Free The Alliance by David Andrews Page B

to think rather than ask clarification of his deliberately cryptic response.
    His questions had sought details of locations and how individuals had responded, which meant he’d guessed the Westlander had protected one of the piquets from punishment, accepting his misjudgment had allowed it to happen, the truest test of a leader.
    “I see,” she said, nodding her satisfaction.
    “I think you do.” He praised her and she glowed.
    She’d kept him warm with her body last night, holding him close until he slipped into natural sleep. This morning two of her women had helped her wash him, and she’d found the High Born nightshirt amongst the smuggler’s goods. She’d dressed the wound again. It wasn’t his first. She saw scars of others, more serious, proving he was a good healer, one of the lucky individuals with a high natural resistance to infection. This wound was following the pattern.
    “I will get food,” she said. Her mind followed a natural progression. He’d lost a lot of blood yesterday.
    “We will eat with the rest. They are hungry too.”
    She nodded. He didn’t miss a trick in binding his men to him, sharing their hardships, challenging them to follow where he led, and doing it so naturally it seemed a part of him.
    They strolled toward the trestle table where the food waited. A passing man-at-arms did her honor, dipping his spear in salute, his eyes on her, not his commander.
    “How does it feel to be honored for what you have done, not what you are?”
    Helene, who’d hardly noticed the gesture, peasants and men-at-arms honored High Born or paid the penalty, stopped and looked around at the man’s retreating back, half tempted to call him back to rectify her rudeness. A shrug acknowledged it was too late, and she turned back to her companion, expecting censure.
    He smiled at her. “You won’t forget again, will you? Like me, some of them will have made guesses. The rest see only what you’ve done in organizing the women to provide food and comfort. They honor it, and you. Not some accident of birth.” He took her arm and started walking again, leading her toward the table.
    Helene’s mind took a little sidewise skip, changing her perspective. The man at her side was coaxing her into a new understanding of the world, testing to see if she could manage a new role. She was on trial for her life, and he was the sole judge and executioner. He’d make no hasty decision, but any appeal would be pointless.
    A shiver of fear ran down her spine.
    “Do you have a name?” It probably wouldn’t make a difference, but instinct demanded she personalize their relationship.
    “Kamran.” She saw knowledge in his eyes and, perhaps, a touch of sympathy.
    They ate with the others, sharing meat, bread, and vegetables. Helene had discovered a half-overgrown plot and set a dozen men to resurrecting it, gleaning enough for this meal and one more. She’d also found replacement seed and replanted the empty beds. This cave was a good spot and the soil around it fertile, having lain fallow for many years. The long grave with the thirty hanged smugglers would enrich it further in years to come.
    “Good.” One man held up his plate. “Better than my wife cooks.”
    “That’s a poor compliment,” his friend said. “Her first husband died from her cooking.”
    A ripple of laughter spread outwards and Helene was grateful. “Tell the others,” she said. “They wouldn’t let me touch the food. Sent me off to find something useful to do.” She was proving she’d learned what he taught. It might save her life.
    “I see you’re still looking.” A humorist from the back offered anonymously, but all eyes turned to him. “If you still doubt what she’s done, I can arrange for you to join the wounded,” another man said and there was a murmur of agreement.
    Kamran appeared to hear none of it, eating his food and staring into the middle distance until the conversation ended. “Aside from you,” he said.