Corvus by Paul Kearney

faces.
    “This is home for
me,” Corvus said, discarding his sodden chlamys and spreading his fingers out
to the heat of a brazier. A pair of boys, not more than fifteen, took the cloak
and brought wine to the table in a jug of actual glass.
    “After I took
Idrios, I had it made - it took the hides of eighty cattle. In the past two
years I have not slept under a proper roof more than a half-dozen times.” He
raised his head, smiling. “I like to hear the rain beat upon it.”
    He seemed to snap
himself out of a reverie. “Drink - it’s not Minerian, but almost as good. I eat
at dusk. You’ll meet the other commanders of the army then. We have much to
discuss.”
    Rictus drank,
admiring the glass jug, discreetly studying the maps upon the table. For the
most part they showed the eastern Harukush: its rivers, its roads, its cities
and towns. But there was one that portrayed the lay of the land all the way up
to Machran and its broad hinterland, the ring of cities about it that were all
members of the loose confederation known as the Avennan League, named for the
city of Avennos in which it had been formed, over twenty years ago.
    This boy standing
at the brazier had in two years conquered his way across some eight hundred
pasangs of the Harukush, and by these maps he now controlled at least a dozen
major cities, as well as all the countless towns and villages in between.
    Where in the world
had he come from?
    “I might have
known I’d find you pair with cups in your hands,” a voice said. It was Kesero,
grinning so wide as to show every thread of silver ringing his teeth. And
beside him Valerian, the ruined beauty of his lop-sided face alight with
something akin to relief.
    “Rictus - how went
it at the farm - is everyone - is Rian -”
    “My family is
well,” Rictus said formally, unsmiling. “Report, centurions. How are my men?”
    They stiffened,
raindrops streaking their faces. Fornyx stood silent beside Rictus. The two
older men were both in their black armour with the scarlet chitons and cloaks
of their calling. The rest of their gear had been carried for them by Druze’s
men, but they bore their swords, and looked every inch the hard-boiled
mercenary centurions. Valerian and Kesero, by contrast, were clad in grey
civilian chitons which had not been washed any time recently.
    “The Dogsheads are
bivouacked half a pasang from here, on the south side of the camp,” Valerian
said. “All are present with their arms on hand, awaiting your orders.”
    “We voted on it,”
Kesero said, his shaven head gleaming with rain. “They’re sticking with you,
Rictus. They’ve signed no contract, and will sign none without your say.”
    Rictus looked at
Corvus. “I think we may be out of the territory of contracts. The game has
changed.”
    “Something else to
talk about,” Corvus said. “But later.” Druze and a pair of aides had entered
the tent in the wake of Valerian and Kesero, and stood patiently. The Igranian
was as lit up with curiosity as a kitten watching a ball of yarn.
    “I must go. Stay
here, Rictus, you and your officers. The pages will set up the place for the
evening meal in a little while - until then you can have the place to
yourselves.” His gaze travelled over the four mercenaries. He seemed to waver
for a second, then shook his head, and with a slice of his hand beckoned Druze
and the aides out into the rain with him.
    “The conquering
hero leaves us,” Fornyx said drily. “Grab yourself some of this wine, brothers
-the boy keeps only the best on hand, it seems.”
    But Valerian and
Kesero stood immobile, fixed in place by Rictus’s glare.
    “Tell me what
happened,” he said, in a voice as cold as the rain.
    “We were in a
wine-shop in Grescir when they took us,” Valerian said. “Three parts drunk.”
    “It was just a
little shithole on the way to Hal Goshen,” Kesero put in. “We halted on the
march to let the men fill their skins. They must have been watching the road.
That