David Coe: The Horsemen's Gambit

"We've talked about this."

A small smile touched his lips. "We've done more than talk about it."

"Yes, and we saw how that turned out, didn't we?"

He gave her a coy look. "Was it really all that bad?"

"It didn't work, Enly. And I have no interest in being any man's wife. Not even yours. You'd expect me to give up my command, to have children, to be the dutiful wife of the lord heir."

"It wouldn't be that terrible, would it?"

She gestured at the mail coat she still wore and at the weapons hanging from her belt. "Look at me, Enly. Do I look like the marrying kind?"

They were about the same height, and now their eyes met. It was only for an instant-she quickly made herself look away-but she saw enough to know that he meant what he was saying. He might well have loved her.

"I'd marry you in a heartbeat," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

She made herself look at him again. He deserved that much from her. "No." she said. "I'm sorry, Enly, but the answer is still no."

He held her gaze for a moment longer before shaking his head. He smiled again, but it looked pained. "Onjaef pride," he said.

"Call it what you will."

"You'll change your mind someday."

Tirnya shrugged, far less certain of this than he seemed to be. "Maybe."

"By then it might be too late."

She straightened. "I suppose that's the risk I'm taking."

They stood in silence for several moments. Enly continued to eye her, but Tirnya refused to meet his gaze again. Finally, he took a long breath. "All right, then." He held out a hand to her, somehow managing a smile. "Shall we go back in?"

Tirnya had to laugh. However disappointed he might have been, he recovered quickly, or at least hid his pain well. By midnight he'd be in bed with some barmaid or one of the other swordswomen.

"All right," she said. She took his hand, and together they reentered the tavern. Once inside, he released her hand and joined some of his men, leaving Tirnya to reclaim her ale from the bar. She didn't much feel like drinking it. In fact, she would have preferred to leave, but after the way the others had welcomed her, and after her exchange with Enly, which so many had overheard, she didn't feel that she could. Not yet, at least.

"Captain!"

Tirnya turned and searched the tavern, wondering if this was someone calling for her.

"Captain Onjaef!"

She saw a man near the back of the Swift Water wave a hand over his head. After a moment she recognized Oliban Hert, one of her lead riders. His shirt was stained red on the sleeve, from a wound she had dealt him today in the seventh match. Still, he was smiling. She waved in return, picked up her ale, and walked back to where he was standing. When she reached him, she realized that several of her riders were there. They raised their glasses in salute and she drained hers, the proper response under the circumstances. The men cheered, and immediately one of them rose and hurried to the bar to get her another.

"Ya made us proud today, Captain," Oliban said with a grin. "I only wish ya'd been as gentle with me as ya were with th' lord heir." Immediately his face fell. "Wh-what I meant was-"

She patted his shoulder. "It's all right, Oliban. I know what you meant." But her throat had tightened. People in Qalsyn would be speaking of what she had done for a long time. It might well become a lasting part of Harvest Tournament lore, like Stri's first competition, or the year when Enly's older brother, Berris, won the final match, only to fall to the ground dead a few moments after, the victim, the healers said, of a defective heart. She'd be remembered, too: the woman who had her chance to defeat the lord heir, only to squander it.

The rider returned with Tirnya's ale and handed it to her. She drank a bit, taking the opportunity to compose herself.

"Ya did what ya had to, Captain," Oliban said, eyeing her. "All of us knows it."

The other men nodded their agreement.

"Ya showed ya was th' best, an' ya showed ya have honor." Oliban raised his cup. "T' th' captain!" he said.

"Hear, hear!"

Tirnya grinned and sipped her ale as the others drank. "Thank you," she said. They cleared room for her at their table, and she sat.

All of them, including Oliban, started to ask her questions about her matches. How had she beaten the Aelean? What weapons had she used? Who was quicker, Enly or the Tordjanni swordsman she fought in her eighth match? She answered as many of their questions as she could before finally raising a hand to forestall the next one.

"Actually," she said, smiling to soften the words, "I really don't want to talk about the matches anymore. It's been a… a long day."

Oliban glanced around the table at the others. "Our apologies, Captain. Maybe we should leave ya alone."

Tirnya shook her head. "No. I don't want that." She looked at them each in turn. "You can't tell me that the tournament is the only thing you know how to talk about."

They laughed, but it sounded forced, a response intended to please their commander. And she understood. It wasn't all they knew to talk about, but it was certainly all they wanted to talk about. Every other conversation in the Swift Water was about the day's events; why shouldn't theirs be as well? They could speak of more mundane matters every other day of the year. But today…

Tirnya smiled again, this time at her own foolishness.

"Enly's quicker," she said. "Although the Tordjanni isn't bad. His off hand is only average-Oliban here is quicker on the left. But his sword…" She shook her head, and the men all leaned in, waiting, eager. "His sword is fast. Lightning quick." Tirnya grinned. "Not as fast as mine, of course, and no match for Enly's. But very quick."

They wound up talking for hours. Once Tirnya forced herself past her self-pity, she understood that talking about her matches and those of her men was just what she needed. Before she knew it, most of the other combatants had left the Swift Water, though Enly and his father were still there, talking to separate groups of soldiers, trying to ignore each other.

"It's late," Tirnya said, standing and stretching. Despite all the sword-work she did every day, during the tournament she always seemed to exercise muscles she had forgotten since the previous year. She'd be sore come morning. "We have training at first bells."

The others stood as well. "Yes, Captain," Oliban said.

"We also have patrol two nights hence," she said. "I want the assignments set by tomorrow evening."

Oliban nodded. "They will be."

"Good night, Oliban."

He grinned and nodded. "G'night, Captain."

She watched her men leave before draining her cup-her fifth ale of the night-and starting toward the door herself.

"Captain Onjaef."

She turned. Maisaak was watching her, and, she now realized, Stri Balkett was standing with him.

"A word please."

She crossed to where he stood and nodded to Stri. "Yes, Your Lordship."

Enly looked up from his conversation and immediately joined them. Maisaak raised an eyebrow, but he didn't order his son away.

"Captain Balkett was just telling me that there's been trouble on the roads south of the city. Brigands from the sound of it. Groups of them, disciplined and clever. They've been striking at peddlers making their way toward the Ofirean and the lower sovereignties. Have your men heard anything?"

"Not that I know of, Your Lordship," Tirnya said. "But I'll ask them about it first thing in the morning."

Maisaak nodded. "Yes, do. And I want patrols doubled until further notice." His eyes flicked toward Enly. "All patrols. Even those in the north. I don't want anything interfering with Harvest trade. There's also talk of the pestilence to the west. Much of it seems to be in white-hair lands; the Fal'Borna mostly. But all it takes is a single peddler to bring it across the Silverwater into our lands."