M McNally - The Sable City

“I have also heard, Good Guilder, that if an Islander shall swear by the honor of his House, then it is an oath to which he must and shall adhere.”

Block looked at the man’s rough and not-very-clean hand with a frown.

“Your point?” he asked, and the renegade’s smirk returned.

“I’ll take your word, Cap‘n, that by the honor of the House which you serve, I need fear no trickery. Nor no knife in the night. I ask only for peace between us, at least until we’ve found the man we are both after. Shake on it.”

Block’s heavy features were set, but he pulled the black kid-leather glove off his right hand and rumbled that by the House of Deskata, it was so. The Captain leaned forward and the two shook, sword-callused hand in sword-callused hand. Then to Tilda’s surprise, the renegade stepped around the pony and came at her with his hand still extended.

“You too, girl. You’re as much a Guilder as this one.”

Tilda glanced at her Captain, but he was still facing forward and was busy wiping his hand on his pony’s neck before replacing his glove. She looked down at the man in front of her, his brown eyes lingering on hers for perhaps the first time since the woods last night. In fact, she knew perfectly well that it was. Tilda pulled off her right glove, repeated the oath, and they shook. Her hand had held a hilt often enough, but was not yet hardened by it. His felt like rough wood.

“Lead on,” Block said again, and this time the renegade gave a little salute, shifted the saddlebags on his shoulders, and stepped smartly back to the head of the line.

“One more thing,” Tilda called.

Block shot her an irritable look, but the renegade turned back around with his eyebrows raised.

“What is your name?”

One side of the man’s mouth twitched and there was a flash of his white teeth. Not a bad-looking fellow even apart from the stubble of beard and hair, still so short that they looked faintly gray in the morning light. His muddy eyes only did not suit him.

“Forgiveness, Milady, wherefore ever are my manners? I am called Dugan. Of Correnca, on Gweiyer. Used to be Legionnaire-Sergeant Dugan, but I expect we can dispense with that. And you would be?”

Matilda Lanai of Miilark pushed back her shoulders, though it still hurt a bit, and most likely gave her lips a little purse without really meaning to do so.

“My name,” she said, “is none of your business.”

And so on they went.

*

Part of Tilda wanted to throw her Guild cloak away, particularly when she got a whiff of it upon opening the saddlebag into which it had been unceremoniously crammed. But the garment was still the best she possessed by a league, sign of both her Guild status and with its inner lining of emerald green, of her affiliation with the proud House of Deskata.

She had also had to pay for it herself as she had left Miilark before her official graduation from the Guild. The daughter of two shopkeepers was not about to take a loss of six-and-twenty silvers.

Thus on the morning after the first full day of travel with Dugan the renegade legionnaire, Tilda Lanai held her nose as she peeled the wadded cloak from her baggage, along with a hefty brick of Beoan soap. She took both to the creek beside which the trio had camped after moving south-by-southwest all day.

Tilda was still sore in her back and shoulders though they no longer ached quite so bad, and late in the night she had gingerly checked the purple band of bruising under her tunic, making sure nothing was broken. Her intact ribs began to throb once more as she beat her cloak against a flat rock and then got to scrubbing on her knees, trying not to see the ichor under her hands, nor the red-tinged foam spiraling away on the lazy water. When she was nearly done, a neatly-folded packet of the Captain’s laundry landed on the bank next to her without fanfare. Tilda gave it an ugly look through a strand of hair that had worked loose from her braid, but not one that Block noticed as he settled on another nearby rock, crossing his short legs and mouthing a pipe he never smoked. Dugan appeared, frowning at the water, and fingering the soiled hem of his own dirty tunic.

“Do not even think about it.” Tilda said to the man. He blinked at her for a moment.

“I was not about to suggest you do mine, ” he said. “Just contemplating doing it myself, then wearing it wet the rest of the day. I have decided against such a course.”

“It has been three days and more since the battle,” Block said, paying no mind to the small talk. “We have seen none of the victorious Duke’s warders nor patrols, but they will be returning to their regular rounds at any time.”

The Captain gave the erstwhile legionnaire a long look.

“They will, no doubt, be on the lookout for any renegades not yet in custody.”

Dugan passed a hand over his close-cropped pate.

“I was contemplating that, as well.”

“Your bald head sticks out like a hammer-banged thumb,” Tilda said, scrubbing again at her cloak. “And I doubt the Captain’s extra pantaloons will fit you.”

She immediately regretted adding that last, for she knew Block was aware that she was carrying among her baggage a good bolt of fine blue cloth she had bartered for a while back on a lark. Tilda had a sudden dread that the Captain would order her to stitch the renegade some new pants. Fortunately, Dugan kept talking.

“Another day on this line and we’ll be near some scattered freeholds. Perhaps we could…barter for some clothing. And a hat.”

“Barter?” Block repeated, with a wry note that made Dugan frown.

“These saddlebags I’m lugging are Exlandic leather, stitched with gold, and the buckles are real silver. If you can’t get a set of peasant garb for them you’re not much of a Miilarkian, merchant or no.”

Block snorted. “Of course dealing a nobleman’s baggage won’t attract any attention. Why don’t you just offer your Legion sword for a wheel of cheese?”

The renegade tapped a sandaled foot. “You have a better idea?”

The dwarf tapped the pipe stem against his teeth. “One mitigation of the heavy burdens of command is the ability to delegate the small matters. Matilda.”

Tilda blew a strand of hair out of her face and looked over warily.

“When we next pass a peasant holding, you will handle this.”

The Empire of the Code was not perfect, and the Codians were in main wise enough to recognize that it was not. This was not the only difference between the Empire and many of the other realms located on the continent which the Elves had long ago named Noroth.

In Ayzantium and Daul, two countries that had been locked in combat for three decades, in the Danorian lands on the ancient War River, or of course in any of the tumultuous Riven Kingdoms where warfare was endemic, the rapid approach of hooves to a country home brought one response. Doors were bolted, shutters were pulled in, and wary eyes would peek around humble curtains, if there were any. But in the Lands Under the Code, things were different.

Noon of the Twelfth Day of Eighth Month found the Chestinsibranik family of Orstaf where such an hour always did, seated around the luncheon table which today was set in the kitchen owing to the stern breeze outside. The patriarch, familiarly called Oti – “Father” – by everyone present sat at the head of the table in a sturdy wooden chair which his own father had made from poplar wood for Oti’s mother when she was first great with child, a long time ago now. Oti’s fur cap and cloth coat hung over the chair back, and his soiled sleeves were rolled up to the elbows of hard-muscled arms. His wife sat on his right with the baby in her lap, their eldest son and his fuzz of beard on her right. To Oti’s left the elder daughter sat between the younglings, a twinned boy and girl. The pair had to be kept apart to prevent any jostling or poking under the table during the prayers to Kantaf and Shanatar, with a kind word thrown in for the young Emperor in far-off Laketon.