Free The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) by Glenn Wilson Page A

grog,” Ian quickly declared, “the good kind , I mean.”
    “Amen,” Brodie heartily rejoined, looking pleasantly surprised.
    “It’s hard to say too much about reet company,” Dwight tried.
    “No,” Ian said, furrowing his eyebrows a bit, but not too much, “it’s our last evening here, why not let it taste good? A proper send off.”
    “It’s your last evening, not mine,” Dwight said, a bit sulkily.
    “We were just there,” Kieran repeated.
    “No need to get your back up,” Brodie said, sounding a bit jubilant, “newcomer gets the deciding vote.”
    “Then what’s the point of voting?” Kieran asked.
    “Come, come,” Brodie said, “it’s simply politics. Everyone gets their first go.”
    Ian decided it was best to re main quiet through the political math—especially since it seemed a fairly safe bet that Brodie’s party had it.
    “Yes,” Kieran said tightly, “but he doesn’t know anything about either place. He’s just guessing, and why let that ruin the whole —”
    “Don’t be such a croaker,” Brodie sang up into the air with mock exasperation, “either place is great. We can’t lose either way.”
    “He wouldn’t know if we could,” Kieran said, looking over at Ian. “Have you even ever had anything to drink before?”
    Ian was mostly able to keep his mouth from clenching, his most obvious outward sign of agitation as he’d learned in the past. Ian wasn’t particularly interested in getting into anything with Kieran, not at least until he had a better understanding of how their company fit together. But Kieran, Ian’s dead equal in rank, probably age, and probably nearly in experience as well, was staring at him like Ian was a child.
    “Of course I have,” Ian said evenly. And that was true; he’d had various opportunities to sample and sneak bits of rum, ale, and brandy from various sources around Wilome. Mostly from shipmen at the docks when he made deliveries, and sometimes from workers in the local taverns when his jobs brought him there. He did realize that he needed to hold some note of caution on the topic, however, as he had never had very much, despite all his passing bouts of curiosity. It had always seemed like something he could do after leaving home, when the crushing pressures of jobs and keeping up in what schooling he could get were past. His neighborhood had been tight-knit, and many older, watchful eyes had always been on that sort of thing. Ian himself had looked down on other boys his age who had overindulged in alcohol, often at the expense of their responsibilities.
    “No, I’m not talking about some mother’s pot-brewed bilk,” Kieran said.
    “Real grog,” Dwight supplied.
    “The spirits they make here are much harder than back home.” Kieran smirked. “They’re hard to handle for anyone not used to them.”
    “I’m game,” Ian said, matching Kieran’s expression. A moment of that held before Ian looked away casually, making sure to show that he was serious, but not in a confrontational way. Or at least that’s what he hoped it looked like. “It’s up to everyone what they want, but I think the better option sounds better.”
    Kieran paused for a moment before shrugging in dismissal. “Whatever the group wants, I don’t care.”
    Apparently, Ian thought.
    “And the group wants grog,” Brodie called out cheerfully, “this way then, gentlemen.”
    “Aye, grog,” Dwight agreed in a mostly appeased tone. “And fast as possible.”
    Ian made some sort of sound of agreement, cutting off some sort of phrase of agreement that he hadn’t really thought out. The others took it well enough though. Kieran did take the time to give him one final and vaguely veiled glance of utter disgust before ignoring Ian the rest of the way. This wasn’t an altogether unappreciated element, but Ian could tell already it was going to be difficult keeping his temper around Kieran if the other was going to be able to maintain such an unfounded