you will ask yourselves, why should you trust me?”
“Why indeed?”
This time the voice’s owner stepped into view. Vaelin was surprised by his youth, perhaps a year or two past his twentieth year. He was of average height but remarkably lean with well-honed muscle showing through the rents in the rags he wore.
“You belong to the Green Vipers?” Vaelin asked him.
The lean man’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twitched in defiant amusement. “Never heard of them,” he said.
“Have you heard of the Crimson Band?” Chien asked. As she spoke she raised her hands, making a fist of one and tapping two fingers to it with the other before slowly tracing them to her wrist. The man kept his face impassive but Vaelin saw a definite glimmer of recognition in his eyes.
“I speak as one who has walked the nameless road all her life,” Chien went on, casting her voice into the depths of the vaults. “And I speak true. This is no lie. What would be the purpose? I have no love for this man.” She pointed at Vaelin. “His arrival in this land caused my father’s death and the fall of the Crimson Band. But, he is a warrior of great renown in the Barbarous East and, having seen him fight, I can attest to his skills and that he does not break his word. I swear as the daughter of Pao Len of the Crimson Band that you can trust him. The choice is yours: take a chance on his word and you might live, or most likely die fighting. Don’t and you’ll certainly die starving in your own filth.”
A multitude of voices babbled in the shadows and more prisoners came into the light. Many were bowing in servile obeisance whilst others glared in suspicion. Whatever their willingness, the ragged and emaciated state of most caused Vaelin to wonder what use they might be as soldiers. He did spy some sturdy specimens amongst them, but most of these stood behind the lean man who remained as impassive as before.
“Shut it, you fawning shits!” he barked out, instantly silencing the other prisoners. “I’ve heard of Pao Len,” he said to Chien. “Heard he died on the Merchant King’s order.”
“He did,” Chien said. “And the Merchant King himself told me how impressed he was that my father never gave up a name in the long hours he suffered before the headsman ended him, even those he had called enemies all his days. Know this and know that his blood runs in me. The word of the Crimson Band is never broken.”
The smuggler turned to the cluster of sturdy men at his back, voice lowered in swift discussion. “If we fight we get paid,” he said, turning back to address Vaelin this time. “The same as any other soldier. And”—a smile played over his lips—“I get to be captain.”
“Yes to the pay,” Vaelin said. “No to the captaincy. You can be a corporal.” He held the young man’s gaze, looking for a sign of challenge. If it came to it he would have to be beaten down, most likely killed to ensure the others fell into line. As Sho Tsai had noted, Vaelin had done this before.
“Corporal then,” the young man said, proving at least that his defiance didn’t extend to stupidity.
“You have a name?” Vaelin enquired.
“Cho-ka.”
Dagger or thin-bladed knife, Vaelin translated, doubting it was the name this man had been born with, not that it mattered. “Corporal Cho-ka,” he said. “Get these men into some semblance of order and march them from this place. You will follow me to the canal. I feel a bath is sorely needed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Form a circle!”
Boots stamped and armour clinked as the company attempted to perform the manoeuvre they had been taught over the course of three torturous days. Vaelin saw several collide with their comrades, dropping their spears in the process. The contrast to the other regiments drilling in the central square was stark. Even the relatively raw militia troops were given to laughing openly at the outlaws’ clumsy attempts at soldiering. The overall sense of disorder was not helped by the decidedly non-uniform appearance of his troops. With much of the garrison’s armoury already denuded of kit, Vaelin’s command had been obliged to make do with the leftovers. Consequently, the men marched in armour of varying hues wearing helms that ranged from plain to extravagantly ornate. The only real uniformity was in their weapons, a six-foot-long curve-bladed spear and short sword for each man.