by M. M. Perry
Callan, misinterpreting her slight as a compliment, smiled.
“Why, thank you. I pride myself on maintaining my civility at all times, even out here in the wilderness. I’m glad someone else understands how important it is that we maintain our manners and decorum at all times, even when inconvenient. The old woman just complains about everything I do, as if anyone would take her advice when it comes to hygiene. I don’t think she’s bathed since I’ve met her, let alone done anything about her foul breath. I’m beginning to think she’s one of the many trials my seer predicted I would need to overcome to get to Oshia,” Callan said.
“Have you had many such trials yet,” Cass asked, smile on her lips so small that Callan missed it, along with the playful tone in Cass’ voice.
“Oh yes. Besides the old woman, who may be a trial all unto herself, I have had to deal with sleepless nights, terrible food, bad wine or ale or whatever it is you call the swill they served at the inn, the company of people who can’t possibly understand me and, of course, the stench of those who travel the roads all their lives,” Callan said.
A half beat later he added insincerely, “No offense of course.”
“Of course not,” Cass said. She pointed to the locket around Callan’s neck.
“Is it your wife’s portrait in there?”
Callan blushed suddenly as his hand flew to the locket. He looked at Cass, expecting the same condescending and mocking stare his mother gave him when she mentioned the locket, but instead, all he saw was genuine sympathy in Cass’ eyes. He lifted the locket over his head and passed it to Cass, who opened it carefully.
Inside was a finely detailed portrait of a woman with brown hair and eyes. Cass had rarely seen such detailed work on such a small scale. The woman must have been very happy when the portrait was painted, because she had a look of utter contentment.
“Her name is Melody. It was a wedding gift,” Callan said, a wistful look on his face. “She’s common, so she couldn’t afford much,” he added, the automatic reply out without a thought, a habit Callan picked up after defending the locket to so many people at court. His mother often spoke disparagingly of that as well.
“You must know that this locket is far more precious than some random cluster of jewels and metals,” Cass said, carefully closing the locket and handing it back to Callan.
Callan slid the locket back on over a puzzled expression. He certainly would never have suspected a warrior to be so empathetic. He wondered if he was being toyed with somehow; that later Cass would be joking with the Braldashad about the king’s silly sentiments. He eyed the slumbering warrior suspiciously.
“Well, my mother doesn’t think so,” he said, hoping to close the topic. He tucked the locket into his nightshirt and gathered the neck closed over it.
Aware he had been abrupt, Callan felt awkward. He toyed with the little pouch of mint leaves.
“I wonder if I fed these to my horse…” he muttered, the thought unfinished aloud.
Cass covered her mouth to stop the laughter from bubbling out. Gunnarr was not so subtle. Where he lay against her, Cass could feel his body shaking with silent laughter. He was obviously awake now, yet still attempted to feign being asleep.
Callan had noticed the Braldashadian’s jerks, however. He tossed another dash of his mint leaves into his mouth, chewed and swallowed before he pointed at Gunnarr.
“It seems the big fella is awake. Perhaps you should rouse the old woman and her boy. I want him to fetch me some water, so I can shave and clean up a little. Then we can be on our way,” Callan said.
He got up and hurried back to his tent, letting the flap close behind him. Gunnarr twisted awkwardly to watch the king go.
“What do you think he gets up to in there?” Gunnarr asked.
“You mean after he does his toenails, curls his hair and practices his vowels? Probably things that require an abundance of pillows,” Cass replied, looking at the forgotten cushion.
“You’re right. Probably nothing worth knowing,” Gunnarr said standing, “I’ll wake the others and fetch some water.”
Gunnarr trundled over to Nat’s tent. He bent over and wiggled one of the boy’s exposed feet. Nat replied with an inarticulate grumble before drowsily trying to push himself up and roll over. The motion tangled him up in his tent, and then pulled it down around him in a heap. After a few moments of more coordinated squirming, he managed to sit up and poke his head out from the end of his tent. He rubbed at his exhausted looking eyes, blinking up at Gunnarr.
Gunnarr winked at Nat and then headed over to the ass. The beast was lazily chewing grass, seemingly oblivious to the warrior’s approach. Gunnarr pulled his arm far back and then let fly with a huge smack on its rump.
The donkey let out a bark of noise that would have woken the dead as it tried to bolt away from the Braldashadian, despite being tethered to the wagon, which jerked forward. The sudden noise in the otherwise peaceful morning, combined with the sharp tug of motion, woke Inez instantly. She poked her head out of her blanket and saw she was moving.
“Are we leaving already?” she croaked before she noticed the camp, everyone else still in it, was about twenty feet away.
Inez had just begun to panic about how she’d be able to get hold of the donkey to stop it while she bounced about inside the cargo area when the ass found itself in a rather large patch of clover. It promptly stopped. The tension in its leads slackened, and with a final lurch over a patch of lumpy ground, the cart stopped. The old woman found herself hurled towards the front of her wagon. As she stumbled forward trying to grab something to stop herself, she cursed the gods colorfully. When she finally managed to sort herself out and crawled out of the wagon, she scowled at the donkey. It stared back, unconcernedly, quite content to stay put and graze.
She hobbled back to the camp and went straight to Nat, who was just finishing putting away his tent.
“Go get that blasted animal,” she ordered, flinging her finger at the donkey.
As Nat ran off to the wagon, the old woman spied the king’s pillow next to the fire. She hurried over and sat down, hard, on it.
“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” she said as she settled into it. “What’s for breakfast?”
“A ration each of salted meat and bread, and a piece of fruit,” Cass said, gathering up the foods as she mentioned them.
“We had that last night,” Inez complained.
“No, we had smoked meat last night,” Cass said helpfully, passing the food to Inez.
Inez scowled at the large warrior woman a bit before accepting.
“A truly good warrior would have managed to serve up fresh fried eggs and sausages,” Inez said bitterly as she tore a chunk off the meat.
Nat came back, the wagon trundling along behind him, led by the now properly harnessed donkey.
“I know, I know,” Cass said good naturedly, “but I’m so often told my sausage making skills aren’t up to snuff. I’ll do my best to remedy that for you, good lady,”
Nat sat down, grabbing up one of the unclaimed pieces of fruit as he did so. Before he could take a bite, Callan called out from his tent, “Boy? Are you up yet? I require water for my wash basin.”
Nat started to get up but Cass put her hand on his knee and stopped him.
“Gunnarr is already fetching water for us. You just sit and eat. The king will be able to shave soon enough,” Cass said.
By way of comment, Inez snorted, but didn’t say anything, instead chewing away at the leathery meat. She liked that the king might feel a bit put out; she liked even better the idea that when he did eventually, inevitably get angry about it, she could tell him it was the warrior woman’s fault. The image of the two of them bickering brought a smile to her face. But the smile slid off her face when she saw Gunnarr approaching, a giant bucket of water in each hand.
He brought it to the edge of the group and set it down next to his pack, which he reached into and pulled several tin cups out of. He dipped each one into
a bucket and then passed them out. Nat drank his first glass down before Cass had started on hers.
Callan poked his head out of his tent then.
“Boy?” he inquired.
Nat passed his cup back to Gunnarr before jumping up.
“Coming, sir!” he shouted before looking back to Gunnarr, a cautious look in his eyes.
“May I take some of this water, sir?”
Gunnarr squinted at the boy for a moment, faking an exaggerated look of frustration. He gave it up quickly, and nodded smiling at the young man. Nat grinned broadly and picked up the huge bucket in both hands.
“Thank you!” he said before turning around and waddling to the king’s tent with the bucket between his legs, trying to keep any from sloshing out. Even before Nat reached the tent’s flaps, Callan poked his head out and waved the boy over to him. When Nat got closer, Callan held out a large silver bowl. With some difficulty, Nat managed to haul the bucket up high enough to carefully tip it over and slosh enough water into the bowl to fill it. Only a few cups managed to make their way down the front of his trousers. As soon as it was full, Callan and his bowl retreated back into the tent.
Nat tottered back to the fire more easily than he had left it, bucket in hand but considerably lighter. He set it down next to its twin before gratefully settling back into his place at the fire. He leaned over to snatch his cup back up from beside Gunnarr, then dipped it into the now mostly empty bucket.
Inez scowled first at the king’s tent, then at Nat, before turning to the warriors.
“Will we get to the Village of Light today?” she asked.
Nat’s face blushed deeply at the mention of the village. Gunnarr patted the young man on the back heartily.
“Yes, by dusk at the latest. Tonight will be the big night, eh young warrior?” Cass asked.
He nodded and nervously drank from his glass, gulping the water so fast that he choked and coughed for a few seconds. Cass got up and gave Nat a few solid smacks on his back.
“As soon as you’ve recovered, Nat, we’ll head out,” she said, “We’ll want to skirt the woods until we get closer. No need to enter until it’s absolutely necessary.”
She began to gather things from around the camp that needed to be packed back up. Once she’d wandered away a bit, Gunnarr turned to Nat.
“You don’t need to do this if you don’t want to. You can still change your mind, you know? We can figure out something else,” he said kindly to Nat.
“What?” Inez sneered, “think you can convince the village elders that you’ve never lain with a woman then? A strapping, handsome, big, sweaty…” Inez drifted off into a fantasy for a moment, Nat and Gunnarr staring at her blankly.
“Fat chance,” she said, coming back to herself. She snickered into her cup at some private joke. Gunnarr chose to ignore her.
Nat shook his head emphatically.
“No, I want to do this. I’m just… a little nervous is all. I don’t want to mess this up. I want to do my part to help,” he said, his reticence fading as his enthusiasm returned.
“If you’re willing, you needn’t worry. This particular task is difficult to mess up,” Gunnarr said grinning.
“HA!” Inez shrieked with laughter, “don’t believe that for a minute boy. The strumpet here must never have lain with a drunken lord.”
“No,” Gunnarr said turning toward Inez, an amused look on his face, “I cannot say that I ever have.”
Inez continued, “lords… all the nobility. They believe they are masters of everything they attempt, even, and especially, when it comes to performance between the sheets. But get them just the littlest bit drunk first, and they pass out before they ever plunge the sword, if you catch my drift.” She made an indelicate gesture that made Nat blush and look away.
“That is unless they’ve had so much to drink that they fail to raise their scabbard before they pass out,” she finished, laughing.
Although it seemed impossible for Nat to blush any brighter, he did. Cass returned to the group, a freshly tied bundle in hand. She dropped it near the edge of the fire and offered Nat a hand to help him stand, which he took.
“Don’t listen to her,” Cass said looking at Inez as she pulled Nat to his feet. “I suspect that in her encounters, the men drink themselves unconscious as a means of self-preservation.”
Inez glared up at the warrior.
“Gibberish!” Inez fired back. “You wait and see. Not all men are as blind and undiscerning as your Braldashad wanton there. Men flock to me wherever we go. Poets have composed odes to my beauty. Gods have fought wars over me!” Inez spluttered.
“Of that,” Cass said, bowing to Inez, “I’ve no doubt. If I have offended you, that wasn’t my intention. When I say that these men didn’t want to lie with you, I meant for fear that once having possessed you they would forever be in your sway, unable to ever leave your side for fear that they may perish without you.”
“Indeed,” Gunnarr said standing, “That is certainly why I have worked so hard to resist your wiles, fair maiden.”
Inez watched them go to the wagon and begin loading the packed gear into it. She picked up her cup of water, and drank it slowly, keeping one eye on Cass as she did.
Callan came out of his tent then, looking perfectly groomed, his outfit meticulously arranged.
“Boy, I’m done now. You may pack my tent,” he said.
His face glowed from the fresh scrubbing and shave he had given it. As he approached the fire, Cass smelled lavender waft across the fire pit, mixing with the scent of wood smoke. Callan looked around confused for a moment before he realized Inez was sitting on his pillow. He sighed with irritation as he leaned down and picked up a piece of fruit. He didn’t want to get in a fight with the old woman, so he decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed she’d snatched his seat. Instead, he stood at the edge of the fire, munching on his fruit.
Nat set to taking down Callan’s tent, efficiently breaking it down into neat piles of components, stopping only once when Inez complained about her heavy trunk not packing itself. Gunnarr waved Nat off, indicating he should keep working on Callan’s tent. He sauntered over to Inez’s trunk, and with a single smooth jerk hefted the heavy trunk up and set it into the cart effortlessly.
Cass began kicking dirt into the fire to squelch it, which caused smoke to billow into Callan’s face. He made an exaggerated cough.
“Do you mind? I just bathed. Now everything’s going to smell of smoke,” Callan said as he stepped away from the fire, brushing at his shirt.
“My apologies. The wind can be unpredictable here,” Cass said. “I have some perfume you can borrow, if you like.”
“You have perfume?” Callan asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Cass replied cautiously, looking askance at the king and waiting for a full frontal insult.
“Well, you should use it,” Callan said wrinkling his nose. Then, remembering yesterday’s confrontation with Gunnarr, he turned around quickly to see if the giant Braldashad was looming somewhere nearby, ready and waiting to defend Cass’ honor.
The big man was only a few strides away and approaching quickly, his face not one of happiness.
“I m-mean to say that a lady, such as you obviously are,” Callan stuttered, nervously watching Gunnarr, “should treat yourself once in a while to the finer things in life. You work too hard. Put on some perfume, maybe a dress, have a dance… or whatever it is you lot do when you are… having a good time.”
“Well,” Cass turned back to the gear she was bundling up, “it’s a very special scent and I don’t just wear it on any occasion. I keep it for when I travel through morta territory.”
“Morta…?” Callan stared at Cass uncomprehending.
“Insects. Very, very small insects in fact. But they travel in huge swarms. And they can follow a scent like you wouldn’t believe, from miles away. They enjoy the scent of flowers, so much so they even adorn their homes with bits of them. It’s quite fragrant, and the uninfo
rmed traveler stumbling upon a colony might even call it beautiful. Of course, if you ever actually see a colony, you’re in big trouble,” Cass said before she put her bundle on her horse and leapt into the saddle.
“Are you talking about morta?” Nat asked. He prodded his pony to move closer to Cass.
Inez got up from the remains of the fire, now mostly crumbling charcoal sputtering out an occasional wisp of diaphanous smoke, and hobbled over to her wagon. When she got to the seat and realized Nat was not, as usual, coming over to help her up, she scrambled over the edge inelegantly. Once she’d managed it, she glared at Nat, although he was too distracted to notice.
“Yes,” Cass said in response to Nat.
Callan stared down at the pillow Inez had been sitting on. There was a new stain on it that he couldn’t—and didn’t want to, he decided—identify. He grumpily mounted his own horse, leaving the cushion where it lay on the ground.
“They’re terrifying,” Nat said excitedly, not sounding the least terrified, “will we get to see them?”
“We might, although I’ve heard they’ve migrated a bit since I last travelled this way. But just in case we do I should mention, your highness, that you might want to lay off the lavender before we run into them. Like I said, morta really enjoy flowers,” Cass said as she prodded her horse to move.
“I should be afraid of insects now, as well as harpies?” Callan asked.
“Oh yes. They’ve been known to successfully set upon unwary travelers in the night, much larger than you, while they sleep. Their victims usually don’t even know they’re being attacked until they wake up in the morning and find themselves at the center of a morta swarm,” Cass said seriously.
“And I won’t be able to get away? From a pack of insects?” Callan sneered.
“No. By the time you woke, you’d be fully paralyzed by their venom. And likely as not, before you woke you’d already be missing a limb or two, or enough of them to make no difference. They work fast,” Cass said.
She encouraged her horse into a trot, leaving a blanching Callan behind. Before he followed, Callan rummaged through his saddle bags until he found his bar of lavender soap. He flung it towards the fire pit, and then urged his mount to catch up with the warrior.