Free A Path to Coldness of Heart by Glen Cook Page A

out too, huh? Guess you’re lookin’ good enough for dat. Hey! Tell dese jack-offs ’bout dat time. You know. Durin’ da El Murid Wars when you got off a dat ship in Hellin Daimiel or wherever da fuck. Wit’ all da women. You guys gotta hear dis. Funniest fuckin’ story I ever heard.”
    Gales began to shake. He did not recognize the man blasting dense wine breath into his face. The story he wanted had been the signature bullshit story that Sergeant Gales of the Queen’s own bodyguard had retailed back in the day.
    “Come on, man! Nine women in one day!”
    The entire tavern had gone quiet, at least to Gales’s ears. It seemed everyone wanted to hear the great story. Including the archers, who looked like they were trying to recall where they had heard all this before.
    Gales glanced round. If anyone had a bone to pick with Colonel Gales he was well and truly screwed. “It was Libiannin. Yeah. And it was nine women. That’s no lie. I was a young man then and we was fourteen days on the transport. We hit the beach with our peckers poking us under our chins. I did nine women. In one day. You know what I mean. In twenty-four hours. Fourteen days on a transport, I never even seen a woman. Yeah. You don’t believe me. Nobody ever does. But it’s true. Nine women in one day.”
    Gales did not go through the gestures and antics that had accompanied the tales of the old Sergeant Gales. He had no room and did not want his piss-soaked pants to be seen.
    His unrecalled acquaintance asked, “You all right? You don’t seem to got so much energy no more. You’re ’sposed ta tell it piece by piece, man.”
    Gales raised his jack. “Too many of these. Yeah.” He looked at the other men. “It’s true. You ask him. Fourteen days at sea. I was ready. How many women you had in one day? I wasn’t showing off. I was working it. Yeah. I’ll never forget that seventh one. Yeah. Moaning and clawing. She’s going, ‘Oh! Oh! Gales! Gales! I can’t take no more, Gales! Oh! No! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!’ Yeah. It’s true. Every damn word. Nine women in one day. I was a young man then.” After a feigned bout of straining to keep everything down, he said, “I ain’t so young no more. I maybe better get outta here before somebody takes advantage of me. But one more won’t hurt.”
    He pulled up a small purse. It proved to be empty. “Ah, shit. Somebody done got me already.” He faced the man who had recognized him. “You see anybody ’round me back here? Somebody plucked me.”
    “We just got here, Sarge.”
    One of the companions asked, “You sure you didn’t spend it all already? You didn’t get that last jack for free.”
    Gales frowned as though making a grand effort to retrieve difficult memories. He decided this was the time to take advantage of the mess he had made in his lap.
    Another feigned gag. He stood. “I got to go.”
    The moisture was blatantly obvious. Even the drunkest drunks saw it. He staggered badly. And congratulated himself on how he had disarmed even those who had to know who he really was.
    He felt awful, though. He did not have to pretend to be thoroughly soused.
    He counted forty steps, leaned against a wall, looked back. Nobody had come after him. He had left them sure that he was not worth robbing, or even worth beating up for being an officer.
    He faced forward. He was going to be totally miserable later on. And he had to go to Damhorst tomorrow.
    A dark shape blocked his path, a big man in a hooded cassock. He was accompanied by several identically clad friends.
    One stepped in behind and pulled a sack over his head. The others dressed him in another cassock. His struggles were ineffective. They had trouble mainly because he was now halfway limp.
    Then he puked into the bag.
    ...
    The sun was near the meridian. Inger wrestled a mix of panic and anger. Still no sign of Josiah. His mounts remained stabled. His possessions were in his quarters, including weapons and travel gear. The men