The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) (8 page)

“Of course I have,” Ian said evenly. And that was
true; he’d had various opportunities to sample and sneak bits of rum, ale, and brandy from various sources around Wilome. Mostly from shipmen at the docks when he made deliveries, and sometimes from workers in the local taverns when his jobs brought him there. He did realize that he needed to hold some note of caution on the topic, however, as he had never had very much, despite all his passing bouts of curiosity. It had always seemed like something he could do after leaving home, when the crushing pressures of jobs and keeping up in what schooling he could get were past. His neighborhood had been tight-knit, and many older, watchful eyes had always been on that sort of thing. Ian himself had looked down on other boys his age who had overindulged in alcohol, often at the expense of their responsibilities.

“No, I’m not talking about some mother’s pot-brewed bilk,”
Kieran said.

“Real grog,” Dwight supplied.

“The spirits they make here are much harder than back home.” Kieran smirked. “They’re hard to handle for anyone not used to them.”

“I’m game,” Ian said, matching Kieran’s expression.
A moment of that held before Ian looked away casually, making sure to show that he was serious, but not in a confrontational way. Or at least that’s what he hoped it looked like. “It’s up to everyone what they want, but I think the better option sounds better.”

Kieran paused for a moment before shrugging in dismissal. “Whatever the group wants, I don’t care.”

Apparently,
Ian thought.

“And the group wants grog,”
Brodie called out cheerfully, “this way then, gentlemen.”

“Aye, grog,” Dwight agreed in a mostly appeased tone. “And
fast as possible.”

Ian made some sort of sound of agreement, cutting off some sort of phrase of agreement that he hadn’t really thought out. The others took it well enough though. Kieran did take the time to give him one final and vaguely veiled glance of
utter disgust before ignoring Ian the rest of the way. This wasn’t an altogether unappreciated element, but Ian could tell already it was going to be difficult keeping his temper around Kieran if the other was going to be able to maintain such an unfounded antagonism.

This he was mostly able to put off for
the moment in the hopes that things might work out in the hopefully near future. Matters had a knack of doing that sometimes. In any case, Ian was grateful that he wasn’t on Kieran’s flank.

He had a lot to be thankful for,
Ian reflected as he walked with the others in the steadily cooling air, listening with part of an ear and inserting little jokes when he happened to catch openings in the conversation. He’d been deeply blessed, almost to the exact degree he’d desired. God had, in fact, blessed him so richly that he shouldn’t be—

Drinking—

No,
Ian thought.
This is fine.

He
pulled his eyes up and ran his hand absently over his belt. They were coming to the top of a wide and gradual incline. A noticeable inflow of Bevish soldiers was afoot, both on and off-duty—the difference being fairly apparent in their levels of excitement and non-excitement. This made Ian feel a lot more comfortable, as he didn’t want to be worrying about constantly watching his loose articles.

Dwight was going on about how someone he knew had been soaked, completely soaked last night. Ian listened to the progression of the rather unappealing plot with an apprehension he couldn’t quite quell. Bits of uncertainty crept into his gut.

No, this was necessary. He needed to get to know his fellows as soon as possible. After all, he had no idea how many more opportunities he would get the rest of the expedition. In any case, it would be quite a while before he would get to go somewhere like this. It wasn’t as if he could pass it up.

And it would be fun. Just a couple
quick hours of socializing, that was all. He was really fortunate that he’d been invited along so many times in one day.

*              *              *              *

But waking up, as he did every fifteen minutes, as it seemed, his throat dry and burning, the very top of his head angrily pounding downwards, Ian quickly came to regret accepting the third invitation. Or at least he hoped he had regretted it, but through the evening, as disoriented and miserable as reality was, there was a decent chance he couldn’t actually remember what was the source of all his pending woes. But he hoped he had.

He remembered very well arriving at Flaxens, the l
aughing, the way the top of the ale—so different from what he’d known in Wilome—would sizzle just after hitting the wooden mugs. He remembered that it had burned in his mouth and sung in his stomach, danced in his blood—he remembered the laughing.

He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, remember how or when he’d gotten back to their company’s quarters. He couldn’t remember any particular words he
had spoken, or any particular words that had been spoken to him. He couldn’t remember exactly when he had stopped being able to remember, and he certainly couldn’t remember just when he’d started to stop drinking. He also had great uncertainty about whether or not there was any particular time he had felt or realized that something was wrong. Although, thinking back, there was enough general unease that he surmised that it must’ve begun to occur at some point.

The confirming moment that he did clearly remember
came some time after getting back to their quarters and trying to fall asleep—as easy but sporadically impossible as that was. Several times he had to make trips of varying urgency to the lavatory, which he wasn’t sure how he’d ever been able to find. But, during one of the first instances, he’d come in on Kieran in the last stages of emptying his stomach. Stumbling some, Kieran had said something that no longer held up as coherent words to Ian’s memory, but it had been a special kind of irritated. Disgusted too, Ian supposed, because in some forgotten order Kieran had informed him that Ian had been stupid enough to be goaded into drinking far too much. It was a common ordeal for new recruits, and Ian had been amply stupid enough to go along with it.

Or something along those lines.

So, however many hours later, it was with both kinds of sick feelings, physically and psychologically, that Ian felt a sharp kick to the bottom of his boots—still dutifully attached and intact.

“Soaked beggar—”
was mostly all he heard from a posh and fantastically furious voice.

Ian tried to turn over and look up, which hurt, but it was difficult to see as he was in a room—no, a hallway,
with only one nearby light. Despite all this, some sort of sinking intuition said that this was bad.

“Now get up if you can!”
the voice went on from above Ian. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”

“Yes, sir,” Ian mumbled, stumbling to his feet.

“To the grave,” the man—officer—yelled at him. “Do you hear me? To the grave!”

“Yes, sir,” Ian said, nodding
, even though that was difficult to accomplish in conjunction with standing.

There was a short pause.

“Are you daft as well as soaked?” the man asked. “Get ready—that’s an order!”

“Yes—
sorry, sir,” Ian managed. He jolted off in the general direction of the sleeping quarters. That’s where he would have much rather woken up, but for whatever reason the deep rug in the entrance hallway had evidently been more appealing a few hours before.

Other men were already up and moving about in the sleeping quarters, talking in occasional bits. But Ian tried n
ot to pay any attention to them or the notion that they were all watching him. He tore off his semi-formal uniform, which had a distinctively greasy feel to it that didn’t really go away when he hastily pulled on his regimentals—his regular uniform. Fortunately, most of his stuff was already in shape to leave, it was just a matter of assembling himself, which proved harder than normal, due to the headache that was rolling around his temples and forehead, as well as his slightly overzealous urgency.

“Move et,” a burly form came against Ian, reaching
down into the bottom bunk.

Ian spared just enough room and attention to note that it was his second
man, looking none too well-humored. His uniform was on but unbuttoned, his face freshly shaved and dripping water.

After making sure he had everything out that
he needed, Ian stepped back and tried to begin the delicate process of attaching his watcher’s cloak behind him. This was worrisome since it demanded a considerable amount of patience and care even when his head didn’t feel like it was doing the tri-dance rather badly.

H
is lack of concern about the others experienced a break as he watched his second, with some shock, reach around with his cloak like it was merely an annoying task, slide one of the attaching slides up into his uniform’s shoulder slot, lock it, do the same with the other side, then activate them both. This all being a new method to Ian.

He
stared at his own cloak dubiously.

“Breakfast’
s in,” a voice, stouter than the one who had woken him, called from the back dining room, “hurry it up.”

A
bustle burst around him, and several of the men left, evidently ready to go. Ian threw caution to the wind and tried to replicate what his second had just done with his cloak, only as fast as possible while still maintaining his genuine reverence for the cloak.

The ranger’s watcher cloak was an extremely advanced article of technology,
the most recognizable and well-known part of a ranger’s gear. Part hunting tool, part traveling aid, and occasionally part shield, it was exceptionally versatile and exclusive to their ranks. Their cloaks were a bright crimson, and Ian had touched it more times than he could count as it had laid folded up neatly inside his pack during the long voyage here.

But as wildly as his imagination had conceived of him mastering
his cloak outright, the truth was he had only handled a rather beat up one in training a few times, and it was purportedly a difficult thing to acquire a healthy proficiency at.

Ian’s
second man finished getting his gear on and quickly exited the room, an excited glimmer in his eyes.

Ian tried not to think moody thoughts about how it looked like a love of food was the last thing his second needed. Returning his concentration to his cloak,
Ian managed to insert the first slide into his shoulder’s slot, quickly looking as he almost dropped the other. Through this process Ian had already twisted the other slide much more than he liked. While the rest of the cloak was designed to be durable, even to the point of absorbing some lighter laser fire, the attaching slides were mildly fragile. How to put them on and off was something that had been stressed throughout the brief training session they’d had on them.

Finishing attaching the other
slide a minute later, he couldn’t manage to work up much of a feeling of accomplishment. This approach to attaching them that his second had demonstrated was far easier than the one he’d been taught, and it was good to know he’d be able to do it on his own without too much trouble. But he felt sick, and his head still hurt. Truth be known, he didn’t feel like breakfast at all, though he knew he’d have to force some down and hopefully hold it there.

He r
ushed through the rest of his uniform as everyone else finished leaving the room. He hurriedly put on his belt and stuffed the loose items that were left into the main pouch. He wasted a moment hesitating over the whistle from the food vendor last night, mostly thinking about what Corporal Wesshire would probably think of him now. Or all the rest of the company. Or—

Ian
grimaced and shoved the whistle into his pouch, then started for the door, hefting his pack up by one of its handles. The method was ungainly, but he succeeded in pushing his cloak over enough to get the pack underneath where it automatically attached to the magnetic securers built into his uniform. The pack itself was large, but its dimensions were compacted as rigorously as present science would allow. It also didn’t come very far up behind his shoulders, which mostly let his watcher’s cloak fall over it. Still, Ian found it a hindrance, but at least it was a hindrance that could easily be dropped at any sign of trouble.

—
or his captain, who Ian was terribly sure was the one who had woken him up. Ian came to the realization that he’d had firm dreams of quickly and honestly working up to be his illustrious captain’s most prized soldier. Now, Ian only wished that his spirit was capable of fixing its problems the way his stomach was. He had blundered everything up, blundered it bad. As optimistic of a person as he evidently was, it was hard now to see much hope that he would be able to rectify this.

Squaring his shoulders and looking the opposite of wanting to die
as much as possible, he tried to stride into the dining room with an offhand but humble sort of confidence.

There were only three people standing
by the dining room counter. One of them, who Ian didn’t know, was wearing corporal rankings, and looked like he was in his mid-twenties. Brodie was also there, talking to Ian’s second as they both held their breakfast plates. Ian’s second looked bleary, wordlessly eating his food as Brodie went on in a fairly upbeat manner about their previous evening.