Free His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) by Amanda McCrina Page A

considered belligerents and treated accordingly. Do
you understand?”
    “It won’t happen again, lord,” said Muryn.
    “You,” Tyren said to the girl. “Do you understand?”
    She lifted her face to him and he saw the hard steel glint in her
eyes.
    “I understand you,” she said.
    He took Risun on ahead, leaving Muryn and the women on the path
behind him. He caught up to the troop in a little while and Verio
slowed his horse to ride alongside him.
    “That was no reason for her to be in the Outland,” he
said. His back was still braced in anger. “Or to be carrying
that blade.”
    “You think she and the farm wife have dealings with the
rebels?”
    “I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility, sir.”
    “If they’re aiding the rebellion,” Tyren said, “the
girl wouldn’t have said so, even in jest.”
    He wasn’t sure he believed that himself. She’d been
impudent enough—impudent enough to admit the thing openly,
because she figured they were Vareni and too witless to think it
might be the truth. It was possible. Likely, even. But he said none
of that to Verio. He wasn’t really thinking about the girl. It
wasn’t the girl who concerned him. It wasn’t the girl
who’d made uneasiness settle like a cold lump in the pit of his
stomach.
    The rest of the ride went uneventfully. They finished the circuit and
returned to the fort a little after noon, and when the meal was done
he sat alone at the desk in his office to write his first report in
the log book. He’d keep a close eye on the outlying farms,
patrol the circuit more regularly and with sharper attention, learn
more about the Nyre girl. Standard precaution, all of it, enough to
keep Verio occupied. That part was simple enough.
    This man Muryn complicated things.
    Clearly he was no stranger in Souvin, no newcomer, even if he wasn’t
of the old blood—Verio had known his name, known his farm. And
there’d been nothing particularly remarkable about the woman,
his wife. But just as clear he was no common farmer. That much had
been plain from his bearing, from the way he’d met Tyren’s
eyes, even before he’d opened his mouth.
    Verio hadn’t seen it. No doubt Verio thought of all Cesini
alike, unworthy of consideration unless they posed a direct
threat—couldn’t see anything outside that convenient mold
he’d made for them. Tyren had no inclination to explain it to
him now. Verio had no sense of subtlety. One hint, one word of
suspicion, and Verio would jump to settle it by force, no more
questions asked—typical Vareno. But that would accomplish
nothing. There’d be opportunity for that later, if necessary.
Always too much opportunity for that. Right now he wanted answers.
    * * *
    He spent all that evening trying to figure out how he might make it
back alone to the little farm. But as it turned out there was no need
to come up with some excuse to go. He met Muryn on the Rien road the
next morning.
    He’d taken Risun out before the sun was up, riding out from the
village so he could run the horse freely. He saw, as he returned,
walking unhurriedly at Risun’s head in the gray half-light,
that Muryn was coming down on foot to the road from the pine wood
which lay between the patrol path, a half-hour’s ride to the
west, and the village. The Cesino saw him and inclined his head to
show respect. They walked together towards the village with some
distance and an uncertain silence between them.
    He sounded out words in his head as they walked, trying to figure out
how best to break the silence—whether it were better to do it
in a casual manner or to come to his questions directly. There was
sudden nervousness roiling in the pit of his stomach. Easier for us,
Verio had said, if these people were openly hostile. That was
certainly the truth. Easier if it were beyond question. Easier to
deal with weapons than words.
    He said, finally, “You’ve business in Souvin, Muryn?”
    “I do, Lord Risto,” said Muryn. There was no surprise in
his voice,