Page 122 of Confounding Oaths
“It’s over, John.”
“I know. I just—he saved me.”
“He did what any of us would do. You stand where you can and hold off what you can and hope whoever’s behind you has better luck. That day you had better luck.”
A thought was niggling at the back of Mr. Caesar’s mind. Well, in fact, several thoughts were niggling at the back of his mind; this was, after all, the first time he had attended the funeral of a man he had personally watched die. “He had a sister,” he said at last. “He told me once. I’m not sure they got on, but will—that is, is she going to be …”
“Where Barryson comes from,” replied the captain, “sisters can take care of themselves.” His gaze landed for a moment on the Misses Caesar, who were walking away with the crowd and speaking politely but appropriately with the soldiers. “As can yours, most of the time. But the regiment’ll see she’s told what happened. She’ll know he died a Northman. And we’ll not let her starve, if that’s ever a danger.”
There was, Mr. Caesar reflected, much that was not right with the world. Like, for example, the fact that a good man had beeneaten by a bear while attempting to prevent a murderous cult from performing a blood sacrifice to Artemis. But there was a rightness tothis,to the captain and the Irregulars and the way they rallied to one another in a crisis. The way his family did the same. And the way that—when the captain was beside him—those things fit, however imperfectly, together. It had a sense of fragility still,theyhad a sense of fragility, that Mr. Caesar could not entirely trust. But, for the moment, if only for then, it made sense. It was enough. When so much wasn’t.
The wake was held at the Folly, and Mistress Quickley, with typical wherewithal, was charmingly vague about who would end up being saddled with the bill for the drinks. The air filled with stories and with soldier’s songs about leaving home and returning home and a certain amount about drinking, fucking, and killing.
In other circumstances, Mr. Caesar would have been concerned at his sisters hearing such things, but it seemed asinine after the events of the last few weeks to think they were in danger from unseemly words. Still, he kept a weather eye out for anybody who might be making untoward advances. As fond as he had grown of the Irregulars, they had not quite grown so close that he would trust them implicitly with a gentlewoman’s virtue.
They—or at least Mr. Caesar and the captain—had entered a melancholy phase of the evening. The celebration of Barryson’s life was winding down and the reality of his death was bubbling up in people’s minds. Especially since the man responsible for the whole thing would, it seemed very likely, go back to his life with no consequences.
“We should’ve shot him there and then,” Captain James said to his tankard. “Surrender or no surrender, and friends at court or no friends at court.”
“You’d have regretted it.” Mr. Caesar and sincerity were nodding acquaintances at best, but on this at least he felt oddly certain.
“I’d fucking not.”
“You’re a good man, Orestes. And as twisted as he might be, Reyne is a fellow soldier. He may have dishonoured himself, but you’d never dishonour him.”
“Could have turned my back,” the captain mused. “Let Jackson deal with it.”
“Or Papa could have shot him.” It was intended as a contribution, rather than a contradiction. “But he did not, because it would have been wrong.”
“You think it’s that simple?”
Mr. Caesar looked across the room to his father, who was engaged in an animated discussion with Callaghan about—he suspected—something political. “Honestly, I don’t know. I like to think it is. For him.”
“If you say so”—the captain shrugged—“I barely know the man, but from what I’ve seen he’s not afraid of complicated.”
Leaning back on his elbows, Mr. Caesar tilted his head back and stared despairingly at the ceiling. “Please don’t. It’s been a trying time and I don’t think I’m ready to start thinking of my father as having layers just yet.”
“You’ve seen him shoot a man, John. If that’s not a layer, I don’t know what is.”
This was, Mr. Caesar had to admit, a fair comment, although it sat uncomfortably. His father had always beenthere,as immovableas you mortals think mountains. And given the choice between reexamining that assumption or changing the subject … “The men aren’t too angry?”
Always a fast learner, the captain had grown accustomed to Mr. Caesar’s segues, but was having trouble following this one. “About what?”
“One of you died because of me. Because of us. Because of everything between you and me and Mary and the Lady and the major and … all of it.” It was a lot, when laid out like that, and Mr. Caesar was not quite sure what answer he was expecting.
The answer he got, however, was: “Nah.”
“What do you meannah? You can’t justnahsomething like that.”
Captain James took a swig of his beer. “Can and did. The men know right from right. You came through for us and they respect that.”
“Even Jackson?”
The captain cast a wary eye across the bar to where Jackson and Sal were sitting in a corner deep in what can only be called cahoots. “Even him. He’s a shit, but he’s our shit. And he saw you put yourself in front of the boy.”
“I don’t think I even remember doing that.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The captain kept watching as Sal and Jackson parted ways and went to find sport amongst the other guests. “He remembers. Got a long memory has our Jackson. Not saying you’ve got a friend for life, but you don’t need to watch for glass in your food or knives in your back.”
