Juliet McKenna - The Swordsman's Oath

Talagrin was not a god he was used to worshipping; the favor of the lord of wild places seemed a little irrelevant when you lived in one of the biggest cities in Formalin. Temar felt a sudden qualm; would the god have heard his half-meant irreverence? Talagrin’s good will would be worth having once he was trying to carve a colony out of a wilderness, no argument there. Temar opened the drawer in the plinth beneath the figure, which was draped in the fluidly carved skin of a long-forgotten predator, and took out a stick of incense. It was stickily fresh and he saw recent ashes in the offertory bowl before the god; he was evidently not the only one looking for divine protection against the perils of journeys ahead. He snapped flint and steel against a twist of dry wool and lit the incense. Waiting for a moment he breathed in the fragrant smoke, feeling it loosen the tension behind his eyes that had been threatening to break into a headache for most of the day.

Larasion regarded him over her mingled armful of flowers, fruit and bare branches as Temar prepared a second offering. He had made enough of these in his time, he thought with a rueful smile, asking for fair weather when he reckoned he was in with a chance of spending a chime in the long grass with some pretty girl, beseeching cold winds and rain when one of those hopeful maidens wanted him to join some family celebration, to be presented for parental inspection. That was all very well but rain in due season and sun to bring a fruitful harvest was going to mean the success or failure of Den Fellaemion’s colony, not just profit and loss in the D’Alsennin ledgers. Temar lit the incense with a sober expression and looked at the sternly beautiful face of the goddess, hoping she would understand his unspoken pleas.

The door opened and a small, pointed face framed in gold braids peeped round.

“Oh, Temar, don’t let me interrupt your devotions.”

“No, Daria, it’s all right, come in.” Temar rose and the girl entered, bringing with her a blend of scents that made a heady mixture with the incense. She seated herself with practiced grace.

“Aunt Rielle has had me at work all day in the stillroom.” Daria fanned herself with an elegantly manicured hand, now somewhat stained. “Halcarion only knows how I’ll get my fingers clean.”

She proffered some minor blemishes for Temar’s inspection, resting her hand in his for a breath longer than was strictly necessary.

“I thought I would find some peace and quiet in here, maybe avoid being given another job for a little while,” she confessed with a mischievous glance from beneath her darkened lashes.

“You and me both,” Temar replied with accomplished charm. Daria had been sent to spend a couple of seasons up here after some escapade at Solstice, he recalled. There had been talk of a coppersmith or similar; certainly she’d over-stepped the boundaries most good families expected of their daughters.

Daria yawned and stretched her arms above her head, the loose sleeves of her gown falling back to reveal tempting, milky skin. She reminded Temar of a pale-gold lapcat his mother had once had, all coquettish affection. He wondered how Daria would respond to a little stroking.

“I’m hungry,” she complained abruptly. “No one seems to have done anything about dinner, did you know that?”

“Why don’t I fetch us some bread and meat and we can find a quiet corner to eat in, just the two of us?” Temar leaned forward and was rewarded with a stirring glimpse of the downy swell of Dana’s breasts.

She smiled pertly at him, her eyes knowing. “I’ll find some wine; no one’s going to miss a flask or so in all this confusion. Meet me by the kitchen-garden gate.”

Temar spared the statues a glance as he followed Daria out. He smiled suddenly; whatever Talagrin or Larasion might be thinking, Halcarion was certainly smiling on him.

As a result Temar was feeling refreshed and even cheerful as he sat watching the wagons roll out in the early light of the following dawn. The herds had already moved on, plumes of dust rising in the cold air to mark the trail south.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Lachald was clutching a list awkwardly along with his reins, a charcoal smear on the side of his head showing he was stowing his marker behind his ear again.

“All done.” Rielle walked briskly to her carriage, having supervised the stowing of the effigies from the shrine. A tall, spare woman with an angular face, she took no nonsense from anyone, from the Emperor down, some said. It had come as no small surprise to Temar to hear her insist that the statues must be the very last thing to leave the villa, to avert ill luck. As a lackey opened the carriage door, Temar caught a glimpse of Daria looking distinctly disgruntled. To his relief her expression cleared when she saw him and she gave him a private, conspiratorial smile. He would hate to think their dealings the night before hadn’t been satisfactory. It was a shame she wouldn’t make a suitable wife, he mused. She certainly had the charm a Sieur needed in his lady but Temar didn’t fancy being married to a girl with such a welcoming attitude.

A horn blew close by, startling his horse, and Temar was very nearly unseated. The wagons got slowly under way, the lowing of reluctant oxen mingling with the stubborn creaks of wood and leather, settling into a low rumble as the line of carts moved off down the track. Temar looked around for his scouts and nodded to Rhun, whom he’d marked down as a useful man, his lack of formality not withstanding. Rhun raised a pennant on a lance, settling it firmly in his stirrup. Temar kicked his horse on and cantered down the line, a contingent growing behind him as those previously nominated as guards left their families and goods behind. He led them to a little rise, where they paused to watch the carts winding on through the vastness of the grasslands.

“I don’t expect we’ll have any real trouble but it will pay to stay alert,” Temar began.

“What about the plainsmen?” one of the younger lads asked nervously. Temar saw concern darken the eyes of several others.

“The last true plainsmen were driven out by the Cohorts more than twenty generations ago,” Temar said firmly, frowning as a few skeptical murmurs came from the rear ranks. He raised his voice slightly. “There are raiders, certainly, preying on decent, hard-working stockmen like yourselves, and they are taking every advantage of departures like ours, so you all need to keep a good watch. I don’t suppose they’ll have any more courage than four-legged carrion hounds, so if we make sure they see we’re ready to defend our own, I imagine they’ll scurry back to their dens, tails between their legs.”

That got something like a laugh, at least, and Temar briskly allocated each man a partner and a watch-roster. Luckily he’d woken for a trip to the privy in the night and remembered he still needed to draw this up, hurriedly finding a lamp and parchment and doing his best to recall the orders Lachald had posted, looking to put the men near their own kin and belongings to keep them that little bit more vigilant. He grinned to himself; the lamplight had roused Daria and she’d welcomed him back to the warmth of the bed with a rekindled fire of her own.

His good humor evaporated as he heard one of the lads behind him talking to his mate in an undertone.

“It’s all very well saying the true plainsmen are dead and gone but I’ve heard tell that some of them can come back from the Otherworld; Eldritch-men, they’re called, they step out of the shadows and shoot you full of them little copper arrows.”

Temar rounded on the pimply stripling. “What nonsense are you peddling? I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go and tell your tales to the children around the fire tonight and see if you can’t start a real panic for the women to cope with? Who’s your mother? I’ll wager she’d stripe your arse for you if she heard you talking such rubbish.”