Amara looked from the guard in the snow to Bernard and asked, “Polite and respectful, eh?”
Bernard’s face flushed. “They might be spoiled city boys, but they’re Legion, by the furies. They should treat women with more respect.” He rubbed at his hair. “And show more respect to a Steadholder, I suppose.”
Amara smiled, but didn’t say anything. Bernard flushed even brighter and coughed, looking away.
The unshaven guard emerged from the guardhouse with a half-dressed centurion, a young man little older than him. The centurion blinked stupidly at Bernard for a minute, then gave the guard a terse order, before stumbling back into the guardhouse to march off a moment later, still only half-dressed.
Several legionares gathered around the gate, and to Bernard’s relief he recognized a few of the men from previous visits to Garrison. A few moments later, a grizzled old man dressed in a civilian tunic, but with the bearing and mien of a soldier, came walking briskly out of the gates, wisps of white hair drifting around his bald pate.
“Steadholder Bernard,” he said, critically, eyeing the Steadholder. “You don’t look so good.” He made no particular comment about the condition of the guard lying in the snow, leaning down to rest his fingertips lightly on the young man’s temples.
“Healer Harger,” Bernard responded. “Did I hit him too hard?”
“Can’t hit a head that thick too hard,” Harger muttered. Then cackled. “Oh, he’ll have a headache when he wakes up. I’ve been waiting for this to happen.”
“New recruits?”
Harger stood up and paid little further attention to the young guard in the snow. “The better part of two whole cohorts down from Riva herself. Citizens’ sons, almost all of them. Not enough sense to carry salt in a storm among the whole lot.”
Bernard grimaced. “I need to get to Gram. Fast, Harger.”
Harger frowned, tilting his head to one side and studying Bernard. “What’s happened?”
“Get me to Gram,” Bernard said.
Harger shook his head. “Gram’s . . . been indisposed.”
Amara blinked. “He’s sick?”
Harger snorted. “Sick of rich boys who expect to be treated like invalids instead of legionares, maybe.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to talk to his truthfinder, Bernard.”
“Olivia? Get her on down here.”
“No,” Harger said, and grimaced. “Livvie’s youngest came to term, and she went back to Riva to help with the birth. Now we’ve got —”
“Centurion,” bawled a high, nasal voice. “What’s going on down here? Who is in charge of this gate? What foolishness is this?”
Harger rolled his eyes. “We’ve got Pluvus Pentius instead. Good luck, Bernard.” Harger stooped down and scooped up the unconscious young legionare, tossing him over one shoulder with a grunt, and then headed back inside the fort.
Pluvus Pentius turned out to be a slight young man with watery blue eyes and a decided overbite. He wore the crimson and gold of a Rivan officer, though his uniform tended to sag around the shoulders and stretched a bit over the belly. The officer slouched toward them through the snow, squinting in disapproval.
“Now see here,” Pluvus said. “I don’t know who you people are, but assaulting a soldier on duty is a Realm offense.” He drew a sheaf of papers from his tunic and peered at them, flipping through several pages. Then he turned and looked around him. “Yes, here it is, a Realm offense. Centurion? Arrest both of them and see them to the holding cells —”
“Excuse me,” Bernard interrupted. “But there’s a more important matter at hand, sir. I am Steadholder Bernard, and it is vital that I speak to Count Gram at once.”
Pluvus blinked up at them. “Excuse me?”
Bernard repeated himself.
Pluvus frowned. “Highly irregular.” He consulted his pages again. “No, I don’t think the Count is receiving petitions today. He holds a regular court every week, and all such matters are to be presented to him then, and in writing at least three days ahead of time.”
“There’s no time for that,” Bernard blurted. “It’s vital to the safety of this valley that we speak to him at once. You are his truthfinder, aren’t you? Surely you can tell that we’re being honest with you.”
Pluvus froze, peering up at Amara over the pages. He looked from her to Bernard and back. “Are you challenging my authority here, farmer? I assure you that I am fully qualified and can—”
Amara flashed Bernard a warning glance. “Sir, please. We just need to see Gram.”
Pluvus drew himself up stiffly, his lips pressed together. “Impossible,” he stated flatly. “Court is two days hence, but we have not received a written petition to be filed for that date. Therefore you will have to submit your petition to me in, let’s see, no more than six days’ time, in order to be received by the Count at next week’s court—and that is a matter entirely separate from an assault upon a legionare— and a Citizen, at that! Centurion! Take them into custody.”
An older soldier with several younger legionares behind him stepped forward toward Bernard. “Sir, under the authority vested in me by my rank and at the order of my commanding officer, I place you under arrest. Please surrender your weapons and cease and desist any current furycraftings and accompany me to the holding cells where you will be incarcerated and your case brought before the Count.”
Bernard growled and set his jaw. “Fine,” he said, and flexed his fists. “Have it your way. Maybe a few more broken heads will get me to see Gram that much faster.”
The legionares came toward Bernard, but the centurion hesitated, frowning. “Steadholder,” he said, carefully. “This shouldn’t have to get ugly.”
Pluvus rolled his eyes. “Centurion, arrest this man and his companion. You have no idea how much paperwork I have to do already. My time is precious.”
“Bernard,” Amara said, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Wait.”
Bernard faced the oncoming soldiers, his brow darkening, and the ground let out a faint tremble. The soldiers stopped in their tracks, their expressions nervous. “Come on,” the big Steadholder growled. “I haven’t got all day.”
“Get out of my way!” thundered a voice from within the gates. Amara blinked, startled at the tone.
A man in a rumpled and wine-stained shirt thrust his way through the crowd watching the altercation. He wasn’t tall, but had a barrel for a chest and a jaw that looked heavy and hard enough to break stones upon, covered by a curling beard of fiery red. His hair, shorn short, was of a similar color, though patchy with batches of grey that made his scalp look like a battleground, with troops in scarlet struggling to hold terrain against a grey-clad foe. His eyes were deep under heavy brows, bloodshot, and angry. He walked barefoot in the snow, and steam curled up from his footprints.