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By Root 1230 0

soft shade of lavender. But the room’s feminine air didn’t detract from its ornaments, which appeared to reflect Hamilton’s years abroad in the Foreign Ser vice. Olive and other Mediterranean woods framed pen-and-ink sketches of places Hamilton must have visited on his travels, and on a table by the window there were tiny figures that looked to be Greek or Roman, many of them wearing masks and each of them elegantly made, reminding Rutledge of stage sets. African carvings in ebony, Hellenic gods in marble, and other exotic statuettes in clay and stone and wood were set out on the top of a cabinet containing two shelves of small ornate boxes in every imaginable material. Together these objects gave the room its masculine character. One figure, taking pride of place, was a fat woman with pendulous breasts and enormous thighs—but no head.

Mallory sat down heavily, as if he were on the verge of falling asleep where he stood. If he was armed, Rutledge could see no sign of it. But then it would be wise not to have a weapon where it could be taken away in a surprise move to disarm him.

“I heard about Corporal MacLeod’s death,” Mallory said into the silence. “Long afterward. I wish it had been me killed in that attack. But I wasn’t there, was I? I was behind the lines in that bloody hospital tent, trying to remember where I was and why I was strapped to my stretcher. You never told me how you’d survived.”

You weren’t there to tell—

Rutledge, caught unprepared, nearly spoke the thought aloud, but managed to say without inflection of any kind, “I’m not sure I did.”

Mallory nodded. “I hated you, you know. You kept going, no matter what happened. Like a dead man who hadn’t got the word. I hated that discipline. I hated your courage. I felt diminished by it.”

Rutledge found he couldn’t answer. If you only knew— After a moment, when he could trust his voice, he said, “It wasn’t courage, it was necessity.”

“Yes. Well.” Mallory looked at him for a moment and then said again, “I hated you. The only way I could get a grip on my own sanity was to face that.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about the war.”

Mallory ignored him. “I didn’t leave France by my own choice. You must know that. My uncle, the bishop, had influence in high places. He pulled me out when my father died. Compassionate leave. Then he saw to it that I stayed in England. He was my mother’s brother, he must have believed he was doing the right thing. She could have got on very well without me, but there you are. I didn’t handle it very well. I wasn’t very good at teaching bumbling tenant farmers and green shop clerks how to kill. I kept dreaming about them torn and dying, and you standing over them, blaming me for failing them and you. I wanted one of them to kill you. In the end, I had to do that for myself.”

“I don’t want to hear your confession. I have no right to hear it.”

“You heard our confessions often enough in the trenches,” Mallory retorted, his voice tight. “But I didn’t desert. I didn’t desert.”

Hamish growled deep in Rutledge’s mind, a wordless rejection of Mallory’s denial.

Rutledge stood there with nothing to say, and in some far corner of his being, he could hear the guns again, a perfect morning for gas, and he had to stop himself from putting up a hand to test the direction of the wind.

He couldn’t think of a way to deflect Mallory’s need to exonerate himself, and tried to shut it out, withdrawing from the insistent voice almost as he found himself withdrawing from the man.

“I just wanted to make it clear that I’m expecting no favors,” Mallory finished. “Spare me your pity, or whatever it is you feel toward me. Understand this. The only reason I sent for you is that stubborn bastard, Bennett. He wants my blood. And he’d have had it, if I hadn’t fended for myself.”

“You ran him down,” Rutledge pointed out, grateful for the shift in subject. He sat down on the other side of the room. “His foot is probably broken.”

Mallory sat up. “Did he tell you that?” He laughed harshly, without humor. “Yes, well, he would, wouldn’t he? The truth is, he was clinging