Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

“It sounded as if it might be a few days before we meet up with them again. Should I bring my writing desk with me? I’d like to, if that’s fine?”

Braylar replied, “As you wish. If I give you a crossbow, do you think you can avoid shooting your horse, yourself, or one of my men if you ride with us into combat?”

At hearing “combat” I resisted the urge to swallow hard or shift my weight from one foot to the other. “The last time I had one, Captain, I managed to distract one of Henlester’s men long enough for you to kill him. And hit a horse. Though that was even luckier than nearly hitting you and the guard. So, does that count as acquitting myself well enough to handle one again?”

The words were out too fast, and I almost started to apologize and recall them as he stared at me before saying, “Stow your gear then, Cross-bowman Arkamondos. And I will arm you once more.”

It seemed the more I was around the measured and calculating captain, the more rash and impulsive I was becoming. Not a very good combination.

I started toward the door and he said, “Stay close to Vendurro. I gave him no explicit instructions to keep you safe, but I suspect he actually likes you, so he might protect you a bit. I would advise you to stay near me, but I will be in the thick of it, and will have no patience for you if you get in the way.”

With that lukewarm assurance, I headed out of the common room, forcing myself not to look around to take it in a final time. It wasn’t so very special, and it seemed to invite ill luck. It would be my final time here regardless, but there was also utter finality, and I didn’t want to dwell on that possibility. I walked quickly though the door and made my way down the stairs, nearly colliding with another Syldoon, moving around him only half as smoothly as Soffjian had managed. I’d never felt particularly dexterous, but this crew made me feel clumsier and less sure of my footing than at any other point in my life.

Unlike the Three Casks in Rivermost, the Grieving Dog didn’t let commoners pay half-rent to sleep on the common room floor, but Gremete was up. As the owner of the inn, she probably rose before dawn most days, anyway. She was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over her meager chest, and didn’t look particularly happy about the very early traffic of soldiers going up and down the stairs, but it didn’t appear to be the irritation of someone roused from sleep.

Braylar leaned over the railing above, his mail and lamellar and weapons jingling, if such deadly accoutrement could be said to jingle. “My apologies for the disturbance, Lady Proprietor. The lodging has been exemplary, on the whole.”

Had she been in a smaller city, or a road inn, seeing armed men moving early might have given her pause or concern, but Gremete seemed entirely nonplussed. “And you’ve been a good patron. Exemplary might be a bit strong, but you never stiffed me, were tidier than most, and minded your manners. On the whole. For soldiers.” She had mastered the half-amused, half-exasperated tone that could have only come from being a mother.

This wasn’t lost on Braylar, who smiled, more genuinely and longer than normal. He walked down the stairs, gloved hand still grazing the bannister ever so slightly, making a slithering noise as he went. When he reached the bottom, he tossed a small pouch jingling with coins. Gremete caught it, and though never having been stiffed, seemed in no hurry to begin now. She opened it and thumbed through the coin, squinting in the scant light. Then she looked up at Braylar. “I’m better with sums than most, but it looks like you overpaid a bit. More than a bit, truth be told. Looks to be about double what you owe. Something I should be worried about?”

Braylar’s smile never left his face, held there so long it was worrisome. “A Syldoon never overpays, Lady Innkeep. Under on occasion, and accurate to a penny the rest of the time, but never over. Food and lodging, as discussed. The extra is to cover the damage.”

Gremete looked up at the second floor and back to the captain. “About to recant on the good patron part. What all did you do to my rooms, Syldoon?”

“The rooms are in fine shape, Gremete. Never better. Some repairable damage to overall business I imagine. I expect it will be readily apparent soon enough.” He regarded me, smile gone. “I had hoped all the armor and weapons and what not had alerted you to a pending melee. Were those hints overly subtle? Move, Arki.”

He headed out the door, as Gremete started asking another question and just as quickly stopped when it was obvious he was in no mood for more discussion. She looked at me and I shrugged my shoulders. “The man does know something about damage, but I have no idea what he’s talking about either.”

She tucked the purse into her apron, threw a towel over her shoulder, and disappeared into a dark hall, shaking her head as she went.

Hurrying after Braylar, the writing case, satchel, crossbow, and quiver all bounced in various directions.

I walked into the stalls, the hint of the sun flaking the roofs and eaves to the east, but generally still blocked off from all but the castle in Alespell right now. The half-moon and its half-ring was still half-visible above one roof, delicate and white, like some fragile bit of crystal that had already been cracked in two, the missing half crushed to dust or fallen behind the horizon. A lantern hung on a hook just inside the stable door, otherwise we’d be in near darkness still, even with dawn upon us, but it was shuttered most of the way, and so the interior was gloom. Most of the Syldoon were mounted already, and Soffjian and Skeelana were as well.

It was a larger party than I expected, certainly more than had been staying at the Grieving Dog. I did a quick count and came up with eighteen: fifteen soldiers, two Memoridons, plus myself. With the chill in the air, everyone’s breath was ghosting in front of their faces at irregular intervals, and the effect was nearly mesmerizing. All these soldiers, armed and armored and saddled up for some skirmish or battle that only a handful of them had any understanding of, simply trusting that their captain had roused them in the middle of the night with good cause. Which was likely true. So when I shivered, it had less to do with a chill outside the skin as in.

I secured my gear on my horse as best I could, and it looked only marginally less clumsy on the animal than it had on me. But at least it wouldn’t have to bear the added weight of armor. Though if Captain Killcoin was right, I’d probably find myself wishing I had some. When we headed to the temple, I expected I might witness some combat, but never imagined I might be in the thick of it. And there was little question I would be this morning.

The captain turned his helm over, spread the aventail drape out, then tipped his head down as he lifted the helm over, the riveted rings spreading about his shoulders and obscuring every part of his face save for his eyes. It gave him an even more fearsome look than usual.

Mulldoos approached Braylar and reported, “All the men are ready. And the wagons will move out later today, as ordered.”

Braylar nodded and pulled one glove tighter on his hand, flexing the fingers. “Very good. And the rest?”

Mulldoos nodded. “Timing’s like to be tricky, Cap, but the ripper’ll show on cue, or the man that cocks it up will answer to me.”

Braylar nodded. “Who do you have assigned?”

Mulldoos called out, “Lugger, Brunzlo, over here, now.”

Two soldiers came jogging over, lamellar plates clacking.

Mulldoos said, “Cap’s got some questions for you.” Then he moved off to inspect one thing or another, possibly for the third or fourth time, was my guess.