Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 12

It had taken Charadell only minutes to realize she'd made a mistake. With Merreth on foot, the entire column had slowed to pace her. She'd been in the front, flanked by Charadell and the Watch pennant bearer. With no wind the dust kicked up by the lead mounts made a choking cloud that enveloped those behind. The sun hammered down, promising a long ride, short tempers, and parched throats. The Domina could leave Merreth behind along with a contingent to guard her, or endure a plodding journey at the head of grumbling collection of nobles.

Instead, she ordered Merreth into the wagon.  

 The Domina's compound is a jumble of tents: brown, green, grey covering the ground all the way to the river tree line, a couple of bow shots away. Small stone or wooden out buildings stand like islands in a sea of canvas. The stench of horse dung, sweat, and cook fires hangs over everything, the slight breeze from the river merely stirring the odours around.

In the center, at the end of a rutted stubbled path through the compound, stands Charadell's pavilion, a large triple-poled tent of light brown canvas with an awning-shaded entrance. In front, Watch pennants hang from a pair of staffs driven into the ground. Constables stand on either side of the entrance, shields by their feet, tunics loosened against the heat.

The wagon lurches to a halt. Merreth hops off and winces. I have to get these damned boots off soon, she thinks. You'd think the things would be broken in by now. One of the pavilion guards pull the tent flap aside for Charadell. The Domina pauses, catches Merreth's eye, and jerks her head towards the entrance.

"Here." Samretta tosses a water skin to Merreth and swings down off her mount.

Merreth rips out the stopper and drinks greedily, the warm water tasting better than iced wine.

"Under this sun if you're not drinking, you're not drinking enough," says Samretta.

Merreth wipes her mouth and hands back the water skin. "Thanks."

"No one wants you passed out in front of Domina."

"I do." Tiandraa dismounts and tosses her reins to a groom. "I'd enjoy seeing you disgrace yourself further, though that might not be possible."

"No one cares what you think about while pleasuring yourself, Tiandraa," says Merreth as she heads for the pavilion entrance.

Samretta hurries beside her. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find out what Charadell wants. I don't think she invited you."

Inside, two shallow steps lead up to a low wooden floor. Tied to the center tent pole is a long spear with three horsetails fixed to the shaft. A side table hold goblets and decanters. Woven murals hang from the canvas walls. Open window flaps coax in whatever breeze might come off the river. A collared pleasureman in a loose, unbuttoned tunic waves a large cooling fan. Charadell sits behind a small travel desk that commands the center of the tent. She glances up and opens her mouth to speak ...

"Auntie?" A second tent flap, to Merreth's right, is pushed back and a short noble in Watch leathers steps into the view. Unruly blonde curls spring forth from under her small topper, framing a round face. Her pert nose is surrounded by freckles. "The guards tried to stop me, again! They should know me by ..." her gaze falls on Merreth. "Oh, Auntie," her head turns from Merreth to the Domina and back again. "Is this her? Merreth I mean. I mean Mistress ... Lady Merreth!"

"Bonswenn ..." says Charadell, tight-lipped.

Bonswenn skirts the pleasureman and stands by Charadell's desk. She leans forward and peers at Merreth. "She looks dangerous."

"She is." Charadell removes her hat, strips off her gloves and slams them down on the table. "A fire, nine deaths, disruption of a sanctioned chastisement, public and unprovoked assault on a Red Hand noble, and the loss of House prestige in front of the commoners. All in less than three days!"