The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) (24 page)

Gressaire took Elizabeth’s gracefully extended hand
in answer and quickly kissed it.

“Ah, bon soir, mademoiselle,” Gressaire said after a brief but excited interplay of the language
, which sounded like it included Gressaire’s full name, “beautiful and well-cultured. It is good to see Lord Wester ‘as used zhe best of education. It will be wonderful if you will be able to attend My Lord Beaumon, I believe you will find ‘is chateau trѐs formidable. A welcome change from zhe wilderness, no?”

“Welcome changes are indeed pleasant,” Elizabeth said with an amused sort of calm. “The matter will rest on my father though, I suppose.”

“Come my lady,” Gressaire beckoned Elizabeth to the seat he had just left, “sit and let us talk of important men like your father. Do you Bevish know of your governor ‘ere on Orinoco?”

When none of them indicated that they did,
Gressaire launched into an extrapolation of the latest facts, gossip, and general opinion on the man and subject that more than made up for their shortcomings. There were only quick and occasional divergences from Gressaire being at the conversational helm when they had something to ask or say. This left their Dervish host on what amounted to perpetual defense to regain the conversation. Or at least that’s how it felt to Ian. The man certainly didn’t always disagree with them, but it seemed loathly contrary to his nature to yield the court of conversation for any consecutive lengths of time.

This time passed in amiable fashion, none of them seeming to mind as the Dervish man was something of a continual motion of energy and good humor.

And though any awkwardness that might have been present was willingly shouldered by their guest, it was some good fortune that the Chax whistled to them in the particular tone that meant they had spotted something. Turning quickly and checking with his yeoman, Ian caught sight of Lord Wester and Captain Marsden.

Upon fully arriving
, the margrave briefly regarded their guest, who quickly made his introduction and invitation on behalf of Lord Beaumont.

“I see,” Lord Wester answered noncommittally when the Dervish man had finished, “we shall give it consideration.”

“Yes, of course, My Lord,” Gressaire said, with noticeably less eagerness than before.

But then there were orders from the margrave and mostly their captain, who brusquely snapped about, quickly employing all of his noncommissioned men in preparing for the spoils of their hunt. And
since the rest of the hunting party was still out, there was really no accurate gauge available of how it had gone, leaving Ian to surmise that it had been good, but not as good as the previous day. They also gave no talk of four horns, or any other kind of animal, so it seemed that the takings had only consisted of long buffalo again.

A
little over an hour passed, and the rest of the rangers and guides began to arrive from the distance, mostly confirming Ian’s forecast. If anything, it seemed to come in a little below what he had expected, but it was difficult to tell, as the margrave only took one trophy, similarly sized to the one he had taken the day before. Neither of the corporals took trophies, and Rory chalked another minor one to his growing resume.

“Would you stay for dinner, then?” Ian heard Lord Wester address their Dervish guest.

This was a good gesture, though when the margrave’s delay and general lack of enthusiasm in presenting was factored in, it began to look more necessarily than thoughtful.

“Of course,” Gressaire said glad
ly, “I would be most ‘appy to dine tonight. Zhen perhaps, if you wish, I can lead you to Lord Beaumon’s chateau. I suppose your Chax could as well …” The Dervish man trailed off there, letting the alternative hang in a dubious air.

Not long after
followed some talk between the margrave and Captain Marsden, who seemed firmly set against the matter. Ian also managed to be partially privy to a question Lord Wester put to Will near the brisa, away from their guest, something about just how Dervish this Lord Beaumont was.

“Oh,” Will laughed in surprise, plenty loud enough
for Ian to hear, “from what I know he is very Dervish, but I don’t think he cares much for Derfi.”

“Have you not met him, then?” the margrave asked.

“No, of course not, My Lord,” Will said, “the entire region around his chateau is very well-guarded. He has many guests, but never anyone I have known. It is a very rare honor.”

“Indeed,” Lord Wester said,
unaware, or perhaps ignoring just how fiercely Captain Marsden was scrunching his mustache at Will.

And indeed, the sentiment had entered the rest of their camp on a prevailing wind. Even the
Chax guides were chattering and gesturing fast in their own language, indicating just what sort of an invitation this was in these vicinities. And among the rangers, there was a smug sort of excitement. Concurrently, Elizabeth looked satisfied to accept the great deal of conversation Gressaire gave her in Dervish.

Gressaire was a game guest to have. Though there were definitely enough moments of hesitation, of him looking about with nothing immediate to engage him
self with to maintain the impression of his somewhat awkward status in their camp, he was usually quick to compensate. His direction was consistently flighty, and he was more than willing to help with the proceedings as much as they would tolerate him. Ian could tell that the man’s primary passion of burning was to co-assist—or to commandeer the food preparations entirely. It was uncertain whether the Dervish man had any particular culinary acumen, but at the very least, it seemed an obligation of nationalistic pride that he sought to uphold. Regardless, Lieutenant Taylor kept him on for only some short while before expelling him, in the meantime having kept up a steady defensive banter with the Dervish man about the failings of Bevish cuisine. If Ian had been reading their conversation in a book, he would have thought it very heated, with much liberal punctuation, but in hearing and watching them both, it seemed to stay fairly good-natured. Or so he hoped, anyway.

The end result was a delicious
skillet supper of roasted buffalo meat, with sautéed potatoes and onions, and a comfortable camp prepared and ready far earlier than on the previous evening.

“And what is it, exactly,” Captain Marsden asked from over his mess kit, over the opposite side of their campfire,
over a suspicious demeanor, “that you do for this Lord Beaumont?”

“Zhat,” Gressaire answered after carefully wiping at the corners of his mouth, “is a very good question with a not very good answer. At least so far as I
‘ave ever can be able to explain it. Lord Beaumon does—”

“Yes,” Captain Marsden said, “and what exactly is it that he does, then?”

“Lord Beaumon is a man of many means,” Gressaire said, “he came to Orinoco many years ago and owns zhe right to much lands. A large amount of all imports from zhe planet—”

“You mean exports,” Captain Marsden interjected.

“Yes,” Gressaire said, “yes, ‘e profits from many of all the ex-ports from zhe planet. Everyzhing of furs and gems and spices and everyzhing else ‘e ‘as some foot in. My Lord also ‘olds a small militia, keeps peace in zhe area, and watches zhe northern nations for zhe Dervish—eh, now the Bevish king, no? Zhough,” he whispered conspiratorially, “some say ‘e might also watch zhe Ellosians for zhe northern Chax nations when it suits ‘im. I do not know everyzhing ‘e does. But ‘e is zhe most brilliant man on Orinoco, and if ‘e did not love the ‘Ovolok—um, how you say, fielts?—if ‘e would have stayed in Carciti, ‘e would be the most powerful monsieur on Orinoco.”

“But he isn’t now?” Captain Marsden asked, and then interrupted whatever Gressaire was go
ing to say. “I suppose though that the Bevish sanctions have had a powerful impact on his businesses.”

“Yes,
zhe infringements ‘ave ‘ad bad effects on zhe whole planet,” Gressaire said, with more of an edge than when he had answered to the same question earlier. “Lord Beaumon is plenty well off. You will see when you come to ‘is chateau.”

“That has not been decided upon—
” Captain Marsden pointed out, the tension in the air spiking, though fortunately Lord Wester silenced the captain with a quick word of warning.

“Come then,” the margrave said, trying to
resettle the conversation with a little annoyance, “tell us what you do here.”

“Ah,” Gressaire said, his demeanor already well past the scantily deflected scuffle, “much of what you see now. I am often in
zhe attendance for ‘is functions, taking care of his many guests, seeing to ‘is interests. Zhis sometimes calls me out into zhe wilderness, as much of Lord Beaumon’s ‘oldings are zhere. I also have some dealings with zhe natives, zhough zhere are others better than I. Dak dak?” Gressaire called out to where the Chax were eating together. He repeated the phrase and then another, more varied one after it.

The Chax
looked at him oddly. And since Will was not in attendance, they made no reply.

“You see?” Gressaire asked. “Not so good. But I go wherever
My Lord bids. I ‘ave very privileged place in ‘is ‘ouse.”

“Something
of a spy, then?” Captain Marsden said.

Something of an
uncomfortable shuffling moved around the fire. Ian felt it acutely, and wondered if their captain couldn’t or if he just didn’t care. The awkwardness wasn’t so precisely expressive from Lord Wester, who sat on Gressaire’s side of the fire, as it was a keen annoyance in his eyes at his officer.

“You might say
zhat,” Gressaire said with a mischievous smile, as his eyes wandered off into the early evening sky. He quickly picked up on where the rest of Ian’s company was thinking. “But no, no, not for noble people such as you. No, when I am asked to spy—it is not nearly so exciting. Zhey are almost all natives and brigands and poachers zhat I have to watch. Be not worried, My Lord Beaumon holds you, My Lord, in only zhe highest esteem.”

“But you do sometimes watch Bevish men?” Captain Marsden pressed.

Gressaire hesitated, and then said, more quietly, “Sometimes. I do whatever My Lord bids me do. But rest assured, My Lord is only interested in your safest travels.” His mood quickly snapped back up. “It is good zhen zhat you ‘ave me to guide you, no?”

For whatever reason, Captain Marsden found that enough, and simply humphed down at his mess kit and said no more on the
subject or theme.

The rest of the meal, prolonged as it was by Gressaire’s indomitable train of conversation, passed mostly on the legs of wild game, talk of their trip so far, and their last hunt. Ian was largely expecting some mention of his exploits yesterday to be cited, so by the end
, he was more than a little disappointed that they hadn’t been.

As fascinating as it was listening to Gressaire, really he was the only Dervish man Ian had ever been in
such prolonged contact with, he found it far more urgent to carefully watch how Elizabeth listened to their guest.

It
was indeed a rapt fascination for her part. Her eyes were indulgent, willing every time Gressaire brought them to some new topic, and she often smiled, once even softly laughed at his humors. And Ian might have been jealous, even suspicious that she was playing the kind of mercenary flirt that weaved about with each new opportunity.

But there was no point during dinner that he fell seriously to such fears. Throughout
, he thought he caught the inevitable, though not clumsy edges of a sort of condescension, the barest bits of incredulity that were easiest to catch at their guest’s most boisterous moments.

She was a
true patriot, as Ian concluded. And while he was fairly dubious as well toward their guest’s nation, he decided that he mostly liked Gressaire.

It wasn’t lo
ng after Ian had helped with cleanup and had started walking around the edges of camp, thinking that maybe he would go for a walk somewhere before dark, that Gressaire himself came and hailed him.

“Private
Kanters,” he called, a rugby ball in his hands and Brodie close behind him, “we ‘ave a game making, do you want to play with us?”

“He can’t say no,” Brodie said, “we’ve already recruited his second. If anything happens to him,
Kanters is honor bound to kill whoever tackled him.”

“No,” Gressaire laughed, “we do not play
zhat way. But come, you look good, we will play a good game.”

“Sure,” Ian said, smirking as he
changed directions. “Who else do you have?”

*              *              *              *

Ian had played plenty of rugby with all numbers of players. As they ended up with Gressaire, Brodie, Kieran, Rory, Ian, and a reluctant Ellis, three against three was a fairly regular small game that he was used to. That, of course, had mostly involved boys, and often at very different levels of motivation and athleticism, which was all markedly different from what it was like to compete against grown men that were his own age and strength. Rory was especially strong, Kieran light and far more agile than Ian would’ve liked to admit, and Gressaire had a good deal of both that made for a potent combination. Ellis, who was with Rory and Ian, rounded out the bottom end of the notables, not so much because he lacked the prowess, but because he wasn’t inclined to sustain the sort of heated competitiveness like the rest of them. Even the most impassioned of Ian’s urgings had a limited effect on him.