The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) (26 page)

“And along
‘ere are nappaya fruits,” Gressaire said, as he called up to Lord Wester the running tally of everything they passed, “thirty ‘ectares of the finest grown in zhe galaxy. I believe zhey are recognized as a delicacy even in zhe Bevish lands. Very good for muscles and zhe ‘ead functions. Just ahead of zhis we ‘ave some great amounts of jerok fiber plants—please inform me if I am boring you, My Lord. I only tell you all of zhese details of My Lord’s ‘oldings because I do not get to talk of My Lord’s other business.”

The margrave gave no answer as he quietly surveyed their surroundings, making Ian wonder how his holdings compared to Lord Beaumont’s.

Again, Lieutenant Taylor was the one who interacted the most with their guide. So while it was Lord Wester to whom Gressaire addressed most of his conversation to, it was Lieutenant Taylor who picked up what the margrave left alone—which was most of it. And while the lieutenant dutifully boxed any deprecating notions leveled at the Bevish Crown and the accompanying territories, he was generally amiable to Gressaire’s other opinions.

“Quite right,” was his oft reply, especially on the subject of food.

“Stay smart,” Corporal Hanley called behind to Ian.

“
Right,” Ian responded, trying not to let that irritate him. It wasn’t as if he was that far out of formation—well, he wasn’t perfectly aligned with it either, but it was well within the accepted margins. He knew, could feel the earnestness all along the company, the pressure to put on a flawless front. In Ellis’ position, he probably would’ve ordered even more stringent corrections and enforced them until several miles out from the chateau on the way back.

So
Ian complied, begrudging the formation order a little. He was largely stuck at the rear and mostly alone again. Even the Chax guides who had been doing the word song were assigned elsewhere. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that the captain was taking a more active hand in laying these things out for Ian’s determent.

But then Ian
noticed motion atop the second brisa.

Looking up and struggling for a moment due to the sun,
Ian gave a short sound of protest when he saw that it was Elizabeth Wester carefully swinging herself down the brisa. With one hand steadying his rifle, he ran and scaled the first third of the brisa’s packs and extended a hand toward the margrave’s daughter just in time for her to take it and easily drop to the ground.

“Thank you, private,” she said as she ran a practiced hand over the parts of her dress that her trip had ruffled.

Ian saw Corporal Hanley glance back and notice the margrave’s daughter with some surprise, but he didn’t make motions to alert anyone else.

“I believe,” Ian said, “that milady should call for some assistance when getting down from such heights.”

“I only wish to stretch my legs for a few moments,” Elizabeth said, arching her back a little as she walked.

Ian was essentially aware of her
dress—her choice taste in flowing colors. It was a sort of light blue, trimmed in tips of white, her hat likewise in the same manner, though it was presently down on her back. It was a wonderfully soft set of arrangements, not overly elaborate, a subtle but most effective choice for their upcoming social event.

“I should have made better use of our midday break,” she said, “but
tout est la pitié.”

“You know Dervish
well,” Ian said, genuinely impressed.

“Yes,” Elizabeth Wester said, “as well as
Sesach and a little bit of Esvergian. Dervish comes as the most useful though, of course. All do well enough to impress, which is mostly what they amount to, I suppose.”

“But who knows?” Ian said. “Perhaps
someday you will charm a Dervish nobleman. Perhaps today?”

She
didn’t answer, but looked sidelong up through their company, and then ahead to where the light blue of the distance enveloped the chateau.

“If you would like, milady,” Ian said, “it would be easy enough for me to bring you up to your father.”

“That is quite all right, Private Kanters.” She smiled at him, but Ian couldn’t help but feel like he had gained a misstep in some way.

“May I ask you a question?” Elizabeth Wester asked.

“Of course, milady,” Ian said, feeling the dull excitement that had sprung awake when he had first saw her descending become a little more urgent, deep and low inside of him.

“Do you know the men of your company well?”

Ian experienced more confusion than he should have. After all, he hadn’t really, and certainly should not have been, actually expecting her to ask any of the questions he would have most liked.

“As well as I could, I suppose,” he said, “in the time I have known them. Just near the
beginning of this week. I know some better than others.”

“
Your second?” Elizabeth Wester asked offhandedly.

“Not as well as
some of the others,” Ian said, “but I know what he’s like fairly well. I owe my life to him already as a matter of fact.”

“Your officers as well?” she asked, not hesitating long enough for that to be a question she actually cared
about. “And your corporals? How do you find Corporal Wesshire?”

There were some very unpleasant
, sinking notions inside of him. “I am not sure I have found him at all yet.”

“You do not seem to talk to him as often as before,” she commented.

“No,” he said, bitterness flushing his mind strongly enough that he almost missed how boldly she had admitted to watching him—or them—or maybe just Corporal Wesshire, as it seemed. He set his lips together, determining that he needed to be as impartial as possible. Even if the margrave’s daughter could hold no interest in Ian, he at the very least needed to warn her off of the corporal. “He allowed me a glance at his character, and while there is no way to confirm it, it wasn’t a healthy glance.”

“In what way?”
Elizabeth Wester asked him, careful scrutiny in her voice and eyes.

“I can’
t say,” Ian said, faltering some, wishing he had a preordained line of just how much he should tell, “you will only have to trust my word, milady. But I would be wary of anyone who keeps company with him.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said, sounding thoughtful.
Her eyes were distant, a pleased sort of wonder tugging at their corners. “He seems a most capable soldier.”

Ian sorely thought of responding in the affirmative with some number of adjoining clauses to offset that fact, but instead kept himself to a silence that sounded sullen even to him.

“It is very fortunate that I have been able to speak with you so intimately,” she went on, “I am very glad for it. I am very glad that there is someone like you that I can trust here in the wilderness.”

“My service is yours, milady,” Ian
managed, confused.

“That is a blessed thing,” she said, smiling at him warmly, carefully, “I hope to sit near you when we dine with Lord Beaumont.”

“That would be an honor,” he said, trying to reinterpret the situation.

“I suppose we are near enough,
” she said. “We will arrive soon. I will need to be by my father. Thank you, Private Kanters.”

He murmured a response that was hopefully appropriate. Watching in something of a daze, she gained a sure few steps to catch up with the lead
brisa, her dress moving in even surer ways as she took hold of the saddle pack and deftly, delicately made her way up it to her father, the rest of Ian’s company too absorbed to notice.

“Jolly tides, I guess,” Ian said
to himself. That had went—well? Aside from her mysterious degree of interest in Corporal Wesshire.

S
ome minor alert passed through their company as they neared an oncoming band of armed men. Gressaire and their leading Dervish officer jovially hailed each other though, so they passed, a hard but not unwelcoming troop of tall and well-equipped soldiers. Most of them were taller than Ian, and most of them paid him only the most cursory of glances. He supposed though that Lord Beaumont had enough wealth and need to justify staffing only the best militia for his holdings.

Their way solidified into an increasingly civilized atmosphere a
s the lightly colored chateau loomed ever larger over them. The road became paved, the fields more populated with better dressed servants and overseers. Traffic began to increase as more soldiers passed, and animals and servants and all manner of carts laden with goods filled their way.

Their company seemed to instinctively bunch closer together, and by the time the squad of rich ceremonial guards met them to escort their party the rest of the way, they had formed a tight, self-conscious ring around their
brisa. The guards said no words, but smartly turned on their heel just in front of them and led the rest of the way. They wore tall hats with matching green plumes, their uniforms similarly of a tan color scheme trimmed with green, their heavy rifles glittering in the sunlight.

“Never would have
imagined such a lot,” Rory whispered from beside him.

Ian had
of course seen much larger, richer premises in Wilome. But with space at such a premium there, it had only been the oldest, most prominent of nobility. Here the lord’s estate was rich—not unbelievably so, but it had a certain sense of rambling languidly, of unpretentious excess.

They n
eared a large stone gate that looked heavily reinforced with pockets of faircis packing that were probably capable of absorbing a good deal of fire. The gate opened to their approach, revealing an orderly courtyard that could have been transported straight from Ian’s training grounds. On the grounds were another two lines of the ceremonial guards facing them, at full attention, their rifles held aloft.

Coming to a stop in front of all this, the captain ordered all of them to form up in a smart line that didn’t seem nearly as impressive in their plain regimentals. But Ian looked straight ahead, and only indirectly was able to tell that the margrave and his daughter made their way down from their
brisa and walked in front of them.

A thin man
in elaborate noble’s clothes of a definite Dervish cut met them and made a smart bow.

“On behalf of
My Most Noble Lord, I welcome you to Bon Sens,” the man said, in good Bevish. “My Lord Beaumon regrets that he is busy entertaining other guests at the moment, but he will be delighted to formally introduce himself once you have all settled into your accommodations. Dinner shall be served promptly at six o’clock. Your servants and animals will be seen to, as well as any other request you would have. My Lord Beaumon is truly delighted that you have accepted his invitation, and will be eager to serve you in any way he can.”

“That’s fine, thank you,” Lord Wester answered.

Ian turned his head a bit, but still could only barely glimpse Will and the Chax letting the Dervish lead them away from the corners of his peripheral vision. Ian felt a pang of disappointment, but they weren’t given time to dwell on the arrangements.

“This way
, then,” the Dervish man said. “My Lord’s only request is that no guest of his should be at attention within his grounds. Do not worry—tonight you dine in civilization!”

And with that grand gesture, which he accomplished with some admirable aplomb, he swept around
toward the main structure. That didn’t leave much for them to do save for Captain Marsden to make a gesture and mutter of resignation, their company following behind their host in a specifically awed sort of at ease.

Their charges walked the easiest, the lord with
a natural kind of detachment, Elizabeth Wester with an equally effortless variety of poise. She was born for this, Ian realized. This was no great wonder to her, but only a distinct entry in a long journal already full of note.

“Dervish
crenellations,” Captain Marsden pointed out in a low voice to Lieutenant Taylor. And then noted a specific turret as they passed beneath it. “They do a top job of hiding the eyesores. They have two fifteen-pounders mounted in that one.”

Having been given this leading, Ian pulled his eyes away from the shifting waves of colorful people, Dervish and
Chax both, and up to the architecture that towered above them. He had seen taller, and he had certainly seen more massive structures, even in his part of Wilome, but there was something about how they arched into the air. Their curves were tall, lean, but soft, the colors in their materials not of one homogenous hue, but as gradient as the clouds. And the more he thought about it, the more the notion grew that Bon Sens was some sort of grand merging, a wedding of cloud and mountain, into one creation that was as solid as it was elegant.

He thought they might have appeared childish, craning their heads above them in the shade of the inner courtyard’s perimeter, wheeling their eyes
all different ways. Here in amazed pursuit at an especially tall soldier, there a passing chorus of young Dervish men brightly bedecked, and especially after all those brilliantly supple Dervish ladies, variously adorned in light, flowing garments reminiscent of Chax notions coupled with twittering dispositions. Many looked to be exercising some menial functions, but a good number seemed to be unoccupied with anything other than passing them with eager eyes and tongues full of a soft, foreign language.