Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 6

Merreth touches her left forearm and suppresses a wince. Under the bandage a puckered, angry brand indicates the month and year her service to the Western Watch ends. It shows at a glance if she's on the wrong side of the Saskanna. Except that no matter which, I'll always be on the wrong side, she thinks. Rhekhell's had a lie seared into her arm.

She gazes at the Saskanna, watching the rising sun slide long shadows over the brown-green water. There's a small knot of men standing nearby. From young and pink cheeked to old and grey-whiskered, they're dressed in cheap tunics, sandals or short boots, and worn trousers, their belongings in sacks at their feet. They smoke sweet grass, chew hard bread, stretch, yawn, scratch, pick at the bandages on their arms, and peer at the far river bank, all under the watchful eye of a half dozen constables.

Of course, she thinks, I warrant my personal set of keepers. Two constables stand away from their comrades and much closer to her, their gaze never meeting her eyes, but never straying too far from her direction. Though her weapons lie bundled in cloth at their feet, they wear sword catchers as well as their truncheons.

Merreth flexes her arm. She and the others had been marked yesterday evening, long after the crowds had dispersed. Rehkhell had watched, pursed lips set in a granite face. Duggel and Sarrit too, the former arguing passionately that Merreth take the mark in front of the rest of the men, Rehkhell silencing him with a curt gesture. Tiandraa glowered, her face darkened by bruising and malice.

They'd gathered in the armoury's smithy, the heat suffocating as the blacksmith worked over the brazier, heating the brand to a sullen orange colour. Only the rustle of iron on coals and the occasional anguished cry from where the men were being branded broke the silence. Tiandraa had smiled at both.

"Ready," the blacksmith grunted. "Best it's done quickly, High Mistress."

Rehkhell barely nodded. "Now, Merreth."

Merreth forced her arm toward the glowing brand. It will be quick, she had told herself; it's not meant to injure. Her skin sizzled as the sickly-sweet stench of her burning flesh filled the air. She clenched her teeth as agony lanced her arm.

"You're no better than them," said Tiandraa. "And now the proof's there for all to see."

"Still better than you," Merreth had grunted.

****

Am I though? Merreth remembers savaging Tiandraa in the circle, her fist pummeling the woman's face. I enjoyed it, she thinks. She smothers the tingling memory, the hungry whispers teasing her from the back of her mind.

Movement off of the wharf distracts her. A long weathered longboat with four oarsmen eases out from around a small jetty a little way up river. The rowers ship oars and let the current carry them down to where Merreth and the others wait.

A constable catches a tossed rope and makes it fast. "All right, you lot. In you go. One at a time and try not to tip the bloody thing over."

The men climb into the boat. Several are nervous and stay as far as possible from the gunwales. Merreth grabs her pack and bedroll.

"Mistress? We'll board you last," says one of her constables. He picks up her weapons and holds awkwardly them under his arm. "We're to give you these on the other side."

"Lady," she says.

"Your pardon, Mistress?" The constable glances at the coiled whip on her side.

Is he surprised at her words, her carrying her own pack, the fact that she's even here, or all three? "'Lady', or just 'Merreth' will be fine. Careful with my blades," she says without looking back. Just go, she tells herself. Quickly. Quickly off this wharf and into the boat. Quickly, so you don't have time to think, to doubt, to regret. Just go.