The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) Read online

  By this point, the lieutenant had roused all of their company, and the Chax were also up, though in a much less structured fashion. This was mostly background noise, and Ian’s watch was all but done. However, he did have an advantage over most of the company in that he was able to roll over to his stomach and peer over the edge when the opening to the more elaborate of the two tents was undone.

  He quickly contained himself, scooting back far enough that he wasn’t visible from the tent or most of the rest of the camp. Waiting a few moments, he raised his head just a bit.

  Elizabeth walked around to the sunny side of her tent, her hair down and tangled and her nightgown and morning robe pulled around her. As she sat, out of sight of the rest of the camp, she quickly and methodically pulled a washing comb and then dryer palm through her hair. She worked with her eyes either hard on the ground or up into the sky. Her hair alternately glowed and was muted as it became wet and dry again, and one of her slender feet slipped out from her gown’s layers to be white and forgotten against the wet morning grass.

  Ian ducked back down, figuring he should probably leave. While innocent enough, he wouldn’t want to be caught catching sight of the margrave’s daughter’s left foot. But he glanced back up, and then froze as Elizabeth looked his way.

  She gave no real hesitation in motions or expression. And for a desperate second, he wondered if she had been able to see him all along from where she sat.

  But he cringed back anyway, pursing his lips and about to start away when her voice called over the edge.

  “Oh, private? Could I see you for a moment?”

  Rising up and without looking her way, quickly dropping down to the next level of the stone outcropping, then grabbing a handhold and dropping a little further to the ground, he realized that he had half-hoped she would call him over. There was some considerable risk of impending censure, but he found himself willing to take that chance as he tried to help his sheepish expression.

  “Milady,” Ian bowed a bit and kept his eyes down. Her foot was by this time firmly secured out of sight.

  “Good morning, private,” she said somewhat easily. “Would you be so kind as to grant a favor for me?”

  “Of course, milady,” Ian said.

  “Could you tell me the reason why a young man,” she shifted her comb to her other hand, “would wish to watch someone tending to her hair?”

  “I could give many, I think,” Ian said, looking up to find her eyes. He was quite aware of how corporeal his hands were, and that their placement was quite unsatisfactory. He settled on clasping them behind his back, after more than one misplacement, as that seemed to be the most polite and passive option.

  “What could interest a man about such a mundane chore?” Elizabeth Wester asked. “What pleasure would he find in seeing a lady comb her hair?”

  “A great deal, I think,” Ian said, “depending on the head of hair.”

  She put her brush down for a moment, doing something with it that Ian didn’t know about, as unacquainted as he was with such devices.

  “Are you rangers always quite so unhelpful?” she asked.

  He couldn’t help but grin, desperately hoping that he wasn’t completely misreading the lady’s seemingly playful demeanor. “I hope not.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to see,” the margrave’s daughter said. “This is going to be quite a lengthy expedition. Is hunting something you enjoy?”

  “I regret that I cannot be very helpful about that either,” Ian laughed a bit. “I’ve never really hunted anything wild. But I do think I will.”

  “It excites you then?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Ian said, hitching a bit as he wasn’t quite sure how careful he should be with his words, “so far. Does the pursuit interest you, milady?”

  She smiled softly, her eyes still elsewhere as she worked at her hair. “It can have its charms.”

  He let his hands fall to his sides. “Well, I have it on good word that ladies of good stock are naturally susceptible to men who hunt … hunt well, I mean.”

  “Is that so?” she asked.

  “Those are not my words,” he cautioned, “but have you ever noticed such things happen?”

  “To ladies of good stock? To some,” Elizabeth Wester said, “I imagine. On Gower, the march planet my father governs, there is always a great deal of hunting, and very many ladies do seem to enjoy it existing … do you know why that is?”

  Ian shrugged. “I haven’t really ever thought about it.”

  “Never?” she asked.

  “Well, I will now,” he said. “Do you know why?”

  She stared at the ground, distant for a moment. “No.”

  “Oh,” Ian said, looking off in the direction of all the camp’s noise, which was growing increasingly louder.

  She turned her eyes and stared at him, almost in a conspiratorial manner. “I think it may be for the same reason a young man enjoys watching a young lady comb her hair.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” he said quietly.

  “How frightful of me,” she said, glancing back at the camp, “I am afraid I have held you overly long.”

  “No, it’s fine,” he assured her, giving a quick bow, “but I hope you’ll excuse me, milady.”

  “Certainly,” she nodded with a smile. “I am glad you took the time to speak with me.”

  “It was a pleasure, milady,” Ian said and started off, thinking that he probably should’ve taken more time to say that, it was probably the polite thing to—

  “And private?” Elizabeth called after him, “I suppose I have occasionally been excited by hunting. Good luck.”

  Ian half-turned back toward her but didn’t stop, smiling all the way and hoping that was adequate enough to reciprocate interest without messing up any recent culminations that may or may not have culminated.

  * * * *

  Breakfast hosted a good deal of excited chatter, the same lines of conversation continuing on in hushes and looks throughout the rest of the meal once the noble family had joined them.

  The highlight before breakfast was the fixing of all of their company’s Allen rifles with the magnum chokes Corporal Wesshire had mentioned, marking perhaps the official beginning of the hunting portion of their expedition. Much of the discourse following Lord Wester’s arrival continued to be of guns, primarily by the captain and a bit of the margrave. Ian half-followed the conversation and the other one beside him as Kieran went on about similar topics in hushed whispers to Rory and Brodie. Whatever was left of Ian’s attention he devoted to finishing his breakfast, and tactfully avoiding how much he wanted to look at the margrave’s daughter.

  He felt good, not tired at all. The food, whatever it was, tasted great, as he had been getting terribly hungry. It felt like he had an advantage over them all, that he knew more of what had happened in the last few hours than all of them—Rory included, if his bleary countenance was any guide. And whenever his mind strayed to what he and Elizabeth Wester had talked about, nearly every odd moment it seemed, he couldn’t help but feel like he was sitting on a winning hand that no one else could match.

  “Not likely,” Rory whispered none too cheerily, no doubt in response to something Kieran had said.

  “I will stay atop the brisa,” Lord Wester was saying, “until we sight a buffalo line. At which point, we’ll close on foot, keeping the caravan back while the hunters pursue.”

  “Capital,” Captain Marsden said. “We’ll keep one of our flanks back to watch over the caravan while the other assists you and the beaters.”

  Ian looked over at Brodie beside him, and they both grinned, even while knowing that one of them would be in the flank stuck behind with the caravan.

  “Will your command do the honors, sir?” Lieutenant Taylor asked.

  “Yes, I believe we will take the first,” the captain quickly affirmed, to the silent celebration underneath Ian’s carefully sculpted demeanor of expressive calm.

  But then the captain happened t
o glance at him, the lack of passion in Ian’s expression seemingly reminding the captain that they were on the same flank. And while an acute flight of regret passed over the captain’s face, he didn’t voice any rescinding thoughts to the plan.

  * * * *

  Orinoco seemed to have found compassion for their party, as their previous two days of travel into the wilds had been fairly tame, but her patience was evidently slight as the morning quickly took them to task.

  Their regulators provided ample protection from sunlight under normal circumstances in addition to personal climate control. However, within a couple of hours of breaking camp, Ian broke down and fetched one of the field hats that the brisa carried. They were white, shallow hats with a slightly long oval shaped brim, which allotted plenty of shade and could be easily and firmly adjusted, to suit the angle of the sun and other factors. Ian generally wasn’t all that fond of hats because of how they interfered with visibility, and these in particular were so long that they interfered with his regulator’s line of field, even after adjusting it to the best efficiency. It had to be done though, and he saw everyone else but Kieran and Lieutenant Taylor take them within a short amount of time. Ian found some small humiliation in that, but he mostly doused it knowing that he was merely being reasonable. Lieutenant Taylor genuinely seemed not to mind the heat all that much, but Kieran’s motives were decidedly social. Consequently, he was frequently wiping at his brow underneath his mop of light hair with his sleeves, and his temper was audible even from Ian’s position. The Chax also didn’t take any additional protection from the sun or the heat, but they seemed well in their element.

  The Chax moved so lightly through the grasses, barely heard at all unless Ian was listening for it. And though they mostly either rode or stayed near the brisa, on occasion they would move out past the perimeter their company kept around the caravan. At one point, one of them, not Will, as this Chax seemed bigger and had a pattern of splotches across his face and shoulders, ran by behind Ian.

  Up until that point, Ian had been moving and watching Rory, who was ahead of them, so he almost didn’t detect the native at all until he was only a handful of feet away. Jerking his head around, Ian half-reached for his rifle before he realized who it was and felt stupid. Frowning at the Chax, who paid him no heed as he passed, he almost called after the Chax about warning him before doing something like that.

  Ian had the good fortune of Rory seeing all this, and as Ian caught up with Rory, the other private looked a little paternal.

  “I hope you don’t get that jumpy when there’s real action,” Rory said.

  “I think I’ll be fine,” Ian said, looking back at the Chax.

  The guide had run a couple hundred feet to their left to look over a sharp drop-off from the slight elevation they were on. After disappearing for a moment down out of sight, he popped back up and ran back toward the brisa.

  “Anglas is coming this way,” Rory murmured.

  Ian turned. “See anything that way, yet?” he asked Kieran as he came within earshot.

  “Not yet,” Kieran answered, jogging a bit to catch up with them.

  “Move up to left high so we can keep formation,” Ian said to Rory.

  “You’re not in charge,” Rory protested.

  Ian wanted to press that, despite not really having anything official to assert that he did. He glanced over to their point, but the captain was currently out of sight.

  “Anglas wants to talk to me, anyway,” Ian said.

  “How do you know?” Rory asked.

  Ian pointed at Rory, to which Kieran shrugged his shoulders in reply.

  “All right,” Rory said, obligingly increasing his pace, “I’ll take left high.”

  “Anything over here?” Kieran asked as he drew up almost even with Ian.

  “Not yet,” Ian said. “Are you going to hold the rearguard?”

  “I am holding it,” Kieran said, sounding annoyed.

  Ian looked at the open plains behind them. “Oh.”

  “Good job on getting to hunt first,” Kieran said, his tone not exactly matching that sentiment.

  Ian shrugged. “Your flank will have next go at it. I’m sure whatever all of us sees will even out by the end.”

  “It’s about skill, not about what we see,” Kieran countered, sounding eager to counter.

  “Good,” Ian said.

  “Listen,” Kieran said, “everyone else but you has agreed to stay away from the margrave’s daughter.”

  “Everyone?” Ian asked.

  “Yes, all the privates,” Kieran said.

  “Why do you trust the corporals? Or even the officers for that matter? They’re all just as eligible as me.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Kieran said. “I’m not going to ask again. Either agree that you won’t or say so now, so we can settle it.”

  Ian stopped and looked at him, running calculations and figures in his head and knowing that he could handle Kieran in a fair fight, under any circumstances. But no, that was foolish, nothing good would come of making something out of nothing.

  “Fine, it’s settled now,” Ian said, going to tell him that he had already shared a conversation with Elizabeth, going to show Kieran, going to—No. “I won’t agree to any kind of daft agreement not to talk to someone, and that’s all.” Kieran’s face pinched, but Ian didn’t stop. “And if you decide that will seriously hurt your chances with seeing her and want to make something out of it, I can’t stop you. As long as you’re that scared for your chances.”

  “Yes, I’m really scared about that,” Kieran said sarcastically.

  “Well,” Ian said, taking off his hat and offering it toward Kieran. “Better take this then. Sun’s dreadful today.”

  Kieran shook his head and let that mark his departure.

  Chapter 7

  “The Allen rifle was first introduced to select Bevish units in 4801 UI to great acclaim in place of the traditional ballet musket designs that had previously been available. The Allen rifle sacrificed power and rate of fire in exchange for greatly heightened range and accuracy that were put to great effect, beginning in the Haspian Wars.”

  —Yeoman encyclopedia entry

  They encountered the first of the buffalo lines not long after midday. It was a wide lane of tracks, at least a hundred feet of trampled earth and grass all crushed together. Several of the Chax immediately left the brisa to examine them, Lord Wester slinging his rifle over his shoulder and following. All this wasn’t entirely necessary, however, as even Ian, at his distance, could tell that it was headed west.

  One of the Chax in particular was bent low to the ground, feeling around with his hands as his head scanned up along the path. Ian couldn’t tell if his eyes were moving.

  “This morning,” one of the standing Chax said.

  The Chax on the ground continued in a rougher Bevish dialect. “Two hour. Not ean two hour. Dass way.”

  “Yes,” Lord Wester said, gazing down the track.

  By this time, the brisa had reached the track, and the caravan stopped a little ways down the line from them.

  Ian recognized Will a moment before he spoke quietly at Lord Wester’s side.

  “They are maybe only four or five miles away,” Will said. “A hunting party could overtake them in two hours.”

  “Much less,” Captain Marsden said as he also reached them, “I should think, if it’s up to our company. We can cover that kind of ground far more quickly than most.”

  “Yes,” Lord Wester said, glancing toward the brisa, “we’ll not be tied up with the brisa. Chero,” he addressed Will, “bring yourself and one of your guides with us, the rest will continue on as before. Have them make camp at evening and wait for us.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Will bowed quickly, bring out a data device, “but shall I have them veer off a little our way to compensate for the distance? It will make it easier to retrieve any trophies My Lord acquires. The deviation can easily be made up.”

  “Very well,”
Lord Wester said. And with that, he briskly started off down the line.

  As soon as Will saw this, he started shouting in Chax at the nearby guides, and then those who were with the brisa as he sprinted back toward the caravan for something.

  The Chax at hand also started off for the brisa, the one who had been down to the ground muttering something that rang in the universal tone of cursing. All the other guides began throwing things off the brisa to the ground. The rangers who were with the brisa looked blankly at all this, but Corporal Wesshire came around from the other side and started issuing orders to assist the Chax.

  “Right then,” the captain said, “Corporal Hanley, right point. You two, behind us.”

  Corporal Hanley drew his rifle off his pack as he ran to get in front of the margrave. Rory looked at Ian, but Ian was watching the Chax and trying to estimate their progress.

  “Go,” Ian told Rory, “I’m coming.”

  Ian felt more than saw Rory leave. By this time, Will and another Chax were hurrying back after them, now being heavily burdened with supplies that Ian was amazed they were managing.

  Ian hurried back and quickly grabbed a pack from Will and a strange pole that the other Chax was having difficulty juggling with everything else.

  “Here,” Ian said, “I’ve got it. Let’s go.”

  Will smiled, and the other Chax bowed the best he could.

  It wasn’t altogether difficult to catch or keep up with the margrave, who kept a steady pace. This was a source of frustration for the captain, and Ian had to admit for him as well, but he supposed it was undignified for nobility to outright run. And though he liked to think that he wouldn’t have had any qualms if Ian had been of noble blood, it was well worth it to see the ongoing battle on the captain’s demeanor as he was constantly pushing them up ahead, only to have to stop for Lord Wester. The captain’s frustration amounted to no actual challenging fraction of his reverence for the margrave, but it was still palpable.

  “Is that them?” Ian asked after some long time of this as he jogged along with his yeoman, magnifying the distance.