Firemask: Book Two of the Last Legion Series by Chris Bunch Read Free Book Online Page A

stand up, take th’ vows, an’ you’ve got to become a good boy … or anyway not get caught bein’ bad. Bad, bad, bad. Won’t be able to do what we used to do with the girlies. Wouldn’t want Jasith pissed at me, I wouldn’t.”
    He winked elaborately, sloppily refilled Kouro’s glass with a mixture from three of the bottles on the table. Somebody wove past, grabbed the glass, disappeared with it. Jermy cursed, found another glass, dumped its contents out on the rug, and began rebuilding a drink.
    “Look around, m’friend. Nothin’ but your Mends here.”
    The club was, indeed, packed with young Rentiers: some actually Kouro’s friends, the others wise enough to want to stay on the good side of the planet’s biggest publisher.
    “Th’ girls finish up, an’ they’ll be over d’rectly,” Jermy promised. “An’ there’s a room upstairs, an’ you can go on up with any of ‘em you want. Hell, all of ‘em if you want. There’s more ordered up, arrivin’ in a bit.
    “Better make it a night to remember.”
    “Nup, nup, nup,” Kouro said. “That’d be dishonest, bein’ untrue. I’d sure be pissed off if Jasith was runnin’ around on me.
    “Time I grew up, anyway. Got to be like Hank Sank.”
    “Huh?”
    “An old Earth play. By somebody or other. Couple plays, actually. Henry Vee, which stands for five in some old-timey language. This guy’s a prince … that’s next to a king … and he’s a wild hair until he gets the throne, and then he becomes a great … greaaaat … warrior. Wins the Battle of Hastings or some-such. Long time since my father made me read it.
    “He’s gone, now, and I’ve got to do what he’d want me to do. Marry good, think about havin’ kids, keep the dynasty going.”
    “Gods, man, you’re not gonna turn into a dreek, are you?”
    “Got to grow up sometime.”
    “Who says?”
    Kouro didn’t answer, but reached for the drink. He overbalanced, fell facefirst into a pool of liquor. After a moment, he began snoring loudly.
    Jermy stared at him.
    “Poops out at his own party. Hafta come up with some stories about what really happened for tomorrow morning, when he’s real hungover and needs some shame.” He stood, waved at the stage.
    “Hey, girls! Hey. The party boy’s out, but there’s somebody over here still able to show you a good time!”
    • • •
    A foot tapped Garvin’s boot, and he forced himself awake, ignored groaning muscles, and tried to look alert and eager. The patrol lay in a large star formation, legs almost touching.
    This was the day they’d “make contact,” or, in reality, reach the abandoned Musth base.
    Garvin tried to decide if the mist was coming down hard enough to qualify as rain, decided it was, and that he hadn’t been this wet since the last time he went to the field.
    He was incredibly dirty — they’d been out … and he had to count on his fingers … ten days now, and other than streams or when the near-constant mist became a drencher, nobody had bathed, and everybody wore the same combat fatigues they had on when they came off the Grierson. At least Jaansma had three pair of socks, one pair on his feet, another pair tied to his backpack being “washed” by the rain, the third just in the top of his pack supposedly drying.
    This was the I&R way, and again he wondered why the company never seemed to lack for volunteers, had an even greater wonderment about why he remained in the unit.
    Darod Montagna was again patrol leader, and made the mission briefing. Garvin had given her the data on where the patrol was and the situation posited by the exercise the night before, and now listened to her break it down.
    Everyone listened intently, fingers moving from point to point on their maps. No one wrote anything down — a lost or captured map could doom them all if this were real.
    “When we reach the target area,” Montagna went on, “Alpha Element goes on line, and I’ll indicate which way Bravo goes, left or right.