dawn had broken on her like the dawn itself. Am I alive? I am alive! It was as though the hour of her death had come and gone, and the grim spectre himself was overdue. In such moments, when the world held its breath, anything might happen.
He had come to her at her tent: Giles Scavian, Survivor and King’s wizard, his ripped shirt hanging loose from him. They had both been weary from the fighting and the waiting, dirt-smudged and worn, but she had taken his damaged hand in hers and kissed the cauterized ridge of his missing fingers. In turn, he had put his lips to the bruises across her face. She was a gentlewoman of Lascanne, and he was a gentleman, polite and proper in all things. Death made a third, though, in that tent, and in that presence their social niceties finally seemed as distant and unreachable as Deerlings House.
She had lain down, and pulled him down beside her, and they had unbuttoned each other’s shirts without hurry. They had at least until the dawn before matters of either Denland or Lascanne came back to trouble them.
He must have known that it was her first time. She guessed that it was his.
Once only. Afterwards, the Denlanders still stayed away and stayed away, and she and Scavian touched hands and exchanged looks, but somehow each felt it would tempt fate too much to seek a second union. Their one moment of grace had been all they had, all they would have. Emily would not have exchanged it for any other.
*
Now they had reinforcements. Were matters looking up? Emily watched as the master sergeant from Leopard Passant drilled the shabby newcomers in the use of the rifle, and knew that it would make no difference.
Mallen was the great killer of Denlanders these days. On odd nights he went out with his scouts, and they hunted down their opposite numbers and taught them how to fear. They used knives, to be silent and secret at night and, with Mallen to lead them, they killed far more than they lost. What they discovered was news worse and worse with each expedition. The Denlanders, too, were being reinforced. They had new men come in every other day, a few squads at a time. He estimated that they now outnumbered the besieged garrison by more than five to one, even after all their recent casualties.
And even Mallen could not kill them all. As his supply of scouts diminished, one by one, the Denlanders’ numbers only grew. There must be many enemy agents plotting out the road to Locke now, for when they would have the liberty to walk it in force.
And still the enemy sat and waited, and Emily knew why. Her insight into the Denlander character now became a curse. She knew that they were careful, meticulous and pragmatic men, and they did not much value qualities such as honour, courage or luck. They valued instead solid plans and favourable numbers. They were waiting until a victory on their part was certain before essaying towards the camp again.
And so both sides wait for the same thing. One day the Denlanders would come back, and this time it would be when they would be sure to win. Without a doubt, the Lascans would exact a heavy toll from them, but there was a limit to how much damage the defenders could do before they were all shot down.
She had in her hand her incomplete and undeliverable message to Mr Northway, her suicide note, as she thought of it. She wondered, if Penny Belchere were to appear before her, whether she would give it to the girl, or hide it. The question seemed academic.
The Survivors’ Club was all that was left to her now. Its members kept each other sane. Whatever the Denlanders may value, we have courage, friendship and honour here, which translated into evenings of joking and drinking, gambling and arguing. She was more a soldier than she knew, now. Would Mary or Alice even recognize her? She was shocked to think how long it had been since she had thought of either of them. How long since they have thought of me?
Grammaine was just a distant memory; like some place they had gone to when she was a very young child, half remembered and half imagined. It was like a place she had seen in a painting somewhere. She had no belief in it. It was not possible that she could