridgeburners, right?”

Paran nodded. “Most officers are terrified of the Bridgeburners. Word is, the mortality rate's so high because half the captains end up with a dagger in their back.”

He paused, and was about to continue when he noticed the sudden silence. The game had stopped, and all eyes had fixed on him. Sweat broke out under Paran's clothing. “And from what I've seen so far,” he pressed on, “I'm likely to believe that rumour. But I'll tell you something-all of you-if I die with a knife in my back, it'd better be because I earned it. Otherwise, I will be severely disappointed.” He hitched his belt and rose. “Tell the sergeant I'll be in the barracks. I'd like to speak with him before we're officially mustered.”

Hedge gave a slow nod. “Will do, Captain.” The man hesitated. “Uh, Captain? Care to sit in on the game?”

Paran shook his head. “Thanks, no.” A grin tugged the corner of his mouth. “Bad practice, an officer taking his enlisted men's money.”

“Now there's a challenge you'd better back up some time,” Hedge said, his eyes brightening.

“I'll think about it,” Paran replied, as he left the table. Pushing through the crowd, he felt a growing sense of something that caught him completely off-guard: insignificance. A lot of arrogance had been drilled into him, from his days as a boy among the nobility through to his time at the academy. That arrogance now cowered in some corner of his brain, shocked silent and numb.

He had known that well before he'd met the Adjunct: his path into and through the officer training corps of the Marine Academy had been an easy procession marked by winks and nods. But the Empire's wars were fought here, thousands of leagues away, and here, Paran realized, nobody cared one whit about court influences and mutually favourable deals. Those short-cuts swelled his chances of dying, and dying fast. If not for the Adjunct, he'd have been totally unprepared to take command. pqdm.com