The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) (9 page)

Ian was just in the process of trying to
figure out what he should say if they said anything to him when the corporal’s yeoman clicked twice.

“Right, let’s go,” the corporal said, turning—
he had a melancholy face—and seeing Ian. He nodded a bit then left the room, his partially eaten plate on the counter.

Ian’s second didn’t pay
Ian much mind, but accelerated the transferring of his breakfast as he also started toward the door. Brodie gave him a careful smile and said good morning.

“Morning,” Ian murmured. A moment later and they left,
leaving Ian alone with the quarrelsome concept of breakfast and a lack of time.

He went
toward the counter with food—so much food—and every determined intention to force down at least a few bites. But his resolve faltered, his stomach not nearly as concerned with long-term planning. Placing his fists on the counter and staring down at the still steaming pot of oatmeal, he hated this sick feeling. Never mind the headache, the throbbing in his temples, behind his eyes—well, he had to mind it—but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the nausea. He’d forgotten what this was like; it had been so long since he’d been sick like this.

He slammed his hand on the
counter and left, wishing that could make things better, because it didn’t. There was no time anyway, and he had some basic rations he could hopefully sneak when he was feeling better.

He passed through the
door, the short hall, the door, then the entrance hallway, which passed unsteadily—he was losing some of the grip the officer had scared into him. Further and further to the last door, which he reached for, opened—

             
                                                        Sunlight everywhere. Or at least it was above them, pouring through his eyes, flowing through his temples and into some very angry spot just under the top of his skull. But it was a far different kind of sunlight from yesterday, so crisp and calm. Under other circumstances it would have been very pleasant. He estimated that it must be in the very opening throes of daybreak as he hurried to the end of the line of his assembled fellows, facing out into the street where two officers were talking to each other in low tones. It wasn’t visible from where they were, but the warm hues of the light were beginning to creep down from the very tallest buildings around them.

Ian
slid in next to his second, who was conveniently on the far left end. Ian snapped the heel of his boots smartly to the pavement as he came to attention.

Their captain turned
from where he had been talking to a larger man wearing the rank of first lieutenant. The captain’s eyes quickly fell on Ian and none too gently. He was a rather thin man, not overly tall as Ian noted, with a small mustache and quick, darting eyes. He also had a subtle neatness about him that Ian sensed, feeling rather greasy and unkempt as he was in his own uniform.

“Well now,” the captain
said, the annoyance in his voice not all that much diminished from when he had kicked Ian awake. Folding his hands behind his back, the captain started to walk along them, intermittently eyeing them up as he went. “Everyone is assembled now. And while many of you have been making fools of yourselves since arriving here, be assured that there will be no further leave to do so. The opportunities will be scarce once we are out of Carciti, but … I am sure …” The captain paused in front of Ian, looking him up and down disdainfully as Ian kept staring straight ahead.

“—some of you have very persistent imaginations.” The captain gave a long pause
before he continued on past Ian again. “In any case, all such miscreants will quickly feel the full weight of all the punishment that rests in my power. I trust there shall be no further tomfoolery, and will know well enough to listen sharp to your superiors. Ah, yes, I suppose I should introduce myself, being that many of you are new. And freshly instated.” He looked them over, a hint of disgust creeping into his voice. “A full half of you are green, as a matter of fact … So green,” he added, under his breath.

Ian glanced over at him, shocked.
But doing that was just as much of a mistake as the captain’s slip of undeserved animosity, as the captain looked back over at Ian. He only just managed to jerk his head back forward in time.

“So I expect nothing but the best from all of you, but especially you new recruits. Pull your own weight and a bit more, a
s it is, and you’ll be fine. Oh yes, and for those of you fresh to our unit, my name is Captain Marsden. I served under Lord Nathers at Lynull for several years, so I like a fast unit. No hindrances, no hiccups, no dead weight. This is no ordinary line unit, and you’ll all be expected to be able to cover more ground in less time than any other type of soldier in His Majesty’s Service.”

Ian
was glad that the captain was here to alert them to these things.

“Now then,” the captain went on, “since this is to be a smaller detachment for the time being, we’ll divide up into two flanks that can work independently, as it is, whenever necessary
. My flank will be first, with Corporal Hanley as my second.” Captain Marsden glanced down at his yeoman, then back at Ian, none too kindly. “And Privates Williams and Kanters will be with us. Leading the second flank will of course be Lieutenant Taylor, with Corporal Wesshire as his second, and the remaining privates rounding them off. Now then,” the captain said, beginning to pace along them again, “men serving under their superiors, whether myself, Lieutenant Taylor, or either of the corporals, must and will serve to the utmost ability of their hearts, so that, as it is, we shall function as one family of purpose and discipline.”

The captain paused, as though he noticed at least some weight of the ridiculousness. It sounded like he was reciting something, and Ian thought that maybe
Captain Marsden had heard this strain from one of his own superiors. Perhaps Lord Nathers, at Lynull, since that was indeed of some distinction. But as the captain looked them over, the mournful cloud that held over his face was one of profound disappointment.

Because
, for all the disdain that was obvious in the captain’s evaluating gaze of them, it wasn’t just their company that wasn’t meeting his standards. The captain’s own words, as difficult to pull off as they were, weren’t working at all, and his attempt at the accompanying grand speech had only communicated every bit of its emptiness.

“No
w then,” the captain said, half-trying to pick up his shoulders as he stared at something past them, “we’ll start off at army pace, and hope to make our destination of Alcatel before nightfall. From there, we’ve secured transport to Portsmouth, where our charges are waiting. Our rate from then on out will be at His Lordship’s discretion. I know all of your conduct toward the lord and his family goes without saying.”

But of course you’re going to say it,
Ian thought.

“But let it be known,” the captain said, “that you are all to be the utmost examples of not only this unit and order, but of Bevish ge
ntleman as well. As it is, the lord will be shown only the highest degree of honor and respect, and nothing else. Socializing with either him or his family will not be allowed outside of the bounds of your duties. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the privates all chorused back
. Ian did his best, discovering that his throat hurt even more when functioning.

“Now then, Lieutenant
Taylor,” the captain said.

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant spoke up for the first time. He had a moderate amount of what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm, at least for the moment. He was a stout and somewhat tall man, looking to be in his early fifties. His eyes were bright but
tired, his short beard mostly gray.

“Take them to
Alcatel,” the captain ordered, “let’s see if they can march as well as they can soak off their time.”

“Aye, sir,” the lieutenant said, with vigor.

An idiot,
Ian grumpily concluded of their captain as the lieutenant proceeded to turn them with quick barks. Fortunately, Ian ended up at the end of the line.

His conscience told him that he should probably give the captain more of a chance, and while Ian doubted that the captain was ever going to be brilliant, he could admit that at the momen
t he was exceptionally biased. He was biased toward anything resembling an optimistic opinion, in fact. The idea of an entire day of marching did not sit well with his stomach, which was already having enough trouble sitting up on its own.

They started off, passing working-class Chax on and off as they weeded through the city, the reactions always curious, always wary, but always with an air of awe, maybe even respect.
No doubt they understood that they weren’t just Bevish regulars, and that they moved with some higher purpose as the lieutenant led them toward the edge of the city and its walls that divided this small handful of transplanted Ellosia from the rest of Orinoco.

The
sound of their boots on the uneven cobblestone didn’t quite sound crisp—the boots they were issued weren’t so much for making an impression on the parade ground as for being able to move quietly in the wilderness. The light wasn’t quite opulent and the air was already beginning to thicken again with the impending heat. It wasn’t quite as grand of an opening march as Ian would’ve desired, but enough of something else special moved along with them that it was all right.

There was a muted
fever, a feisty pride that pounded in tempo with the pain in his head, throat, gut. Such a superb moment, the first and only of what would now define him. A superb moment, unspoiled, untouchable, pristine in time forever if not for, well—

T
he fact that he felt like throwing up. And not just the contents of his stomach, but to throw up his stomach as a whole and be done with it.

He’d
ruined it, and not only physically. This was his first job of active service, and he’d be lucky if he just passed through it in one piece, much less shine as brilliantly as he had wanted to. But Ian had blown it morally; his captain, and by extension probably his lieutenant too, thought he was a soaker. Who knew how long it would take before Ian could make up for it? He had ruined it doubly.

Ian wryly smiled at that. So it was
, pristine and otherwise non-pristine elements all considered, a lousy first day for both him and the captain. But there was time. He could do his best to make up for it. The rest of the captain’s opinion depended on the captain himself.

He swore to himself and God, doubly firmly, that there was no way he’d ever do this again.
To himself or to his unit.

Or, he added ruefully, even
to his captain.

“—enough breakfast,” Ian heard Kieran Anglas muttering back to the other
private, Brodie, something about the other man being daft for not eating more before they left.

Brodie moaned. “Oh,
but the stomach is such a reliable tyrant.”

“Orinoco is subject to a tenant sun, but it remains remarkable because life has not only managed itself there, but
has flourished. This is only accomplished through the dominant fauna on the planet harnessing the sun’s destructive energies and perpetuating a protective, if turbulent, sphere above the planet. The end result is a habitable, but extremely hot environment disruptive to airborne communications and transport.”

—
Yeoman encyclopedia entry

They made good time at army rate. And though there were frequent stops, starts, modifications, and other variances that both the captain and lieutenant called to test their competence, the bulk of the day consisted of straight army marching. Despite this, Ian was still surprised that he managed to do as well as he did in his condition. But he didn’t find the captain, and especially the lieutenant, to be as clever as his training officers at throwing a unit off. And Ian had a knack for marching, even though he could find little purpose in it. Marching was for the regulars.

They had left Carciti, exiting from a small
side gate in the large brownstone walls that had kept the Dervish safe from more than a few Hallmer uprisings. Beyond the city lay miles of arid landscape and a network of paved roads, sparsely populated with the morning traffic. There were different sizes of beggar towns here and there that reminded Ian of the ones in Wilome, though here they were of a far more temporary nature. They were in much greater volume near the river that ran through Orinoco, and the air hung faint with the smell of them. The roads also quickly decayed to worrisome pavement, some places drifting off entirely into gravel that made it difficult to tell where the path ended and the landscape began.

Their company alternated between single
and double file, depending on the traffic they encountered and their superiors’ dispositions. Being at the back, Ian ended up beside his second man. Ian wished he’d been paying closer attention to the other man’s name when the captain had summarized their flanks. From what he could gather from his glances, the other man had lost his grogginess but still maintained a sort of disgruntled look that Ian chalked up to not being a natural-born marcher. The other man often had to adjust to Ian, who was able to keep the right pace in his head, even when he wasn’t looking—much to the captain’s undisguised annoyance whenever he passed by, inspecting them.

“Snap that heel, private,” snapped the captain, on one occasion, “I don’t know who wasted their time teaching you how to march, but this is a ranger company, not some
lackadaisical, Johnny Lobster crew.”

“Yes, sir,” Ian was obliged to respond, making sure to snap the back of his pace extra hard for at least the duration of the captain’s proximity. It was a ridiculous critique, and Ian burned at the thought that the whole company had heard it.
Most of their opinions he didn’t care all that much about, at least not now or yet, but he cringed at how foolish Corporal Wesshire must think he was. But surely the corporal must have some sort of disdain for the captain. It seemed to Ian that there were probably very few people that the corporal didn’t hold some quiet critique for.

Many dark thoughts foll
owed such examinations from his captain, four in total occurring by the time they halted for lunch. All in all, Ian was in a fairly sour mood, though his nausea had mostly gone away, and his head was doing better.

Their company took their rest at a
n informal gathering of moderate to large boulders that were placed very near their path, evidently some time ago. They were mostly oblong and upright and looked as though they once had indents or perhaps even writing scrawled over them, but time and the elements had conspired to the point that only ghostly hints remained. Ian traced his fingers through them while the rest of his company loosely mingled over the fairly pleasant grassy area.

But eventually he had to turn to his outstanding obligations.

“Hello,” Ian finally said to his second. “I’m Private Ian Kanters.”

“
Private Rory Williams,” the other, slightly larger man said as he took Ian’s outstretched handed warily.

“Pleased to meet you,” Ian said, hesitating at the pause that foll
owed. “The captain said you’re new as well?”

Rory nodded, looking somewhere else. “I got done at Augsland a couple
months ago.”

“Really?”
Ian asked. “I graduated from Karshire. I’ve heard a lot of good things about Augsland.”

“’Cause it’s the best,” Rory said, “all the good rangers come from there. You a good shot?”

“Yes,” Ian said, “I’m decent.”

“I didn’t say decent,” Rory said, “I said
good.”

“I’m decently good,” Ian said, without thinking.

Rory scoffed a bit, not looking like he was sure how to take that.

Ia
n had half a mind to keep going but thought better of it. They were going to be spending a lot of time together, and it was important to at least keep things manageable. But Rory struck Ian as the kind that would be easy to heckle. At least, though, the other man didn’t put out the same sort of aggressive antipathy that Kieran did—just awkwardness.

“Are y
ou a good shot?” Ian asked.

Rory
smiled. “Course I am. Been shooting all my life, and usually not with something as good as an Allen.” He proudly patted his rifle holstered to his pack.

“
Right,” Ian said.

“So just
keep steady,” Rory went on, “I don’t want to be getting fouled up by any rookies when I’m reloading.”

“I don’t think that will be an issue,” Ian snapped. “And not just because nothing is probably going to happen on this trip.”

“Never know,” Rory said.

“I know enough that anyone worried about their partner probably is
actually more worried about themselves.” Ian noticed that he was making sharp, expansive gestures, and stopped that quickly.

“I’m just worried about getting stuck with someone who can’t shoot,” Rory said, “that’s all. And with some rookie
—”

“You’re a rookie, too. We’re all just out of training,” Ian said.

“I ain’t a rookie,” Rory grumbled, “I just told you that.”

“So don’t call me one,” Ian said.

“I ain’t,” Rory insisted. “No need to get your back up. I just said I’m afraid you are.”

Ian lost his self
-restraint about not gesturing.

“Yeah?”
Ian said. “And I’m afraid you shoot like a girl.”

“What? Tha—that’s
—” Rory’s face blustered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m way better than you’ll ever be.”

“Better than a girl?”
Ian asked, throwing the emphasis of the question like the other person was supposed to say—

“No—I mean yes, I mean—
you know what I mean!”

“Of course I do.”

Ian turned and left at that, frustrated at how badly he wanted to make it worse. The last glimpse he caught was of Rory shaking his head in anger, confusion.

Ian crossed the grass their company
was lounging in, ignoring Kieran and Brodie, who were staring at him, Kieran talking in low tones. It was blistering out in the sun, and getting even hotter the longer the day drew on. At first his trajectory was a bit aimless, as he really hadn’t planned out where he wanted to go, but he quickly took a chance and headed toward Corporal Wesshire, who was standing in the shade of one of the taller stones, eating by himself.

That
had been a terribly dumb thing to do.

Each step
Ian took drove that deeper into his awareness. He’d made all sorts of plans all sorts of times about how he was going to win—preferably instantly—all of his company over, and especially his captain, especially his second. This was a blasted terrible start to things, all only because he was in a poor mood. And it wasn’t just that it had been foolish. It was something that would probably also make things more difficult for him in the future and hurt the cohesiveness of the company.

It had also been a
terribly mean thing to do.

“Hello,” Ian said quietly, hopefully at an appropriate enough distance not
to startle the other. “Glad we’re finally off and all.”

“Yes,”
Corporal Wesshire said, without looking back at him, “purpose is always agreeable.”

“I rather regret,” Ian started carefully, “not
heading back to the quarters at your more, um, prudent hour.”

“Why
is that?” Corporal Wesshire asked. He was chewing his ration bar methodically at intervals from one hand, his eyes slowly scanning the distance like he was looking for something, but not especially caring if he should find it.

“It certainly made for an awful
start to everything,” Ian said. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Something is only foolish,” Corporal
Wesshire answered, “if it conflicts with the goals one should have.”

“Well, it did a brilliant job of that,” Ian said, wondering if his blustering tone at hims
elf was failing in an opposite way to the goal he had for it—which he realized was to impress Corporal Wesshire with his regret and intelligence in knowing well enough to be regretful.

“
And how is that?” Corporal Wesshire asked. “What goals came to ill because of it?”

“Are you making
fun of me?” Ian asked, smiling and not sure if he should be. Corporal Wesshire looked at him without expression; Ian assumed that the corporal wasn’t. “Why it—well, it certainly put the captain in a fit about me. I’ll be lucky if I ever manage to get him to only partially loathe me at this rate.”

“Dispositions
change, through time and circumstances.”

Ian had a strong urge to remark that the captain was an idiot, but even given Corporal
Wesshire’s consistent demeanor, he didn’t feel safe with such an assertion.

Stop it,
Ian kicked himself. What good would it do anyway, to voice his petty opinions?

“That’s an interesting definition of foolishness,” Ian said instead. “I’d never thought about it like that. Especially, I guess, in terms of the goals one ought to have, instead of what goals one picks.”

The other looked at him, but didn’t say anything.

Ian frowned at the ground as
the corporal turned back again. Ian tried to take a bite of his rations but found it difficult. Aside from his headache and general fatigue he felt relatively good, but his appetite would no doubt take a bit longer to recover.

“So what is it you’re looking forward to on this trip?” Ian asked.

A ghost of a smile passed over the corporal’s face. “Perhaps the same as you. Duty, to those deserving it—”

Ian snickered, feeling a great relief wash over him.

“—and the opportunities that will be available.” The corporal paused.

“
If we have any luck about it,” Ian said, glancing behind him, “since even the best of circumstances can ruined—well, we’ll see.”

The corporal
paused again, and started a little more slowly. “Yes, there is always great space for opportunities to be mismanaged. There have been many instances of military tours with even greater promise squandered … to nothing.”

Ian rubbed at his temple, greatly hoping that
all this conflict in his head would be gone by tomorrow. “Really?”

Corporal Wesshire
finished his rations, finding something distasteful in the last end of it and tossing it off to the side. He leaned against the stone beside him with his arms crossed, regarding Ian in a nearly open-looking manner.

“At Barlund,”
Corporal Wesshire went on, “there was talk of a colonel who was tasked with moving the archduke’s special materials after the end of the war—an easy assignment with the full assurance of promotion and expedited transfers for his men.”

“Yes?” Ian asked, trying not to look down at the bit of food near
the corporal’s heel.

“The task,”
the corporal said, “which was trusted to only take a week took twice that because he dithered. Both because he didn’t know how to manage it and because he spent most of it as cause to boast with his local acquaintances.”

Ian
tried to think why he should be feeling so uneasy.

“Needless to say,”
Corporal Wesshire said, “he was lucky to have been able to boast to those local acquaintances because those were the only acquaintances he was to have.”

“
Really,” Ian said, trying to think.

“A general at Haxsby,”
the corporal said, “couldn’t take the city that should’ve been taken. An admiral at Norgard, a lord at Hampenshire. The branches are full of officers who have seen their opportunity come and not stay long.”

“Yes,” Ian said, trying to hold back his bitterness as he rubbed at his temple, “it would be a pity if the same were to happen to us. I’m almost afraid that it might.”