Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 9

Merreth emerges into the sunshine, Totlenn behind her. Dorran and Temm flank them, wearing sullen, wary expressions.

A few yards beyond the armoury entrance stands a wagon drawn by two commoners and a brace of draft horses. Beside them are a half dozen mounted male Western Watch nobles. They wear chestnut-coloured vests over loose white shirts and heavy brown breeches tucked into knee length boots of smooth leather. Narrow-brimmed hats shield their eyes from the sun. All have swords slung over their shoulders and short daggers on waist belts. One holds a cocked crossbow with a quarrel pouch within quick reach. They are young yet sit it in their saddles with the easy, arrogant superiority of noble sons, men not bound by the rules yoking their commoner brothers. They're accompanied by a single noblewoman.

Merreth feels their shadowed eyes studying her. Nothing is said. There is no sound but that of horsetails swishing away the buzzing flies.

"Half a dozen all for me?" Totlenn scratches his beard and studies something between his thumb and forefinger before flicking it away. "Sure that's enough?"

Merreth studies the mounted woman. She's short and willow-slender. Blonde hair falls to her shoulders framing an attractive, though worn, heart-shaped face. Forty summers, Merreth guesses. Her mahogany leather vest leaves her arms bare. Matching riding breeches disappear into over-the-knee boots. She carries no sword, but sports a dagger strapped to her thigh. Unlike the men, she doesn't wear a hat.

"Who the blazes are you?" asks Merreth.

One of the men starts to speak but the woman silences him with a curt gesture. She knees her mount forward. "You're Merreth," she says, bemused. "Good Goddess, I could scarcely credit the stories!"

"Lady Merreth. And you haven't answered my question."

One of the men jumps off the wagon and wanders over towards them. Merreth's eyes narrow as she recognizes Jatt.

"Lady Samretta Lyem, of the Western Watch." She leans over and peers at Merreth's whip. "Blood and hounds, the Heir Primary of Sable House," she says as she straightens up. "You have no idea of the rumours flying around about you. Shouldn't it be Mistress Merreth? Not that it matters with the mark you wear."

The comment reminds Merreth of what she's given up – or thrown away – with her decision to take the mark. Fear and bravado have proved costly. "I'll call myself whatever I please. I don't give a damn what you call me. What do you want with Totlenn?"

"That's not your concern, Lady Merreth," says Totlenn. He hawks a wad of phlegm into the dirt.

Samretta frowns. "Must you do that? It's so ..."

"Common?"

"Disgusting."

Sweat trickles down Merreth's back. Her leathers are soaking up the heat like a hearth stone and thirst is abrading her mood. She glares at Samretta. "Are you deaf? What do you want with him?"

"An attempt was made on a noble's life last night, even if it was your life," says Samretta, her eyes never leaving Totlenn.

"Absurd. Totlenn didn't do a damned thing," says Merreth. "Others though ..."

"Of course I didn't. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead," says Totlenn.

Samretta stands in her stirrups. "Shut your bloody mouth!

"Threatening a Mistress is a hanging offense for a commoner," says Merreth,

"Be silent, the both of you," snaps Samretta. The nobles shift in their saddles. A horse snorts and paws the ground. Samretta sits down and wipes sweat from her brow. "We're here to arrest you, Totlenn, and take you to the pavilion, not bear witness to your petty squabbling."