a spot of fieldwork,’ he explained a little breathlessly, a little excitedly.
‘Alone?’
‘Believe me, I prefer it this way. Much safer.’
The zel became still beneath him, and Alarum placed his hands on the pommel of the saddle and stared down at Ché with an odd, searching expression.
‘Tell me, Ché. Has your mother ever spoken of me, perchance?’
‘She’s spoken of many men. I don’t keep track.’
Alarum gathered his thoughts for a blinking moment.
‘It’s just . . . I knew her once. A long time ago, before you were born.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. And she’s a fine woman. Helped me through a difficult time. When you next see her, you must tell her that I ask after her fondly.’
Ché nodded without commitment. He was uncomfortable with this talk of his mother, and as always in moments of discomfort, his hand began to scratch at one of his rashes.
‘That skin problem of yours,’ observed Alarum. ‘You should come and see me when I return. I have ointments that may help.’
‘Thank you, but I already have some.’ He patted the flank of the zel and stepped back from it. ‘Good riding.’
Alarum raised a hand then kicked his zel into a trot, leading the string of extra mounts behind. Ché watched him leave for a few moments, then turned once more into the wind.
Back in his own small tent, he returned the bundle of graf leaves in his hand to the open backpack on the floor, then looked at the field bunk along one wall, and the stool, and the simple wash stand.
He stood and did nothing for a moment, something troubling him.
His eyes scanned the tent, each item at a time, and came at last to rest on his copy of the Scripture of Lies. It had been moved from where he had placed it on the bed, though not by much – half an inch, perhaps, little more.
Ché opened the leather-bound book and riffled through its pages roughly. A slip of paper spilled out to land at his feet.
He glanced over his shoulder, then bent to pick it up.
YOU KNOW TOO MUCH, MY FRIEND.
The handwriting was unknown to him. No signature adorned it.
Ché crumpled the note and stood and looked outside. He returned to his bunk and sat down with the piece of paper in his fist, pondering.
At last he stuffed the note into his mouth, and began to chew.
That morning, the First Expeditionary Force set forth for war.
Behind it, a contingent of soldiers, merchants and slave porters remained on the filthy sands of the beachhead, tasked with bringing in the rest of the supplies and transporting them forward to the army. The fleet would leave after that, bound for the safety of Lagos. It was too exposed here without adequate squadrons of men-of-war, and the closer harbourages of the southern mainland remained too much of a risk while the Mercian convoys ranged back and forth to Zanzahar for their vital trade. At least the army had some air support at last, for three imperial birds-of-war had finally limped in to rejoin them. The rest were still missing.
For the majority of the Expeditionary Force it was a slow start, and it required most of the morning for everyone, including the camp followers, to begin their march. Draught animals had to be fixed to carts and coaxed into pulling over terrain that seemed to include no roads; herds of livestock and zels needed shepherding up the wide valley floor.
Ahead of the vanguard, light cavalry roved the countryside, searching for enemy contingents and civilian targets to fire and plunder. It was easy work, though, for the highlands of eastern Khos were lightly populated and defended, and those who did live here had mostly hidden themselves in the rocky fastnesses of the region. Further inland, the elite purdah scouts ranged with their great wolfhounds at their sides, employing their usual methods of stealth to remain undetected. They were scouting the path that the army would need to take through the highlands in order to reach the Tumbledowns and the Cinnamon River, which it would then follow downwards into the Reach.
From the main body of the Expeditionary Force, skirmishers fanned outwards to form mobile flanks of protection for the slower troops moving in columns. The light infantry, the predasa, were at the van of the main procession, multinationals from all corners of the Empire, clad in bright cloaks and leather armour, their shields and helms slung from their backs, tramping a rough path through the grasses and heather as they marched.