He flashed an expression that bordered on anger, or perhaps hopelessness. While the troops may not know what is happening, the officers did.
She suspected there had been defections and desertions, rumors and worse. The man had tried doing her a favor, but she suspected that kindness had ended with her pert response.
He said, “You pretend to sell fine weaving but have no samples to display?”
Brice said in respectful tones, “Sir, we are not vagabonds or gypsies. Our merchandise is being shipped up the river, far too much for us to carry.”`
The officer spun on him. “Why are you not on that ship with your goods?”
Brice shrugged before speaking. “Our material went ahead of us, while we detoured to Indore for two days with a cousin who is a builder. He traveled a portion of the way with us, but we hadn’t seen him for five years. He’s expecting us to return in a few weeks.”
The officer lowered his eyes as if defeated. “This is as far as I travel with you.”
Prin said, “What about our pass? You haven’t written it.”
“I have no quill, ink, or parchment, but most of all I have no desire. If you are not who you say you are, and my leaders capture you, we may share a noose together.”
Prin felt deceived. “You lied.”
“On my oath, I did not. You heard what you wished to hear and made what you wanted of the words, but I never lied. Now, continue along this road, and you will meet another unit. Tell them your tale of woe and see if they take it any better.”
“I may tell them what an ass you are,” Prin snapped.
“Which will come as no surprise to them, I assure you. Good-day.”
He turned on a heel and marched back down river. His men were no longer in sight, and he disappeared before they turned to each other. Brice said, “You have a way with making new friends.”
“And you can give me a little more help with the next soldiers. I don’t want to be arrested, but a military pass would have helped.”
Brice smirked and said, “All you need is the use of a quill or a pen for a minute. Write your own. These soldiers can’t read, and the few that can won’t know the name you sign the pass with.”
Prin said, “You have an idea. I don’t know if it’s any good, but at least you have one.”
“How would you like me to spank you?”
“Spank? Did you hear how long the combat master took to heal when he tried that?”
They both laughed, and still wore smiles when the next patrol discovered them. Neither Prin nor Brice tried to hide or escape from the four men, led by a corporal with stripes on his sleeve, so new they contrasted with the pale blue of the shirt.
“We were just checked by men down the path,” Prin said while tossing her head in the direction they’d come. “You could call out to them, and they’ll tell you we’re not enemies.”
“You’ll come with us,” He pointed, “You two, take the front and Benson, you and I will take the rear.”
Prin scowled with irritation. He was younger than her and trying to act the part of a corporal. It would do little good to argue. He’d simply issue more orders, none of which would help matters. Still, the heat of anger took hold, and she fumed.
They walked, two escorts in front and two behind. She half-turned and met the eyes of the young corporal. “When you said you’d take the rear, were you saying you were going to watch mine while you’re back there? Because if you think I didn’t see your eyes on my rear, you’re mistaken. Your commander will hear about this.”
She heard one of the men in front attempt to control a snort of laughter but failed, and when that happened, the other laughed. Then both together. The corporal snarled, “That’ll be enough of that.”
Brice glanced her way, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as he said, “Really? You had to do that?”
Prin didn’t respond right away. It was a fair question. Why antagonize your captor? But maybe that was the reason—she felt she was a captive and didn’t like it. She resented it. This land was ruled by members of her family, so she should be treated like a queen.
Of course, nobody knew who she was so her argument was completely irrational. Will I be that sort of ruler?
She turned to the corporal and mouthed, “Sorry.”
He nodded and attempted a smile that failed to fully form. They walked over a ridge and below, in a shallow depression too small to be called a valley, stood four rows of dirty white tents lined up in military precision. She estimated eight men to a tent, six tents to a row, which accounted for almost two hundred soldiers.
Beyond the rows of tents were three others, one with flags and pennants flying. An older man in uniform sat at a table outside that tent, his head bent over charts. A tree next to the table provided shade. Three officers stood around the table pointing and commenting on whatever they studied.
“Don’t start any trouble,” Brice warned.
Prin said, “I can’t make that promise. Be prepared to fight.”
The corporal attempted to turn them towards a waiting sergeant. Prin allowed him to steer them in the general direction, but as they approached, she broke free and darted to the table with the officers while pointing at the one sitting. She pulled up a dozen steps away. “I wish to speak to you. Alone.”
He raised his eyes, a sour expression telling her he was going to refuse.
Prin said, “You owe me an audience.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise but didn’t answer.
She heard footsteps rushing up to her from behind. Time was running out. In a move quicker than most eyes can follow, she reached for her throwing knife, strode forward one large step at the same time to provide velocity on the throw, and let the knife fly.
It struck the tree that grew within arm’s reach of the officer, head high, the point driven into the tree a finger’s length. She calmly said, “You owe me your life. I demand a private audience.”
The footsteps behind had stopped, as had all movement near the table and behind. She imagined all eyes were on the quivering knife.
He asked, “Do you have another knife?”
“Two. But neither is for throwing.”
“Will you surrender them?”
“Not willingly, but yes. If that’s what it takes to speak a few words to you.”
He said, “Is your friend going to kill me?”
Prin turned. Brice held his throwing knife ready. “Put it away.”
“I must protect you, Prin.”
“Brice, there is no danger. If this buffoon does not speak with me, I’ll find someone who will. Let me handle this, please.”
Brice slipped his knife into the sheath between his shoulders and stepped to one side. A junior officer shouted, “Arrest them!”
The older officer growled, “They are already under arrest unless I’m mistaken.” A quiet filled the air as he studied Prin.
She waited. No more words were required. He would either grant her an audience or not. If he didn’t, they were no worse off than before, except she doubted she would have her knife returned. But the man she faced probably had thirty years serving as an officer for the King’s Army and he wouldn’t be in the position if he was stupid or incompetent.
“There is a war going on,” he said softly. “Does this audience concern it, because that is all I’m interested in at the moment.”
“It does.”
He pursed his lips and drew a loud breath that expanded his chest until the buttons pulled at the holes. “You have your request of an audience granted, young lady.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN