Sixes

The dice came up a pair of sixes.

In the Union they call that score suns, like the sun on their flag. In Baol they call it twice won, because the house pays double on it. In Gurkhul they call it the Prophet or the Emperor, depending where a man's loyalty lies. In Thond it is the golden dozen. In the Thousand Isles, twelve winds. In Safety they call two sixes the jailer, because the jailer always wins. All across the Circle of the World men cheer for that score, but to Friendly it was no better than any other. It won him nothing. He turned his attention back to the great bridge of Puranti, and the men crossing it.

The faces of the statues on their tall columns might have worn to pitted blobs, the roadway might have cracked with age and the parapet crumbled, but the six arches still soared tall and graceful, scornful of the dizzy drop below. The great piers of rock from which they sprang, six times six strides high, still defied the battering waters. Six hundred years old and more, but the Imperial bridge was still the only way across the Pura's deep gorge at this time of year. The only way to Ospria by land.

The army of Grand Duke Rogont marched across it in good order, six men abreast. The regular tramp, tramp of their boots was like a mighty heartbeat, accompanied by the jingle and clatter of arms and harness, the occasional calls of officers, the steady murmur of the watching crowd, the rushing throb of the river far below. They had been marching across it all morning, now, by company, by battalion, by regiment. Moving forests of spear tips, gleaming metal and studded leather. Dusty, dirty, determined faces. Proud flags hanging limp on the still air. Their six-hundredth rank had passed not long before. Some four thousand men across already and at least as many more to follow. Six, by six, by six, they came.

“Good order. For a retreat.” Shivers' voice had withered to a throaty whisper in Visserine.

Vitari snorted. “If there's one thing Rogont knows how to manage it's a retreat. He's had enough practice.”

“One must appreciate the irony,” observed Morveer, watching the soldiers pass with a look of faint scorn. “Today's proud legions march over the last vestiges of yesterday's fallen empire. So it always is with military splendour. Hubris made flesh.”

“How incredibly profound.” Murcatto curled her lip. “Why, travelling with the great Morveer is both pleasure and education.”

“I am philosopher and poisoner all in one. I pray you not to worry, though, my fee covers both. Remunerate me for my bottomless insights, the poison comes free of charge.”

“Does our luck have no end?” she grated back.

“Does it even have a beginning?” murmured Vitari.

The group was down to six, and those more irritable than ever. Murcatto, hood drawn up, black hair hanging lank from inside, only her pointed nose and chin and hard mouth visible. Shivers, half his head still bandaged and the other half milk-pale, his one eye sunk in a dark ring. Vitari, sitting on the parapet with her legs stretched out and her shoulders propped against a broken column, freckled face tipped back towards the bright sun. Morveer, frowning down at the churning water, his apprentice leaning nearby. And Friendly, of course. Six. Cosca was dead. In spite of his name, Friendly rarely kept friends long.

“Talking of remuneration,” Morveer droned on, “we should visit the nearest bank and have a note drawn up. I hate to have debts outstanding between myself and an employer. It leaves a sour taste on our otherwise honey-sweet relationship.”

“Sweet,” grunted Day, around a mouthful, though whether she was talking about her cake or the relationship, it was impossible to say.

“You owe me for my part in General Ganmark's demise, a peripheral yet vital one, since it prevented you from partaking in a demise of your own. I have also to replace the equipment so carelessly lost in Visserine. Need I once again point out that, had you allowed me to remove our problematic farmers as I desired, there would have been no—”

“Enough,” hissed Murcatto. “I don't pay you to be reminded of my mistakes.”

“I imagine that service too is free of charge.” Vitari slid down from the parapet. Day swallowed the last of her cake and licked her fingers. They all made ready to move, except for Friendly. He stayed, looking down at the water.

“Time to move,” said Murcatto.

“Yes. I am going back to Talins.”

“You're what?”

“Sajaam was sending word to me here, but there is no letter.”

“It's a long way to Talins. There's a war—”

“This is Styria. There's always a war.”

There was a pause while she looked at him, her eyes almost hidden in her hood. The others watched, none showing much feeling at his going. People rarely did, when he went, and nor did he. “You're sure?” she asked.

“Yes.” He had seen half of Styria—Westport, Sipani, Visserine and much of the country in between—and hated it all. He had felt shiftless and scared sitting in Sajaam's smoke-house, dreaming of Safety. Now those long days, the smell of husk, the endless cards and posturing, the routine rounds of the slums collecting money, the occasional moments of predictable and well-structured violence, all seemed like some happy dream. There was nothing for him out here, where every day was under a different sky. Murcatto was chaos, and he wanted no more of her.

“Take this then.” She pulled a purse out from her coat.

“I am not here for your money.”

“Take it anyway. It's a lot less than you deserve. Might make the journey easier.” He let her press it into his hand.

“Luck be at your back,” said Shivers.

Friendly nodded. “The world is made of six, today.”

“Six be at your back, then.”

“It will be, whether I want it or not.” Friendly swept up the dice with the side of his hand, wrapped them carefully in their cloth and tucked them down inside his jacket. Without a backward glance he slipped off through the crowds lining the bridge, against the endless current of soldiers, over the endless current of water. He left both behind, struck on into the smaller, meaner part of the city on the river's western side. He would pass the time by counting the number of strides it took him to reach Talins. Since he said his goodbyes he had made already three hundred and sixty-six—

“Master Friendly!” He jerked round, frowning, hands itching ready to move to knife and cleaver. A figure leaned lazily in a doorway off the street, arms and boots crossed, face all in shadow. “Whatever are the odds of meeting you here?” The voice sounded terribly familiar. “Well, you would know the odds better than me, I'm sure, but a happy chance indeed, on that we can agree.”

“We can,” said Friendly, beginning to smile as he realised who it was.

“Why, I feel almost as if I threw a pair of sixes …”