Daria yawned and stretched her arms above her head, the loose sleeves of her gown falling back to reveal tempting, milky skin. She reminded Temar of a pale-gold lapcat his mother had once had, all coquettish affection. He wondered how Daria would respond to a little stroking.
“I’m hungry,” she complained abruptly. “No one seems to have done anything about dinner, did you know that?”
“Why don’t I fetch us some bread and meat and we can find a quiet corner to eat in, just the two of us?” Temar leaned forward and was rewarded with a stirring glimpse of the downy swell of Dana’s breasts.
She smiled pertly at him, her eyes knowing. “I’ll find some wine; no one’s going to miss a flask or so in all this confusion. Meet me by the kitchen-garden gate.”
Temar spared the statues a glance as he followed Daria out. He smiled suddenly; whatever Talagrin or Larasion might be thinking, Halcarion was certainly smiling on him.
As a result Temar was feeling refreshed and even cheerful as he sat watching the wagons roll out in the early light of the following dawn. The herds had already moved on, plumes of dust rising in the cold air to mark the trail south.
“Is everyone accounted for?” Lachald was clutching a list awkwardly along with his reins, a charcoal smear on the side of his head showing he was stowing his marker behind his ear again.
“All done.” Rielle walked briskly to her carriage, having supervised the stowing of the effigies from the shrine. A tall, spare woman with an angular face, she took no nonsense from anyone, from the Emperor down, some said. It had come as no small surprise to Temar to hear her insist that the statues must be the very last thing to leave the villa, to avert ill luck. As a lackey opened the carriage door, Temar caught a glimpse of Daria looking distinctly disgruntled. To his relief her expression cleared when she saw him and she gave him a private, conspiratorial smile. He would hate to think their dealings the night before hadn’t been satisfactory. It was a shame she wouldn’t make a suitable wife, he mused. She certainly had the charm a Sieur needed in his lady but Temar didn’t fancy being married to a girl with such a welcoming attitude.
A horn blew close by, startling his horse, and Temar was very nearly unseated. The wagons got slowly under way, the lowing of reluctant oxen mingling with the stubborn creaks of wood and leather, settling into a low rumble as the line of carts moved off down the track. Temar looked around for his scouts and nodded to Rhun, whom he’d marked down as a useful man, his lack of formality not withstanding. Rhun raised a pennant on a lance, settling it firmly in his stirrup. Temar kicked his horse on and cantered down the line, a contingent growing behind him as those previously nominated as guards left their families and goods behind. He led them to a little rise, where they paused to watch the carts winding on through the vastness of the grasslands.
“I don’t expect we’ll have any real trouble but it will pay to stay alert,” Temar began.
“What about the plainsmen?” one of the younger lads asked nervously. Temar saw concern darken the eyes of several others.
“The last true plainsmen were driven out by the Cohorts more than twenty generations ago,” Temar said firmly, frowning as a few skeptical murmurs came from the rear ranks. He raised his voice slightly. “There are raiders, certainly, preying on decent, hard-working stockmen like yourselves, and they are taking every advantage of departures like ours, so you all need to keep a good watch. I don’t suppose they’ll have any more courage than four-legged carrion hounds, so if we make sure they see we’re ready to defend our own, I imagine they’ll scurry back to their dens, tails between their legs.”
That got something like a laugh, at least, and Temar briskly allocated each man a partner and a watch-roster. Luckily he’d woken for a trip to the privy in the night and remembered he still needed to draw this up, hurriedly finding a lamp and parchment and doing his best to recall the orders Lachald had posted, looking to put the men near their own kin and belongings to keep them that little bit more vigilant. He grinned to himself; the lamplight had roused Daria and she’d welcomed him back to the warmth of the bed with a rekindled fire of her own.
His good humor evaporated as he heard one of the lads behind him talking to his mate in an undertone.
“It’s all very well saying the true plainsmen are dead and gone but I’ve heard tell that some of them can come back from the Otherworld; Eldritch-men, they’re called, they step out of the shadows and shoot you full of them little copper arrows.”
Temar rounded on the pimply stripling. “What nonsense are you peddling? I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go and tell your tales to the children around the fire tonight and see if you can’t start a real panic for the women to cope with? Who’s your mother? I’ll wager she’d stripe your arse for you if she heard you talking such rubbish.”
The lad flushed scarlet as his mates laughed, perhaps a little forcedly but loudly enough to satisfy Temar that the boy wouldn’t risk further ridicule with such tales.
“Get to it,” Temar ordered and he watched with satisfaction as the men dispersed, some a little awkward, unused to riding with a sword at their belt and all scanning the sweeping plains with intense eyes.
“Let’s scout ahead,” he commanded, spurring his mount to a rapid canter. Rhun followed, managing the pennant and the reins with enviable ease. Temar led them away from the main track, to avoid the dust and dung the herds were creating. Rhun dipped the scarlet fluttering above them, an answering flash of red showing that the herd guards were staying alert.
Temar surveyed the horizon and frowned as an unnatural shape caught his eye in the featureless expanse of the plains. “That plains ring’s the only cover for leagues around here, let’s make sure no one’s using it.”
He didn’t wait for Rhun to answer but dug in his heels, relishing the excuse for a gallop. His incautious impulse had faded somewhat by the time they reached the earthwork. He reined in some distance away, circling carefully, keeping a distance that would allow him escape if by some remote chance raiders were indeed lurking inside the grassy walls.
“No one here,” Rhun said confidently. “Not recently, anyway.”
Temar frowned as a gust of wind brought him the odor of old fire, or something like it. “Let’s check inside.”
He moved his horse to the opening in the leeward side of the rampart and drew his sword before entering. As they expected, there were no waiting raiders, nor little men using the shadows to come back from the Otherworld, Temar smiled to himself. There was a dark scar on the close-cropped turf, though, and Temar dismounted to examine it, picking a shard of blackened bone out of the ashes.
“It’s the old way of cooking a beast, the plainsman way,” Rhun said unexpectedly.
“Explain.” Temar looked up, curious.
“You strip the bones, empty the stomach and put the meat in it, make a fire out of the bones and cook the meat by hanging the stomach above it.”
Temar looked at the short and stocky herder, dark-skinned and black-haired. He also recalled the journal he’d once read; the recollections of a young D’Alsennin who’d served with the cohorts during the conquest of Dalasor and his descriptions of the area’s original inhabitants.
“Plains blood in your family, is there, Rhun?” he asked with a half-smile.
“Hard to say.” The man’s black eyes were unreadable. “All I know is we’re stockmen, always have been.”
“What did the plainsmen use places like this for, anyway?” Temar stood and turned slowly, staring up at the earthen walls.
“Marriages, parleys, death rites.” Rhun shrugged. “Placating the spirits.”
He pointed to a line of bedraggled feathers stuck into the turf to the left of the entrance. “That’s giving thanks to the cloud eagles for taking the carrion.”