The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) Read online

  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.

  Some 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 as 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 neared 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.

&
nbsp; “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.

  Of course, it was only after he caught sight of Corporal Wesshire that Ian became overly self-aware of their company. Of all the people milling about in the atmosphere of their entrance, the corporal alone seemed well-fitted, even when measured against the semi-native Dervish. He hadn’t changed at all, which was unsurprising, because he never seemed to. The coolness, the passive sense of superiority was as much the same here as it had been in the middle of Carciti or the Hovoloko Plains. And not for the first time, not for the last, Ian wondered what it was that Corporal Wesshire saw through his eyes. And he wondered just what that was like.

  Gressaire was beaming with Dervish shouts behind them, all around, even in front of them as they walked up the marble steps to the front entrance of the chateau itself. There the guards bent to pull at the two inner doors which stood the height of two men, themselves only the middle piece to the much larger conglomeration of wooden entrance required mechanization to open.

  Inside was a well-lit atrium of stone, intricately colored by the differing shades of glass at the dome above the entrance, and making their changing mixtures on the variety of marble stones in the floor.

  “Take my ‘and, mademoiselle?” Gressaire asked Elizabeth in front of them.

  “If you ask so politely,” Elizabeth answered with her hand.

  But not really, Ian thought, trying not to glare as Gressaire took Elizabeth Wester’s upheld hand simply over his own in an overly assuming way that Ian immediately associated with Dervish impropriety. Though, it may only have been the mutterings of his own biases.

  “I will show our nobles to zheir accommodations,” Gressaire said to the Dervish official who was leading them. “You can see to our regimental guests. Tell me, milady, ‘ave you read any of ‘Esille’s narratives?”

  “Two I believe, but not nearly as much as Lamoisson.”

  “Ah, I enjoy ‘im as well,” Gressaire said, their voices carrying after them, “not nearly so much on a—how you say it? Intell-ectual way?”

  Their official was urging them away from where Gressaire and the noble family were walking. Ian stared after them for only a moment, and then noticed that of course Kieran was doing the same. But when their eyes met, it was more of a mutual sympathy as they both had what was hopefully a momentary enemy.

  Their way didn’t seem quite as brightly lit or spacious as the one their charges were taking, but a sort of quiet grandeur was lent in and above the hallway they employed. It was only wide enough for perhaps four men to walk alongside each other, but the walls rose high above them to meet in varied patterns of arches that ran the length of the ceiling.

  Excited and scattered as they were, their whispers ran ahead and behind them, echoing off the walls and floors. Up ahead, their host had plenty of architectural talking points to pick up as they went, their captain and lieutenant tamely following.

  By some unhappy circumstance, Ian found himself pressed to the rightmost side of the hall, behind Corporal Wesshire. He could only see the back of the corporal’s head and shoulders, and he tried to think again what he could be seeing that Ian was missing. Looking around at the hall and the faces and voices of the other rangers as they walked, Ian couldn’t find anything. It was irritating then, that the corporal always seemed to maintain the air that he was.

  They didn’t pass many residents, but one in particular sent a distinct current through their lines that could be heard in their abrupt silence. She was tastefully dressed, somewhere within their ages, with dark, brown hair and even darker eyes. She smiled with them as she passed, half-pausing in her steps to curtsy as her eyes warmly wandered up their ranks, from their median to their inevitable apex.

  Ian felt silly in wishing that he was taller. But he did anyway as they were led into the northeast wing of the chateau, onto the second floor where their expectantly lavish quarters were waiting. Each of the two adjoining rooms held four single beds, and each room was painstakingly differentiated in its plush décor. The other room looked more done up in blues, while theirs was a continual flourish of gold and some little bits of reds. Some of their walls were covered in sheets of a golden material, and Ian saw Rory hesitantly poking at it while they unpacked.

  The captain was stiff, not wordy, even after their host left them to settle in. He was curt about their engaging with the accommodations very much. So the most that they were afforded was Brodie quietly exclaiming that some part of their wall dispensed wine, and that was done in secrecy when the captain was out of earshot.

  Partly due to their captain’s disposition, and partly due to the contagious sense of intimidation Ian could feel among them, their company stayed close to their quarters despite having nearly two hours before dinner was to begin. They fell to quietly talking within Ian’s room after donning their dress uniforms, primarily because Captain Marsden had almost immediately gone over to Lieutenant Taylor’s room. And the talk of the others invariably fell into a makeshift game of breks on the floor. It was a comfortable sight and ironic since their room h
ad a grand table that presumably would function well for such things.

  A great deal of pressure from the others was extended for Ian to join them, but he felt something lacking in passing up so much present liberty. Venturing out from their rooms, he couldn’t deny that he felt at least mildly exposed in his new dress uniform, without the habitual weight of his pack and rifle. He hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d grown to having them in the space of one short week.

  He settled on a leisurely pace, taking more time to take in the opulence that even the hallway exhibited. The hall’s plush carpet was unnaturally soft beneath his feet. This section of the chateau was made of dark woods, of deep red and brown blushes. The lighting above was white and gave a very strange open sense, so much so that it felt like there was no actual ceiling, especially when he wasn’t thinking about it.

  Either by some instinct or successful beguiling from the lighting, he felt like he was very near to the outside. According to his yeoman, the hallway curved slightly to the northwest, which was all very much in juxtaposition to the very Ellosian, very straight lines that the exterior of the chateau had promised. Winding his way through this section, he passed what looked like more rooms and a small resting area complete with chairs and a shiny bar fully endowed with a complement of exotic and expressive looking bottles.

  Pressing onward and running his fingertips along the wall, he was surprised to find that they left a trail behind as the colors in the wood changed to lighter, interlacing shades. Freezing for several heartbeats, Ian made sure to wait until they had faded back into their original hues before being assured that he hadn’t caused any sort of permanent damage. Experimentally touching it in bits to similar effects, he assured himself that the hallway was deserted both ways before he stepped forward and gingerly blew over its surface. His wonder quirked at the sudden explosion of vaporing colors and twisting fragments of colliding change that moved across its surface and underneath, toward its core.