His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) (8 page)

Verio gave orders immediately for some of the men to detain her a
moment. She stopped when they’d formed a half circle round her,
the fingers of her right hand curling tightly round the cheek-strap
of her horse’s bridle. She looked up to Tyren and Verio with
poison in her gray eyes. It was a pretty face. Not beautiful, the
bones a little too prominent, the lips thin, the chin and nose too
long and sharp. But pretty, if it hadn’t been tight and hard
with anger.

“You’ve no right to detain me,” she said, in
Vareno.

Verio dismounted. “That isn’t how you speak to the
garrison commander, girl. What’s your name?”

“Maryna,” she said.

“Your family’s name,” said Verio, impatiently.

She didn’t say anything to that for a moment. Then she tilted
her chin up further, her gray eyes sparking. “Nyre,” she
said. “Maryna Nyre.”

“I know the Nyri,” Verio said. “Your people are
village folk. What are you doing up here in the hills, then?”

She spoke in a mocking voice, smiling coldly as she spoke.

“Maybe I was taking word to the rebels a patrol would be
passing this way,” she said.

Verio took her by one elbow and pulled her towards him so sharply
that she stumbled. He raised his free hand to deal a blow.

Tyren said, “Lieutenant.”

Verio looked up to him. He hesitated, swallowing. Then, reluctantly,
he dropped his hand to his side and let go the girl’s arm. He
went to her horse and unstrapped the bags from the saddle and threw
them to the ground, prodding each one in turn with a booted foot.
Then he let out his breath in a short, humorless laugh. He lifted the
saddle flap and stood aside so Tyren could see.

“Explain this,” he said to the girl, who was standing a
little way away from him now, her thin arms folded against her ribs,
silently watching.

There was a knife concealed under the flap. It was steel-bladed,
double-edged. Its leather-bound haft was burnished and darkened from
long use. It was good-sized; the blade was as long as Tyren’s
hand from fingertips to wrist, as wide, at the cross-guard, as his
forefinger and middle finger together, tapering towards the point. A
serviceable tool, equally serviceable as a weapon.

The girl’s face was blank.

“I already told you,” she said. “Maybe I’m
with the rebellion. I’ve no other reason to carry a knife, of
course.”

“A steel-bladed knife,” Verio snapped. “A weapon.
Not some farm tool.”

“It’s mine,” the girl said. Her voice was just as
forceful and sharp as Verio’s. “It was my father’s.
It came to me when he died. I use it because it’s what I have.”

“What use has a farm girl for a steel blade?” said Verio.

The girl lifted her shoulders a little. The cold smile came back to
her lips. “I carry it for my own protection, lord. You know
better than I the Outland can be dangerous.”

Verio let the saddle flap fall. His face was ugly with anger. He took
a step towards the girl. The girl made no other move than to unfold
her arms.

A man and a woman were coming up towards the path from the wheat
field at the little farm below. The woman was a little way ahead,
half running, holding up the long skirt of her wool tunic in one hand
so she wouldn’t trip over it.

“Is there trouble, lord?” she said, breathlessly, when
she’d come onto the path. She stopped a short distance from the
horses. She looked to Tyren first, then to Verio, as if uncertain who
to address. She was young, though older than girl. She was plain in a
pleasant way, snub-nosed and sunburnt, kind-faced though her eyes
were careful. The man—Muryn, Tyren supposed—came up to
stand beside her. He looked at Tyren directly. He was older than the
woman. His were keen, solemn eyes with a deep calmness in them—brown
eyes, Tyren noted, not the gray of the mountain people, like the
woman’s eyes or the girl’s. Somehow, despite the
callouses on his brown hands, the muscles in his arms and shoulders,
he didn’t strike Tyren as looking much like a farmer.

Verio had paused in mid-step to turn his attention to the farm wife.
“This is none of your concern,” he said, shortly.

She smiled. “It might be, lord, if you’re wondering why
she was coming from the wild. I sent her to gather some things for
me. She has the skill for it, lord. She’s our healer.”

Verio looked back and forth from the farm wife to the girl. The girl
met his look evenly, coolly, her eyes half-lidded.

Verio jerked his chin towards the bags on the ground. “Open
them,” he said.

The girl’s lip curled. She knelt down slowly and deliberately,
not taking her eyes from Verio. She reached to pick up one of the
bags, holding it in her lap while she unlaced it. She turned it over
so its contents came spilling out onto the path: berries, mostly, and
various herbs, and several roots of a kind Tyren didn’t
recognize. Verio looked down at it and said nothing.

Tyren shifted his weight in Risun’s saddle. He was tired of
this, suddenly.

“Enough,” he said. “Take the troop ahead,
Lieutenant. I’ll join you again presently.”

Verio looked up at him a long moment without moving. Then he took his
horse’s reins and mounted up again and ordered the troop to
fall in behind him, curtly. They moved off down the path. Tyren
waited until they’d gone out of earshot. Then he looked to the
farmer.

“You’re called Muryn?”

The farmer said, “Bryo Muryn—yes, my lord.”

He spoke Vareno without a trace of the usual Cesino accent, the odd
tendency to soften the consonants and draw out the vowels—spoke
it crisply, purely, the way Tyren had heard some of the oldest Choiro
nobility speak. It took Tyren aback. He gaped, stammering a little
over his own words.

“My—my name’s Risto. I’ve just taken command
of the garrison here.”

“An honor to have you in Souvin, Lord Risto,” said Muryn.

They looked at each other in silence. Muryn’s gaze was steady,
unblinking. He might have been amused, from the way the corners of
his eyes were crinkled. But his face was blank.

Finally Tyren tore his eyes away. He looked down to the girl. He’d
almost forgotten she was kneeling there.

“My apologies for this,” he said. “A
misunderstanding, nothing more.”

The girl didn’t say anything. Muryn said, in a bland voice,
“It’s no matter, my lord.”

“I hope to avoid this kind of misunderstanding in the future.
From now on none of you are to go up into the mountain country unless
it’s done with my prior knowledge and consent. Those who refuse
to comply will be considered belligerents and treated accordingly. Do
you understand?”

“It won’t happen again, lord,” said Muryn.

“You,” Tyren said to the girl. “Do you understand?”

She lifted her face to him and he saw the hard steel glint in her
eyes.

“I understand you,” she said.

He took Risun on ahead, leaving Muryn and the women on the path
behind him. He caught up to the troop in a little while and Verio
slowed his horse to ride alongside him.

“That was no reason for her to be in the Outland,” he
said. His back was still braced in anger. “Or to be carrying
that blade.”

“You think she and the farm wife have dealings with the
rebels?”

“I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility, sir.”

“If they’re aiding the rebellion,” Tyren said, “the
girl wouldn’t have said so, even in jest.”

He wasn’t sure he believed that himself. She’d been
impudent enough—impudent enough to admit the thing openly,
because she figured they were Vareni and too witless to think it
might be the truth. It was possible. Likely, even. But he said none
of that to Verio. He wasn’t really thinking about the girl. It
wasn’t the girl who concerned him. It wasn’t the girl
who’d made uneasiness settle like a cold lump in the pit of his
stomach.

The rest of the ride went uneventfully. They finished the circuit and
returned to the fort a little after noon, and when the meal was done
he sat alone at the desk in his office to write his first report in
the log book. He’d keep a close eye on the outlying farms,
patrol the circuit more regularly and with sharper attention, learn
more about the Nyre girl. Standard precaution, all of it, enough to
keep Verio occupied. That part was simple enough.

This man Muryn complicated things.

Clearly he was no stranger in Souvin, no newcomer, even if he wasn’t
of the old blood—Verio had known his name, known his farm. And
there’d been nothing particularly remarkable about the woman,
his wife. But just as clear he was no common farmer. That much had
been plain from his bearing, from the way he’d met Tyren’s
eyes, even before he’d opened his mouth.

Verio hadn’t seen it. No doubt Verio thought of all Cesini
alike, unworthy of consideration unless they posed a direct
threat—couldn’t see anything outside that convenient mold
he’d made for them. Tyren had no inclination to explain it to
him now. Verio had no sense of subtlety. One hint, one word of
suspicion, and Verio would jump to settle it by force, no more
questions asked—typical Vareno. But that would accomplish
nothing. There’d be opportunity for that later, if necessary.
Always too much opportunity for that. Right now he wanted answers.

* * *

He spent all that evening trying to figure out how he might make it
back alone to the little farm. But as it turned out there was no need
to come up with some excuse to go. He met Muryn on the Rien road the
next morning.

He’d taken Risun out before the sun was up, riding out from the
village so he could run the horse freely. He saw, as he returned,
walking unhurriedly at Risun’s head in the gray half-light,
that Muryn was coming down on foot to the road from the pine wood
which lay between the patrol path, a half-hour’s ride to the
west, and the village. The Cesino saw him and inclined his head to
show respect. They walked together towards the village with some
distance and an uncertain silence between them.

He sounded out words in his head as they walked, trying to figure out
how best to break the silence—whether it were better to do it
in a casual manner or to come to his questions directly. There was
sudden nervousness roiling in the pit of his stomach. Easier for us,
Verio had said, if these people were openly hostile. That was
certainly the truth. Easier if it were beyond question. Easier to
deal with weapons than words.

He said, finally, “You’ve business in Souvin, Muryn?”

“I do, Lord Risto,” said Muryn. There was no surprise in
his voice, no hesitation. He spoke as if he’d been expecting
Tyren to speak.

“Early in the day for it.”

“Regrettably early, my lord. But there’s work to be done
later, and our mountain days go quickly.”

“How’s the crop this year?”

“It’ll be a good year.” Muryn seemed amused. His
voice was dry. “You’ve much interest in farming, lord?”

“I can’t say I’ve much interest in it. No.”

“Your people aren’t farm folk—the Risti.”

“No.”

“It’s unusual to see a nobleman assigned this post,”
Muryn said. “What does a Risto have to do to be sent to a place
like Souvin? Or perhaps the better question: what doesn’t a
Risto have to do?”

Tyren’s steps slowed. It took him a moment, when the
startlement had passed, to catch up to Muryn again, another moment to
find his tongue.

“Bold words,” he managed to say.

“For a simple Cesino farmer speaking to a Risto?”

“I’ve my doubts you’re a simple farmer.”

Muryn smiled. “I’ll disappoint you, then. I’m a
farmer, Lord Risto.”

“Are all farmers in Souvin so free with their tongues?”

“You think too little of farmers, my lord,” said Muryn.

Tyren said nothing. He was more stupefied than angered by the rebuke.
There were powerful Vareni who wouldn’t speak so rashly to a
Risto.

They walked a while without speaking. He was laying things out in his
mind, piece by piece. No—Muryn was no farmer, no matter what he
might say. He spoke too well, too readily, and all of it in that pure
Choiro dialect that made Tyren’s own words sound unpolished,
thick.

“When were you in Choiro, Muryn?” he said, at length.

“You think I’ve been to the capital?”

“Or else you learned to speak Vareno from one of Berion’s
own household.”

“A long time ago,” Muryn said. “Twelve years,
fifteen. I forget how long exactly. The years start to run together.
You find years aren’t as important here in the mountains, here
among farm folk. I could count by harvests, maybe.”

“What business had you in Choiro?”

“My own,” said Muryn.

“Answer me,” said Tyren.

Muryn didn’t look at him. He was looking straight ahead, his
eyes narrowed as though he were bringing some distant thing into
focus.

“I’d business with the Church,” he said, at length.

“What manner of business with the Church?”

The dryness had crept back into Muryn’s voice. “The usual
manner,” he said.

“I was told you native priests had broken with the Church,”
said Tyren.

There was heavy stillness between them a moment, silence except for
bird songs and the rustle of wind in the pines above the road. Tyren
waited. The nervousness in his stomach had sunk and settled in a
cold, solid lump.

Muryn looked over to him, finally. He smiled again, more faintly this
time. “So you’ve had word of a priest in Souvin, Lord
Risto,” he said.

“My adjutant suspected it. He didn’t know—still
doesn’t know. He wouldn’t have known the accent.”

“But you knew it, of course.”

“I’ve spent time enough among Choiro nobility.”

“You didn’t act on it yesterday.”

“I wanted to be sure, first.”

“A rare virtue, forbearance,” said Muryn.

“Rare among my people?”

“Among any,” said Muryn.

Tyren wasn’t sure whether Muryn were speaking in mockery. He
lifted his chin.