The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [27]
The only person who seemed to be having a good time was Hodd. “Spit and blood, I’ve missed this place!” he cried, then laughed and shook his fist toward the leafy heavens. “Cruel nature, do your worst!”
Frey saw Pinn’s hand twitch toward his pistol and grabbed his wrist before he could do anything rash.
“Can’t I kill him just a little bit?” Pinn whined.
“He’s the only one who knows the way back, Pinn. We need him to get us out of here when we’re done.”
Pinn thought about that for a moment. “Alright, Cap’n.” He poked one stubby finger at Frey. “But I’m doing this for you, okay?”
“Appreciate it,” said Frey. Up ahead, Hodd began to sing a marching tune, loud and off-key. Pinn gritted his teeth.
“I can’t take much more, Cap’n,” he said.
Frey sighed, then pushed his way up the line to Hodd.
Hodd was punching the air lustily. “Oh, brave and strident sol-diers, whose cou-rage none can—Oh! Hello, Captain Frey.”
Frey nodded in greeting and leaned close as they walked. “You’ve heard of the monsters that are rumored to infest this island, Hodd?”
“Oh, yes!” said Hodd. “I’ve seen several, in fact. One of them damn near had me for breakfast.”
“You’ve seen several,” Frey repeated. “That’s good. Did you see if they had ears?”
Hodd looked bewildered. “Ears?”
“The singing, Hodd. Will you bloody can it? They can hear you five kloms away.”
“Ah!” said Hodd. “Yes, I see. Quite right, Captain. Just trying to keep up morale.”
“And you’re doing a fine job,” said Frey. “Just do it quietly, eh?”
Hodd put a theatrical finger to his lips. Frey turned away, eyes rolling skyward, and moved back down the line. Grist gave him a smoky grin around the butt of his cigar, and Frey fell into step next to him.
“Bit of a character, ain’t he?” Grist said.
“You know, the animals will smell that cigar all over the mountain too.”
“Risk I’m willing to take, Frey. A life without cigars ain’t one much worth livin’, if you ask me.” He started to laugh but ended up in a coughing fit that had him bent double. When he was done, he stood up and wiped spittle from his beard. He regarded his cigar with a teary eye. “Tobacco. She’s a harsh mistress.”
“We’ve all got our vices,” said Frey.
“Aye? What’s yours?”
“I’ve plenty. But I reckon Rake tops the list.”
“A card player, eh? My men are partial to a game, but me? I’m no gambler. Don’t have the luck.”
“It’s not luck.”
“Well, whatever it is, I ain’t got it.”
“Some days I don’t either,” Frey admitted.
“But you keep goin’ back, don’t you?” Grist laughed. “The things a man does to make himself feel alive.”
Frey looked at the man next to him. He liked Grist. There was something solid and impressive about him, a grizzled heartiness in his manner. He had a way of including people that made them feel almost grateful for it. He reminded Frey of Malvery, except he apparently didn’t spend his whole life arse-holed on grog.
“I’ve been thinking about that lately,” he said. “Don’t you sometimes wish you didn’t need to? Like, you felt alright without all the smoke and the booze and the cards and everything else? Seems like some people manage okay.”
Grist’s brow furrowed. “Men like you an’ me, Frey, it don’t do us no good to be thinkin’ that way,” he said. “We live for today. The past don’t mean nothin’, and the future ain’t worth a damn. We could all be dead by sunrise.” His dark eyes found Frey’s. “Ain’t that how it is?”
Frey stared at the ground. “Yeah. That’s how it is.”
“Anyway, what’s wrong with a little fun? You want to live forever or somethin’?”
“Actually,” said Frey, “I kinda do.”
Grist bellowed with laughter, which set off another coughing fit. “Me too!” he wheezed, slapping his leg, coughing