Braylar looked at Hewspear. “You see—nothing counterfeit there. Insubordinate and unruly grousing, laid bare and naked for all the world to see.”
“Just you, Cap. And the old goat.” He jerked a thumb at me and Vendurro. “Couple other witnesses, maybe. But never more public than that.”
Braylar turned to face his brawny lieutenant, and it was hard to tell if he was planning on applauding him or lashing out when Vendurro jumped in. “Begging your pardon, Cap, but—”
“Lodging apology on the front end only serves to put me on edge. What is it?”
“Sorry for that too, then, Cap, and sorry for being sorry upfront, but—and this ain’t meant as no kind of insubordination, or any kind of ordination, for that matter—but what do we have to gain by baiting your sister? Is pissing on her boots a ploy of some kind? Just trying to see the upside, is all.”
The captain smiled, devoid of humor, not even a hint, and said to me, “Betwixt the tall man’s slippery smarm and the pale man’s brusque belligerence, we find Vendurro, either the cleverest in the group, or the only one unable to commit to one stance or the other. Be grateful we do not need ditches or latrines dug, as you would have the first three shovels.”
Braylar walked off in one direction, then Mulldoos slapped the trunk of a tree and went off in the other.
I knew the other two were likely one step behind so took the opportunity to ask, “Why is there such obvious discord between the captain and his sister? Is this how Syldoons and Memoridons normally engage? Because I get the distinct impression it’s more than that.”
Vendurro looked at Hewspear and the older man kept his gaze on the distant horizon, and I knew there must have been a significant story there, but I also sensed that it was very unlikely I was about to hear it.
After a pause, Hewspear looked at Braylar, still walking away from our makeshift camp. “You have the right of it. There is indeed a great deal more than that. But this is something best heard from the captain himself, provided he felt like sharing the details. Which I suspect he will not. So,” he looked directly at me, his eyes registering the severity of the warning, even if he chose his words more carefully, “I suggest not pursuing this line of questioning with any of his men, and I’d wager you avoid any wroth unpleasantness by thinking twice about putting the question to him either.”
Hewspear stalked off, and even as I started to look at Vendurro, he raised both hands in the air and starting backing away as if I held a loaded crossbow trained on his chest. “Nope. Nuh uh. Don’t even think about. You heard the lieutenant—when you’re standing over a really nasty snake hole, real bad idea poking your pecker in to see what happens. Best just to walk off and leave well enough alone.” And with that, he left me alone as well.
Well, my curiosity was only inflamed more with that kind of response. Despite waiting to ask until Mulldoos left, in retrospect, he might have been my best hope of hearing some unvarnished or unguarded response. Though it just as likely might have resulted in my landing on my back in the dirt with his boot on my chest.
Still, even as I’d learned quite a bit more about the Syldoon in the last few days, there was something oddly comforting about being completely excluded from some information. If they suddenly divulged everything I asked, I would have suspected they were lies in the entirety or my life was about to end.
Soffjian and Skeelana arrived before the wagons, and the former was as happy as a cat dunked in a barrel of water. Though, in her case, it was a jungle cat from Thulmora, and even that animal might have been less of a threat to the dunkers.
Braylar had returned from his brief trek into the woods, and was sitting near Hewspear and Mulldoos, and the three of them were talking—arguing, more like, as that seemed their preferred form of communication—and while Skeelana veered off and headed to an unoccupied spot alongside the road with the spare mounts, Soffjian rode directly toward her brother. Even from a distance, and with her being generally guarded in her expressions, it was obvious she wasn’t going to hand him lilies.
I started walking in their direction as well. I had no obvious reason for attending, other than satisfying my curiosity, but that was enough for me, and I suspected the heated exchange would distract anyone from my appearance anyway.
Swinging one leg over her horse’s neck, Soffjian dropped to the ground. “You might have told me you intended to stop unexpectedly, Bray.”
Braylar stood up as he replied, “And you might have asked before storming off like an intemperate child. Our wagons are nearly here—my scouts informed me they made much better time escaping the warrens of Alespell than expected. So it was pointless to continue.”
“And you couldn’t be bothered to send a rider after us?”
“I didn’t imagine you’d ride halfway to Drivenfort. I assumed, being preternaturally alert, you would notice we weren’t directly behind you and eventually return. And see—here you are.”
Soffjian took a step forward. Like Hewspear, she always seemed to have her pole arm with her, and unlike a traditional sidearm that was sheathed, scabbarded, or on a belt and posing no immediate threat, a pole arm always seemed one quick motion from spilling blood. Or perhaps it was the size. Either way, with her ranseur held in one hand, and the look on her face, I half expected the other hand to come up and the fingers to spread as she assaulted him in that unseen and terrifying way she was capable of. Or to simply stab him with the thing.
Instead, she said, “Needle me as you like, Syldoon. Thwart me as you choose on this road. And the next that leads us home. Your prerogative. But do not think you will do so unscathed.”
Braylar stepped in to meet her, stopping only when they were close enough to smell each other’s breath. “Home, is it? Even now, so many years later, I never imagined you would espouse such affinity and affection. Rigid obedience, yes, but I always suspected you would withhold your heart. It seems I was wrong.” She started to reply, but he tilted his head toward the road and cut her off, “And our wagons are in sight, so we can be homeward bound soon enough. You are welcome to sit in one. Give your horses a rest.”
She didn’t look where he indicated and hadn’t cooled in the slightest. “The only thing I’d welcome is a chance to see you laid low. And every moment journeying together convinces me I won’t have to wait long.”
Soffjian plopped the ranseur on one shoulder, nearly poked Hewspear’s eye out as she spun on her heel, grabbed her horse’s reins, and headed over to Skeelana.
Braylar turned to his retinue. “There,” he said. “You see what being cordial gets me. Ready the men. Once the wagons are back in the fold, we head out. Arki, you will ride with me in the lead wagon.”
As the captain moved away from us and unstoppered a bottle of wine, I wondered if staying in the saddle might actually be more comfortable after all. The captain seemed to be weathering the unseen things he endured, but I suspected he was going to need quite a bit more wine or ale to maintain that, and while he could be prickly sober, he was even less predictable and pleasant drunk.
The wagons joined our small caravan, and after the drivers reported their departure from Alespell had gone without incident—apparently the ripper running around eviscerating townspeople was exactly the distraction the Syldoon had been hoping for—we got set to keep moving. Besides Yargus and his bloody mouth, and Bulsinn losing a hand to the beast, the casualties in the pre-dawn battle had not been as high as I expected. Certainly, plenty of Syldoon were nursing injuries, but none as serious as Bulsinn’s that I could tell, and the small company had lost four in the fighting. Which, considering the odds, wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. But now with the soldiers in the two wagons, the total was a fighting force of twenty-five men, the two Memoridons, and myself. I wondered how many of the Syldoon had been involved in infiltrating the various temples and baronial households, and how many had been assigned to uncover the scrolls and parchments.
I joined the captain in the lead wagon. It was much like the one w
e’d used to travel across the Green Sea—a bench in front, a long, simple wooden bed that was unremarkable except for the faintest traces of blue paint the rain and wind had beaten into submission, a patched and stained canvas cover, large wheels, and the usual assortment of barrels, chests, sacks, and miscellaneous instruments hanging from hooks inside that made moving around more than a challenge and just short of impossible. While the Anjurians tended to favor the smaller all-wooden wagons, either open or enclosed with walls and flat roofs, frequently carved and embossed and stained or ornately painted, the canvas tops weren’t unusual enough to elicit notice or comment. Which seemed to be exactly what the captain was going for—something large enough to haul the Syldoon supplies and completely innocuous.
The captain made it abundantly clear he wished to be left alone with his wine, and sentenced me to the interior of the wagon. I might have been glad of it if the wagon had been hauling the scrolls he wanted translated, as I could have at least gotten started, but the supplies were all entirely mundane, and the chests were all in the wagon behind us. So I moved to the rear and watched the mostly uninteresting countryside roll by, hills and woodlands occasionally broken up by small villages and communities tucked away in them, with farmsteads here and there surrounded by narrow pines, broad lindens, and stern oaks.
The further we got from Alespell, the less traffic there was heading in that direction, particularly since we were more than a half day’s ride away. No one was going to risk traveling the road at night, even given the alleged protection of the Hornmen who rode and patrolled. The few travelers we did encounter hastily gave way to the large armed party.
We continued heading southwest, away from Alespell, away from the road north to Sunwrack we’d chosen to pass up, and toward… something. Henlester holed up in some hunting lodge somewhere, and likely Brunesmen trying to dig him out, and almost certainly more combat and casualties. I couldn’t believe it, but Sunwrack actually seemed like the safer, preferable choice at this point. Even with the alleged poisonous politicking and vicious infighting among the factions there, it was unlikely combat would spill into the streets. Often, at any rate.
But it didn’t really make much sense to be bemoaning my fate. I had made my choice to ride with the Syldoon and their captain, so I would go where he led, for good or ill. Though ill seemed more likely.
I massaged a sack of grain in an unsuccessful attempt to make it resemble a pillow or anything remotely comfortable, laid back, and decided to try to sleep the miles away if I could. I twisted and shifted, and it felt like my eyes had just shut when our wagon slowed, which seemed odd, since I didn’t think we had traveled far enough to require a reprieve—Braylar mentioned we would arrive at our stopping point around dusk, and it was still in the center of the afternoon. And that’s when I noticed the two Syldoon sitting in the wagon with me. They had tunics over their armor and hoods covered their inked nooses. They were both cradling crossbows.
They were familiar, but only vaguely, as most of Braylar’s men were strangers to me—waking up to unexpected armed friends would have been disconcerting enough. Clearly, I’d slept harder than I imagined, but was fully awake now, and suddenly very nervous.
One with large ears protruding almost straight out of his head said, “Sleep well, princess?”
The both laughed and I made my way through the supplies to the front as quickly as I could, pulled the canvas aside, and leaned over the bench.
A hundred or so yards ahead, there was a tower constructed of wood and stone, with a few smaller one-story wooden buildings around the base. The tower looked old and was leaning ever so slightly. I shaded my eyes and couldn’t make out much more. “What is it, Captain?”
Braylar pointed at the banner hanging limply on top of the tower. “Unless one of my scouts has grossly deceived me, we are approaching a Hornmen outpost.”
He said this calmly and without care, as if he were commenting on the quality of the gravel beneath the horses’ hooves.
The captain had covered up his armor with his tunic and scarf as well, and as I climbed over the bench and sat next to him, looking around, I noticed our company had thinned considerably. It was the captain, myself, the two in the wagon, and whoever was in the wagon to our rear. That was all.
Braylar didn’t have a blanket on his lap, so at least I didn’t have to worry about him shooting anyone. Just yet.
I looked ahead at the small cluster of buildings, watching a thin line of smoke listing out of a crooked chimney, and imagined the Hornmen inside. I suddenly craved wine. A lot of it. “Captain?”
He didn’t look at me, eyes still trained on the Hornmen outpost, assessing, measuring, calculating. “Archivist?”
“Is it… that is… is it wise? To approach a Hornmen tower like this? What if they know what happened in Alespell?”
“One of the buildings is likely a stable. I strongly suspect that houses Hornmen horse. Do you recall a Hornman on horse racing past, its mouth foaming, the rider slathered in sweat, wide-eyed as he passed a company of the very men he was about to report to the border patrol? No, of course not, you’ve been sleeping. But I can assure you, someone in my company would have noticed just such a rider. We are tremendously observant like that. Quite a bit of intense training, just to ensure we don’t miss these little details. I also see no rookery there, so the odds of a winged messenger somehow beating us here are also nominal.”
“So you don’t think they’ll be suspicious?”
“Of what? Two wagons and a few men? They encounter such things every day.”
“Where are the rest of the Syldoon?” I looked around both sides of the road, clear of trees in both directions, with a large bank of woods on the opposite side of the Hornmen outpost, several hundred yards away.
He saw me and replied, “Your deductive reasoning is exemplary.”
“Why not simply take the wagons through the woods, though? Avoid the outpost altogether?”
Braylar rapped his knuckles on the bench. “You see—that is what a lack of expertise and training gets you. The woods are too dense for wagons. At least to move quickly. And there are probably patrols besides. So it didn’t warrant spending an extra day just to navigate around a lone watch tower. And as to why those men aren’t with us, a smaller, poorly guarded caravan does not seem quite as threatening as twenty-five armed men on horse.”
“Has Bloodsounder… have you felt any—”
“Cease your nervous prattling. They’ve seen us in any event—we would rouse a great deal more suspicion if we suddenly turned about and sped off in the opposite direction, wagons and horses in a mad flight of terror. Now, whatever you do,” he turned at me and twitch-smiled, “don’t act as if you killed one of their brave soldiers in Alespell. If you think you cannot calm your nerves enough to manage that, I suggest hiding in the back under a large sack of figs.”
He laughed then, and slapped me on the back. All I kept thinking about was where they would execute prisoners out here. They didn’t have any gallows—did they hang them from the gnarled apple trees, or cut off their heads in back? Perhaps they were target practice for bolts of arrows. That would be fitting.
“Even the chronicler who betrayed me wasn’t so dour. You’re a mystery to me, little scholar. A mystery.”
We rolled closer and I saw two soldiers above the crenellations at the top of the tower, watching us as we approached. A small breeze stirred the banner just long enough for the white horns on the green field to show. The tower appeared to have been built for observation across the fields and the solitary road rather than for defense, as the gate and walls surrounding the compound were wood, and not high or thick. But the outpost looked like it could still house a fair number of men, and my nerves were jangling as three Hornmen stepped out of the barracks and walked over to the road, hailing us.
Braylar waved back, smiling, and then turned to me and said, very quietly, “I don’t suppose I need to remind you to keep your mouth shut? I know it shouldn’t be
necessary, but I somehow feel as if I still should.”
I shook my head.
“Very good.” He kept waving and smiling.
A Hornman with yellow teeth, a yellowed surcote, and an old yellow horn hanging from his chapped baldric addressed us, looking around at the wagons and horses tethered to the side, “Any difficulties on the road?”
He sounded much more bored than threatening, but the first Hornman in the Green Sea hadn’t appeared overly hostile initially either, and every one of them since had tried to kill us. So there was that.
Braylar shook his head. “No, my lord. Thank you very much for your concern though.”
The Hornman nodded, clearly unconcerned. “You the leader of this outfit?”
Braylar nodded. “I am, my lord. Though ‘outfit’ is probably too generous a term.”
The Hornman seemed completely disinterested. “Coming from the Great Fair, I expect?”
“Yes. Our fourth time.”
The Hornman glanced at me, and I tried to smile, though my lips suddenly felt like wriggling worms that moved of their own accord, so I stopped trying immediately.
He asked what we were hauling. Unlike the Hornmen in the grass, who were no better than bandits themselves, this man seemed perfunctory and eager to be done with questions.
Braylar regaled him with an abridged version of the quill merchant speech he’d used on the Hornman in the Green Sea, which seemed a very poor choice considering how badly that had ended, but aside from making one slightly sympathetic noise during the tale, the Hornman didn’t seem to even be listening.
The captain concluded with, “So, my lord, is this a tax station then?”
“That would at least give us counting coins to while away the hours. No, it’s a watch station.”
Braylar asked, innocently, “To what end?”
The Hornmen responded slowly, as if he were speaking to the dullest of dullards. “To keep watch.” When Braylar looked at him as if he still didn’t entirely understand, he added, “Brigands. Grass Dogs that lost their way. Whatever other evil element there be.”
Veil of the Deserters Page 18