the night. The Seti youth tossed a fold of torn cloth on to Ullen's table and turned to go. Ghelel intervened, ‘Wait! Please!’
A hand went to the grip of the long-knife and the girl glared an accusation at Ullen. ‘What is it?’ he asked of Ghelel.
‘Ask her to stay. To warm herself — anything.’
He spoke to her and the tone of the girl's reply told Ghelel all she needed to know. She offered her own cloak. ‘She can take this.’
Ullen translated; the girl responded, shooting Ghelel a glare of ferocious pride that would be humorous if it were not so obviously heartfelt. Ullen translated, ‘She thanks you but says she would only be burdened by such a possession.’
Ghelel squeezed the thick rich cloth in both hands. ‘Then will she not stay?’
‘No. I'm sure she means to return immediately to her scouting party.’
‘She'll die of exposure! Can't you order her to stay until tomorrow?’
Ullen passed a hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Alil… her party probably consists of her own brothers, sisters and cousins.’
Ghelel leant her weight into the chair, let the cloak fall over its back. ‘I… see. Tell her… tell her, I'm sorry.’
In answer the girl reached out a hand to cover Ghelel's who hissed, shocked, so cold was the girl's grip. She left then, and Ghelel could not raise her head to watch her go.
After some moments Ullen cleared his throat and came around the table. He squeezed Ghelel's arm. ‘Your concern does you credit, Alil. But it is misplaced. She was born to this. Grew up with it, and is used to it.’
Ghelel flinched away, shocked by the man's words. ‘So they are less than us, are they? Coarser? They feel less than we do?’
Ullen's face froze. He dropped his arm. ‘That is not what I meant at all.’ He returned to the table, picked up the scrap of cloth the messenger had left. ‘Ehra — that's her name by the way. Named for a tiny blue flower you can find everywhere here — she reports that her party captured a runaway from the raiders. And since they're under my orders to find out what they can about these pirates, they questioned him. The fellow claimed the sigil they wear is important.’ Ullen waved the fold of cloth. ‘He sketched it here.’
Sitting heavily, Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Commander… I'm sorry. I forgot myself. No doubt you meant that she was used to such privation; that she's grown up riding in such weather all year round. You are no doubt right. I'm sorry. It's just that we Talians border on the Seti. There is a long history of antagonism and I have grown up hearing much that is… how shall I put it — bigoted — against them. You have my apology, commander.’ Hearing nothing from him, she glanced up, ‘Commander?’
Ullen had backed away from the table. His gaze was fixed upon the opened cloth. He appeared to have had a vision of Hood himself; his face was sickly pale from shock. His hands had fisted white. Ghelel threw aside her glass and came to his side. ‘What is it?’
She picked up the scrap. Sketched in charcoal and ochre dust was a long rust smear bearing a weaving undulating line. ‘What is it?’
Ullen swallowed, wiped a hand across his glistening brow. ‘Something I prayed I'd never see again. Sergeant!’
The guard stepped in. ‘Sir?’
‘Summon the Marquis and Captain Tonley, quickly.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Ullen went to the low table and poured himself a glass of wine.
‘What is it?’ Ghelel asked again.
Downing the drink, Ullen said, ‘It means nothing to you? A red field, a long sinuous beast — a dragon perhaps?’
‘No.’
He spoke into the depths of his empty glass. ‘How quickly so much is forgotten.’
The Marquis threw open the tent flap; he wore only an open felt shirt, trousers and boots. ‘What news?’
Ullen nodded to Ghelel, who held out the torn strip. The Marquis took it. ‘Surely you are versed in liveries, Marquis. What do you make of that insignia?’
‘A red field, a long beast or perhaps a weapon — it could be any number of things.’
‘And if the thing were a dragon?’
‘What would that mean?’ Ghelel asked.
‘Then-’ Snorting, he tossed the cloth to the table. ‘Imposture, surely. An empty boast.’
‘I think not. This confirms rumours out of Unta.’
‘What rumours?’ Ghelel asked more loudly.
‘You cannot be certain though,’ said the Marquis.
‘No, but certain enough to treat them more warily. I ask that you return to your command south of the Idryn.’
‘Agreed.’
Captain Tonley pushed aside the canvas flap. Wincing, he shielded his eyes from the bright lantern light. ‘What is it — ah, sirs?’
‘Yes!’ Ghelel added. ‘What is it, damn it to Hood!’
‘The sigil of the Crimson Guard,’ Ullen said.
Ghelel stared, her brows rising. The Crimson Guard? That hoary old-woman's bogeyman? Mere mercenaries? Was this what so unnerved Ullen? Only her tact stopped her from laughing out loud.
Captain Tonley scratched his auburn beard. His face betrayed an utter lack of recognition. ‘The Crimson Guard, you say? That so, sir? Amazing.’ He took a great deep breath, noticed the carafes of wine and scooped one up. ‘Orders, sir?’
Ullen either didn't notice or was inured to the man's manners — or lack thereof. ‘Send your best rider to Urko at Command.’ He scratched a message on a scrap of vellum, handed it to Tonley. ‘The invading army confirmed as Crimson Guard.’
‘Anyone could use that symbol,’ Ghelel objected.
‘No one would dare,’ the Marquis answered. ‘Come, Prevost. We leave immediately.’ He bowed to Ullen. Ghelel did not move. She watched Ullen who bowed his farewell to her while, she thought, keeping his face carefully empty of emotion. The Marquis took her arm. ‘Prevost.’
Outside, the Marquis said low, ‘Change quickly, we ride within the hour,’ and he was off to his tent. Feeling somehow drunk, stunned by these quick developments, Ghelel walked slowly away. Inside her tent, she found Molk lying across the entrance, an arm over his face. ‘Get up. We're going.’
He moved his arm to blink up at her. ‘Going? So soon?’
‘Yes. And hurry — you have to pack.’ She began changing to dress in her armour.
He sat up quickly. ‘What's the news? Is it her?’
Pulling off her shirt, Ghelel paused. Her? Oh, yes,
‘Who then?’
A laugh from Ghelel. ‘Yes, who indeed.’ She shook out a silk undershirt, pulled it on. ‘Apparently our glorious commander believes these raiders are the Crimson Guard returned. Can you believe that?’ She straightened the front lacings, looked up. ‘Molk?’
She turned full circle, peering around the tent. The fool had disappeared. Well, damn the man. Now who was going to pack?
It was not until the column started off south for the Pilgrim road that Ghelel had an opportunity to speak in relative privacy with the Marquis. Side by side just behind the column's van riding with lit torches, she leaned to him. ‘So you believe him then? That this is the Guard, returned?’
Helmet under an arm and reins in one hand, the Marquis turned to examine her. His eyes were dark pits in the night and his black curly hair blew unbounded about his face. ‘I believe Ullen,’ he called back.
‘Why should Ullen be so certain? And why so fearful? They are only mercenaries. Famous, yes. But just a band of hireswords.’
