Page 18 of The Scouts

“A dozen?” Lieutenant Breaés whistled. “On his own?”

Reprimanded by Heinnés’ exasperated scowl, Breaés put his hands up in the air, pretending to withdraw his remark.

We all stared at Lochan, who didn’t have the good grace to appear remorseful.

He furrowed his eyebrows as if he’d been somehow wronged. “I left the innkeeper standing, sir. With two hundred of my silver in his pocket.”

I bit on my lip. Hard.

While the lieutenants each gave a strangled snort, Heinnés didn’t appear amused. Lochan’s emotionless response, uttered in that precise accent of his, didn’t defuse the commander’s rage one bit. Quite the contrary.

We watched Heinnés’ freckles disappear under a flood of red to his cheeks. A large vein popped on his forehead. “Féyes. Gods know getting you to talk is like pulling teeth,” he started quietly, but the volume of his voice increased with every word until he ended up yelling in the fashion of a drill hyoshie. “Any other time I’d welcome your attempt to vocalise. But right now, you’ll do damn well TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The commander’s rapid breathing approached wheezing at one point. He sank against the backrest of his armchair once more and massaged the space between his eyebrows. It took visible effort for him to speak calmly again.

“The garrison’s treatment room is overwhelmed. A couple of guards had to be taken to the local infirmary at the Mages’ Guild. That doesn’t come cheap. Guess whose coffers will be charged with their healing costs? Ours. The Scouts’. So let’s see if a few months of docked pay teaches you two a lesson, shall we? I’d throw you morons down the hole for a week to make sure it hammered home, but I have no time for bullshit right now.” Heinnés sighed tiredly. “And that brings us to the complication.”

Gods, now what?

“The Last Harvest celebrations are taking place in the city tonight,” he said in a tone of someone offended by such frivolity.

I hadn’t kept track of the calendar with all the goings-on, so the festival had slipped my mind. Not that we usually had a chance to make a fuss of it, apart from receiving a basketful of demon wing pastries from the commander. It would hardly be the mid-autumn holiday without that bowtie-shaped treat—freshly fried and drizzled with honey. Either way, I found myself unsure as to where Heinnés was going with it.

“Apparently, every year Gurreyés lends his men to the event. To give it a touch of military grandeur.” Heinnés sneered. We all knew his opinion on the uniformed troops who paraded themselves for the civilians’ entertainment. It wasn’t in any form complimentary. “And during the evening function, the Guards act as dancing partners to the townsfolk of Gwhwÿn. Ones rich enough to be invited, of course. This year, they are short because of all the incapacitated men.”

Ah. Here we go.

“To appease Gurreyés,” he ground his teeth, “I offered the Scouts to stand in for the injured. So tonight, thanks to these two, we have festivities to attend,” the commander mock-pronounced. He then looked at Breaés and Javyés. “Lieutenants, after the briefing, order the lads to the garrison tailors. They’ll each get fitted with a dress uniform.” As he glanced at Lochan and me, a gleeful smirk crept upon his face. “Make sure Féyes’ and Morryés’ dance cards fill out before anyone else’s.”

The commander clearly thought of it as the ultimate punishment. Judging by the unhappy downturn to Lochan’s lips, I knew he concurred.

“Now listen good,” Heinnés continued. “You will smile and entertain the bloody merchants. You will chat and dance with councilmen and women. And you will charm the living fuck out of them. I want everyone to say it was the best festival ever witnessed here. If I hear another peep of complaint from the City Guard commander, you won’t like what comes your way one sodding bit.” A sinister edge rang in his last sentence. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” we all said, our spines straightening. Nobody sane would doubt he’d meant it.

“All right. Since this nonsense is done and dusted, let’s talk serious business.” Heinnés nodded at Lochan. “Tell me the news, Féyes. Have we got the meat?”

Lochan reached in his jerkin pocket, pulled out the map scrolls he’d received from the baroness and handed them to Heinnés.

The commander all but snatched the goods. Hurriedly, he unrolled the parchments on the desk and pinned down the edges between two jade, seahorse-shaped paperweights. For a good while, he traced his finger over maps, drawings and runes in front of him, studying them with knitted eyebrows and muttering to himself.

When he finally gazed up, his face broke into a huge, fat grin and the corners of his eyes creased.

Lochan saved the best for last. He opened his fist and presented the antiward token glistening in the centre of his palm.

“Bloody hell, Féyes. Well done, son. Now we’ve got Sigrunés by the balls and wiggling.” Heinnés cupped his crotch for emphasis. “Inspect the unit. We’re leaving Gwhwÿn tomorrow at sunset. Ensure all is ready,” he ordered the lieutenants.

“Yes, sir.”

“No drinking tonight, Last Harvest or not. Is that clear? I want everyone well-rested with clear minds and shit together.”

“Yes, sir.”

Outside Heinnés’ study, the lieutenants raked us over with a hard, measured look.

For a bit, no one said anything. I braced myself for more ear-chewing by our superior officers when Javyés broke the silence by cracking up. “Good going, you two.”

Lochan and I exchanged a puzzled stare.