The captain relented. ‘Stay. It is part of our lives and our way of war. We use scouts because we don’t have a magus to use birds. Even if we did I’d rather use scouts. They can observe and report, can make judgments as to numbers, can tell if they see the same three horses every day. A bird can’t make those judgments, and the magus’ perceptions of whatever the bird sees is filtered through – something.’ The captain sagged. ‘I don’t know what, but I imagine it as a pipe that’s too small for all the information to get through, as if everything is seen through water or fog.’
Michael nodded.
‘The Wild has no scouts, so I guessed that our enemy was using animals as spies. We have trapped a lot of birds, and then I misled him.’ The captain crossed his hands behind his head.
‘And with cook fires. You told me so.’ Michael leaned forward.
‘Gelfred isn’t down at the Bridge Castle, not much anyway. He’s out in the woods, watching their camps. He has been since we realised the bulk of the Wild army had gone around us. Want to talk about brave? I sent patrols out with a weapon – something the Moreans make. Olive oil, ground oil, whale oil will do – bitumen, if you can get it, plus sulphur and saltpeter. There’s dozens of mixtures and any artificer knows them. It makes sticky fire.’
Michael nodded. The clerk crossed himself.
‘Even the creatures of the Wild sleep. Even the adversarius is just a creature. And when they gather to attack men – well, it stands to reason that they must have a camp. Do they talk? Do they gather at campfires? Play cards? Fight amongst themselves?’ The captain looked out of the window. ‘Have you ever thought, Michael, that we are locked in a war without mercy against an enemy we don’t understand at all?’
‘So you’ve watched them, and attacked their camp,’ Michael said with satisfaction. ‘And we hit them hard.’ Now Michael was smiling.
‘Yes and no. Perhaps we didn’t touch them,’ the captain said. ‘Perhaps Bad Tom and Wilful Murder put some fire on some meaningless tents, and then they followed our boys back and hit us harder – killing twenty-three people for the loss of just two wyverns,’ the captain said.
Michael’s smile froze. ‘But-’
‘I want you to see that victory and defeat are a question of perception, unless you are dead. You know every man and woman in the company – in this fortress – feels we won a great victory. We fired the enemy’s camps, and then we killed a pair of his most fearsome monsters in ours.’ The captain got to his feet as Michael nodded.
‘And because of this perception, everyone will fight harder and longer, and be braver, despite my fucking mistake to allow civilians into the courtyard which cost us twenty-three lives. Despite that, we’re
Michael shook his head. ‘It wasn’t your fault-’
‘It was my fault,’ the captain said. ‘It’s not my moral burden – I didn’t kill them. But I could have kept them alive if I hadn’t been distracted that evening. And keeping them alive is my duty.’ He stood up straight and picked up the baton of the command. ‘Best know this, if you want to be a captain. You have to be able to look reality in the eye. I fucked their lives away. I can’t go to pieces about it, but neither can I forget it. That’s my job. Understand?’
Michael nodded and gulped.
The captain made a face. ‘Excellent. Here endeth the lesson about victory. Now, if it is not too much trouble, I’d like Long Paw and Bad Tom, please.’
Michael stood and saluted. ‘Immediately!’
‘Harumf,’ said the captain.
Long Paw was fifty, his once red hair mostly grey and a mere tonsure around a bald pate, with an enormous moustache and long sideburns so that he had more hair on his face than on his head. His arms were unnaturally long and despite his status as an archer and not a man-at-arms, he was reputed the company’s best swordsman. The rumour was he had once been a monk.
He clasped hands with the captain and grinned. ‘That was a little too exciting.’
Bad Tom came in after him, a head taller than either the captain or the archer, his iron grey hair curiously at odds with his pointed black beard. His forehead had a weight of bone that made his head look like the prow of a ship, and no one would call him a handsome man. He looked scary, even in broad daylight, dressed in nothing but a shirt and an infirmary blanket. He clasped hands with the captain and the archer, grinned at Ser Adrian, and settled every inch of his gigantic frame into one of the arched chairs.
‘Good plan,’ he said to the captain. ‘I had fun.’
Michael slipped in. No one had invited him, but his face suggested that no one had told him he couldn’t come, either.
‘Get us all a cup of wine,’ the captain said, which indicated that he was welcome enough.
