Lord of the West

Doubts


Sargon, holy emperor of the greatest empire known to history, Helu's very representative, was stuck in the miserable horribly rustic inn room, far from the centre of civilisation. The best inn in the region, it was a joke. The young Emperor was fatigued and in agony, no one had told him how wearying long hours in the saddle would be, and no one cared they were all downstairs in the rooms below. He had slipped down in his splended golden house robes when he had heard voices below. Two new Verangian guards stood at his door. He supposed that they were his close body guards, certainly they had not left his side in all the time they had been travailing. Even they watched him with barely veiled contempt though their faces remained impassive.

He was seventeen now, coming of age the year previously in a lavish ceremony. It had been a long awaited occasion. Years of his every action being watched by his tutors, he had no choice but to grow uo virtuous, his safety watched over ferverously. But minority over, he had expected to do as he chose, just as his father had. But it seemed to him that his life had only become more resticted, more rituals, and endless audiences about matters he cared little for. This was supposed to be a great adventure, his first milatry campaign, he was to taste the glory of his forfathers, but it was nothing like he thought it would be. No decisions were supposed to have been made without him, but he knew that his generals congregated without him in the evenings. That night, when he could bare it no more, he had walked in upon them. They were sitting at a table in the great hall below, his generals were assembled along with his three marshals - Lord Avitus, Lord Cinna, Lord Gavros, and the captain of his Verangian guard a Nemian man simply named Peregrine, and many more of his war council.


The lights had been out for hours and it was deep in the night when he heard the disturbance below. Sargon wondered what was going on and had expected at any moment for a servant to come and rouse him from his bed. But they never came and when he had intruded upon them he realised that they never intended to include him. As he had entered they had turned to look at him and for an instance he felt like he had as a small child intruding upon one of his father’s councils, only to be sent back to his nursery. They had risen and bowed to him at his entrance. The politicians among them had the decency to look vaguely uncomfortable, but those who were career soldiers simply looked impatient at his interruption.


“What goes on?” He had asked, addressing his question to the only two men who were standing, Captain Pereguine and Terent Edouard, they had obviously paused in the midst of a disagreement, as Terent was looking flushed his mouth open, Pereguine’s strange pale hazel eyes were hard, and his mouth pressed in a firm disapproving line. The young emperor recognised the expression, Pereguine often wore it when Sargon was set on getting his own way but his Captain knew he would be proven right.


Pereguine bowed in a simple stiff fashion. “We were discussing our tactics in the light of not hearing from the vanguard these past days your magnificence.”


Terent’s eyes slid over the captain scornfully. “The good Captain here thinks that we should hold back.” He came forward offering Sargon his chair with an elegant bow. Terent’s eyes slid to the Verangian captain before he looked back at Sargon. “He seems to forget that you have the greatest army known to the world.”


“Here here.” Lord Gavros agreed, and the room was filled by the thump of fists in the table.

“Lord Darcia should not be underestimated.” The older Lord Cinna said, as the room fell silent, his voice quiet and horse, like a sound of burning leafs. He was the Marshal of the North East, his throat had been crushed on campaign long ago. He stroked his grey beard. “Nor should his forces be. I have seen fifty of his men fight off a horde of the Cydras. It pains me to admit this, but I have seen the Duke and his men, do things with but a few, that both the Duke of Rhoss and myself could not with our men combined. There is a reason that our Holy Lord's great father made him Marshall of the West at just seventuen. ”

The same age as I am, the Emporor realised.

Terent spoke up, banging his hand on the table. "I have told you before." His voice was bored. "There are ways to tame the Duke."

"So you say Edouard." The Marshal of the North East replied ironicly. "But you have not told any of us your plans. The Emperor gave you the resources you needed for your exploits. No doubt because you said that you have experience in these lands. But so far we have yet to see results."

Sargon listened as the men about him argued heatedly amongst themselves. It was like listening to a thunder storm raging about him, something that he knew he had no control over. It made him want to hide under the table and cover his ears. It recalled him one of the most the most terrifying moments of his childhood. He had managed to slip away from his tutors and had snuck out of the woman’s gardens to look around the Throne room knowing it would be empty at that time of day.


The young Princeling himself had never been in the great hall apart form during the state ceremonies. Without the throngs of people the hall echoed strangely as he entered through the vast doors. Sargon had studied at the murals on the walls, each panting on silk depicting the emperor’s before him. He had painstakingly copied each of their stances. “One day I will be Emperor.” His voice had echoed about the vast hall, repeating his words back to him strangely, over and over.


Sargon had then been drawn to the empty throne. Though he knew he was alone, he guiltily looked behind his shoulder as he approached it. Slowly he sank down on to the seat. It dwarfed him then, but one day it would not. He sat for a few moments, nodding and waving to imaginary subjects. It was then that the world began to shake. The floor trembled, and even the fifteen golden columns that symbolised the pillars of their faith groaned with stress. Terrified Sargon had hid under the throne, closing his eyes, covering his ears and praying to be forgiven for his trespass.


It had subsided after what seemed like an eternity. As soon as it did he had run from the hall and back to the familiar safety of the woman’s quarters, of his mother, and his nurse. Sargon later learned that much of the Imperial city was built on stilts over the lagounus delta of the Nargessia river so that ships could practically dock right up in to the centre of the sprawling metropolis. The vast Imperial plaice of Jardan lay on one of the islands, it had been nothing but a small subsidence in the western corner of the isle, and not a message of anger from Helu.


He was startled out of his memories when Captain Peregrine called his name. The whole table was starring at him, their eyes expectant. The Holy Emperor would find Helu's wisdom for them all, to bad that the good god had never once so much as whisperd to the young emporor. Sargon found that he had little to say in the matter. He did not know what to do. His generals made strong arguments for holding back. By suporting one rebelion against a member of the Arcana it was an invitation for outher groups to rebel against their masters. Many of the outer members of his court were deeply uneasy over this milatry intervention. Their was also the consideration of cost, war was an expensive buisniss, and few doubted that Lord Darcia would simply roil over, no that one would fight.

Sargon knew Terent’s secret strategy but the vanguard had disappeared and they had no way to know if they had been successful in capturing Lord Darcia’s mother as Terent had promised they would, their one game piece to use against him and force the obstinate duke in to obedience.

But more worryingly no one had no idea where Lord Darcia was, only that he was not with his main force in the south. Terent it seemed was alone in his desire to go to war. Sargon was not a strong character, he knew this. And there was just too much pressure on him to buckle. He shot Terent an apologetic look and agreed with his generals. “We will wait another span.”


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To Ahrlan it seemed that had been years ago and not a few span of days since he had stood overlooking a battle field upon his war horse. So much had changed, and Ahrlan was a different man, more different than he knew. The events that had followed the route in the Fould valley had opened his eyes. Ahrlan’s small victory against the ducal forces was soon forgotten in the wake of larger events. The help that they thought was coming from the empire had not come and their rebellion would crumble. For the first time in his young life he learned what it was to fight in vain.

The flat lands that surrounded the town of Morlyn lay below him, standing in the shelter of the wood he had the rare luxury of observing the battle field below without being observed.. The sun seemed in accorded with his dejected spirit and was refusing to grace the heavens, leaving the sky the same slate gray stones of his home. He saw his brother below him dressed in full battle array, a mace in his hand, he heard his raised voice. Goring may have noticed him, for he called out. “Not today brother.” Ahrlan thought to himself. “Nor on any other day.”

Bulwyne, his father’s right hand man, his own godfather had turned to him. “Do we go Sire?”

Ahrlan did not answer for a moment his attention entirely absorbed in the two armies below him. The southern forces were unsettled, even at a distance he could hear the confusion and dissent among them, and it was a stark contrast to the calm, quiet competence of the Duke and his men. The Duke was confident, walking his horse sedately down his lines, apparently inspecting his troops. Ahrlan often enjoyed a game of chance with his men, and he liked to think that he knew when a man was bluffing or not. Lord Darcia was certain that he would win, it made the knight wonder what else the duke was confident of, the emperor’s blind eye, or perhaps even his support? With this gloomy thought Ahrlan pulled his horse about and went back the way he came. He would not risk his men’s life’s on such a day.

“Sir Bute?” Bulwyne asked again, confused.

“We go home Bulwyne, this battle is already lost.” Ahrlan said.

Bulwyne did not argue further, and the rest of his men followed without demure. Ahrlan looked up as his godfather came to ride beside him, “Your father will be glad of your return.”

Ahrlan nodded and turned back to his thoughts. He felt strangely dethatched from events, detached from himself, as if he was watching himself live, just a player on a stage. It was a blessing in a way, as the last few weeks had been eye opening, and Ahrlan had been unable to escape from the consequences of his actions, nor the possible consequences of his future decisions.

Unable to leave those villagers he had saved from Goring Ahrlan had not set out for Lord Sindri’s keep at once as he had intended. He had tried to convince them to go to Heronwall and the protection of his father, but they were too afraid to travel through the forest by themselves. Reluctantly Ahrlan had agreed to escort the peasants back to the safety of his family keep.

He had kept his identity secret, dressing as a peasant on entering his home, noticing the Duke’s men were still occupying Hereonwall. It was a more humbling and chafing experience than he anticipated, walking through his own gates, his head down, dressed in filthy rags. His own men had not recognised him at once. He had asked for an audience with his father at once but it was his mother who had greeted him in the courtyard; she had warned him that his father was not well. The stress of the past few months had taken their tole on his aging father.

“The Duke’s men they are still here?” The young knight had demanded, his heart filled with seething anger at seeing men he perceived as enemies strolling around his family keep without challenge.

“Count Faorin’s Knights.” His mother confirmed. She petted his arm and chest comfortingly, soothing his ruffled feathers hastily. “Do not get the wrong idea my son, they have been very good, even though the situation is uncomfortable. They have been everything that is polite and proper. You would know some of them, Lord Turrner’s younger sons and his cousins.”

This had surprised Ahrlan slightly. “I am glad. For now I think that it would be better that they did not know I was here.”

Once within the keep he had found his father coming to meet him, “Ahrlan. My son!” Lord Bute welcomed his son back, the tone of his voice betraying his father’s concern.

“Father you should be abed.” Ahrlan had been shocked to find his father who had always been a robust man looking so haggard.

“Just my age catching up with me.” His father replied dismissively. There seemed little that Ahrlan could say to that. “Do not look so horse faced Ahrlan, there is life in me yet. Now who are all these people with you?”

Ahrlan explained about the peasants, avoiding mentioning Goring’s part in the story, he did not want to burden his father further. As ever Lord Bute had argued a little over the point, but Ahrlan knew that his father would welcome the villagers. After all it had been his father who had taught him that his role in life was to protect his people, those without swords, or spears, and those who could not defend themselves. Since his knighthood was granted he had guarded his own people to the best of his ability, as he had been brought up to do, as his forbearers had done, as was his duty and his right. For what good was the land without people to farm it?

“Now.” Began his father. “Any news of Alwen?”

“Little. I saw him on the field some weeks back.” Ahrlan chuckled. “I was a hairs breath from killing him by mistake, Had he not called my name…. He fought well father, with courage and honour.”

“And skill?” Lord Bute asked hopefully.

Ahrlan smiled a little. “More then he had. But he is still green. Still he is much changed.”

“Does he still follow the Duke?”

“Unfortunately. He runs at the man’s heals like a prise hound. If it were not for the changes I have seen in my brother I would wish to tare that mans throat out for allowing such a thing.”

“Darcia is a hard man. I doubt that Alwen is having an easy time.”

“No I don’t suppose he is.”

Lord Bute’s weathered face was thoughtful, and a sad. “That man saw the strength in my own son that I could not.”

“What news from my cousin?”

“Father perhaps you should wait until you are feeling a little better.” Ahrlan said diplomatically.

“I would hear it just the same.” His father said.

Ahrlan knew not to pass over any detail for his father would know no matter what the subterfuge. His father had a keen mind still it seemed that none of the bad tidings were a surprise to his father who nodded sagely to himself as his eldest son recanted. “For now we have held back the Duke’s forces from Lord Sindri’s lands, but our forces won’t hold, even with the guns. All we can do is hope that our kinslord was right and that the Emperor does truly mean to support us. We have heard nothing from them; I just wonder what they are playing at.” Ahrlan finished, glad to be able to voice his concerns to his father, surely his father would know what to do.

Lord Bute looked over at his eldest son and scratched at his beard. “The Imperial army I have heard is at the south border.” The old man sighed. “I was not meant to hear this, but it seems that part of the force was sent to the north.”

“The North, whatever for?” Ahrlan had exclaimed. “The fighting is here!”

“I do not know, it is a small force, no more then three hundred horse man so they can not intend to take Bala. The Duke has gone to meet them. He took a small force barley a bodyguard we saw them go.”

“That would explain why he did not meet us on the field.” He looked deep in to the fire and pondered on this news. “Father do you think that perhaps the Emperor means to treat with the Duke without us?”

“I have no idea.” Lord Bute said. “But I think that I trust the Emperor less then I do Lord Darcia. That youth that came here a few months back….”

“Terent Edouard.”

“Yes that gilded peacock of a man.” His father continued. “It’s him and his ilk you can’t trust. They speak honeyed words, but they rarely act on them. As a young man when I went to the Imperial city it was full of men like that. Snakes the lot of them. At least here when someone does not like you they will fight you with a sword, in Mawnaws they whisper, whisper like girls in the shadows and then stab you in the back with a pen.”

“Father you went to the Imperial city?”

“As a younger man, your grandfather sent me about a land dispute. When the old Emperor was on the throne.”

“You met the emperor?”

“No. They would never let me in to the haloed halls. Those town courtiers they laughed at me at my clothes, they thought I was little better then a peasant and you can not enter the plaice unless you have been sponsored by one of the Archaina.” Lord Bute fell silent, thinking over old grievances and Ahrlan went to leave. However when he reached the door his father spoke once more. “You should stay.”

“I can not. You know this father. I have promised….”

“The Emperor will not give his support. And even if he does all will be destroyed. They will split the lands up amongst themselves and we will be forgotten. They do not care for the lands as we do. They do not see that each family is tied to the land through blood and toil. That on each hill our ancestors watch us and have always watched us. They see land as nothing more then a currency.”

“Things change father. There is a new Emperor on the throne, and we have support from..”

“Some things do not change.” His father disagreed.

“What then. Do you want me to treat with Darcia?!” Ahrlan exclaimed angrily.

Lord Bute shook his grizzled head. “I did not say that.”

“What then?” The young knight demanded. He was tired and only wanted to find his bed, he did not appreciate his father raking him over the coals, having his own fears revealed to the day light, like a fly stricken sheep shone of its wool so the maggots of doubt could be seen.

Ahrlan watched as his father composed his answer, his milky blue eyes turning to his son imploringly. “My son. You are my eldest and long have you been a man, and a man that I can be proud to call my own. Your wise, wiser then I was at your age. But take a pause and first find out what these Imperials will gain from involvement in this. They have never before taken any interest in our affairs. The last time the Emperor looked to the west was when his sister was taken buy Darcia’s father. And what do we gain from allying ourselves with the Empire?”

“Well that is obvious.”

“No beyond battle. What do we gain if we lose our Duke. What can the Empire offer us that we do not already have?”

“Father I do not understand?”

“You will. Think on it.”




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Bala may have been only a twentieth of the size of Mawnaws the Imperial city however there were still plenty if places for a man to get a drink and have some fun. There were pubs, taverns, inns, cider houses, bars, and all other kinds of drinking halls. Veione intended to frequent them all; he had a reputation to maintain after all.


Veione had hoped to find Vespa at his billet. But his room had been cold and empty when he returned from the south. He did not even have her lingering sent to console himself with. He had sought her out almost desperately, trusting in his gut instincts he found her in the plaice. The second that he spotted her he could not stop the smile from braking on his face. Veione had often experienced the thrill of the hunt. But this was something else entirely, not just a thrill, the pleasure that he felt just seeing her across the room was something integral to his very being.

He had tried to catch her in a hug, but she pushed him away. It was the first sign that something was very wrong, but he had brushed it off. Vespa had never been an advocate of public displays of affection. He had laughed good naturedly at what he thought was her annoyance at his attempted pawing. Vespa had been bursk, unwilling to speak, though she had said that she was just unable, busy with her duties. He knew when she was not telling him the truth. “Tell me what is wrong?” he asked.

“It’s nothing.” She dismissed him. Refusing to meet his eyes.

“It’s not nothing.” He frowned grabbing her arm. “I know that tone of voice. That tone of voice means something.”

Vespa did not respond, trying to ignore him.

Undeterred he tilted up her chin, aiming to kiss away her ill humour, needing that intimacy after so long apart from her, from himself. But the expression that he beheld on her face – a mixture of deep anger and hurt, changing to frigid loathing - was like a bucket of ice water thrown over him killing his ardour instantly.

“Don’t follow me.” Vespa hissed and then shrugged off his touch like a horse shaking off a fly before she had gone on her way. He was left standing there alone in the echoing hall, his hand still reaching out for her, unable to go after her, afraid to face the look upon her face again.

And so reluctantly he had gone out drinking with his men, a few drinking games down and he was a good deal less reluctant, and had began to enjoy himself once more by the time that they started singing bawdy songs. He drank whisky, he downed vodka and chased it with larger and cider. He managed to down a whole horn of ale, while his men sung. “Faorin is the captain of our ship, of our ship.”


Eventually they made their way to The Mess, a long way from sober but in good spirits. Kef was already there, as was Timor, witch was unsurprising as The Mess was generally the men at arm’s favourite watering hole. “So you came out after all!” Veione greeted his bear like friend. “Won’t Avis be missing you?”


“She said I was getting under her feet and sent me out for a few hours.” Kef said, but he was smiling, his teeth white and strong in his black brushy beard. “What of your woman Veione? Where’s that bitch Vespa?”


“Kef!” Timor exclaimed.


“What she is a bitch.” Kef shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t respect her.”


“Timor you’re forgetting the things that Kef used to call Avis before they got married.” Veione smiled his blue eye’s twinkling. He looked about the room, and all at that table knew who he was searching for. “I thought that Vespa would be with you.”


Kef took another manful swig of his ale. “Haven’t seen her Veione, Sorry.”


“We thought that she would be with you now that you have returned.” Timor said looking in to the bottom of his pint.


“And why would you think that?” Veione asked carefully.


Kef snorted, “We didn’t think you two would come out of your billets for a seven-night!”


“Well before we left for the south you had a relationship with her.” Timor interjected. “Or so the gossip went.”


At that moment the tavern door opened, and a small group of men came in. They were laughing loudly amongst themselves, and called greetings to others that they knew within. There was the sound of a familiar laugh, at which Veione’s attention turned to the newcomers like a stag when it senses danger. With the men who had just entered was Captain Vespa, stood within the circle of a young mans arms. He said something in her ear that made her laugh and then lean up to kiss him on the cheek. The other captain’s watched as a muscle in Veione’s cheek twitched and his easy smile became rigid. Vespa’s eyes caught his for a second, the smile died of her face just a little and she turned and drew her young companion to the bar and away from where they could see her. “It was nothing.” Veione said.


The blond captain threw himself in to enjoying himself, and ignoring Vespa’s presence. Sitting back on a bench he was soon approached by some pretty women. However his treacherous eyes kept seeking her out. He began to realise that he had always sought her face out in a crowd. He was so used to catching her glance and smiling at her, to see her return grin as if they shared a silent joke, and perhaps they had. She was still sitting with those young men, some of the young knights that had come from one the noble houses of Marchadia. What did she see in those boys? Sure one or two of them were not bad looking, but how could she want someone so callow and untried?


He watched her talking, laughing and hugging the one young knight. She had always been like this, and it had never bothered him before so why now? Veione had never felt jealous before, he had always left before he could form any real attachment. Right now he was seething. But he was not as jealous as much as he was upset. Why wouldn’t she speak to him? When he had come back from the south she had let him in her room, but when he had asked her what was wrong she would not say. Her anger had gone from hot to cold, and he still was no more enlightened as to what he had done to upset her in the first place.


The vagaries of fate had made sure that the make-shift dance floor was across the room from him. And that Vespa was being spun around by the one of the young exquisites that Veione had seen her enter with. The man’s hold upon Vespa was far too possessive for Veione’s liking as the song slowed. Vespa’s eyes caught his over the shoulder of her partner, and with a bitter smile he raised his tankard to her, before drinking deep. She glared at him, her stubborn chin rising and then she resolutely turned from him.


Someone poked him on the shoulder. “Veione what do you think?” It was one of the women at his table. She was a young pretty looking blond, typical of Marchadia small and curvy with sparkling pale blue eyes, and a rosy complexion. He had bedded her before, and he suspected that it would not be hard to bed her again. Truth was Veione liked women, and women liked him. He had never been able to keep his hands to himself when presented with a willing woman. He was a hansom man, with an easy smile, and a roguish twinkle in his summer sky eyes. He was not even too particular in his type; he was a cognisor of all kinds of women throughout his chequered career. Slim women, curvy women, small breasts, voluptuous breasts, pale or tanned, dark hair, or fair, he had loved them all. Tonight however he only felt frustrated, here was a lovely specimen of the female form practically nibbling on his neck, but he couldn’t even contemplate her not with Vespa who had suddenly become the only object of his desire sitting across from him.


“I’m sorry what was that?” He asked.


“We were saying that we should go to the lake for a midnight swim after this like we did last year.”


Veione agreed vaguely before excusing himself to go to the bar where he could get a clearer view of his quarry. Leaning against the side of the bar Veione stretched his neck to better see this latest interloper on Vespa’s table. The cavalry captain scowled. It was one of his own men smiling at her in a way that was entirely too suggestive for Veione’s tastes. The man would have to go, perhaps to some outpost on the borders of Marchadia. He watched as she lent against the young noble from earlier, his arm coming possessively around her shoulder and Veione ground his teeth in annoyance.


Before he could straighten away from the wall, a hand caught his shoulder. It was Kef grinning down at him from his great height. “Surely the great Captain Faorin hasn't succumbed at last to that fabled weakness?"


Veione levelled a blue eyed glare at him hot enough to melt glass. "Don't make me run you through with my sword. Because believe me, continue on with this subject and I'll do it."


Kef’s grin widened to a smile observing Veione watching as his man throw yet another leering grin at Vespa and shift along the bench to press closer to her. His hands fisted but he looked down at them and relaxed with a long sigh. “It has been a long time since you duelled.”

“Don’t worry I’m not going to start a fight with a stripling.”


“Good they wouldn’t survive a bout with you, and we may need them.”


“Oh surely Lord Darcia wont miss just one?” Veione mumbled, Kef laughed at this and settled on the wall besides Veione. " Kef it’s getting to me and it never got me before. It’s like a thorn in the sole of my foot that only working deeper with each step.”


Kef settled against the wall beside Veione. "Your words frighten me, my friend. And you still have yet to find out why she is angry at you?”


“No.” Veione replied. “I have asked, but she won’t say. Do you know?”


Kef’s smile faded at his friend’s hopeful tone. “That one has never taken me in to her confidences. You would be better asking Captain Brand, she is close with him.”


The infantry captain did not miss the brief tensing of Veione’s jaw and he chuckled then shrugged his expression sobering. " I've never known you to really care about someone that way. You have a lot of lovers, sure. And I hear you treat them well. But you have always treated her differently. "


A lot of lovers that was an understatement. Veione enjoyed his romps between the sheets. He knew he was a good lover and he enjoyed sharing his talents. Veione had never had the desire to settle down with one person, but with Vespa he felt that perhaps he could. If there was anyone that he could love faithfully for the rest of his life it was her. But that seemed like a very distant hope that night. “Perhaps it’s because I never thought of her as a lover.”


“He who dares wins.” Veione told himself, as he downed the last of his ale, wiping his mouth with a snarl seeing that Vespa had got up and was heading towards the bar alone. With the instinct of a hunter he moved to intercept her, drawn as if she had a piece of string attaching him to her.


Vespa had her back to him; she was dressed in a mid-length skirt, with a white petticoat beneath it, a white silk shirt and a large black sash securing it at her waist. It was the traditional garments of Marchadian women. But Vespa had modified them somewhat forgoing the jacket that the women wore for modesty, and splitting her skirt for freedom of movement, revealing the thigh high riding boots that she wore beneath. An empty sword belt hung was slung about her hips, emphasising their glorious curve. Her long hair hung in a heavy curtain down her back, like a fall of silk.


“You look well Vespa?” He said.


Vespa looked over her shoulder; golden hoops flashed at her ears, and looked him up and down. “Your shirt is wet.”


It wounded him that she did not use his name, but not as much as her refusal to meet his eyes. He looked down at himself and pulled at the fabric. “Oh, that’s from the drinking games earlier.” She made a non committal noise and he asked. “So who are those boys you were dancing with. They aren’t scouts not dressed like that. Not often you see gold embroidery in a place like this.”


She turned to face him at that her hand on her hip. “Not that it is any of your business Veione. But they are Lord Autor’s and Lord Mercer’s son’s.”


“Oh so your child-minding?” Veione quipped, retreating in to the humour he was so familiar with.


“Far from it. They joined in with us at the Oak. I have promised to show them a good time.” She said smiling archly. “What jealous Veione?”


“Why should I be?” He retorted. “They are noting but boys.”


“They are gentlemen and will make fine knights one day.”


Veione laughed harshly, “Spoilt rich boys from the quiet counties. Oh I’m sure they look very impressive on a horse swinging a sword, but I doubt that they could even make one of my men sweat.”


“You don’t like them because they remind you of what you are.” She smiled when his smiled faded, “Oh it is! All that scorn for the nobles, and your one.”


“I haven’t been a noble for a long time.”


“You’re so ridiculous Veione.” She laughed spitefully. “You’re the same as those ‘boys’ as you put it. You’re a noble from the quiet counties, Lloer you’re the noble from the quiet counties. You can’t change who you are no matter how much scandal you create. You just ruin your family name. You were born with everything but you spat on it. You have to spoil everything don’t you, you just can’t help yourself from running at the first sign that something might actually mean something to you?”


Hurt Veione felt his anger rise. “Well if I can’t escape being a noble, what does that make you?”


Vespa’s kole lined eyes narrowed. “What do you mean!”


“I heard that Isra women were like stray cats.” Veione said. “I think I preferred you when you when you slept around for the sake of it. But you always were looking for a way to rise through the ranks weren’t you? I thought that you wanted to do it on your own merit, but I suppose marrying in to money is easier isn’t it? ”


Vespa scowled, “You think that this is what this is about?”


“Yes, well why settle for a humble captain when you can have a lord?” Veione said bitterly. Veione wished that he could stop himself, but his mouth had run away with him. A part of him knew that he had bated Vespa and been well served for that, he was running down a hill and he could not stop until he crashed at the bottom. “No wonder you were chasing after the Duke.”

Vespa was breathing hard, her mouth open. But she composed herself. And her cold scowl returned the impersonal scowl that she used on her troops when she was particularly disgusted with them. “Oh look here comes the silly little woman you were speaking to.” Vespa said. “You’re such a hypocrite Veione.”


Veione looked up, the woman from his table was heading their way. He caught hold of Vespa’s arm she shrugged him off but he caught her wrist. “Vespa please.”


“I don’t want to talk with you when you’re like this. You have been drinking, I have been drinking.” Vespa said in a harsh whisper. “Now is not the time and the place.”


“You don’t seem to want to talk to me at anytime. I came to find you when I got back all you said was that you were fine and that you would speak to me later. Well now is later, so why not here?” He demanded. “Why wont you speak to me I don’t understand?”


“You work it out!” She said and twisted her wrist and broke free of him, her hazel eye glaring at him.


“That’s not fair!” He whispered angrily.


“Life’s not fair.”


Vespa left with the young knights but not before giving Veione a filthy look. The women who had invited Veione to join them in a midnight swim to had gone, Veione assuring them that he would follow them shortly.


“Vespa will have your balls if you go.” Kef warned him as the tavern lady called last orders.


The blond captain snorted in to his ale. “I don’t think that she is going to be worrying about what I do tonight. She already has all the company she needs.”


That night Timor and Kef walked him home. He was stinking drunk. Perhaps not the drunkest that he had ever been, but he was very, very drunk. They left him to his private misery - not with out misgivings – but a man’s pain was his own.




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