Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 10

Sit up. Pull boots on. Collect whip, dirks, sword.

Merreth shoves her tent flap aside and steps into the noonday sun. She is about a hundred yards from Totlenn's camp, moved there by Brinnt after she'd returned yesterday. Attitudes towards her had slid from wary to hostile in the time it had taken to notice Totlenn was missing. Brinnt had provided a tent and no guards. Just as well, she thinks. They'd likely be incompetent, untrustworthy, or both.

The air is heavy with the fragrance of dust and withered flowers. Sun-yellowed grass stands dead-still in arid heat. The land is harsh and desolate, as if life on this side of the river has had everything good leached out of it. It'll leach everything – anything – good out of me too, Merreth thinks. Brinnt approaches, dirty, unshaven, nothing clean about him, nothing clean about his probable fate. That will be me. Sooner or later, that will be me.

Merreth pulls her hat down to shield her eyes from the sun. Goddess, it's hot, and we're still ten days away from the solstice. "When does this farce get started?" she asks.

"The Domina will be here shortly," says Brinnt.

"Let's go."

Brinnt strides along side Merreth. "You didn't say much yesterday," he says.

The tall dry grass slaps against Merreth's boots. "No." Not after a two hour walk that ended with an ash-dry throat, aching feet, sweat-slicked leathers, and suspicious, angry scowls from Brinnt's men. Merreth yanks on her gloves. I don't owe him a damned thing anyway, she thinks. I don't owe anyone.

She halts atop a small rise. The camp sprawls before them, the western plains shimmering in the distance. Commoners in their hundreds mill around two sides of the now empty dirt square, mostly men, but a few women as well. A double line of constables armed with quarterstaffs hold them back. A slight breeze carries a sour sweat odor and sullen murmurs.

Merreth imagines the squalor hiding behind the crowd. The patchwork tents, rude huts, simmering anger and despair that cling to the camp like shit to a boot heel. The petty grievances and imagined slights settled in beatings and blood. All overlaid with constant dread at being forced out to face the clans. Goddess help me, she thinks. This is where I'll be for the next two years! She takes a deep, steadying breath. No. Her fingers curl into a fist. Somehow ... no.

Armed constables stand just down the gentle slope, their backs to Merreth and Brinnt. All bear small round shields and swords. A few have crossbows slung across their backs. The camp administration building sits opposite, hard by the road leading back to Domina Charadell's pavilion. More constables stand in front of it.

"Everyone's in an ugly mood," says Brinnt.

"I'm not blind," says Merreth, "and I don't have much patience."

"If there's anything else that you know ..."

"What could I possibly tell you that would change what's going to happen?" she asks, her irritation flaring. Merreth knows he really means, 'if there is anything she can do'. She can't do anything. There are no good choices, either for her or for Totlenn. Reject the Domina's bargain, throw in her lot with the commoners – assuming they'd have her – and have every noble hand this side of the Saskanna raised against her. Accept the bargain, condemn an innocent man, and hide behind the Domina's favour. Or run; how far would she get? Besides, there's nowhere to run.

A dust shrouded horse column approaches from the road, hooves rumbling as the column turns towards the square. Merreth recognizes the pennants of the Western Watch. And the Red Hand. Totlenn sits in an open wagon. A familiar noble paces alongside the wagon on her horse. "Well, we aren't conferring anymore, are we, Samretta," Merreth mutters. She starts down the slope.