The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) Read online

  “What sto?” the man called out toward them.

  Corporal Wesshire remained still as Ian waved back.

  Kieran Anglas didn’t go to any elaborate hurry to get to them, and the other two seemed to be following his lead, though they appeared relatively jovial.

  “Why it’s our intrepid corporal,” the second ranger said. He contained a fairly bland face, but had something good-natured that tugged at the edges of it in a way that made it more appealing than it probably would’ve been otherwise. “And company. ‘Tis a fine evening, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Ian agreed, and the Bevish regular nodded as they reached them.

  “This is Private Ian Kanters,” Kieran put in for his companions, “the one who arrived this afternoon.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the other man said. “I’m Brodie, and this gentleman of unfortunate circumstances is Dwight Manchester.” Brodie paused for a perfect moment. “He’s not actually with us.”

  Ian laughed, looking at Dwight the regular, who fashioned something of a slightly ridiculous mustache and a pair of twinkling eyes that seemed to be mostly all right with that.

  “Where have you two been about?” Anglas asked Corporal Wesshire.

  “Vendor lane,” the corporal answered crisply.

  “We’ve already eaten,” Kieran said, “thought we’d find a place to bend an elbow.”

  “Mind keeping us company?” Brodie asked. “The more the merrier.”

  Kieran glanced over at Brodie, giving Ian the impression that the invitation might not have been so readily extended if it had undergone a committee evaluation.

  “That would be great,” Ian said quite honestly, and not just because Kieran wasn’t keen on it.

  “Unfortunately, there are other matters to attend to before retiring,” Corporal Wesshire said, his voice overwhelmingly neutral.

  There was an almost awkward pause.

  “Well,” Kieran said, “it’s not as though we’ll let just one of you come.”

  Luckily, Brodie started laughing right away, with Dwight quickly following, even though Ian still wasn’t completely sure it was a joke until a large chunk of a self-satisfied smirk broke through Kieran’s face.

  “Come on, then,” Kieran said, looking off past them, “we don’t have all night.”

  “Halls to plunder,” Brodie pointed up toward that direction, “kegs to sack.”

  “Good evening, then.” Corporal Wesshire looked over at him for a moment, and Ian nodded, trying to express as much of his gratitude as possible in it.

  As the corporal walked on, Ian couldn’t fancy that he was getting the short deal of the two. It had been an incredibly insightful day, but he doubted there would be anymore to learn. Unwinding while getting to know his new split mates sounded like the perfect way to end his first day. He watched Corporal Wesshire go for a moment though, noticing how the people around him seemed to almost unconsciously part, their expressions lingering on his uniform just a little bit longer.

  Ian knew he already had something of that, that instinct of knowing how to make other people notice and listen to him in a way that most others didn’t seem to have. But the confidence that Corporal Wesshire didn’t even seem to be aware he had amazed Ian. He had known there was always more to learn, especially in matters of leadership, but Corporal Wesshire exuded a degree of charisma that he’d never seen before in a person.

  Someday he hoped he would be like that.

  “A bit of an offish chap, as he strikes me,” Dwight remarked, the others watching Corporal Wesshire go as well.

  “He’s not really chummy,” Brodie was the one to answer, “but he’s a fair enough corporal. A bloody brilliant swordsman, too.”

  “Really?” Ian asked.

  “Of course he’s good,” Kieran agreed, though his tone didn’t seem to give the notion much care. “Come on then, we’re wasting time.”

  The other two men heartily agreed, and they all set off.

  “Are you two in Corporal Wesshire’s flank, then?” Ian asked, kicking himself as he’d forgotten to ask the corporal how the company’s flanks were broken up.

  “Didn’t he tell you?” Kieran asked. “Brodie’s my second, and we’re under Lieutenant Taylor and Corporal Wesshire.”

  “All right,” Ian said.

  “And you’re with Williams under Captain Marsden and Corporal Hanley,” Kieran went on. “You were the last one to get in, so we can start off tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s good to know,” Ian said, managing to avoid the amount of cheek he would have liked. He sort of wanted to know when exactly they’d be leaving in the morning, but he didn’t want to risk exposing another plane of ignorance to Kieran. Hopefully, it would come up later, or he would get a chance to ask someone else.

  “And Dwight here is our backup,” Brodie said, leaning into Dwight’s path so that the other had to push him away with a smile. “He’s to fill in if anyone dies and fetch us rum in case anyone gets thirsty.”

  “I’ll be staying here tomorrow morning,” Dwight tried hard to declare in the same posture, “and for the rest of the year.”

  “At least,” Brodie added, sounding as if it was a familiar postscript.

  “At least,” Dwight agreed.

  Ian looked at Dwight’s Johnny Lobster uniform, feeling an ambivalent sense of pity and relief at their contrasting stations. By just a small bit of blessing, Ian had skipped over a long stretch of mire. “If you can keep your ‘lator on your belt,” Ian said, “Carciti isn’t a bad place to be. Seems like there’s a lot to be had here.”

  “Aye,” Dwight nodded, “it’s a reet step up from Munbia. I was there for nearly two years, bloody backwards place that is. Never’ll amount to anything.”

  Ian listened with half an ear as the others went on to other subjects, mostly about their preferences in destination, which Ian didn't know anything about anyway. Excitement was in Ian’s step and a relief weighed on his shoulders, the kind one might get when they've just made a friend. But had he? Corporal Wesshire had been very generous to him, and in many ways Ian felt he owed the other man at least some sort of transient debt. He'd greatly enjoyed talking with him, and hoped there would be more opportunities to do so. Even as he walked with the others, who were in the midst of talking about assuredly low-brow things, all varieties of things he wished he'd asked about came to mind. The only other person he'd really ever been able to discuss any amount of very high ideas with was old Peter, and at that it had always been under the constraints of Peter being very much older than Ian. For the first time, here was someone close to Ian's own age who was able, and seemingly quite willing, to offer an engaging perspective on any number of topics. It had been a wonderful surprise that he still perhaps wasn't fully able to comprehend.

  But that was it, the source of the guilty echo in his gut. Was he really looking at the Corporal Wesshire as a potential friend? Or as an exploitable resource—someone he could learn much from and better develop his understanding of whatever ideas and issues caught his whim?

  No. It wasn't just that. Although, Corporal Wesshire's personality seemed to be one of those that were best to be cautious around—

  One of the others said something directed at him.

  “What?” Ian asked.

  “I asked if the fresh private had any sort of preference,” Dwight said, smiling a bit at himself, “and that’d be you.”

  “Sorry,” Ian said, looking over at Brodie and especially Kieran. He could probably hear more from their visual reactions than what any of them would actually say. “What are the choices again?”

  “We haven’t sampled all that the city has to offer,” Brodie said, moving a bit to the side as a singing chorus of off-duty regulars passed by them. “Of what we know though, the place to get the best ale is Flaxens, which is off thither.” He gestured vaguely off to their left. “The vocal and well-heard protest at that is it’s a bit of an exclusive club—it caters only to servants of His Majesty. So no women. Th
e Trois Out, however, is far more broad in its taste—”

  “It’s grand, absolutely grand,” Dwight put in, “three taverns put together on one block, half of it inside and half out on a porch.”

  “Best place in the city,” Kieran agreed, not quite quietly.

  So that was it then, two against one, with his vote pending, and evidently having some weight. The newcomer’s pick was definitely an angle he could play. If he wanted to.

  “But their grog tastes like …” Brodie waved his hand passionately, his eyes searching the heavens. “—Grog.”

  “It’s stuffy at Flaxens,” Dwight protested, though he did sound persuadable. “Nothing ever happens there.”

  “Not true,” Brodie frowned. “Culture happens there. Sophistication. Better-tasting-spirits! Isn’t that enough?”

  “Come on, Brodie,” Kieran said, sounding tired—exasperated. “There aren’t any girls at Flaxens. We just went there.”

  Brodie’s eyes flitted uncertainly over at Ian, who discerned a crucial juncture in the proceedings.

  But Ian hesitated. His initial reaction was to play it safe and go to the place without the girls. While there were undoubtedly plenty of other interesting people there as well, and meeting new girls did sound like a lot of fun, Ian had heard plenty of talk about such locations. Dervish women in particular had often been the subject of family dinner discussions, and not to any sort of flattering degree. In fact, his mother had strictly warned him about such women before he’d left for training—he could only imagine what her reaction had been when she’d learned that his first posting was to be on a former Dervish colony.

  At the time, he’d given some sort of half-hearted affirmation—which generally amounted to him agreeing that he probably should be in greater agreement with his mother. Though honestly then, and quite usually, the thought of Dervish women—all soft brown eyes and exotic tongues mishandling the King’s English in the most delightful ways—was dreadfully appealing.

  But not now—not at all really. Meeting alluring Dervish women would be exciting, but not here, not in the company of people he didn’t really know in a city almost entirely strange to him. Most of all, though, not in circumstances like this, where there was so much pressure.

  And while girls always had the tendency to distract, the more level-headed parts of him knew his career needed all of his focus, especially as it was just beginning. Meeting women might be fun, but essentially unfair to them. Unless of course they didn’t care about such things—

  “I think it’s hard to say too much about grog,” Ian quickly declared, “the good kind, I mean.”

  “Amen,” Brodie heartily rejoined, looking pleasantly surprised.

  “It’s hard to say too much about reet company,” Dwight tried.

  “No,” Ian said, furrowing his eyebrows a bit, but not too much, “it’s our last evening here, why not let it taste good? A proper send off.”

  “It’s your last evening, not mine,” Dwight said, a bit sulkily.

  “We were just there,” Kieran repeated.

  “No need to get your back up,” Brodie said, sounding a bit jubilant, “newcomer gets the deciding vote.”

  “Then what’s the point of voting?” Kieran asked.

  “Come, come,” Brodie said, “it’s simply politics. Everyone gets their first go.”

  Ian decided it was best to remain quiet through the political math—especially since it seemed a fairly safe bet that Brodie’s party had it.

  “Yes,” Kieran said tightly, “but he doesn’t know anything about either place. He’s just guessing, and why let that ruin the whole—”

  “Don’t be such a croaker,” Brodie sang up into the air with mock exasperation, “either place is great. We can’t lose either way.”

  “He wouldn’t know if we could,” Kieran said, looking over at Ian. “Have you even ever had anything to drink before?”

  Ian was mostly able to keep his mouth from clenching, his most obvious outward sign of agitation as he’d learned in the past. Ian wasn’t particularly interested in getting into anything with Kieran, not at least until he had a better understanding of how their company fit together. But Kieran, Ian’s dead equal in rank, probably age, and probably nearly in experience as well, was staring at him like Ian was a child.

  “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 laughing, 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.