Not likely, she'd replied.
So today it was Keth looking out for and worrying about her. They seemed to take it turn and turn about these days, being mother-hen. Well, that was what being partners was all about.
:Took you long enough to come to that conclusion,:
Warrl laughed. :Now if you'd just start mother-henning me-:
"You'd bite me, you fur-covered fiend."
:0h, probably.:
"Ah -- you're hopeless," Tarma chided him. smothering a grin. "Let's look serious here; this is business."
:Yes, oh mistress.:
Tarma bit back another retort. She never won in a contest of sharp tongues with the kyree. Instead of answering him, she pondered her choice of scouts again, and was satisfied, all things considered, that she'd picked the best ones for the job.
First, Garth: a tiny man, and dark, he looked like a dwarfish shadow on his tall Shin'a'in gelding. He was one of Tarma's first choices for close-in night work, since his dusky skin made it unnecessary for him to smear ash on himself, but his most outstanding talents were that he could ride like a Shin'a'in and track like a hound. His one fault was that he couldn't hit a haystack with more than two arrows out of ten. He was walking his bay gelding back and forth between the two sentries at the sally-point, since his beast was the most nervous of the five that would be going out, and the thunder was making it lay its ears back and show the whites of its eyes.
Beaker; average was the word for Beaker; size, coloring, habits -- average in everything except his nose -- that raptor's bill rivaled Tarma's. His chest-nut mare was as placid of disposition as Garth's beast was nervous, and Beaker's temperament matched his mare's. As Tarma rode up, they both appeared to be dozing, despite the cold rain coming down on their heads. Fastened to the cantle of Beaker's saddle were two cages, each the size of two fists put together, each holding a black bird with a green head. Beaker was a good tracker, almost as good as Garth, but this was his specialty; the training and deployment of his messenger birds.
Jodi: sleepy-eyed and deceptively quiet, this pale, ice-blonde child with evident aristocratic blood in her veins was their mapmaker. Besides that skill, she was a vicious knife fighter and as good with a bow as Garth was poor with one. She rode a gray mare with battlesteed blood in her; a beast impossi-ble for anyone but her or Tarma to ride, who would only allow a select few to handle her. Jodi sat her as casually as some gentle palfrey -- and with Jodi in her saddle, the mare acted like one. Her only fault was that she avoided situations where she would have to command the way she would have avoided fouled water.
And Kyra: peasant blood and peasant stock, she'd trained herself in tracking, bow and knife, and hard riding, intending to be something other than some stodgy fanner's stolid wife. When the war came grinding over her parents' fields and her family had fled for their lives, she'd stayed. She'd coolly sized up both sides and chosen Sursha's -- then sized up the mercenary Companies attached to Sursha's army and decided which ones she wanted to approach.
She'd started first with the Hawks, though she hadn't really thought she'd get in -- or so she had confessed to Tarma after being signed on. Little had she guessed that Scout Pawell had coughed out his life pinned to a tree three days earlier -- and that the Hawks had been down by two scouts before that had happened. Tarma had interviewed her and sent her to Sewen, who'd sent her to Idra -- who'd sent her back to Tarma with the curt order --
"Try her. If she survives, hire her." Tarma had sent her on the same errand that had killed Pawell. Kyra had returned. Since Pawell had had no relatives, no leman and no shieldmate to claim his belongings, Tarma gave her Pawell's dun horse, Pawell's gear, and Pawell's tentmate. Kyra had quickly acquired something Pawell hadn't -- tentmate had turned to shieldmate and lover.
The Scouts altogether approved, as Pawell had been standoffish and his replacement was anything but. The romance had amused and touched them. Kyra had begun to bloom under the approval, to think for herself, to make judgment calls. The Kyra that had joined them would never have come to Tarma with an old tale and a rumor; Kyra of "now" had experience enough to know how important that rumor could be, and enough guts to present the information herself. She was Tarma's personal pick to become a subcommander herself in a few years.
It was false dawn; one hour to real dawn, and there was a hint that the sky was getting lighter. No words were needed; they all knew what they had to do. When Tarma rode gray Ironheart into the waiting knot of Scouts and horses, those dismounted swung back up into their saddles. Tarma didn't even slacken her pace; all five of them left the camp in proper diamond formation, as if they'd rehearsed the whole maneuver. Tarma had point (since as commander she was the only one of the five with all the current passwords). Garth tail, Jodi right and Kyra left -- Beaker and his precious birds rode protected in the middle.
They rode along the back of the string of encampments; dark tents against slowly graying sky to their right, scrub forest and hills stark black against the sky to their left. The camps were totally dark, since just about everyone had encountered the same troubles as the Hawks had with lights and fires in the pouring rain.
They were challenged almost as soon as they left their own camp; a foot-sentry, sodden, but alert. He belonged to Staferd's Colddrakes; this was the edge of their camp. Tarma nodded to herself with satisfaction at his readiness, and gave him the countersign.
Then came a heavy encampment of regular infantry, whose sentry hailed Warrl, who was trotting at Ironheart's flank, by name, and called out;
"You're recognized, Sunhawks. Pass on." Tarma felt a little twitchy about that one, but couldn't fault him. You challenged those whom you didn't recognize; you could let known quantities by. And there were no kyree in Kelcrag's forces.
At the next encampment -- Duke Greyhame's levy -- they were physically challenged; a fully-armed youth with an arrogant sneer on his lips, mounted on a heavy, wild-eyed warhorse. He blocked their path until Tarma gave an elaborate countersign.
Even then, he wouldn't clear the path entirely. He left only enough room for them to ride past in single file, unless they wanted to desert the firm ground and ride on the mushy banks. And he backed off with some show of reluctance, and much induced rearing and prancing of his gelding.
"Scoutmaster -- " Garth eased his horse alongside Tarma's and whispered angrily to her: "I'd like to feed that little son of a bitch his own damned gauntlet!"
"Peace," Tarma said, "Let me handle this. Give me rear for long enough to teach him a lesson."
Garth passed the word; wry grins appeared and vanished in an instant, and the scout ranks opened and closed so that Beaker had point and Tarma had dropped back to tail. The scouts squeezed past the arrogant sentry, one by one, Tarma the last. She didn't move, only stared at him for a long moment, letting Ironheart feel her ground and set her feet.
Then she dropped her hands, and signaled the battlemare with her knees.
Black as a nightmare in the rain, the battlesteed reared up to her full height -- and stayed there, as perfectly balanced as only a Shin'a'in trained warsteed could be. Another invisible command from Tarma, and she hopped forward on her hind hooves, forefeet lashing out at the stranger -- gelding, who, not being the fool his rider was, cleared off the path and up onto the mucky shoulder. Then Ironheart settled to all four hooves again, but only for as long as it took to get past the arrogant sentry. As Tarma had figured he would, he spurred his beast down onto the path again as soon as they got by. Whatever he'd thought to do then didn't much matter. As soon as he was right behind them and just out of range of what was normally an attack move, Tarma gave her mare a final signal that sent her leaping into the air, lashing out with her rear hooves in a wicked kick as she reached the top of her arc. Had the boy been within range of those hooves, his face would have been smashed in. As it was (as Tarma had carefully calculated), the load of mud Ironheart had picked up flicked oft her heels to splatter all over him, his fancy panoply, and his considerably cowed beast.