But, for all Thelonius’s faults, compared to his brother he was a saint. Abask and its people would still be there if it weren’t for Aloysius. And Harold was his father’s son, only worse—madder, badder, and on demon smoke. March had seen Harold was capable of pure evil, of doing to the Calidorians what his father had done to the Abasks. But Calidor wouldn’t be left empty like Abask; it would be colonized by Brigantines.
March had to find a way to stop Harold. “I’d just rather not die in the process,” he muttered.
“What’s that?”
March looked up. Rashford was standing ankle-deep in seawater, blocking the path between the huge rocks. March had been so caught up in his thoughts, he’d not even seen him. He glanced over Rashford’s shoulder. There was no one else with him. “Just thinking about life and death. What are you doing here?”
“A question I was just about to ask you.”
March looked back. Had Rashford seen Edyon? The beach was mostly out of sight.
“Fancied a paddle to wash the blood off my boots,” March said.
“Me too.”
What was Rashford up to?
“Is the fighting done yet?” March pushed past Rashford.
“The fighting’s over. The castle is ours,” Rashford re-plied, following him. “The boys, however, have not stopped killing just yet.”
“Or burning.” March nodded to the sky above Calia, which was beginning to lighten with dawn as fast as it filled with smoke from fires.
“Whereas we’re just two boys who prefer a stroll on the beach to looting and killing.”
March ignored the comment and walked on. “Where’s Harold?”
“In the castle somewhere. Why?”
“He’s my master. I should report to him.”
“And what will you say you’ve done in Calia? How many have you killed?”
March shrugged.
“More than you’ve helped escape?” Rashford grabbed his arm, but March pulled away. “You’ve never been one of us, have you, March?”
March turned to face Rashford. “And you? Are you really one of them, Rashford? I know you love the Bulls, but do you love your king? Do you love Harold? Do you love all this killing and destruction?”
Rashford opened his mouth but no words came out.
“If you were truly one of Harold’s followers, you’d have called your men by now and had me killed. Or you’d kill me yourself if you had even the slightest doubt about my devotion. I have access to Prince Harold, after all. I’m a danger to him.”
March found that now he’d started, he couldn’t stop. All the anger and frustration of weeks—years possibly—was pouring out. “But you haven’t, have you, Rashford? You know all this is bad. It’s wrong. It’s evil. But you don’t want to starve; you want something from life other than a pile of shit and a beating. This smoke seems a good way to get it, but you know it won’t last. You know your days are numbered. And what will you have at the end of it? At best, a job as an ordinary soldier, fighting for Aloysius and probably dying of wounds or the shits, or just being killed in battle and forgotten. You want something more, and you think the smoke can give it you, but you’re not sure how.”
“Maybe all I need to do is tell Harold the truth about you, and I’ll get to be his new favorite,” sneered Rashford.
“For half a day, if that. You know not to trust Harold—ever. None of us interest him any more than an ant.”
“So what’s your plan, March? Do you have one, or are you just letting off a bit of steam?”
In truth, he didn’t have a real plan other than to wait for an opportunity. But he kept waiting and kept putting it off. “Steam, mostly,” he replied.
Rashford grinned, reached over, grabbed March’s bottle of smoke, and pulled the cork out.
March snatched after the bottle, but it was too late. The purple smoke drifted out and up and away. “What did you do that for?” he yelled.
“Sometimes you look so angry, March. I wouldn’t want you to lose it when you had smoke inside you and get ideas that you could fight Harold. Even with the smoke, you’d lose, but you might be tempted to try. I’ve just done you a favor.”
March pushed past him to make his way back to the castle, but Rashford stayed with him. They passed the bodies of two old women lying in blood on the street. March said, “This isn’t war. This is carnage. These people weren’t soldiers.”