The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) (10 page)

“Our captain is very accomplished,” Corporal Wesshire said, his voicing lowering just slightly.

Ian
looked back to make sure the others were a good deal away, their attentions elsewhere.

“He has been many places,” Arran said, “but …”

I shouldn’t listen,
Ian thought to himself in a small, far off voice, as though it was with the rest of the company, laughing about something else in the distance.

“… Some have said that he has come to some trouble,” Arran said, staring at Ian with
a low and friendly face. “His posting was very favorable, but he mishandled some duty and has since been in a position of disgrace.”

Ian was going to say something, but only nodded, pursing his lips as he stared away at the bit of food on the ground, lying in the sun and already having attracted several flies that—

“In fact,” the other said, backing away a bit and looking at the others casually, “it would sound as if this posting is merely the latest in a series of poor postings.”

“It is an awfully small company,” Ian murmured, to say something.

“Indeed,” Arran said. “We’re far more a squad than a company. And though we do have special responsibilities, it is fairly unusual for an experienced captain to be only given two flanks.”

“He’
s overly bitter about us,” Ian said, and that was true. “Which isn’t fair at all.”

“No, it’s not.”

They both turned at the captain’s shrill voice, telling the company to prepare to continue on. Ian took a deep breath, grimacing a bit and not looking at the corporal.

“I shouldn’t have said that,”
Ian blurted.

“
Why?” Corporal Wesshire asked. “Do you believe it’s the truth?”

Pressing his lips together, Ian realized just how far those two sentences had carried him. “Yes—but that doesn’t matter.
And I’m sure there are plenty of other possible explanations—”

“Initiative is a central tenet of our organization.”
Corporal Wesshire calmly hoisted his pack around his shoulders. “We’re all expected to think for ourselves. That is what separates us from the regulars. Being ashamed of your own ideas doesn’t just hurt the individual, it hurts everyone.” The corporal gave a small nod and with that walked toward where the rest of the company was assembling on the road.

Ian let out a shuttering breath that he hadn’t dared let go until
the other was far enough away.

He’d never heard words spoken like that, at least not in person. It was somewhat silly, but from an academic standpoint, an incessantly critical
disposition, Ian was amazed at how flawless it had been. It wasn’t the confidence—that was unarguably essential, but not difficult. It wasn’t even the succinct communication of an appealing set of ideas. Certainly not the logical composure, the pacing or delivery, it had been—what had it been?

The power.
The calm assurance coupled with a momentary, but overwhelmingly well-aimed sense of pathos. Looking at him just a few seconds ago, Ian had been unable to doubt in any quarter of his mind that Corporal Wesshire believed exactly what he was saying, and the corporal not only could carry out those notions in reality, he already had and definitely would. Forever, if Ian’s usually cautious impressions were to be trusted.

Ian gave one last look at the bit of food on the ground being clumsily drug away through the dirt
by some new insect before he turned and hurried to where the captain was already glaring at him.

But Corporal
Wesshire might not be so handily trusted, at least in this instance. As much as Ian wanted to be won over, he couldn’t help the nagging uneasiness that had surfaced.

“Company, form ranks!” Captain Marsden
crisply shouted out, himself at attention in front and a little to the left of the single file of men that formed with Lieutenant Taylor at the temporary head.

I
t was clear that he had been baiting Ian, probably for far more material than what Ian had given him. It didn’t seem that the corporal would betray what Ian had said, but then for what reason would the corporal do that if not for some sort of personal or regimental gain?

“By flank!” the
captain commanded, walking sideways to examine as the company quickly reformed itself with only some slight hesitation into two parallel lines according to their flanks. “Quickly, quickly,” the captain said as he paced alongside their progress.

Perhaps Corporal
Wesshire held some of his own reservations against the captain, and not just because his disposition struck Ian as the kind that was coldly critical to the failings of others. Yes, that seemed reasonable. The corporal could just want some personal consolidation of his own feelings.

That seemed somewhat unprofessional though,
and Corporal Wesshire seemed anything but that.

“By rank, forward heavy,” the captain said, putting out his arm as he stood a little to the left
, facing them, “on my mark.”

They hurried to accompany that, Ian and Rory visibly
struggling the most. Ian, because he was distracting himself. Rory because, well—

No, Ian corrected. Corporal
Wesshire wasn’t so much professional as sophisticated.

But where was the difference
exactly?

“Very well,” the captain said,
frowning a bit as he looked at Ian. “Tapered now by rank. And keep your attention forward, cut this lackadaisical business.”

T
hey all struggled to form a diagonal, single-file line off the captain’s arm as quickly and orderly as they could. And even as Ian thought that he really should be focusing more on what they were doing, he couldn’t think where exactly was the significant different between professionalism and sophistication. At least in his mind, but he knew it definitely existed.

The finishing snap of
Kieran’s heel, the last one in line, was somewhat less grandiose as their line was off the stone path by that point. Nodding, the captain silently brought his hand up and made the even gesture. With something akin to relief, the company’s taper pivoted forward into a flat line, making sure to maintain their order as they all moved at varying speeds to even out.

“Very well,” the captain said,
sounding as though he was conceding something not altogether expected. “At the very least, they taught you how to march. It is too bad that isn’t much use once we’re off the beaten path, where our true duties begin. As it is. It’s maybe only three hours of a dry march to Alcatel from here. Let us see how long it takes moving like a proper ranger company. Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir!” their lieutenant called out, stepping out from his place.
“Company, threat high! Coverage!”

With some slight reluctance in the general atmosphere—Ian remembering that, really, none of the privates were probably in the best of shape today—they quickly split apart off the road, fanning out and keeping with their seconds. The two corporals kep
t a loose proximity to their officers on opposite sides of the road, according to their flanks.

“And keep ‘em low,” the lieutenant said,
maintaining a steady stream of detail orders and admonishments as they went.

“Now, to
Alcatel—forward!” the captain said with a grand, downward sweep of his arm.

Normally Ian would prefer
loose marching to dry marching any day. Today was a notable exception, but he dug his heels into the ground, kept a little bit lower than the others, making sure to pivot and perform his weaving quicker and crisper than the rest. And he was able to succeed too, at least for now. He knew it wouldn’t be fair to judge them all until they had a more consistent day, but he couldn’t help all of it. Rory in particular irked him, mostly because he was Ian’s second. And though Rory seemed to have a good head about how to move and where to be looking—something the captain was especially sharp to watch for—he just wasn’t fast enough to keep up with Ian, especially when Ian was trying to make a showable point. Which he was.

“Come on,” Ian hissed at Rory as he passed, ranging a bit further to the left and scanning that flank, then turning and posting up for the rearguard as Rory advanced past him, glaring at Ian the whole way.

That was it, Ian realized. As he had apparently always separated them in his mind, professionalism was primarily performed within a job, sophistication more so in leisure. The first was usually done with the aim of improvement for one’s profession, the latter more so for one’s own benefit. That was how he’d previously distinguished them in any case.

And in this case
, Corporal Wesshire seemed far more primarily a sophisticated man. Ian wasn’t sure, couldn’t really be sure what motives the other man had in their conversation, but it hadn’t been for the company, he knew that much.

Whatever the reasons,
Ian needed to be careful.

It was somewhat discouraging, whenever he’d risk watching the other side of the road,
to see Corporal Wesshire leading and feinting, moving more methodically, precisely than anyone else in the company—probably anyone else that Ian had ever seen.

Once
, the captain caught Ian watching and gave him a rigorous going over, but Ian promised himself that he would be sure to watch Corporal Wesshire very carefully.

*              *              *              *

The day passed much less straightforwardly than the morning. Indeed, it might have taken them a decent deal less than three hours to reach Alcatel, which was evidently their next destination, but their officers ran them through the unending gamut of possible formations and maneuvers. Most of them dealt with road situations, as they didn’t have much cover at their disposal.

It all
amounted to an intense ambivalence for Ian. As the hours drew on, his energies began to wane, the mental ones most of all. His feet began to ache up into his knees and legs, unaccustomed as he was to this sort of movement in the new boots he’d been issued. He was also frequently picked apart, to ranging degrees of fairness, by the captain and occasionally their lieutenant, though the lieutenant seemed to be a far more passive critic than the captain. This Ian was able to tolerate less and less, and he grew steadily worse at keeping his thoughts non-dour.

But i
n other ways, it was also fantastic, a blossoming series of new moments and insights. He had so much to absorb from their company. Their movements with each other were painfully clumsy, and it may have just been because of Ian’s biased perspective, but Rory and he seemed to struggle the most. Rory was just a bit slow, both in his ability to traverse distance as well as his awareness of the company’s movement, and especially of Ian’s. Or perhaps he was just angry at Ian, and his timing was on purpose.

Ian learned, admitted some things about
himself too. It wasn’t an altogether new revelation, and no doubt would always be at least something of an ongoing one, but he naturally assumed a lot that probably wasn’t entirely fair.

It was well past growing dark when they first caught sight of
Alcatel, which was greatly inferior to Carciti in size. The lights were beginning to come on and continued to multiply as they drew nearer. They were perhaps two miles out when Captain Marsden finally finished their maneuvers and switched them back into a dry, two-column march.

“Double time, then,” the captain called out.

An easy command for him to give,
Ian thought, as they fell back in together and doubled their pace. Their breaths, only intermittently employed throughout the afternoon, began to sound strained in the cooling air just above the rhythm of their boots on the road.

Above them
, the stars were quickly waking. The freedom of the darkness and the focus on the rate of their pace gave Ian the chance to crane his head back and watch the night skies, which remained brilliant and unmoved by all this commotion beneath them. Though it was difficult to see, swimming in and out of his perception, the colors of the planet’s atmosphere were played out in shifting veins of intricacy in its ancient struggle against so much of the hostile light energy that was being thrown against it. Long and tumbling hues of violet, emerald, and some other colors that weren’t easy to identify grew increasingly bolder the darker it became.

Whil
e they took up most of the road, they didn’t yield at all to the bits of people they encountered coming from the city—mostly working-class Chax. There were many though, even some humans, dressed in dark cloaks and difficult to see until they were very close, that didn’t necessarily emit the impression that their working hours were done. And Ian wondered just how many highwaymen they passed in the darkness.

Somewhat to Ian’s surprise
, their company swerved off as they drew near the outskirts of the city. He didn’t really know all the details of their arrangements, so he merely contented himself with following, ready for the day to be done.

They drew nearly alongside the city’s wall, its smooth darkness endless in the night. They drew so close that the expression o
f the Bevish regular watching them from on top of it was discernible, even in the subdued light coming from within the walls. As Ian watched, the regular silently raised his hand in greeting as they passed beneath him.