for transgression?”
Orven did some more shifting. “Death, my lord.”
“A serious matter then. I suggest you write to the queen with all urgency. I’m sure she will be swift in sending a response. It may even arrive here before I return.”
Orven sighed and gave a weary nod. “I will, my lord.”
Vaelin glanced back at the assembled folk who had come to see him off, mostly faces he knew mixed with a few gawpers. Apart from that unfortunate business in the Outer Isles four years ago, he hadn’t been beyond the confines of the Reaches since the end of the war.
“I have a sense of trouble ahead,” he told Orven. “I think it best if you recall the militia early for training this year. Also, increase the pay by another few coppers a day. See if we can’t persuade some more recruits to join the ranks.”
“As you wish, my lord. And as for petitions?”
Vaelin gave a small grin. Orven had no more liking for the ritual than he did. “I’ve asked Lady Kerran to attend, in an advisory capacity only, of course. I strongly urge you to listen to her counsel.”
“I’m sure it will be most welcome.”
Vaelin held out his hand and the guardsman clasped it, his grip strong. “Much as I cherish my family, I’d give almost anything to come with you. It seems such a long time since our last foray.”
“Miss it, do you?”
“Sometimes. As a boy I dreamt one day I would join the King’s Guard and do great deeds in a just cause. It’s hard to believe it all came true. For all we lost, all the horrors we witnessed, things were simpler then.”
“Battles are simple. It’s what comes before and after that’s complicated.”
Vaelin gave his hand a final shake before starting up the gangplank.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“You poxed bastard!”
Nortah’s punch was a testament to his diminished faculties. Vaelin ducked easily under his flailing arm and stood back to watch him spin into an untidy heap on the deck. He lay there, eyes glaring out from unwashed and bearded features.
“Are you quite finished?” Vaelin enquired.
“I am a Sword of the Realm!” Nortah climbed unsteadily to his feet, raising his voice to address the crew of the Sea Wasp. “I will pay gold to any man who rows me to shore.”
Most of the crew paused to regard him with either bafflement or amused contempt before returning to their duties.
“Take a look, brother,” Vaelin said, moving to the rail and gesturing to the ocean stretching away to the misted horizon on all sides. “We’ve been at sea for three days,” he explained. “Brother Kehlan’s sleeping draught is evidently quite something. I don’t think trying to row home is a particularly good idea, not that the captain will be willing to part with a boat in any case. You’re welcome to try swimming though.”
Nortah closed his eyes and let out a groan, head slumped as he subsided against the rail. “I assume the crew have been ordered not to supply me with grog,” he muttered.
“In fact they’ve been paid not to do so,” Vaelin assured him. “You have to admit, it’s preferable to a cell.”
“How long?” Nortah opened his eyes, favouring Vaelin with a gaze deeper in resentment than any he had shown before. “Until we reach the Far West. How long?”
“Three weeks with a fair wind, four or more without.”
“I hear they have a wine there made from fermented rice. I assure you, brother, the first thing I do upon landing will be to seek it out. I shall also, from that moment on, consider whatever brotherhood exists between us to be at an end.”
“That will be your choice. Although, how you’ll make your way with no coin and no knowledge of the language will be interesting to see.” He clapped Nortah on the shoulder and moved towards the ladder to the hold. “I dine with the captain at the seventh bell. Please feel free to join us.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Sehmon was quick and lithe with a keen eye for both risk and opportunity. He nimbly evaded the first two thrusts of Vaelin’s wooden sword before delivering a slashing reply with his own. It was here that his lack of expertise with a long blade became obvious, the blow delivered with a stiff arm and his wrist at too sharp an angle. Vaelin’s parry caught the outlaw’s wooden blade close to the hilt and sent it spinning out of his grasp.
“Nicely done, my lord,” he said with a