Page 10 of Into the West

“Everything she has said is the truth, Baron,” Rose replied.

He relaxed a trifle. There might still be Imperial agents among his people, but he was fairly certain Sergeant Fairweather wasn’t one of them. “All right, then. What can I do for you, Sergeant Fairweather?”

“I’d like me and the lads to be part of your scouting party,” she replied. “They’ve got their hair on fire to go be explorers, because aside from training camp, they’ve never been farther from home than Briarglen. I promised I’d ask you. What we have to offer is that we’re trained soldiers, which you haven’t got too many of. The boys are good, and I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true, and I’m better. Bow, crossbow, Spitter, Poomer, sling if we run out of every other sort of ammunition. I think we could probably chuck a spear or two at need. I’m a good swordswoman, the boys are good with axe and shield. We know how to form a pike line, though a pike line of three isn’t going to stop much.”

It was an attractive offer. The team he had planned for was to be composed of mages, a couple of his Guard, Hakkon and Jonaton (because separating them at this point was going to be impossible), Ivar and Alberdina Endicrag, and whichever of the Dolls wanted to go along, but no actual soldiers. Certainly none with experience handling Spitters and Poomers, and it would be no bad idea to send some of the Spitters and one of the Poomers and some ammunition and balls along. A Poomer firing chain is an effective way to turn fallen trees into pocket-sized chunks, so it’s practical too.

And suddenly he had an idea. “I accept,” he said. “On one condition. I’d like you to take that girl that was sitting with us along.”

She gave him an odd look. “Seems a strange choice for a scouting mission.”

“Well, she’s got that thing they call the ‘Fetching Gift.’ Seems to me that might be useful if, say, you want a grappling hook set for climbing without making throws until your arm is sore, or you want something brought down from a height or across a river. If you need something from the main flotilla, she can get it for you as long as it doesn’t weigh too much. If you need to send something physical to me, she can do that too.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “You’re leaving something important out.” She held up a hand. “Just wait, let me guess. She thinks she’s in love with you and you’d really rather she got her mind on anything else but you.”

His eyes widened. “How did you—”

Fairweather laughed. “A couple of decades spent among a tribe of siblings and a horde of cousins. Plain as ink. I think it’s a good idea. You’re right, she can be very useful, probably more useful than here. She’ll toughen up and have plenty to think about that will exclude romantic dreams, and I am pretty certain you wouldn’t saddle your scouts with a spoiled brat.”

“She’s also good with horses, including the care of them,” he pointed out. “That will free up people to do things more important than feeding and watering and rubbing down.”

Fairweather snorted. “I’d expect that from your people. What is she to you?”

“My wife’s sister.” He sighed.

She chuckled. “Which makes things even more difficult, aye, I see it. Well, I don’t see any reason to tell you no . . . but does this mean you’re putting me in charge of the party?”

“You’re an officer, you have experience being in charge,” he pointed out. “You’ve been vouched for. I need someone with the patience and ability to herd cats.”

“Baron Valdemar,” she said after a moment, with a salute so barely Imperial that it would have enraged a superior officer. “You’ve got yourself a cat-herder.”

Then Rose spoke up, unexpectedly. “We know Sergeant Fairweather and her cousins quite well. They have always treated the Dolls with respect. They are more skilled than she has told you, her cousins are more intelligent than she pretends, and they have a refreshingly mordant outlook on the Empire.”

As he was listening to this astonishing pronouncement, the Master Sergeant shrugged. “I’m a realist, and a realist knows the Empire was rotten, so your best bet at survival was to keep your head down, your nose clean, and your ass out of sight of anyone that could send you on a suicide mission.”

Rose just offered an opinion. An unsolicited opinion.

But it was an opinion he was inclined to agree with. He very much liked what he had seen and heard from Sergeant Fairweather.

“Turn up here tomorrow morning right after breakfast. We’ll take the Gate with the first lot out of here to where the initial scouting party is. I’ll be bringing a couple others, and Delia to complete the group.”

She saluted: a brisk salute, not fancy, not with an air that she was mocking him either, but this time with only two fingers at her brow. “Will do, Lord Baron.” And with that, she stepped off out of the kitchen area toward the other horn of the lake. “Wait,” Kordas called, and she stepped back. “What’s with the salute?”

“I’m sure not going to give you an Imperial salute. You’re Baron Kordas.” And she left again.

That was true. By the code, it was a salute he should not ever receive, in fact. I think she just invented the new Valdemaran Salute. It’ll help to remind everyone this isn’t an Imperial show. I’ll make it official tomorrow.

He rejoined the others, only to find that Isla, the boys, and Delia had gone to their boats. Well, if the weather had been less chilly they might have stayed, but they could hear the music perfectly well from the comfort of the barges if they wanted to listen, and it wasn’t as if there was much to see. The two musicians were concentrating so hard on their playing that they appeared to gaze at their shoes the whole time.

He stepped onto his barge and ducked his head to pass through the door.

It had been divided up into rooms in a row, and one side had windows cut into the side, with sliding glass panes and storm shutters fitted into the windows. Mage-lights hung from the ceiling of each room. Ordinary folk with no magic in them had to make do with oil lamps, or lightstones they’d brought along. The first room was all storage: a wardrobe with doors that latched shut, and cabinets, also with doors that latched shut, plus a very small table built into the deck, and a bit of seating with it, built into the bulkhead in a corner under the window, with shelves and hanging hooks above the window and the seating. Isla was positively draconian about keeping everything stored away when it was not actually in use; there was not a sign of the clutter that a person would expect of a place where three small boys were living.

The inside had been painted white, with wooden decking as the floor. There was more storage under the decking, and hatches at intervals to get into the storage.

The second room held a big bed up against the unwindowed wall, with storage under and over it in the form of cabinets and shelves. There were even hooks hanging from the ceiling to make use of every finger-length of space. Isla was waiting for him there. Past that room, he knew, was one with a stove for heat that doubled as a place to cook small things and heat water, a tiny hip-bath that currently held wood for the stove, a drain-sink barely big enough to wash your hands in, more storage, and a closet with a close-stool in it.

And past that was the boys’ room, more storage and two beds. The two youngest shared one; they were small enough to fit in it feet-to-feet. Restil got the other to himself, though it was significantly narrower than the other. There was an actual sliding wooden door between that room and the rest of the barge, which was not quite thick enough to prevent him from hearing murmurs and giggles.