The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) Read online

  —Yeoman encyclopedia entry

  They made good time at army rate. And though there were frequent stops, starts, modifications, and other variances that both the captain and lieutenant called to test their competence, the bulk of the day consisted of straight army marching. Despite this, Ian was still surprised that he managed to do as well as he did in his condition. But he didn’t find the captain, and especially the lieutenant, to be as clever as his training officers at throwing a unit off. And Ian had a knack for marching, even though he could find little purpose in it. Marching was for the regulars.

  They had left Carciti, exiting from a small side gate in the large brownstone walls that had kept the Dervish safe from more than a few Hallmer uprisings. Beyond the city lay miles of arid landscape and a network of paved roads, sparsely populated with the morning traffic. There were different sizes of beggar towns here and there that reminded Ian of the ones in Wilome, though here they were of a far more temporary nature. They were in much greater volume near the river that ran through Orinoco, and the air hung faint with the smell of them. The roads also quickly decayed to worrisome pavement, some places drifting off entirely into gravel that made it difficult to tell where the path ended and the landscape began.

  Their company alternated between single and double file, depending on the traffic they encountered and their superiors’ dispositions. Being at the back, Ian ended up beside his second man. Ian wished he’d been paying closer attention to the other man’s name when the captain had summarized their flanks. From what he could gather from his glances, the other man had lost his grogginess but still maintained a sort of disgruntled look that Ian chalked up to not being a natural-born marcher. The other man often had to adjust to Ian, who was able to keep the right pace in his head, even when he wasn’t looking—much to the captain’s undisguised annoyance whenever he passed by, inspecting them.

  “Snap that heel, private,” snapped the captain, on one occasion, “I don’t know who wasted their time teaching you how to march, but this is a ranger company, not some lackadaisical, Johnny Lobster crew.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ian was obliged to respond, making sure to snap the back of his pace extra hard for at least the duration of the captain’s proximity. It was a ridiculous critique, and Ian burned at the thought that the whole company had heard it. Most of their opinions he didn’t care all that much about, at least not now or yet, but he cringed at how foolish Corporal Wesshire must think he was. But surely the corporal must have some sort of disdain for the captain. It seemed to Ian that there were probably very few people that the corporal didn’t hold some quiet critique for.

  Many dark thoughts followed such examinations from his captain, four in total occurring by the time they halted for lunch. All in all, Ian was in a fairly sour mood, though his nausea had mostly gone away, and his head was doing better.

  Their company took their rest at an informal gathering of moderate to large boulders that were placed very near their path, evidently some time ago. They were mostly oblong and upright and looked as though they once had indents or perhaps even writing scrawled over them, but time and the elements had conspired to the point that only ghostly hints remained. Ian traced his fingers through them while the rest of his company loosely mingled over the fairly pleasant grassy area.

  But eventually he had to turn to his outstanding obligations.

  “Hello,” Ian finally said to his second. “I’m Private Ian Kanters.”

  “Private Rory Williams,” the other, slightly larger man said as he took Ian’s outstretched handed warily.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ian said, hesitating at the pause that followed. “The captain said you’re new as well?”

  Rory nodded, looking somewhere else. “I got done at Augsland a couple months ago.”

  “Really?” Ian asked. “I graduated from Karshire. I’ve heard a lot of good things about Augsland.”

  “’Cause it’s the best,” Rory said, “all the good rangers come from there. You a good shot?”

  “Yes,” Ian said, “I’m decent.”

  “I didn’t say decent,” Rory said, “I said good.”

  “I’m decently good,” Ian said, without thinking.

  Rory scoffed a bit, not looking like he was sure how to take that.

  Ian had half a mind to keep going but thought better of it. They were going to be spending a lot of time together, and it was important to at least keep things manageable. But Rory struck Ian as the kind that would be easy to heckle. At least, though, the other man didn’t put out the same sort of aggressive antipathy that Kieran did—just awkwardness.

  “Are you a good shot?” Ian asked.

  Rory smiled. “Course I am. Been shooting all my life, and usually not with something as good as an Allen.” He proudly patted his rifle holstered to his pack.

  “Right,” Ian said.

  “So just keep steady,” Rory went on, “I don’t want to be getting fouled up by any rookies when I’m reloading.”

  “I don’t think that will be an issue,” Ian snapped. “And not just because nothing is probably going to happen on this trip.”

  “Never know,” Rory said.

  “I know enough that anyone worried about their partner probably is actually more worried about themselves.” Ian noticed that he was making sharp, expansive gestures, and stopped that quickly.

  “I’m just worried about getting stuck with someone who can’t shoot,” Rory said, “that’s all. And with some rookie—”

  “You’re a rookie, too. We’re all just out of training,” Ian said.

  “I ain’t a rookie,” Rory grumbled, “I just told you that.”

  “So don’t call me one,” Ian said.

  “I ain’t,” Rory insisted. “No need to get your back up. I just said I’m afraid you are.”

  Ian lost his self-restraint about not gesturing.

  “Yeah?” Ian said. “And I’m afraid you shoot like a girl.”

  “What? Tha—that’s—” Rory’s face blustered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m way better than you’ll ever be.”

  “Better than a girl?” Ian asked, throwing the emphasis of the question like the other person was supposed to say—

  “No—I mean yes, I mean—you know what I mean!”

  “Of course I do.”

  Ian turned and left at that, frustrated at how badly he wanted to make it worse. The last glimpse he caught was of Rory shaking his head in anger, confusion.

  Ian crossed the grass their company was lounging in, ignoring Kieran and Brodie, who were staring at him, Kieran talking in low tones. It was blistering out in the sun, and getting even hotter the longer the day drew on. At first his trajectory was a bit aimless, as he really hadn’t planned out where he wanted to go, but he quickly took a chance and headed toward Corporal Wesshire, who was standing in the shade of one of the taller stones, eating by himself.

  That had been a terribly dumb thing to do.

  Each step Ian took drove that deeper into his awareness. He’d made all sorts of plans all sorts of times about how he was going to win—preferably instantly—all of his company over, and especially his captain, especially his second. This was a blasted terrible start to things, all only because he was in a poor mood. And it wasn’t just that it had been foolish. It was something that would probably also make things more difficult for him in the future and hurt the cohesiveness of the company.

  It had also been a terribly mean thing to do.

  “Hello,” Ian said quietly, hopefully at an appropriate enough distance not to startle the other. “Glad we’re finally off and all.”

  “Yes,” Corporal Wesshire said, without looking back at him, “purpose is always agreeable.”

  “I rather regret,” Ian started carefully, “not heading back to the quarters at your more, um, prudent hour.”

  “Why is that?” Corporal Wesshire asked. He was chewing his ration bar methodically at intervals from one hand, his eyes slowly scanning t
he distance like he was looking for something, but not especially caring if he should find it.

  “It certainly made for an awful start to everything,” Ian said. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “Something is only foolish,” Corporal Wesshire answered, “if it conflicts with the goals one should have.”

  “Well, it did a brilliant job of that,” Ian said, wondering if his blustering tone at himself was failing in an opposite way to the goal he had for it—which he realized was to impress Corporal Wesshire with his regret and intelligence in knowing well enough to be regretful.

  “And how is that?” Corporal Wesshire asked. “What goals came to ill because of it?”

  “Are you making fun of me?” Ian asked, smiling and not sure if he should be. Corporal Wesshire looked at him without expression; Ian assumed that the corporal wasn’t. “Why it—well, it certainly put the captain in a fit about me. I’ll be lucky if I ever manage to get him to only partially loathe me at this rate.”

  “Dispositions change, through time and circumstances.”

  Ian had a strong urge to remark that the captain was an idiot, but even given Corporal Wesshire’s consistent demeanor, he didn’t feel safe with such an assertion.

  Stop it, Ian kicked himself. What good would it do anyway, to voice his petty opinions?

  “That’s an interesting definition of foolishness,” Ian said instead. “I’d never thought about it like that. Especially, I guess, in terms of the goals one ought to have, instead of what goals one picks.”

  The other looked at him, but didn’t say anything.

  Ian frowned at the ground as the corporal turned back again. Ian tried to take a bite of his rations but found it difficult. Aside from his headache and general fatigue he felt relatively good, but his appetite would no doubt take a bit longer to recover.

  “So what is it you’re looking forward to on this trip?” Ian asked.

  A ghost of a smile passed over the corporal’s face. “Perhaps the same as you. Duty, to those deserving it—”

  Ian snickered, feeling a great relief wash over him.

  “—and the opportunities that will be available.” The corporal paused.

  “If we have any luck about it,” Ian said, glancing behind him, “since even the best of circumstances can ruined—well, we’ll see.”

  The corporal paused again, and started a little more slowly. “Yes, there is always great space for opportunities to be mismanaged. There have been many instances of military tours with even greater promise squandered … to nothing.”

  Ian rubbed at his temple, greatly hoping that all this conflict in his head would be gone by tomorrow. “Really?”

  Corporal Wesshire finished his rations, finding something distasteful in the last end of it and tossing it off to the side. He leaned against the stone beside him with his arms crossed, regarding Ian in a nearly open-looking manner.

  “At Barlund,” Corporal Wesshire went on, “there was talk of a colonel who was tasked with moving the archduke’s special materials after the end of the war—an easy assignment with the full assurance of promotion and expedited transfers for his men.”

  “Yes?” Ian asked, trying not to look down at the bit of food near the corporal’s heel.

  “The task,” the corporal said, “which was trusted to only take a week took twice that because he dithered. Both because he didn’t know how to manage it and because he spent most of it as cause to boast with his local acquaintances.”

  Ian tried to think why he should be feeling so uneasy.

  “Needless to say,” Corporal Wesshire said, “he was lucky to have been able to boast to those local acquaintances because those were the only acquaintances he was to have.”

  “Really,” Ian said, trying to think.

  “A general at Haxsby,” the corporal said, “couldn’t take the city that should’ve been taken. An admiral at Norgard, a lord at Hampenshire. The branches are full of officers who have seen their opportunity come and not stay long.”

  “Yes,” Ian said, trying to hold back his bitterness as he rubbed at his temple, “it would be a pity if the same were to happen to us. I’m almost afraid that it might.”

  “Our captain is very accomplished,” Corporal Wesshire said, his voicing lowering just slightly.

  Ian looked back to make sure the others were a good deal away, their attentions elsewhere.

  “He has been many places,” Arran said, “but …”

  I shouldn’t listen, Ian thought to himself in a small, far off voice, as though it was with the rest of the company, laughing about something else in the distance.

  “… Some have said that he has come to some trouble,” Arran said, staring at Ian with a low and friendly face. “His posting was very favorable, but he mishandled some duty and has since been in a position of disgrace.”

  Ian was going to say something, but only nodded, pursing his lips as he stared away at the bit of food on the ground, lying in the sun and already having attracted several flies that—

  “In fact,” the other said, backing away a bit and looking at the others casually, “it would sound as if this posting is merely the latest in a series of poor postings.”

  “It is an awfully small company,” Ian murmured, to say something.

  “Indeed,” Arran said. “We’re far more a squad than a company. And though we do have special responsibilities, it is fairly unusual for an experienced captain to be only given two flanks.”

  “He’s overly bitter about us,” Ian said, and that was true. “Which isn’t fair at all.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  They both turned at the captain’s shrill voice, telling the company to prepare to continue on. Ian took a deep breath, grimacing a bit and not looking at the corporal.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” Ian blurted.

  “Why?” Corporal Wesshire asked. “Do you believe it’s the truth?”

  Pressing his lips together, Ian realized just how far those two sentences had carried him. “Yes—but that doesn’t matter. And I’m sure there are plenty of other possible explanations—”

  “Initiative is a central tenet of our organization.” Corporal Wesshire calmly hoisted his pack around his shoulders. “We’re all expected to think for ourselves. That is what separates us from the regulars. Being ashamed of your own ideas doesn’t just hurt the individual, it hurts everyone.” The corporal gave a small nod and with that walked toward where the rest of the company was assembling on the road.

  Ian let out a shuttering breath that he hadn’t dared let go until the other was far enough away.

  He’d never heard words spoken like that, at least not in person. It was somewhat silly, but from an academic standpoint, an incessantly critical disposition, Ian was amazed at how flawless it had been. It wasn’t the confidence—that was unarguably essential, but not difficult. It wasn’t even the succinct communication of an appealing set of ideas. Certainly not the logical composure, the pacing or delivery, it had been—what had it been?

  The power. The calm assurance coupled with a momentary, but overwhelmingly well-aimed sense of pathos. Looking at him just a few seconds ago, Ian had been unable to doubt in any quarter of his mind that Corporal Wesshire believed exactly what he was saying, and the corporal not only could carry out those notions in reality, he already had and definitely would. Forever, if Ian’s usually cautious impressions were to be trusted.

  Ian gave one last look at the bit of food on the ground being clumsily drug away through the dirt by some new insect before he turned and hurried to where the captain was already glaring at him.

  But Corporal Wesshire might not be so handily trusted, at least in this instance. As much as Ian wanted to be won over, he couldn’t help the nagging uneasiness that had surfaced.

  “Company, form ranks!” Captain Marsden crisply shouted out, himself at attention in front and a little to the left of the single file of men that formed with Lieutenant Taylor at the temporary head.


  It was clear that he had been baiting Ian, probably for far more material than what Ian had given him. It didn’t seem that the corporal would betray what Ian had said, but then for what reason would the corporal do that if not for some sort of personal or regimental gain?

  “By flank!” the captain commanded, walking sideways to examine as the company quickly reformed itself with only some slight hesitation into two parallel lines according to their flanks. “Quickly, quickly,” the captain said as he paced alongside their progress.

  Perhaps Corporal Wesshire held some of his own reservations against the captain, and not just because his disposition struck Ian as the kind that was coldly critical to the failings of others. Yes, that seemed reasonable. The corporal could just want some personal consolidation of his own feelings.

  That seemed somewhat unprofessional though, and Corporal Wesshire seemed anything but that.

  “By rank, forward heavy,” the captain said, putting out his arm as he stood a little to the left, facing them, “on my mark.”

  They hurried to accompany that, Ian and Rory visibly struggling the most. Ian, because he was distracting himself. Rory because, well—

  No, Ian corrected. Corporal Wesshire wasn’t so much professional as sophisticated.

  But where was the difference exactly?

  “Very well,” the captain said, frowning a bit as he looked at Ian. “Tapered now by rank. And keep your attention forward, cut this lackadaisical business.”

  They all struggled to form a diagonal, single-file line off the captain’s arm as quickly and orderly as they could. And even as Ian thought that he really should be focusing more on what they were doing, he couldn’t think where exactly was the significant different between professionalism and sophistication. At least in his mind, but he knew it definitely existed.

  The finishing snap of Kieran’s heel, the last one in line, was somewhat less grandiose as their line was off the stone path by that point. Nodding, the captain silently brought his hand up and made the even gesture. With something akin to relief, the company’s taper pivoted forward into a flat line, making sure to maintain their order as they all moved at varying speeds to even out.