Free Scriber by Ben S. Dobson Page B

laughed, raising a hand to scratch at the wild tangles of hair atop her head. “Mother’s teats, Genna, it’s a joke. He don’t mind.” She looked to me for verification. “You know I don’t mean nothin’ by it, right Scriber?”
    I did mind, in fact. I was in no mood to be mocked on this particular subject; not while the voices still haunted me at every turn. But I didn’t know what to say. I was certain that any attempt to defend myself would only make me look more foolish.
    “Missing the point as usual, Orya,” the red-haired woman said, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “The Scriber was just calling for reinforcements. What brings the High Commander running faster than the sound of a cut-rate whore?”
    Laughter broke out around the fire, and Orya guffawed louder than anyone. I found myself chuckling along with them—Uran Ord’s taste for seedy brothels was one of the nobility’s worst kept secrets. Only Sylla remained silent, grimly sharpening her blade. I wondered if she was even capable of laughter.
    “That’s hardly appropriate, Deanyn,” Tenille scolded, trying and failing to keep the smile off her face. “The High Commander is wounded.”
    “Rumor is that the Scriber’s already taken care of that,” Deanyn said. “Besides, I’m not speaking ill of him. I’m just admiring his devotion to putting money in the hands of the less fortunate.”
    Another round of laughter. Apparently Bryndine’s women were not fond of the High Commander. I wondered if Deanyn realized the favor she had done me; if so, it had been accomplished deftly, making Ord the butt of the joke in my place with a single comment. Whatever her intent, I was grateful.
    “He’ll be back to his charitable pursuits soon,” I said. “But it wasn’t my doing.”
    Deanyn shrugged. “The less you did for him, the more I like you, Scriber.”
    “Damn right!” Orya slapped her palm belligerently against the stone she sat on. “If there’s any luck, the next whore he gives it to’ll have the pox.”
    The other women were nodding, and some voiced their agreement. Even soft-voiced Genna looked angry—I could finally see in her the woman I had watched fight with such savagery the night before.
    “That’s enough.” Tenille had tamed her expression, and now her face was stern. The insults died down immediately. “The Captain will be… pleased to hear that her cousin is well.”
    “Where is Captain Bryndine?” I asked. “I need to speak with her.”
    At that, Sylla finally spoke. “She doesn’t want to be disturbed, Scriber.”
    “She will want to know about her cousin,” Genna said.
    “She said she wanted to be alone,” Sylla growled. “She certainly won’t want to see him . I’ll tell her.”
    “Tell her what, Syl?” Deanyn asked. “The Scriber was there, he knows the man’s condition. You’re upset that she didn’t let you come with her is all. You can’t stand guard over her every moment of the day.”
    The argument seemed to get through to her—or else she simply realized she was outnumbered—and Sylla lapsed back into silence with an angry snort.
    “You’ll find her on the hill there.” Tenille pointed into the darkness to the east of the camp, where a low rise was visible, silhouetted against the night sky. “She’s with Janelyn.” I did not know the name, but the sadness in her voice answered any questions I had.
    “Janelyn is the girl who…” I trailed off, unable to come up with a tactful way to finish the question.
    Tenille took my meaning and nodded. “She died a few hours ago. We built her a pyre on the hill, but the Captain wanted some time alone before we send her to the Father.” She looked up at the crest of the small hill. “It has been long enough, I think. We’ll go to her together.” She raised her voice to catch the attention of the company. “On your feet, women. It’s time.”
    * * *
     
    I did not speak to Bryndine until after the ceremony was done. Instead, I