‘Then those that live will remember,’ Scavian finished for her, once it was apparent that she could not.
Emily nodded, dug into her inside pocket and produced a crumpled piece of paper. ‘My note. Fifty pounds, was it?’
Brocky took it from her reverently. ‘If . . . God above! If I . . . I’ll look after your son, Salander, I swear.’
‘It’s yours. If it’s yours, it’s yours,’ Tubal said.
Oh, Mary. What a weight, on this cast of the dice, for the Marshwic family. What a weight for Lascanne.
They were late to bed, all five of them. They knew they would not sleep long, and that dawn’s pale fingers in the eastern sky would find them awake and ready.
16
My Dear Mr Northway,
Today there is to be a great battle. We are all invited.
Dawn, now, as I pen this for you. Too many things to say. Too little time.
I am in your debt, because you have given me this opportunity. Because you have given me someone to confide in. Because you taught me a little about the world, before I came here, that I needed to know. I am in your debt.
I will write again, if I can write again.
Yours,
Emily.
The companies were assembling before the black rim of the swamp even as the sun cast its first light over the sea. Emily bolted from her tent towards the storehouse and banged furiously on the door until its latch jumped from its mounting, leaving the portal gaping wide. She found John Brocky inside and roused him from his hammock by way of tipping him onto the floor.
‘Time, is it?’ he croaked, clutching his head.
‘Brocky, you must do something for me,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I have a letter here, and a messenger called Penny Belchere may come asking for me. Give this to her if I am not here to do so myself.’
He blinked at her. ‘What?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, yes I do.’ She left him sitting on the storehouse floor and went to join her company.
They were all falling into place, eight-hundred-odd soldiers of the Stag Rampant, and as many for each of the other two companies. It was a vast force of armed men and women, the whole strength of the Levant; for all she knew it was only a fraction of Lascanne’s force in the grander war being fought on the Couchant front up west. Were those soldiers also mustering at this daybreak hour? Were they also embarking on their own Big Push? Perhaps the fate of Lascanne would hang in the balance of a single coin toss today.
‘Emily! Ensign!’ Tubal hurried up to her. ‘Have you seen Mallen?’
She shook her head and he gave her a frustrated look. ‘His scouts are taking point. We need him here now. Go find him, will you?’
Behind him, Captain Goss was walking slowly along the front rank of soldiers, saying nothing, his eyes heavy with emotion.
She found Mallen quickly enough, tucked in behind the company shack. He was squatting on his haunches, and it was a moment before she spotted the two indigenes crouching with him. They spoke softly in the creatures’ own garbled language, and she wondered whether she should wait, to see what would come of it. Instead, she coughed pointedly to announce herself, and Mallen jumped to his feet.
‘They need you, Master Sergeant,’ she told him.
He gave her another of his unreadable looks, of which he seemed to have an endless store, and muttered a few more foreign words to the indigenes. Straight away they were off, scurrying low, towards the swamps. She had lost sight of them long before they reached the trees.
‘What was that about?’ she asked Mallen, and at first he simply looked at her and muttered something about it not being an ensign’s place to question him.
‘Tubal’s going to want to know,’ she pointed out, as they both jogged back towards the company.
He hissed through his teeth. ‘They must not be near the Denlanders when we attack. They had to know that.’
She stopped abruptly. ‘You told them to get away from the Denland camp?’
A nod from him, no more.
‘But . . . if the enemy realize . . .’ She gaped at him. ‘Mallen, they’ll know we’re coming!’
He stared back at her. Scholar or not he had the close-faced pride and dignity of a savage prince. ‘So what, then?’ he said. ‘They will die caught between the lines, else. This is their home – my home. Before we turned it into our battleground.’