by Helen Gosney
Rowan nodded his head, but still looked straight into the Commandant’s pale blue eyes.
“Aye, Sir. You are, and I certainly respect that. But you did say that I might speak to you candidly, Sir. I feel that you should be able to respect me in turn and trust me to do my job without feeling the need to interfere in the day to day running of the garrison. If I do need assistance, I will certainly ask for it. If you have a problem with the way that I conduct myself, or if you feel that I’m incapable of performing my duties, then of course you must say so. But not in front of the men, please, Sir. That isn’t right. And if there’s no problem, Sir, then with the greatest possible respect, please allow me to run this garrison as I see fit. I do know what I’m doing, Sir.” There, chew on that. May it choke you.
The Commandant’s rather florid face became even more so as he glared at Rowan.
“‘Interference’, Captain? Did I hear you correctly?” he demanded angrily.
Rowan nodded again, keeping a tight hold on his own temper. He knew that he wasn’t imagining things or being overly sensitive. The Commandant took every opportunity he could to question Rowan’s decisions and undermine his authority, usually in front of the troops as he’d said, and he’d had enough of it. Johan hadn’t had to put up with nearly so much nonsense and Rowan saw no reason why he should either. He’d been chosen to do this job, and presumably the Commandant had given his approval of it. The old bugger should just leave him to get on with it. And if he needed help… as he’d also said, he’d ask.
“Aye, Sir, you did indeed hear me correctly. If you feel that I’m unsuited to be Captain of this garrison, or that I’m incapable of performing my duties to your satisfaction, then with your permission I shall apply for a transfer to another garrison,” Rowan said calmly.
“You play a dangerous game, Captain. A very dangerous game indeed.”
“No, Sir, with respect. I don’t play games of that sort, Sir. What you see standing before you is what I am, and what I say is what I mean. I’m a damned good Guardsman, Sir, and I’m perfectly capable of doing my job without supervision or assistance. You need only review my record if you’re uncertain,” Rowan hated arrogance in all its forms, but he didn’t believe in false modesty either. He simply gave an honest appraisal of his own abilities as he would with anyone else’s, if asked. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what your problem with me is, Commandant, but if there is something that I’ve said or done to offend you then I apologise for it. You need only tell me what it is and I’ll make sure that it doesn’t happen again. But Sir, and again with all possible respect, I cannot accept your interference in the running of the garrison or in the performance of my duties when you say you are satisfied with the state of the garrison and the men under my command.”
The Commandant looked at him with narrowed eyes.
“And you would transfer to another garrison, Captain?”
“Aye, Sir. I certainly will if you are unhappy with my performance here. I can only do my best and if that’s not good enough for you then I shall happily transfer elsewhere.”
“Perhaps you’d like to go to Den Kara then?” the Commandant said with a sneer, naming a tiny garrison on the far eastern border of Wirran that was notorious for the fiery heat of its summers and the hot dry winds that blew for weeks on end, sapping strength and sanity from the handful of misfits who served there, to say nothing of its bitter winters and the sheer tedium of the place. And it truly was bleak and barren, with scarcely a tree or anything else to its name, unlike the beautiful lush greenness of the rest of Wirran. It would be especially hellish for a forester.
Rowan shrugged.
“’Tis all the same to me, Commandant. If you feel that’s where I could best serve the Guard, then that’s where I’ll go. Would you like me to leave now, Sir, or would tomorrow do?”
The Commandant couldn’t hide his shock and dismay at Rowan’s easy acceptance of Den Kara. To be Captain of Den Siddon was the goal of every Wirran Guardsman, and not something to be… No. Surely he wouldn’t throw away everything he’d worked so hard for just like that, would he? Mind you, the blasted man’s word was his bond and he was such a stubborn bugger that he probably would do just that.
Rowan kept a straight face though he was laughing inside. You old windbag, he thought. Just because I don’t play your stupid little games doesn’t mean that I don’t know how to.
The Commandant pulled himself together with an effort. He frowned fiercely at the man standing straight and tall and unwavering opposite him.
“I could break you back to trooper, you know...”
“Aye, Sir, you surely could. But I do believe that you’d need to have a better reason for it than simple personal dislike, Sir.”
The Commandant glared at him again. The cursed young Captain was right, he thought. And dammit, he probably WAS the best Guardsman he’d seen in his entire long career. Certainly the best horseman, and a brilliant swordsman too. The only dual Champion ever. The Commandant sighed to himself. And, truth be told, he ran the garrison well too: he was a born leader and the troopers respected him utterly and would follow him anywhere; they were a credit to his command. The Commandant couldn’t even complain about his behaviour either: Rowan was always quietly spoken and though he could be very blunt and direct, he was polite and respectful, his discipline and bearing beyond reproach. And he wasn’t even an arrogant man, though he was certainly entitled to be with his record. Dual Champion, Weapons Master, all the rest of it… Silver Spurs at, what, seventeen? Not even that? The Commandant fought down the familiar surge of anger. Absurd after so damned long… and really, it had been that damned fool Telli Carlson’s fault anyway.
Mind you, the bloody man did himself no favours with his unpredictable attendances at the Galas and Balls, the Commandant mused grumpily. Somehow he always seemed to have business elsewhere: legitimate garrison business, to be sure, but still… To be fair, he did his duty with good grace when he did turn up, the Commandant thought sourly. The dowagers adored him for his beautiful manners and light feet and natural charm and of course Rowan’s handsome face and athlete’s grace did him no harm either. The unfortunate fact that the Commandant had none of these attributes didn’t come into it.
But, ridiculous as it was, the thing that stuck in the Commandant’s craw was that the most outstanding Guardsman seen in Wirran or anywhere else for a very long time - many would even say ‘ever’ – wasn’t a Wirran at all. Never would be. He was Siannen. And he wasn’t even a damned Siannen gentleman either; no, this brilliant young man was forester-born and proud of it. Even after all his years in Wirran, his soft lilting accent hadn’t changed at all, and he still wore the traditional foresters’ braid; he’d be Siannen until the day he died.
And of course the other thing that irritated the Commandant almost beyond bearing was that his own daughter was totally infatuated with the handsome young Captain and never stopped talking about him. Rowan was polite and courteous with Therese, always had been, but it was obvious to everyone but her that he simply wasn’t interested in her in the way she wanted him to be. It didn’t stop her obsession with him though, and very wearing it was too. None of this was Rowan’s fault of course; he couldn’t help it if some silly girl took a liking to his pretty face, but still… Hmm. If he was to transfer elsewhere, now…
Suddenly common sense intruded into the Commandant’s musings. Who could replace Rowan as Captain of the garrison? None of the other garrison Captains, certainly… except possibly that fellow Shennason, or maybe Yeo, at a pinch. All of the Den Siddon Lieutenants were good men, especially the 2i/c, Lieutenant Fonstarren… Arrufsen… well, whatever his name was. That fellow with the curls. And they were all Wirrans too, mostly of good families, but none of them was as talented as this cursed Siannen. That’s why Johan had chosen him to be his 2i/c, of course. No, he truly was exceptional, even better than Johan had been, though it pained him to admit it. And the dual Champion as well: that reflected well on the gar
rison too, dammit. No, he’d be a laughing stock if he let Rowan go.
“Your request for transfer is denied, Captain,” the Commandant said frostily, “I’m disappointed, indeed astounded, that you would regard well-meant advice and guidance to a new, very young commanding officer as ‘interference’, but rest assured that I shall not burden you thus in the future. In the meantime, I expect respect and obedience from you in all things. Dismissed.”
“Aye, Sir. You have that already, Sir, and that won’t change. Thank you for your time, Sir.” Rowan saluted smartly, pivoted neatly and strode out. You stupid old bugger, he thought, true respect must be earned. He certainly respected the Commandant’s rank and would never show his scorn for the man himself to anyone but Fess, in private, but his thoughts were his own business.
Sergeant Desson watched Rowan step outside, leap onto his black stallion’s bare back, and head off to the parade ground. One of the many things his troopers admired about him was that he was happy to share his expertise with his men and he certainly didn’t consider it beneath him to help teach the new recruits to ride properly. He even found time to take care of his two stallions himself and they were the best-presented and best-trained animals in the entire garrison. Well, he was a Horse Master, after all.
The Commandant seemed to be doing a lot of swearing and unnecessary crashing about inside his office, Desson realised, though the heavy oak door between them was firmly closed. Like all troopers, the old boy had a good grasp of profanity, but he didn’t seem to be multilingual in the art as the best were. Some, like Red, could swear fluently in eight or nine languages, and most could manage at least four or five.
Dammit, Red, I wish you weren’t so quietly spoken, Desson thought sadly. I couldn’t hear a bloody word you said and I’d sell my old Granny to know what the hell that was all about.
**********
17. “That bird has flown, Bella.”
A couple of months later the Wirran troopers were ambling back towards Den Siddon after several weeks in the field. The line was in perfect order, but their Captain was in no hurry to return and they all knew why: The Commandant’s Year’s Turn Ball would be held that night.
“Ye Gods, Sir, if we don’t get a move on it’ll be time for the Midwinter Ball,” Fess said to his Captain.
“And would that be such a bad thing?” the Captain said morosely. “At least it’d mean we’d missed out on this one.”
Fess moved his horse a little closer to his friend’s grey stallion and said quietly so that the troopers wouldn’t hear, “Rowan, you know damn well you’ve got to put in an appearance this time. You’ve missed out on the last two, and the Commandant hasn’t forgotten it. You know what a vindictive old bugger he is.”
Rowan sighed.
“Only too well. Aye, you’re right, Fess… it’s just that they’re so bloody boring. I like dancing with pretty girls as much as the next man, but these damned formal Balls and things the Commandant insists on are ludicrous. All that bowing and scraping and carrying on gives me the irrits. And let’s face it, I always have to entertain the fat old dowagers while the commandant’s trying to impress their fat ugly wealthy old husbands. I wouldn’t care if they didn’t simper so much and try to marry me off to their cursed daughters. And their daughters are usually plain at best; well, truly, that doesn’t matter a damn but they’re generally so damned vain and arrogant they’d put a Crellian glory bird to shame. And I’m sorry to say it, but they’re usually bloody brainless into the bargain. Beldar’s breeks! That makes me sound as stupid and shallow as they are.”
Fess looked across at his friend in surprise. Rowan always said what he thought, but he wasn’t usually so… so scathing. In fact his good manners were the stuff of legend; so too his grasp of profanity, which was impressive even among the troopers.
Rowan sat his horse with a grace and ease that was envied by the entire garrison. He was tall at six feet three, with broad shoulders and a strong lean body and he was young for his rank, and looked younger than he was, poor man. Fess knew that that rank was well earned though; Rowan knew his job and was very good at it, and the troopers respected their Captain absolutely. His dark red hair was neatly confined in the traditional forester’s braid of his native Sian and his unusual mottled green-brown eyes were fringed with long dark lashes that any woman would envy. His beard was a couple of shades darker than his hair and did at least make him look a little older. It suited him well too. Truly too handsome for his own good, thought Fess, though Rowan seemed completely unimpressed by his own good looks and was certainly not vain, stupid or shallow.
Fess smiled as he rubbed his own blond curly whiskers. Beards weren’t banned in the Guard, but they weren’t encouraged either. Rowan had a sense of mischief about him though, particularly when the Commandant was being especially trying, and he always liked to see the Commandant’s face at inspection when the entire garrison was bearded, as it inevitably seemed to be once their Captain had decided to grow his own whiskers again. And of course it was much simpler not having to shave when out in the field. Usually Rowan was cheerful and good-natured, a fine man, a fine Guardsman, and a fine Captain, but Fess knew he’d had to put up with far too much nonsense from the Commandant since he’d been promoted to Captain after Johan’s untimely death.
“Well, Rowan… you need to either murder the Commandant, or find a good woman,” Fess said cheerfully.
Rowan grinned at him suddenly.
“Good thinking, Fess! But if I murdered the old bastard tonight you’d have to hang me tomorrow. It hardly seems worth it somehow. And I don’t imagine there’ll be too many ‘good women’ there tonight either. Only dowagers and crones and vapid daughters with too many frills and flounces than is good for them and no more life to them than last week’s fish.”
“And money, Rowan. Don’t forget that. You’re just too fussy, that’s your problem.”
“You’ve been talking to my sister, haven’t you?” he said suspiciously as he thought about it. “Ah, maybe you’re right, but I still don’t want to end up with some simpering harpy with a voice like a rasp and not a brain in her silly head, no matter how pretty she is or how wealthy her father might be…”
“You’re a better man than me, Rowan.”
Rowan laughed.
“Not according to the Commandant, I’m not! Ah, well, I suppose we’d better just get on with it then.” He signalled to the troopers to hurry up a bit as his grey leapt forward into a gallop.
**********
“Damn these bloody collars! Whoever thought them up should be hanged at dawn,” Rowan said viciously as he tried to struggle into his dress uniform. He didn’t want to give the Commandant the satisfaction of his being late, but the more he tried to hurry, the slower he seemed to be. He really should have made more of an effort to get back to the garrison earlier, he thought. “Fess! Could you give me a hand please?”
Fess put his curly blonde head around the door.
“Gods, Rowan, what are you doing? Here, let me…” he fumbled with the very awkward buttoning of the high collar, but finally got it right. “Let me have a look at you.”
Rowan stood straight and tall in front of him, freshly bathed, his braided hair glossy, and his beard neatly trimmed and braided in the g’Hakken manner. Straight-faced, he sucked in his flat belly and puffed out his chest as he turned his hands over for his friend to inspect. They were well scrubbed and very clean, but there’d been little he could do about the inevitable calluses all Guardsmen bore. Of course it wouldn’t do for the fine ladies to have to put up with such things during the Ball, but that was the reason for the soft black leather dress gloves in his pocket. He pivoted neatly and came back to face Fess. Rowan’s severe black uniform was perfect and looked very well on him, with the Silver Eagles of his Captain’s rank gleaming on his shoulders and the double-headed eagle of Den Siddon on his chest. His silver buttons and black boots were beautifully polished, and he’d remembered to tie the red silken tassels of rank ar
ound his sabre, too. His g’Hakken sabre was both his everyday sabre and his dress sabre, a most unusual thing for Champions to do, but Rowan knew the dwarves preferred their fine blades to be used rather than not, and his certainly saw service. Of course it didn’t bear the decorative cords and tassels every day. Only the Commandant’s sabre did that, which Rowan and Fess privately thought showed how little he actually used the damned thing. But even with all of Rowan’s effort, Fess frowned at him severely.
“Medals, Rowan! Medals! And where the hell are the Silver Spurs!”
“Damnation! Couldn’t I just…?” Rowan saw his friend’s exasperation. “All right, all right. Medals it is… and the cursed Spurs as well…”
He hunted around in the little chest beside his bed. No. Not there. Where in the Nether Hells…? Ah. Maybe… He went to a bigger chest, delved to the bottom again and scrabbled about. Silently he handed the impressive collection of honours to Fess.
“Gods, you’re hopeless tonight, Rowan. Anyone would think you didn’t want to go to this damned… AH! Bloody Hells!” Fess swore as he pinned the medals onto Rowan’s chest, skewering his finger with one of the Champion’s Medals.
Fess looked up to see Rowan trying valiantly not to laugh. He looked at the blood trickling from the end of his finger and burst into laughter too.
“I truly don’t know who’s more hopeless, you or me for putting up with you,” he chuckled. “Now come on, you idiot, SIR, put the damned Spurs on and get your backside downstairs to this bloody Ball!”
**********
Ysabella sighed as she watched her best friend trying to tame her wild black curls. Truly, they were a nightmare, she was just grateful she didn’t have them herself. She patted her own sleek blond hair absently.
“Can I help you with that, Zara?” she said.