Return of the Crimson Guard (51 page)

The man looked her up and down. ‘Really?’

Ghelel opened her mouth to answer that but the man raised a hand for silence. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, and walked out on to the road. He faced the darkness, listening, then raised his chin.
‘Cut it out!’

A moment later a horse leapt through the grass and thumped to the road, snorting and stamping. Its rider, the same Seti youth, twisted the reins around one hand, grinning his delight at them as the animal pranced in circles.

‘Toven,’ the man greeted him.

‘Just having some fun,’ and he directed the wide grin to Ghelel.

The soldier waved him off. ‘Yeah, well. Fun's over.’

Toven raised himself high on his mount and offered a bow. A kick and the mount reared and leapt up, pushing its way through the thick stands of grasses.

Grinning bastard.
Ghelel watched the Sentry while he took the bolt from his crossbow and snapped the trigger. He swung the heavy weapon up on to his shoulder. ‘And who're you?’ he asked Molk.

Molk bowed. ‘The Prevost's servant.’

‘Oh-ho … So, you're the Lady's servant, are you? C'mon. This way.’

‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Ghelel demanded.

‘Shepherd,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Shepherd.’

They walked a good way into the night, the sergeant content to be silent, Ghelel determined not to ask him a blasted thing, and Molk apparently enjoying the cool night air. Eventually, Ghelel smelled smoke from cookfires, caught snatches of wind-carried conversation. The glow of fires and lanterns brightened the night ahead. ‘And just what are your numbers currently, sergeant?’

The man turned his head to eye her and Ghelel wondered if she'd made a mistake but worked to keep all such doubt from her face. She cocked a brow. He shrugged. ‘Well, at a guess we number about five hundred now. About four hundred medium cavalry and a hundred mounted heavies.’

Ghelel shot a hard look to Molk who appeared oblivious, peering into the darkness, whistling softly to himself. The road opened up on both sides to trampled fields dotted by tents and horse corrals. Shepherd escorted them through two pickets. Ahead, lights blazed from the windows of a three-storey brick building fronting a square of outbuildings including a large stable. Soldiers, men and women, came and went, laughing and talking, many drinking from leather tankards. Across the front of the house was the legend ‘House of Pleasant Welcome’.

Ghelel stopped short. ‘A brothel? A Poliel-damned brothel?’

Molk coughed into his fist, head lowered. Shepherd winced as if only now becoming aware of the fact. ‘Ah, yes, Ma'am – that is,

Prevost, sir. It's our temporary headquarters. The troopers are only allowed in off-duty.’

‘I see. And is this where you're taking me?’

Taking you to the Marquis, Prevost. He's inside.’

Off duty, is he?’

Another coughing fit took Molk. Obviously happy to pass this one on to his superior officer, Sergeant Shepherd waved an ‘after-you’ to the door. Inside, Ghelel winced at the sudden light. The main floor was crowded with tables. Soldiers ate and drank, laughing. The heat brought a sudden sweat to her; it also brought a wave of drowsiness. Her knees suddenly felt weak. No one, it seemed, paid them the least attention. Shepherd led the way to a table next to an open window where a man sat smoking a pipe, talking to a seated female soldier. The man was older, heavyset with short grey hair. He wore a leather vest over a linen shirt. The woman was slim, her brown hair hacked short. The scar of a sword cut drew her lips down into a permanent frown. Sergeant Shepherd leaned close and spoke into the man's ear. He nodded and stood. The tables nearby quieted. The man eyed Ghelel expectantly. She stared back then suddenly remembered and snapped a salute. The man slowly answered the salute. ‘Marquis Jhardin at your service, Prevost.’ He indicated the woman, ‘Prevost Razala. She commands the heavies.’

Ghelel bowed to the Marquis.

‘I would offer you a room but I imagine you wouldn't want to stay here.’

‘In that you are quite correct.’

‘Sergeant, ready quarters for the Prevost. No doubt you would like to freshen up after your journey. Afterwards we could see to the briefing.’

‘My thanks, Marquis.’

‘Commander will do.’

Sergeant Shepherd saluted and hurried out. Jhardin came out from the table and invited Ghelel to follow him. Lieutenant Razala bowed, ‘Welcome,’ she said, her voice hoarse – perhaps from the wound.

All eyes now followed as the two made their way through the tables. Ghelel thought their gazes held reserve mixed with open contempt. Molk followed at a distance. On the steps she asked, ‘You have been here for some time, Commander?’

He nodded, knocked the embers from his pipe. ‘Yes. We were sent ahead by Choss.’ He indicated a turn to a row of tents.

‘And you knew I was coming?’ He sent a questioning look. ‘One hardly would put a sergeant on picket duty.’ He smiled ruefully.

‘Yes. Word was sent.’

Ghelel did not have to ask how. The Warrens. So. She eyed the fellow as he walked along, nodding to salutes from soldiers, salutes which she again belatedly remembered to acknowledge. It seemed to her that he was far too accepting, far too relaxed for an experienced commander who had just been saddled with a young, inexperienced, officer – and female to boot. He must know who she was; or had been directly ordered by Choss or Amaron to watch over her. In either case, she wasn't going to call him on it. Not yet.

Ahead, Sergeant Shepherd waited at a tent. ‘Your quarters, Prevost.’

‘Thank you.’

Jhardin indicated Molk. ‘Send your man when you're ready.’

Ghelel nodded her agreement. Cursing herself, she belatedly saluted once more. The Marquis answered; an easy smile seemed to tell her that he did not set much by such formalities. She was startled as Molk opened the tent flap for her, then ducked within after. The long tent was divided into a general purpose room in front furnished with folding camp stools and a table set with an assortment of fruits, cheeses, bread and decanters of wine. The rear was her private sleeping chamber. Molk dropped the saddlebags and went straight to the table. ‘I am famished.’

‘Hood-damned nannies,’ Ghelel said, keeping her voice low.

He turned, his mouth full of bread. ‘What?’

‘This fighting force. Babysitters. Choss or Amaron has turned them into nothing more than babysitters. They must hate me for it.’

‘I think the word you're looking for is “bodyguard”.’

‘Bodyguard?
Five hundred veteran men and women?’

Molk poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Think of it as a measure of your importance to our commander.’

Ghelel took the glass from him, downed it in one gulp. ‘It's a waste of fighting power. This force is needed at the siege.’

‘Five hundred would make no difference in any siege, believe me.’

She glared but could resist the scent of the fresh food no longer and she turned to the cold meats. ‘How much do they know?’

‘Jhardin certainly knows a lot. Razala less.’

‘How open should I be with them?’

‘That's up to you.’

She sat heavily in a stool, stretched her legs out before her. It didn't strike her at all as odd when Molk knelt and pulled off her boots. She hadn't slept a wink the night before and had alternately walked and jogged all the day through. She'd never been so drained.
‘T'm wrung out, Molk. I don't think I can face them tonight.’

‘First thing in the morning then,’ he said, standing. ‘I'll let them know.’

* * *

Feeling the need for distraction from the monotony of the long voyage, Bars took a spot at a sweep. He pulled gently at first, testing the limits of his chest wound. The deep ones always healed the slowest. As he pulled he was barely aware of the awed, even frightened, glances his fellow oarsmen cast his way. He was busy trying to avoid thinking of what was to come. But their return, their
eventual
return, made that impossible.
Failure.
How it galled him – it burned in his chest even worse than the wound. Even more humiliating, he must deliver news of the probable annihilation of the 4th Company of the Guard. And worst of all, he was worried: would further men then be sent to investigate that end? Cal's last instructions argued flat against that. And Bars agreed. The Guard had lost enough resources to that unforgiving Abyss in Assail. Corlo appeared at his side, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Jemain wants you.’

Grunting, Bars relinquished the oar. ‘Keep pulling, men,’ he said, trying out his South Genabackan Confederacy vocabulary, ‘we'll get out: of this eventually,’

‘Aye, Captain.’

On the way aft Corlo leaned close. ‘How's the chest?’

‘Hurts like Hood's own pincers. It always hurts just as much, don't it.’

‘You're only spared the dying part.’

‘Not even that.’ Bars watched as Corlo's round face pulled down. ‘Don't worry, we'll get there.’

Corlo gave his wry assent.

Jemain waited at the stern, peering into the dense fog that had enveloped the ship more than a week ago. ‘You'll go blind if you keep that up,’ Bars called to him.

‘Shhh,’ he hissed. ‘Please.’

‘What is it?’

‘Something's out there.’

‘Un-huh …’

‘Yes. I think so. Someone becalmed. Just like us. But shadowing us.’

‘Really? Corlo?’

‘I've quested.
Someone.
Can't do any better than that.’

‘Un-huh. So? What can we do about it? Maybe they just hope we know where we're going.’

Jemain's face glistened, sweaty and pale; he was clearly unhappy with what he was about to suggest. ‘We should stop oars, listen. Perhaps we'll lose them.’

Or not.’

Jemain shrugged his agreement.

‘What's our position?’

‘North. Far north of where we want to be.’

Bars turned to Corlo. ‘Anything from the Brethren?’

‘Whispers. They are, ah, agitated. Hints of movement. Continued movement.’

‘Hunh. Very well, Jemain. Orders by word of mouth only. Corlo, you and Lamb take the bow. I'll hold the stern. Stop oars. Arm everyone willing.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Soon, the oars stilled, slid gently into their ports. Bars pulled on the largest set of leather armour available. With hand signals he dispersed his eight remaining regular Guardsmen. He signalled for missile fire first. The men readied what bows and crossbows they'd dug up from the holds and neglected innards of the trader scow. Sailors and oarsmen took the deck as well, indifferently armed.

Jemain followed Bars to the port side; both squinted into the thick creamy curtains of fog. ‘Where do you think we are?’ Bars whispered.

‘Perhaps near the middle of Menigal Waters.’

‘Hmph. Reacher's Ocean, maybe.’

Jemain pointed. ‘There.’

Bars strained to see, then he caught it – movement. A low dark shape slowly closing on them, coming in at an angle. A single row of sweeps, open-decked. A war-galley, lateen-rigged, the sail reefed now in the dead air. Bars searched the waters at the bow for any hint of a ram but saw no wake or frothing. Strange that, usually a war-galley would have a ram. Shields lined the sides of the vessel. He raised his arm to signal firing the first volley. Oddly, however, no similar volley flew up to meet them now that they could see each other.