What also startled her was their manner of dress. Or, more aptly, their swords and daggers, given their manner of dress. They wore the heavy boots favored by guards, and similar sleeveless tunics, leaving their arms bare to swing a blade freely. Two had cloaks over their shoulders. Their breeches were simple and more form-fitting than was the fashion.
While guards were allowed to commission their own clothing, there were severe restrictions on color and cut, so they would present a uniform image. These men's clothes came in a variety of shades and cuts. Moreover, that clothing was filthy and ill kept, tears left unmended, boots scuffed and worn. Their own appearances were just as unkempt--with untrimmed beards and unshaven faces. If any guard showed up in such condition, he'd be on toilet-cleaning duty for a moon.
"Mercenaries," Gavril whispered in her ear. "Hired blades."
Moria had heard of such a thing. Not every warrior in the empire lived in a barracks, of course. That would hardly befit members of the highest caste. The guards they saw in Edgewood were usually from low-ranking families.
Other warriors owned property or became warlords or climbed the ranks in court itself. But there were those of lower ranks who had no hope of property or position and no interest in service. They hired their swords to whoever would purchase them.
The stories she'd heard about mercenaries were not flattering. True warriors considered them a stain on the caste; warriors were supposed to serve the empire. Mercenaries served only themselves. Perhaps even worse, they did not follow the warrior code.
Sometimes bards would sing heroic songs of the lone warrior, the blade without a warlord, a noble and dashing hero. Looking at these ragged men and hearing them talk, Moria would now place those stories alongside those of snow dragons, as products of a romantic--or optimistic--imagination.
The men filed past. Moria craned her neck to follow, making note of everything from their faces to their clothes to the cut of their weapons. The last part was, unfortunately, most impressive. Whatever care they neglected to give their bodies and garments they seemed to have paid to their weaponry. Their swords were clearly new--not ancestral blades--but they were the highest quality. True and strong steel, free of the adulterated metals and nicks and scrapes one saw on the purchased weapons of the lower-born guards.
They had more than blades, too. Two mercenaries bore bows. Another had a quiver of darts. Yet another wore a whip coiled on his belt. True warriors were forbidden such weapons; they were left to hunters and farmers.
Today the goddess showed some modicum of mercy, and the men continued on to the streambed. She could hear them sloshing and slopping in the mud. She and Gavril had walked on the firmer ground, but she still tensed, certain they'd spot a stray footprint.
The mercenaries split up, going both ways along the stream. Then came a cry. A body had been spotted.
Moria strained to listen as they seemed to decide Orbec was newly dead, and that's what their comrade had heard--the warrior shouting or cursing, and then his death scream.
She listened as the footsteps retreated the way they'd come--after the mercenaries had stripped anything usable from Orbec. Still, she and Gavril stayed where they were until Daigo nudged her and rose, meaning even he could no longer hear the men.
Moria plucked the tunic from her head as they crawled out and stood. She handed it to Gavril.
"You ought to wear a hood," he said. "Something to cover that hair and skin. I don't know how you Northerners survive outside your land of ice and snow."
He pulled his tunic on. She watched. He didn't seem to notice, his gaze distant, looking toward Orbec's body.
"I took his dagger," she said.
"So I saw." Still no expression.
"I thought I should. It's an ancestral blade. I'll return it to his family."
He nodded curtly. "Good. Might as well use it, too, while you have it."
Was he mocking her? His voice lacked the edge that usually crept in when he did.
"I wasn't sure if I ought," she said. "It seemed wrong, but it also seemed wrong to leave it. What does the warrior's code say?"
She expected him to snap some retort. But he only shrugged.
"Nothing specific. You acted out of respect. While carrying another warrior's sword is forbidden, the code allows for necessity, too, under the circumstances. You'll honor his memory. They--" He hooked his finger toward the departed mercenaries. "They'd sell it to the first merchant they found."
"What were those men?"
"Mercenaries," he said, as he turned in the direction of the stream.
"You said that. I mean what are they doing out here? They mentioned the village. They must be connected with what happened--"
"We don't know what happened. But if you stop talking and start walking, perhaps we'll live long enough to find out."
Twenty-one
As they'd hoped, the stream ended at the swamp, less than a hundred paces from the canyon wall. The very air seemed different here. Warmer. Easier to breathe. Daigo bounded ahead, leaving them clamoring to keep up.