Free Sunset Mantle by Alter S. Reiss Page B

was obvious that Marelle had hired men to work her orchard for her, and it was just as obvious that they had taken advantage of the fact that she could not see. The trees had been sloppily pruned, and there were dead branches left untrimmed. Olives were hardy, but dead wood attracted rot and worm, and it had to be taken out. It was hard, straining work, but it needed doing. Besides, for all that he had proven himself the better of three picked men, Cete would never again have a contract as a fighting man. He needed something else, and work among the trees was what he had.
    Later in the day, Marelle came out with bread and fish sauce, and a pitcher of cool water, and it tasted as fine as a banquet, or as field rations after a battle was won. Then it was back to the trees, until there came the sound of a distant trumpet. Cete tied the bundle of dead wood he had gathered and waited until he heard it sound again.
    Marelle was at the door. “The Reach army,” she said. “They are heading out.” Her ears were finer than his. Cete looked up. Late in the afternoon, but not too late to begin a march. The heat of the day was past, so they would make good time.
    “I will go see this,” he said, and he went.
    As he passed through the town, the trumpets grew louder, and he could also hear the piercing trill of regimental horn. Marelle had been right. At the north gate, the crowd gave way before him, so he was able to see the army marching out, banners flying, with Radan Termith at their head.
    The Antach stood atop the gate, his arms outstretched in blessing. He could do nothing else, for all that he knew what Radan was, and what would happen to any man in that army who remained loyal to the Reach Antach or Clan Antach. Cete watched, and counted. The ranks were thinner than they ought to have been. It seemed that some of the men in the ranks knew what Radan was, and chose not to bare their necks for his blade.
    Not much thinner. There were those who were with the Termith against the Antach, and there were those who did not guess at what Radan intended. But there were also those who knew they were marching to the slaughter, but marched regardless, banners held high, eyes dry of tear, but filled with the awareness of death. Fifteen of the men whom Cete had trained and led were of that group; they carried the banner of the fifty that had been his, and they marched in good order. There was nothing to be said when faced with courage of that sort, of obedience to law and contract in the face of death. Cete watched for a time, and then left. It hurt too much to stay.
    When Marelle heard what Cete had seen, she was not surprised by any of it. “He was losing too much by staying in town. We forced him to move sooner than he would have liked.” She was working on Cete’s shroud again, putting the final stitches on the border. “There were weapons and arms to be found in the orchard last night. You should sell them.”
    Cete was taken aback. Three of them against an injured man, and they had come by night, and yet he had killed them all. That was a triumph worth celebrating. When there was time for it, he had thought to hang the armor from the rafters, use the axes in the orchard and the knives in the kitchen, and there would be nothing that the families of the slain could do but burn with the shame of it. And yet, he had eaten of Marelle’s food, but had contributed nothing.
    “We have a feud that is large enough for both of us,” she said. “We do not need to pile smaller feuds on top, get distracted by fights which mean less.”
    Cete growled softly, shook his head. It went against every instinct, but she was right.
    “I am not a fighting man,” she said. “And I am not a clan lord. And it is not the money. If you like, you can throw what the sale earns into a well, or bury it beneath the floor. I have silver enough for our needs, and more.”
    “No,” said Cete. “I think I have a purpose for silver, and this should meet my