Part of Tilda wanted to throw her Guild cloak away, particularly when she got a whiff of it upon opening the saddlebag into which it had been unceremoniously crammed. But the garment was still the best she possessed by a league, sign of both her Guild status and with its inner lining of emerald green, of her affiliation with the proud House of Deskata.
She had also had to pay for it herself as she had left Miilark before her official graduation from the Guild. The daughter of two shopkeepers was not about to take a loss of six-and-twenty silvers.
Thus on the morning after the first full day of travel with Dugan the renegade legionnaire, Tilda Lanai held her nose as she peeled the wadded cloak from her baggage, along with a hefty brick of Beoan soap. She took both to the creek beside which the trio had camped after moving south-by-southwest all day.
Tilda was still sore in her back and shoulders though they no longer ached quite so bad, and late in the night she had gingerly checked the purple band of bruising under her tunic, making sure nothing was broken. Her intact ribs began to throb once more as she beat her cloak against a flat rock and then got to scrubbing on her knees, trying not to see the ichor under her hands, nor the red-tinged foam spiraling away on the lazy water. When she was nearly done, a neatly-folded packet of the Captain’s laundry landed on the bank next to her without fanfare. Tilda gave it an ugly look through a strand of hair that had worked loose from her braid, but not one that Block noticed as he settled on another nearby rock, crossing his short legs and mouthing a pipe he never smoked. Dugan appeared, frowning at the water, and fingering the soiled hem of his own dirty tunic.
“Do not even think about it.” Tilda said to the man. He blinked at her for a moment.
“I was not about to suggest you do mine,” he said. “Just contemplating doing it myself, then wearing it wet the rest of the day. I have decided against such a course.”
“It has been three days and more since the battle,” Block said, paying no mind to the small talk. “We have seen none of the victorious Duke’s warders nor patrols, but they will be returning to their regular rounds at any time.”
The Captain gave the erstwhile legionnaire a long look.
“They will, no doubt, be on the lookout for any renegades not yet in custody.”
Dugan passed a hand over his close-cropped pate.
“I was contemplating that, as well.”
“Your bald head sticks out like a hammer-banged thumb,” Tilda said, scrubbing again at her cloak. “And I doubt the Captain’s extra pantaloons will fit you.”
She immediately regretted adding that last, for she knew Block was aware that she was carrying among her baggage a good bolt of fine blue cloth she had bartered for a while back on a lark. Tilda had a sudden dread that the Captain would order her to stitch the renegade some new pants. Fortunately, Dugan kept talking.
“Another day on this line and we’ll be near some scattered freeholds. Perhaps we could…barter for some clothing. And a hat.”
“Barter?” Block repeated, with a wry note that made Dugan frown.
“These saddlebags I’m lugging are Exlandic leather, stitched with gold, and the buckles are real silver. If you can’t get a set of peasant garb for them you’re not much of a Miilarkian, merchant or no.”
Block snorted. “Of course dealing a nobleman’s baggage won’t attract any attention. Why don’t you just offer your Legion sword for a wheel of cheese?”
The renegade tapped a sandaled foot. “You have a better idea?”
The dwarf tapped the pipe stem against his teeth. “One mitigation of the heavy burdens of command is the ability to delegate the small matters. Matilda.”
Tilda blew a strand of hair out of her face and looked over warily.
“When we next pass a peasant holding, you will handle this.”
Chapter Five
The Sable City Page 8