Роберт Асприн - Forever After

Suddenly, she was very near, pressed up against him. His jaw muscles bunched, then relaxed. He put his arms about her, held her to him.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. “It’s just that I want to have everything taken care of, everything in place, for us. I want life to be going smoothly here when we finally settle down to the happiness forever after business.”

“Of course,” she said. “I understand your concern.”

She looked up into his eyes.

“For a while I thought that I had done something to offend you, or that you had changed,” she said. “It seemed almost as if you were avoiding me. But I begin to understand all that you’ve had on your mind.”

He nodded.

“It hasn’t been easy,” he said. “It almost seems the peace has been harder than the war in some ways. I’m sorry if I neglected you while I tried to deal with some of its problems. I intend to have everything in hand in time for our nuptials and the crowning. Soon, I promise.”

“I can wait,” she said. “Just so I know nothing’s gone wrong between us….”

“I’d have told you,” he said, “if something had. No, it’s the damned press of business that’s been getting in the way.”

Her lips parted slightly, so he leaned forward and kissed her. Moments later, another eruption occurred and more hot droplets fell upon them. He moved away, turned, and drew her after him.

“After life is safe from things like this, we can have more time for what we were doing,” he said. “Unfortunately, it will probably keep me busy for a while yet.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, keeping up with his rapid pace. “But even in a less than perfect world perhaps we could find a few hours to be together in some place that is not yet disturbed.”

“Wish we could,” he called above the growing rumble of the new eruption. “But I’ve got to be off to another meeting on just this matter. We’ll have to get together later.”

Rango sat in the back of the room, drinking a cup of tea. He was tired. The past several days in particular, this morning’s meeting, the encounter with Rissa — all had been emotionally stressful, and he was physically tired. So he’d turned the briefing of the Bearers over to one of their own number, with whom he’d conferred quickly in advance. Colonel Dominik Blaid — no, damn it! General Domino Blaid — for whom he’d just signed the promotion papers a week or so back — had the full respect of her fellows and the experience of countless military briefings.

As if observing some exotic bird, he studied her. Up until fairly late in the war, everyone had assumed cavalry commander Dominik Blaid — son of the old General Kerman Blaid — was the most brilliant tactician in the field. Nor were they incorrect, save as to the Colonel’s gender. Old Kerman had badly wanted a son to carry on the family tradition, but his late wife Jjad not cooperated, leaving him with a single child of the female persuasion. Undaunted, he had decided to make the best of the material at hand, cross-dressing his daughter, calling her by the masculine version of her given name, and beginning her cavalry training as soon as she could stay on a horse’s back. And something in her genes responded from the first.

As with six or seven generations of Blaids before her, she had the knack. And something extra. Emerging victorious in engagement after engagement, she quickly rose in her command, exhibiting more and more flashes of the family aptitude at its highest level.

It was somewhere in the final weeks of the war that she had suffered a shoulder wound when enemy archers released clouds of arrows into her charge. Capturing the height she had stormed, she reeled then and slid from the saddle. Gar Quithnick, an unabashed admirer of the Colonel, was there immediately, tearing open the bloody shirt, ready to apply his hingu healing arts. When he realized that the man he most admired was a woman, Gar also realized that he had just fallen in love. But the lady did not share this sentiment. At least, not with him.

Rango smiled and sipped his tea as Domino began addressing the group. She still favored masculine garb, wore her hair short, and talked like a field commander. Hard to believe she’d fallen in love with a poet and scholar of ancient languages. But that is what the newly formed domestic intelligence service had told him. Jord Inder was the man’s name.

Domino got along famously with Spotty Gulick, though there was nothing romantic there. As might be suspected with an infantry officer who had risen through the ranks and been involved in a number of the same campaigns, he had a lot in common with the Colonel. Besides, he seemed to favor petite blondes, and at five feet ten inches Domino was several inches taller than the husky captain.

On the other hand, Gar Quithnick was several inches taller than the lady. Slim, dark-haired, pale-eyed, he was graceful enough to be taken for a dancer rather than what he really was: one of the deadliest things on two feet. Trained from childhood in the killing arts of hingu , he had served in Kalaran’s elite Guard until he learned of his master’s part in his parents’ deaths. Defecting then to Rango’s standard, he had distinguished himself in the delaying action at Bardu Defile. The pass was narrow enough that only a pair of foot soldiers or a single mounted cavalryman could pass through at a time and led to the Plains of Paradath. There Rango’s exhausted troops were encamped, not expecting an attack. One of six men volunteering to hold the Defile while word was carried to the encamped army below, Gar had waited, part of a sacrifice to gain five minutes — hopefully, ten. The pass was held for the better part of an hour, the other five volunteers succumbing in less than half that time. The only reason Gar lived was that when he finally fell, so gashed, tattered, and covered with gore was he that no one cared to waste another swordstroke on an obvious dead man.

Still, hero though he was, Gar Quithnick had no real friends. There was a touch of fanaticism in that pale gaze, for he dwelled in the shadow of hingu’s death-aesthetic. Spotty, who had fought indoctrinated warriors of other persuasions in the past, had expressed a hope that peacetime might eventually turn Gar’s mind to other affairs, and so humanize him. Gar’s feeling toward the others, remained a mystery. He had never expressed himself, save in the case of Domino.

Rango finished his tea and listened for a time to Domino’s presentation of the conference’s conclusions concerning the magical instruments. There followed a series of questions, similar to those Rissa had asked him earlier. He poured himself more tea as Domino paced slapping her thigh and scratching her nose with her riding crop.

“And when are we to depart with the things?” Jancy Gaine asked.

Domino looked to Rango, who rose to his feet, nodded, and said, “Day after tomorrow. Everyone probably needs a day to settle current business and to get outfitted.”

“Rissa was going to have some words with you about this.”

“We’ve already had them.”

He was about to reseat himself when he felt Gar Quithnick’s gaze. He met it and raised his eyebrows.

“You’ve a question, Gar,” he said.

“Yes,” came that soft, level voice. “The only safe place for the amulet Anachron is its traditional home in a chapel in the mountain village of Gelfait. Unfortunately, the place only exists intermittently. It fades into and out of existence on no predictable schedule — years, sometimes decades or generations apart. I can cross the Waste of Rahoban and go to the place of the village, but I have no guarantee it will manifest when I get there.”

Rango smiled.

“There is a secret tradition,” he replied, “that the phenomenon will occur in response to the presence of the amulet. My consultants say there is every reason to believe this correct. Anachron and Gelfait seem to charge each other up in some fashion.”