Liv—we want this poor old man up and walking and spilling his secrets.”
“I can’t, Creedmoor.”
“Liv. Listen closely. This is what you are here to do. For all I know, it may be why you were put on this earth. What he knows might mean the end of the Great War. Peace, Liv. They’ll build statues to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Creedmoor.”
“Excellent. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out. Get to work. I’ll return shortly.”
He picked up his pack and rummaged for knives and rope.
“It’s miles away. What if some other animal steals it?” Liv hated the desperation in her voice, but she was so hungry.
He grinned. “What animal would dare?”
Then, hand on his head to keep his hat on, he slid down the scree. He went fast, recklessly, like a much, much younger man.
When he was far enough away—he was never too far away to see her, but she hoped he wasn’t looking—Liv scrabbled on the ground for sharp flints. She snapped away a dry branch from the nearest tree. It was stiff; she was horrified by how weak she had become. She sat with her back to the valley and tried to sharpen a weapon from the wood. It snapped in her hands. She was too weak to cry.
She composed herself.
She sat cross-legged in front of the General, and she held his face—gently, firmly—so that his eyes were on her.
“Secrets, Creedmoor says. Spilling your secrets. What do they want from you, you poor old man?”
His eyes wandered again and she let go. She sighed.
“You must have been a very great General indeed, if they want you so badly.”
Liv sat before the General and considered how to proceed.
“In the rain, you were giving orders.”
He began to mutter nonsense.
“Wait; hush; listen. What did you remember? Where were you? What’s still in there?”
He did not stop muttering.
With some self-consciousness, she sat straight; stiffened her spine and squared her thin shoulders; deepened her voice as much as she could; and asked, “What are your orders, Sir?”
Was that a flicker of interest, of recognition?
He began to urinate.
Creedmoor came running noisily up the scree slope, the deer slung over his shoulders. Its pelt was a striped red-black that Liv thought—not that she any great experience with deer—rather unusual. Creedmoor threw it down and rubbed his bloody hands with glee.
“Any progress with our friend, Liv? Has he said anything interesting?”
“No, Mr. Creedmoor. Do you expect results in an hour?”
“Call me Creedmoor. And you’re quite right; early days yet.”
Creedmoor made a fire. He looked at the General’s rheumy eyes and reached into his pack, from which he produced a vial that Liv recognized as fever medicine stolen from the House. He dribbled it down the old man’s throat. After a little thought, he offered the vial to Liv. She dosed herself with shaking hands.
Creedmoor drew a knife from his boot. “Well?” He waved it vaguely at her and at the trees. “Gather firewood.” He dug the knife point in under the deer’s hide and began tearing.
She went into the trees to gather firewood. It was a strange and unpleasant experience, about which she was too tired to think clearly.
She brought back dry branches and stacked them crosswise, according to his instructions.
He butchered the animal in front of her. Her mouth watered at the grisly sight. In a warm conversational tone, he explained just how it was done. He cut the meat into thin strips, some of which he hung to dry in the sun over the spiny branches of a tree on the edge of the slope, and some of which he cooked.
“To absent friends,” he said as he gnawed on a strip of flesh. “My friends are all monsters and they should have been hanged long ago; nevertheless, I shall mourn them. Not because they deserve to be mourned, but because I do not deserve it either, but I hope they’ll miss me when I go.”
His head was bowed. “So: Black Roth. Dagger Mary. Stephen Sutter. Keane. Hang-’Em-High Washburne. Drunkard Cuffee. Abban the Lion. Dandy Fanshawe.” His voice caught on the last name.
He looked up and winked. His sentimental mood seemed to leave him as fast as it had come.
“On the other hand, fuck ’em all; they’re dead and I’m alive.” He laughed. “Absent friends!”
Liv gasped and put her hand to her mouth; she realized that she’d quite forgotten Maggfrid, who’d be terribly frightened without her. . . .
After they ate, Creedmoor sat himself back in the shade and removed a small paperback