Free The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) by Glenn Wilson

topics. It had been a wonderful surprise that he still perhaps wasn't fully able to comprehend.
    But that was it, the source of the guilty echo in his gut. Was he really looking at the Corporal Wesshire as a potential friend? Or as an exploitable resource—someone he could learn much from and better develop his understanding of whatever ideas and issues caught his whim?
    No. It wasn 't just that. Although, Corporal Wesshire's personality seemed to be one of those that were best to be cautious around—
    One of the others said something directed at him.
    “What?” Ian asked.
    “I asked if the fresh private had any sort of preference,” Dwight said, smiling a bit at himself, “and that’d be you.”
    “Sorry,” Ian said, looking over at Brodie and especially Kieran. He could probably hear more from their visual reactions than what any of them would actually say. “What are the choices again?”
    “We haven’t sampled all that the city has to offer,” Brodie said, moving a bit to the side as a singing chorus of off-duty regulars passed by them. “Of what we know though, the place to get the best ale is Flaxens, which is off thither.” He gestured vaguely off to their left. “The vocal and well-heard protest at that is it’s a bit of an exclusive club—it caters only to servants of His Majesty. So no women. The Trois Out, however, is far more broad in its taste—”
    “It’s grand, absolutely grand,” Dwight put in, “three taverns put together on one block, half of it inside and half out on a porch.”
    “Best place in the city,” Kieran agreed, not quite quietly.
    So that was it then, two against one, with his vote pending, and evidently having some weight. The newcomer’s pick was definitely an angle he could play. If he wanted to.
    “But their grog tastes like …” Brodie waved his hand passionately, his eyes searching the heavens. “—Grog.”
    “It’s stuffy at Flaxens,” Dwight protested, though he did sound persuadable. “Nothing ever happens there.”
    “Not true,” Brodie frowned. “Culture happens there. Sophistication. Better-tasting-spirits! Isn’t that enough?”
    “Come on, Brodie,” Kieran said, sounding tired—exasperated. “There aren’t any girls at Flaxens. We just went there.”
    Brodie’s eyes flitted uncertainly over at Ian, who discerned a crucial juncture in the proceedings.
    But Ian hesitated. His initial reaction was to play it safe and go to the place without the girls. While there were undoubtedly plenty of other interesting people there as well, and meeting new girls did sound like a lot of fun, Ian had heard plenty of talk about such locations. Dervish women in particular had often been the subject of family dinner discussions, and not to any sort of flattering degree. In fact, his mother had strictly warned him about such women before he’d left for training—he could only imagine what her reaction had been when she’d learned that his first posting was to be on a former Dervish colony.
    At the time , he’d given some sort of half-hearted affirmation—which generally amounted to him agreeing that he probably should be in greater agreement with his mother. Though honestly then, and quite usually, the thought of Dervish women—all soft brown eyes and exotic tongues mishandling the King’s English in the most delightful ways—was dreadfully appealing.
    But not now—not at all really. Meeting alluring Dervish women would be exciting, but not here, not in the company of people he didn’t really know in a city almost entirely strange to him. Most of all, though, not in circumstances like this, where there was so much pressure.
    And while girls always had the tendency to distract, the more level-headed parts of him knew his career needed all of his focus, especially as it was just beginning. Meeting women might be fun, but essentially unfair to them. Unless of course they didn’t care about such things—
    “I think it’s hard to say too much about