Iain Banks: A Song Of Stone

Our lieutenant (though I'll admit we did not think of her as such then) is of average build, but with an air of gracefulness about her movements. Her plain face is dark, nearly swarthy, her eyes grey under black brows. Her attire is composed of many different types of uniforms; her stained, scuffed boots come from one army, her torn fatigues from another, her grimy, holed jacket from yet one more, and her crumpled cap sporting wings as part of its insignia appears to have originated in an air force, but her gun (long and dark, sickle shaped magazines neatly taped back to back and upside down) is spotlessly clean and gleaming. She smiles at you and tips her cap briefly, then turns to me. The long gun rests easily on her hip, barrel threatening the sky.

“And you, sir?” she asks. Her voice possesses a roughness I find perversely pleasant, even as my skin crawls at a buried menace in her words, a promissory threat. Did she suspect, did she foresee something even then? Did our carriage mark us out within that crowd, a jewel set in a baser band, appealing to the predator in her?

“What, ma'am?” I ask, as somebody screams. I glance away to see a group of the soldiers gathered around somebody lying on the roadside, a few metres in front of the burning van. The refugees file past this group as well, keeping well away.

“Have you anything we might want?” the uniformed woman asks, swinging lightly up on to the carriage's kick step and with another smile at you leaning over to lift the edge of a travel rug with the muzzle of her long gun.

“I don't know,” I say slowly. “What is it you want?”

“Guns,” she shrugs, glancing, eyes narrowed, at me. “Anything precious,” she says, to you, then uses the long gun's muzzle to peek under another rug across the carriage from where you sit, pale faced, wide eyed, staring at her. “Fuel?” she says, looking at me again.

“Fuel?” I say. It crosses my mind to ask if she means coal, or logs, but I leave the thought unsaid, intimidated by her manner and her gun. Another sobbing scream comes from the small huddle of men ahead of the truck.

“Fuel,” she repeats, “ammunition “ Then a shriek comes from the group of men clustered ahead of us (you wince again); our lieutenant glances in the direction of that awful wail, a tiny frown forming and disappearing on her face almost in the same instant as she says, “ medical supplies?” A look of calculation appears on her face.

I shrug. “We have some first aid material.” I nod towards the mares. “The horses eat grain; that's their fuel.”

“Hmm,” she says.

“Lucius,” someone says from ahead of us. Our servant mutters something in return. Two men walk from the small group gathered on the road; one of the irregulars and the Factor from the village. He nods to me. Our lieutenant steps down from the carriage and walks to him, then stands with her back to us, head bowed, talking to the Factor. He glances up at us at one point, then walks away. The lieutenant returns, steps up again, pushing her cap back over her dun coloured, scraped back hair. “Sir,” she says, smiling at me. “You have a castle? You should have said.”

“Had,” I reply. I cannot help but glance back in its direction. “We've left it.”

“And a title,” she goes on.

“A minor one,” I grant her.

“Well,” the lieutenant exclaims, gaze sweeping round her nearby men. “What should we call you?”

“Just my name will do. Please call me Abel.” I hesitate. “And you, ma'am?”

She looks, grinning, round her men, then back at me. “You can call me lieutenant,” she tells me. To you she says, “What's your name?” You sit, still staring at her.

“Morgan,” I tell her.

She remains looking at you for a moment, then slowly turns her gaze to me. “Morgan,” she says slowly. Then another cry comes from the group huddled on the road. The lieutenant frowns and looks that way. “Stomach wound,” she says quietly, two fingers tapping on the polished veneer of the carriage's door. She glances at the two bodies lying by the burning van. She sighs. “Just first aid stuff?” she asks me. I nod. She taps the buxom quilting on the inside of the door, then steps down and walks towards the group crouched ahead on the road. The knot of men opens, the soldiers making way for her.

A young uniformed man lies on his side in the centre of the group, hands clutched round his belly, shivering and moaning. Our lieutenant goes to him. She lays her long gun down on the road surface as she crouches, stroking the lad's head and talking quietly to him, one hand at his brow, the other doing something at her hip. She nods a couple of the others out of the way they retreat then bends down and kisses the young soldier full on the mouth. It looks a deep, lingering, almost passionate kiss; a string of saliva, caught in the sunlight slanting over the trees, connects them still as she pulls slowly away. Her lips have hardly left his when the pistol she has placed at the boy's temple fires. His head jerks as though kicked hard, his body spasms once then relaxes and some blood flicks up and out across the road. (I feel your hand on my shoulder, clutching at my skin through the layers of jacket, fleece and shirts.) The young soldier uncurls and flops loosely on to his back mouth open, eyes closed.

The lieutenant stands promptly, shouldering her rifle. She spares the dead soldier a last look, then turns to one of those who had been clustered round the wounded lad. “Mr Cuts: see he's buried properly.” She holsters the still smoking automatic pistol as she glances at the two civilian bodies lying by the burning van. “Leave those two for the dogs.” She walks back to our carriage, shaking a grey kerchief out of a pocket and dabbing at her face, removing a few small spots of the youth's blood. She jumps up on to the step again, folding her elbows over the carriage door.

“I was asking about guns,” she says.

“I ha I have a shotgun and rifle,” I tell her, my voice shaking. I glance up the road. “We may need them for “

“Where are they?”

“Here.” I stand slowly, and look down at the box beneath the coachman's seat. The lieutenant nods to a soldier I had not noticed on the other side of the carriage, who jumps up, opens the box, searches it and hauls out the oil heavy bag in which I stowed the guns; he checks inside, then jumps back down.

“The rifle is not of a military calibre,” I protest.

“Ah. That'll mean it can't shoot soldiers, then,” the lieutenant says, nodding ingenuously.

I glance round in the direction we were travelling. “For pity's sake, we don't know what we might meet further on “

“Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that,” she says, climbing a step higher on the carriage and giving another nod. The same soldier who took the guns clambers up beside me again. He proceeds to search me, efficiently but not roughly, while the lieutenant alternately grins at me and smiles at you, who look on, gloved hands clenched but visibly trembling. The soldier has a sour, almost fetid odour. He finds nothing he judges worth exhibiting, save the heavy bunch of keys I put into my pocket this morning. He throws them to the lieutenant, who catches them one handed and looks at them, holding them up and turning them against the light.

“A mighty bunch of keys,” she says, then looks at me, inquiring.

“The castle's,” I tell her. I shrug, a little embarrassed. “A keepsake.”

She rolls them clinking round her hand, then with a flourish pockets them in her torn jacket. “You know, we need some place to hole up for a while, Abel,” she tells me. “Bit of rest and recreation.” She smiles at you. “How far is this castle?”

“It took us since dawn to get this far,” I tell her.