Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [37]
Sometime after the turn of night, a rumble of thunder and a cool breeze woke her. Flashes of light in the distance—more thunder—Dorrin woke the camp. “Check the horses; make sure they don’t stray—is the horse-line secure? Get all the gear into the tents.” She herself grabbed an armful of firewood and moved it into her own tent, then checked the ropes and pegs before lying down inside.
The storm, like most summer night storms, came and went quickly; Dorrin had gone back to sleep with practiced ease, and woke in the damp dawn to see Efla poking disconsolately at the sodden fire-pit. “Here’s dry wood,” Dorrin said. She set it alight. “Boil water for sib and another pot for the eggs.” The squires came out of their tent blinking and stretching. “Beclan, you and two of the men will fill in the jacks when we’re ready to leave. Meanwhile, Gwenno and Daryan, you take the horses to water, groom them, get them tacked up. I’ll ride the dark bay today.” She went on giving instructions to her militia and then to Efla on making camp bread.
It took a glass longer to get this group moving than it would have a cohort, but it was, she reminded herself, their first night of real travel—inns did not count. That day she assigned Inder to ride guard with the squires, and they rotated properly all day long.
As the little cavalcade moved east toward Verrakai lands, Dorrin found the Marshal-General a surprisingly good travel companion. She and Dorrin traded stories of days and nights of travel: storms, difficult stream crossings, the occasional encounter with brigands. Dorrin found herself telling tales of Aarenis; the Marshal-General was one of the few women with whom she could share stories of combat and command responsibilities. The squires listened in the evenings; Dorrin kept them busy by day. They were still on their best behavior, she could tell, but personalities showed through. Beclan felt entitled to be first in everything and had an air of condescension that clearly grated on Gwenno; she showed flashes of temper, quickly subdued after a glance at the Marshal-General. Daryan, as the youngest and shortest, seemed shyer, edging away from the other two.
“You’re going to have an interesting time with them,” the Marshal-General said, out of their hearing. “All three of them highborn, and none of them really grange-trained.”
“They’re all Girdish,” Dorrin said.
“Aye, but reciting the Code word-perfect isn’t the same as growing up in a real grange.”
“Theirs aren’t real?”
The Marshal-General made an impatient gesture. “Every noble house has a grange nearby—and so it should—but nothing I do convinces the Marshals who serve there and the yeomen who belong there that their liege is no greater in Gird’s eyes than a yeoman. So their children are tutored in the Code, and mostly go to drill with their home grange, but they’re also taught how to fight like a noble. Which do you think they prefer? They’re born into privilege, and they like it—anyone would—but liking something doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”
“Mmm.” Dorrin rode on a few paces. At the moment, all three squires were out of earshot, flanking the column between her position and the rear guard. “I could see that with Beclan.”
“Royal family.” The Marshal-General looked as if she might spit, but didn’t. “He’s not the heir, but he thinks of himself, of all the Mahieran, as royalty. Entitled to deference. He thinks the girl should allow him precedence. And the girl’s insulted as much on family grounds as personal ones. The Marrakaien, for all their Girdish faith, would think themselves superior to the Mahieran if they dared.”
“I don’t think there’s much Gwenno wouldn’t dare,” Dorrin said, chuckling.
“Just so. Those two will push each other into rashness if you’re not careful. The younger boy—he’s not as meek and mild as he seems, I’ll warrant.” The Marshal-General took a swig from her waterskin and offered it to Dorrin, who shook her head.
“If I keep them busy enough,” Dorrin said, “they should settle. A load