by Dave Dobson
I untied my pony from the small tree I’d found earlier. “There is a lot we don’t know. The books I read on Faera were fairly contradictory on some major points. Marron probably knows a lot more. Or thinks he does.” I stepped in the stirrup and swung my leg up to mount. The pony took a quick step forward, and I spun, flailed, and landed face-first on the ground, my toe still stuck in the stirrup.
Boog guffawed. “Mount and ride, brave sir knight!”
“Spluuh.” I wiped trail grit from my mouth. “Very funny.” The pony whickered.
35
From Afar
“What are they doing?” Boog asked.
“I can’t see,” I replied, gingerly shifting a branch of a scrubby plant from my line of sight. “It seems like they’re just sitting there.”
The two riders in heavy gray cloaks hadn’t moved in several minutes, sitting motionless in the saddle, facing not towards us, but west, towards the setting sun. We were perhaps three hundred yards distant atop a small mound. Our horses were tied behind us, hidden in a dry wash, nibbling the withered grass as we crouched in the brush.
“The one on the left is a woman, I think,” said Boog. I strained to see. The figure he indicated was small and slender, but that was no guarantee of femininity – I would look as small. Any curves or other features were obscured by the cloak and the distance. As I squinted, the rider’s hand raised, pushing back the cloak’s heavy hood. The hood fell to the shoulder, revealing pale skin and short-cropped reddish hair, illuminated and tinted golden by the sun’s dying colors. No visible facial hair, and a small graceful jaw and neck – Boog might be right about the gender. I felt a twinge of recognition, but nothing more – from this distance, I couldn’t place the rider, not that I’d expect to know many people out here. The one on the left was bigger, more substantial – maybe a man, going only by size and physique.
“There’s scarlet there, under the outer cloak,” muttered Boog. “I think they might be Inspectors.”
“Could be,” I replied. I did see a hint of bright red, the color of the Guild. That might explain my feeling of familiarity. But they were not like the Inspectors I knew and worked with back at home. These riders were well armed, with swords, bucklers, bows, and quivers visible, strapped to the horses strategically, so as to be ready at hand. They were comfortable on this frontier, their horses disciplined, their stance easy but controlled. If they were Inspectors, what a different life they must lead than those of us mucking about Frosthelm. Riding free, living in the saddle, as armed and deadly as soldiers, facing danger and the unknown daily, while we slept in our beds in the comfort of the Guild Hall and tracked down inept carpet thieves. I felt a flush of jealousy.
“Wait—there are two more.” I turned to follow Boog’s gaze. There were two more riders approaching from the west, similarly clad and equipped. The woman, if she were one, raised her hand in greeting as the others drew near. The new pair slowed to a stop upon reaching those we’d been observing, and they spoke, but our hiding spot was far too distant for us to hear anything.
After a short conversation, the pair we’d seen originally, the man and woman, spurred their horses and rode west, disappearing after a few minutes behind a small ridge. The others stayed in the same spot, watching the original set depart. Was this a changing of the guard? A reconnaissance? I wasn’t sure. We watched for several minutes more.
“Should we show ourselves?” I asked.
“Could be dangerous – we don’t know what they think of us,” Boog replied. “But we’ve not had a plan other than ‘ride north and find the Guild’ since Middlemarsh.”
“True.” Two weeks earlier, when we’d left Middlemarsh, I’d imagined galloping into a Guild outpost with panache and elan, decrying Marron and proclaiming our innocence. Wishful thinking, since I could barely manage a canter without bouncing about, often biting my tongue or bruising my hindquarters. Now, I wasn’t sure what to do. I ran through a list of Mistress Fennick’s maneuvers for surprise engagements in my mind. Cat Stalks Mouse. Eagle Strike. Three Talons. Break the Branch. None was appropriate, as we wanted to demonstrate goodwill, not attack them. “We’re not even sure they’re Inspectors. Maybe we should wait until we’re more certain of whom we’re surrendering to.”
“And certain they won’t just fill us with arrows as we approach,” grumbled Boog. “This surrender idea sounded better in the sheep cart than it does out here. Hello, what’s that?”
One of the riders who remained was standing in the saddle. As we watched, he waved both arms in big circles, as if he were signaling someone or something far away. I looked in the direction he was facing, straining to see something, anything, he might be gesturing toward, but there was nothing there. Then the other rider started doing the same thing, his arms rising and falling in time with his friend.
“Are they…dancing?” I asked. They’d started waving back and forth, side to side, as if celebrating to unheard music.
“They’re insane,” said Boog. “Raving."
I couldn’t disagree. Both of us watched the display, fascinated, as the two riders went through a series of intricate movements lasting several minutes, in what must have been some strange dance or ritual. “What do we do now?" I asked, at length.
“We ahkussst.” Boog replied.
“Huh?” I asked. “Ask? Ask who?” Then I heard a dry rattle of breaking brush, and I turned to see Boog lying awkwardly on the ground, seemingly asleep. Behind him was the shorter of the two riders we’d seen before, holding a warding rod, which was already humming faintly again as it gathered power for a second strike. The bigger rider stood behind her, sword drawn, his face impassive. I’d heard nothing of their approach, and I guessed from his prone, twisted position that Boog had not either.
I’d like to be able to say at this point that I fought the two off and defended my helpless friend from these marauders, but that’s not how it played out. In fact, before I joined Boog in impotent paralysis, I managed to utter only one small phrase. Nothing even remotely glorious. Not “Die, you curs!” Not “Taste my blade, rogue.” Not "You’ll never take me while I still draw breath!” Not even “You shouldn't do that to my friend, you mean, mean lady!”
No, all I managed to say was, “Clarice? What…what are you doing here?” Then she struck me with the rod, and I fell into a bush.
36
A Run for The Border
“Ah, Provisional Inspectors Florin and Crozier,” she said. “Newly arrived from Vigsburg.”
“No, ma’am,” I protested. “We're—”
“Provisional Inspectors Florin and Crozier,” Inquisitor Kreune repeated, looking pointedly at me. “Newly arrived from Vigsburg." I felt a sharp elbow in my side as she continued. “Were you, for example, Provisional Inspectors Mingenstern and Eggstrom, newly arrived from Frosthelm, violent murderers, under sentence of death, I would of course have to throw you into a cell and send you back to Frosthelm to meet justice. So, it is lucky, is it not, that you are not such people.”
“Er,” I replied. “Yes, Inquisitor Kreune. It’s just that Boog——er, Inspector Crozier—” The elbow struck again, hard enough for me to gasp.
“You be Crozier,” hissed Boog, the owner of the elbow.
“Right, er, Inspector Florin and I,” I went on, rubbing my side. “We were hoping to speak to you about the events surrounding the, uh, murder and flight of the provisional inspectors you mentioned. Whom we aren’t.”
Kreune sat up straighter in her chair and collected a sheet of parchment and a quill. She was an old woman, her hair white, her skin creased and wrinkled, but she was made of steel. If I recalled the Guild history correctly, she’d reached the rank of Inquisitor very young, and rose to lead the entire border operation nearly thirty years ago, well before I'd been born. I’d seen her in Frosthelm once, several years before, on one of her infrequent stops at headquarters, back when I was still a an apprentice in training. Her every motion was strong and confident. She wrote furiously, the quil
l bobbing and tossing. As she wrote, she spoke further. "Those events are of no small interest to me. The murder of the High Inquisitor was a shock to all of us, and the sudden and unusual changes in leadership of the Inquisitor’s Guild are still not completely understood to those of us stationed here. Not to mention the documents we've gotten recently from Headquarters, which would seem to demand your instant death, but which also have the word ‘Lies’ scrawled all over them. And then there’s the letter from Edmund of Middlemarsh that we found among your belongings. All very interesting material.”
She finished her writing, sprinkled it with grit from a silver shaker, and pushed the sheet across the desk to me. “Unfortunately, there’s no time to delve deeper into this at the moment. I received word several days ago that escapees might be headed this way. Apparently they were. In the same message, it said that a team of highly ranked inspectors would be arriving from Frosthelm for a tour of our installations and an inspection of our plans, and more importantly for you, to review our staffing and question its members. These—” she tapped the parchment on which she'd just written — “are orders directing you two to report to our most distant field area immediately, and to relieve the inspectors posted there. It’s seven days ride from here, in the middle of an area frequented by raiders, so I doubt the inspectors from the city will want to ride all the way out to where you’ll be. There may be some, shall we say, misfiling of paperwork as well. Hopefully, you’ll be safe out there while they’re here, and once they’ve gone back home, I’ll summon you back, and we can talk further about the issues you raise.
“In the meantime, the fewer people here who know your true identity, the better. I’ve assigned Inspector Jerreau out there with you. She’s taken a particular interest in your case, and she has been riding double or triple patrols every day since we heard you might be headed up this way. She wanted to be among those who found you, if you came.” I felt a warmth in my chest. “I gather from her report that you weren't difficult to apprehend.” She smirked, and heat rose from my cheeks. “The others she worked with can be trusted to keep quiet.”
That was a lot to take in. I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you for your kindness, Inquisitor Kreune. You’re taking a big risk in this."
“I know it, boy,” she replied. “What’s been going on in the city strains credulity. But even so, I’d be following orders had I not received a private missive from my friend, the Augur. We went through training together, and I’d trust her with my life. She speaks highly of you, and against some others we'd best not mention.”
She pushed her chair back from her desk and rose, her scarlet cloak swelling around her. “Don’t think of this as a holiday. You’re still Inspectors. I expect you to do the work of those you’re replacing. We’re short-handed enough as it is.” She looked hard at me and Boog in turn.
“We will not let you down, Inquisitor,” promised Boog.
“Thank you,” I added.
She pointed to the door. “You are dismissed, then. Jerreau is waiting for you.” As we turned to leave, she called out, “Don't go killing anyone else, Crozier and Florin, or I’ll have your hide.”
Clarice met us outside the Inquisitor’s office. I had not yet become accustomed to her changed appearance. I’d always known her to have rich red-brown hair and skin nearly the color of cream, but in the time that had passed since her departure from Frosthelm, she'd cut her hair short, and it had lightened to a red-gold from the sun. Her skin was a darker hue, and she’d grown many freckles. Her bearing, too, was changed. She had always been strong and dedicated, but not confrontational, graceful but unobtrusive. Perhaps the only feature I truly recognized was the small silver falcon pendant that still hung below her throat, but even that seemed somehow fiercer, its talons grasping ever more boldly. She stood now with confidence and pride, walked with more of a rider’s saunter. She fit in well with these harder, more weathered, seasoned Inspectors. I wondered what other changes her experience out here had wrought – was she still the friend I remembered? Did she recall me as anything other than an old acquaintance? Or had our closeness only ever been a creation of my imagination, or perhaps of my heart?
We’d had little chance to talk since she’d taken us in. Boog and I had not regained mobility until we were nearly to the Guild border office. As we flopped along, limp and mostly insensate, tied to our horses like drunkards or invalids, she apologized for distressing us, but insisted that it was the safest way both for us and for our captors. The stories of our supposed crimes had reached the border, although they’d been disputed at the same time. Rumors flew, and none knew what to believe of us, although she maintained that she knew we could never harm Sophie and believed us completely innocent. I don’t think that view was held universally among the Border inspectors, but at least we had an ally in Clarice, and apparently also in Inquisitor Kreune. But for those who distrusted us, or didn’t know what to believe, I could see that it would make sense to bring us in incapacitated and disguised with blankets, at least until they discovered our motives and capabilities.
Upon reaching the camp office, Clarice and her partners had taken us to what must have been a holding cell. The room was sparsely furnished and locked from the outside, and we were disarmed, though not restrained. We had remained there for several hours, anxious and bored, although a man came to offer us a simple meal and then brought a basin of steaming water and some towels for our comfort. If it was a prison, at least it was more comfortable than our days spent on the run. And after a long while, they’d taken us to Inquisitor Kreune, whose company we’d just left, apparently free for the time being.
Clarice now looked at us, lips pressed close together, her green eyes inscrutable. I looked back, trying not to stare. I had a thousand questions, but none seemed worthy of being the first asked, and they all collided in a mass of conflicting emotions, weariness, and doubts. Finally, I cast my gaze at the floor, wondering what she must see. Two one-time companions, now convicted and reviled, on the run and on the wrong side of the laws she had sworn to enforce. Dirty, travel-worn vagabonds, with a checkered past and no promise of a future, dependent entirely on the tolerance and indulgence of our betters, bouncing from disaster to disaster. I felt small and worthless.
And then I was held tight in a warm embrace. I felt her skin on my cheek, and a gentle smell I couldn’t have described but which I recalled perfectly then from a deep well of memory. “Marten,” she said softly. “I’m so glad to see you.”
The road, the flight, the fear, and the troubles all dropped away, and in that moment I was as happy as I had ever been. “Me too,” I whispered in reply.
After an eternity of seconds, she slipped away and hugged Boog as well. “You too, Boog. I’m glad to see both of you.”
Boog leaned down and patted her back, grinning broadly. “You had a funny way of showing it,” he chided. “I'm still stiff, and I’m bruised everywhere.”
“That was mostly for show, for the others,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Besides, it’s not my fault you were so easily distracted. You city types are so gullible and soft.” She let Boog go and straightened her cloak. “I left your gear at the stable and requisitioned some new clothes. You two were ripe. And also rather hard to fit, says Conrad. But he managed. We should get to the horses. There’s quite a ride ahead of us.”
37
The Montage Goes Here
The weeks that followed were a true pleasure. Though our future was uncertain, we were no longer actively fleeing, and if we were still pursued, we had friends to guard our backs. I was hopelessly bad at what we were assigned to do and discovered new inadequacies every day, but it didn’t matter. We were more or less safe, far from our enemies, and able to relax and find our bearings for the first time in many weeks.
And I realized then what I’d only half-admitted to myself before — I was desperately in love with Clarice. She was the same girl I’d known from school. Clever, funny, skilled, curious. And beautiful. I could watch her rid
e or walk for hours, the shifting of the sun revealing new highlights of her face or eyes, and never grow tired of the sight. When she spoke or laughed it was like sweet music to my ears.
I tried to hide my adoration. I had no hope or expectation that she reciprocated my feelings, nor was I a suitable prospect for her, marked for death as I was. But on several occasions Boog had to poke me out of a reverie, in which I’d created an imagined world where things were different, where we still worked together in Frosthelm, or together at the border, where I wasn't a wanted man, a murderer in the eyes of the state and of the world, where she cared for me as I did for her. Where I knew what to say, and how to hunt and to track, and where I rode like a dashing hero rather than an ungainly child.
But I was happy, and so was Boog, and so was she, I think. We spent our days and some of our nights riding along the desolate stretch of borderland we were assigned, looking for signs of incursion. We saw some – tracks of unshod horses, ashes of campfires, a broken arrow or axe, pillars of smoke on the horizon. We crossed the border on occasion as well, to follow a set of tracks, or to reach a vantage point. The Inspectors previously posted here had left detailed notes and maps of the area, and although it wasn’t a hotbed of clan activity, there was enough going on here to warrant our attention. There was a small village loyal to Frosthelm two days’ ride from the border, and a few units of the Brigade were stationed there. It was our primary job to give them warning should a raiding party approach and to harry the raiders as best we could.
Without Clarice, we’d have been lost. We were still mostly lost despite her efforts, but she was a marvel. She could track both enemies and game. She could make fires from a stick and a bit of flaxen rope. She could hunt with bows and traps, and she was a superb shot with a bow, something I had known from training with her but not fully appreciated until now. She knew how to find fresh water near the ground’s surface and how to dig a latrine. She knew which mushrooms were edible and which poisonous. She could always tell what direction was which, even at night, and she never, ever got lost. I marveled at how much she’d been able to learn in just a few months. Either these skills were not so difficult, or she had taken to the role naturally. I suspected the latter, and as the days passed, and I learned little and erred frequently, my suspicions were confirmed.