but where Creedmoor came from damp and misty Lundroy and was prone to grumbling and joint aches, the dark and eagle-nosed Abban came from the sands of Dhrav and was passionate. He fancied himself a warrior, wore his dark hair long, dressed all in black, and sometimes went so far as to affect a sword. At this moment he was probably staring into a fire in a camp somewhere in some distant hills, surrounded by the bodies of enemies. He said:
—I’ll be behind you, Creedmoor. In the hills. Whether you want me or not. Watching. You won’t be alone.
Fanshawe’s voice again:
—So will I. Like old times, Creedmoor!
—Not sure I trust you behind me, Fanshawe.
—I’ve never heard that one before, darling, well done.
Jen said:
—I will not be joining you. I wish you gentlemen well at the ends of the earth. My spies will be working in your behalf back in Jasper City. Come find me at the Floating World when you’re done.
—You should travel more, Jen. You used to go everywhere. Tell me—are you still young?
She laughed. Abban spoke:
—Don’t think you can betray us, Creedmoor. Don’t think if you run away again, you will be forgiven.
—Fuck you, Lion.
A gray shape that swirled through the smoke looked remarkably like the blade of a curved sword swooping at Creedmoor’s head, and he ducked, and immediately felt foolish. He said:
—Listen. What’s this about? Why do we care about this old General? There’s no shortage of Generals in this world.
Marmion answered:
—He was caught by the bombs of the Line—the bombs of terrible noise, that shatter the mind with fear. His mind is gone. He will be one among many with minds like children, rotting away in the cells of the House Dolorous. They do not know who he is or what he is. There are secrets hidden in his mind.
—What secrets?
—Bring him to us.
—What secrets?
—What do you think, Creedmoor? A weapon. What else?
—A weapon.
—Yes.
—What kind of weapon?
—A thing of the First Folk. It could mean victory.
—An end to the War? Peace at last?
—Not peace. Victory.
—What weapon? What does it do? Who is he? Who was he? What have the Folk got to do with it?
—You know enough already. You are not trustworthy, Creedmoor. None of our servants are trustworthy. Bring him to us.
—Hmm. Fanshawe?
—Yes?
—Have the young bucks really forgotten my name?
—Afraid so, dear boy.
—Serve us well now and you will never be forgotten, Creedmoor. Pay attention. . . .
They began to talk tactics, logistics. One voice interrupted another, and again. A disagreement on a point of precise timing emerged, and they began to squabble and snipe. The unity of the Guns never lasted long. Ambush and volley and countervolley of words . . .
The smoke thickened. Billows of it crossed the room back and forth like cavalry charges. Voices echoed and overlapped. What always unnerved Creedmoor was that though each voice was different, they were also the same. They sounded in his head and they sounded in his voice, with only a crude approximation of Abban’s accent or a mockery of Jen’s lilt or Fanshawe’s drawl or an echo of the thud and snarl of the Guns. It was horribly unpleasant, and enough to make a man wonder if he was mad.
When he threw open the door and let the smoke pour out, it was nearly morning, and Josiah was muttering in his sleep. Creedmoor walked away quickly before his master could decide the old man needed to be killed after all.
CHAPTER 5
SMILE THROUGH ADVERSITY
Dr. Lysvet Alverhuysen’s coach traveled west, through Koenigswald’s farmlands, and across the border into Sommerland, and along a high cliff road that looked over the vast gray Northern Ocean, and south across the moors, and up into the pines. Other travelers came and went—businessmen, widows, scholars, doctors, couriers, the idle rich on tour. Sometimes there was pleasant conversation; sometimes Maggfrid sat in deep silence and Liv read, or stared at the passing skies. Mail was picked up and dropped off. The coach bounced along the dirt roads that cut through the forests, narrow channels between dark walls of pine. A few logging towns and the occasional inn disrupted the green immensity. It got colder as they slowly gained altitude. They changed coaches twice, and both times Liv was convinced she was going to lose something vital from her luggage, though she couldn’t think what; already most of what she’d brought seemed unnecessary. She’d taken to wearing her hair down.
There was a certain casual and vaguely decadent camaraderie on the coaches, and