'It's what Dal Honese do,' said Widdershins, 'death-mask paint.'
'Before a siege?'
Throatslitter hissed – what passed for laughter, Bottle supposed – and said, 'Hear that? Before a siege. That's very cute, very cute, Bottle.'
'It's a death mask, idiot,' Widdershins said to Bottle. 'He paints it on when he thinks he's about to die.'
'Great attitude for a sergeant,' Bottle said, looking around. The other two soldiers of the Ninth Squad, Galt and Lobe, were feuding over what to put in a pot of boiling water. Both held handfuls of herbs, and as each reached to toss the herbs in the other soldier pushed that hand away and sought to throw in his own. Again and again, over the boiling water. Neither spoke. 'All right, where is Balm finding his paint?'
'There's a local cemetery north of the road,' Deadsmell said. 'I'd guess maybe there.'
'If I don't find him,' Bottle said, 'the captain wants a meeting with all the sergeants in her company. Dusk.'
'Where?'
'The sheep pen back of the farm south of the road, the one with the caved-in roof.'
Over by the hearth the pot had boiled dry and Galt and Lobe were fighting over water jugs.
Bottle moved on to the next encampment. He found Sergeant Moak sprawled with his back resting on a heap of bedrolls. The Falari, copper-haired and bearded, was picking at his overlarge teeth with a fish spine. His soldiers were nowhere in sight.
'Sergeant. Captain Faradan Sort's called a meeting-'
'I heard. I ain't deaf.'
'Where's your squad?'
'Got the squats.'
'All of them?'
'I cooked last night. They got weak stomachs, that's all.' He belched, and a moment later Bottle caught a whiff of something like rotting fish guts.
'Hood take me! Where'd you find anywhere to catch fish on this trail?'
'Didn't. Brought it with me. Was a bit high, it's true, but nothing a real soldier couldn't handle. There's some scrapings in the pot – want some?'
'No.'
'No wonder the Adjunct's in trouble, what with a whole damn army of cowardly whiners.'
Bottle stepped past to move on.
'Hey,' Moak called out, 'tell Fid the wager's still on as far as I'm concerned.'
'What wager?'
'Between him and me and that's all you got to know.'
'Fine.'
He found Sergeant Mosel and his squad dismantling a broken wagon in the ditch. They had piled up the wood and Flashwit and Mayfly were prying nails, studs and fittings from the weathered planks, whilst Taffo and Uru Hela struggled with an axle under the sergeant's watchful eye.
Mosel glanced over. 'Bottle, isn't it? Fourth Squad, Fid's, right? If you're looking for Neffarias Bredd you just missed him. A giant of a man, must have Fenn blood in him.'
'No, I wasn't, Sergeant. You saw Bredd?'
'Well, not me, I've just come back, but Flashwit…'
At mention of her name the burly woman looked up. 'Yah. I heard he was just by here. Hey, Mayfly, who was it said he was just by?'
'Who?'
'Neffarias Bredd, you fat cow, who else would we be talking 'bout?'
'I don't know who said what. I was only half listening, anyway. I think it was Smiles, was it Smiles? Might have been. Anyway, I'd like to roll in the blankets with that man-'
'Smiles isn't a man-'
'Not her. Bredd, I mean.'
Bottle asked, 'You want to bed Bredd?'
Mosel stepped closer, eyes narrowing. 'You making fun of my soldiers, Bottle?'
'I'd never do that, Sergeant. Just came to tell there's a meeting-'
'Oh, yes, I heard.'
'From who?'
The lean man shrugged. 'Can't remember. Does it matter?'
'It does if it means I'm wasting my time.'
'You ain't got time to waste? Why, what makes you unique?'
'That axle doesn't look broken,' Bottle observed.
'Who said it was?'
'Then why are you taking the wagon apart?'
'We been eating its dust so long we just took revenge.'
'Where's the wagoner, then? The load crew?'
Flashwit laughed an ugly laugh.
Mosel shrugged again, then gestured further down the ditch. Four figures, bound and gagged, were lying motionless in the yellow grass.
The two squads of sergeants Sobelone and Tugg were gathered round a wrestling match between, Bottle saw as he pushed his way in for a better look, Saltlick and Shortnose. Coins were being flung down, puffing the dust of the road, as the two heavy infantrymen strained and heaved in a knot of arm and leg holds. Saltlick's massive, round face was visible, red, sweaty and streaked with dust, the expression fixed in its usual cow-like, uninterested incomprehensibility. He blinked slowly, and seemed to be concentrating on chewing something.