His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) by Amanda McCrina Read Free Book Online Page A

landed a blow
across Seian’s face with his closed right. Then he shoved him
back. Seian flailed, lost his balance, threw out his arms, and
Luchian caught him, snaking out a quick hand to steady him. Luchian
stood, holding Seian by the shoulders before him. The hall went
quiet. Tyren saw Luchian’s eyes travel briefly round, gauging;
it was long tradition, the hostility between Guard and regular army,
and these were mostly army men here. But the hall remained still. No
one would be eager to trade blows with a Marro here in Rien,
tradition or no. Tyren’s anger died to ashes inside him. He
felt suddenly, keenly alone.
    Luchian seemed well aware of it. He brought his eyes back round and
smiled, humorlessly.
    “You haven’t changed much, Risto. I’d have thought
this commission might change some things.”
    “Nothing’s changed between us since Choiro, Marro,”
said Tyren.
    “Settle it, Luchian,” said Seian, in a thick voice. He
spat blood onto the table and wiped it away from his mouth with the
back of one hand. “Cesino-blood son of a bitch.”
    Luchian didn’t take his eyes from Tyren.
    “No,” he said. “No, Risto’s outnumbered here,
and I don’t care to add cowardice to the list of vices he
attributes to me. Another time, maybe—when the odds are
matched.”
    He let go Seian’s shoulders, adjusted his sword-belt, and sat
down again.
    Tyren left the table and went back up to his rooms. He got together
his bags on the bed, pulled the leather cuirass back on, buckled his
sword-belt on his hip and threw his cape over his shoulders. He
wouldn’t spend the night here. In all likelihood Seian would
come looking for a fight later—when the odds were better
matched—and he couldn’t afford that now. He carried his
bags down the corridor and the steps and went out into the
stable-yard quickly, before he could be seen from the mess. In the
stable he called sharply to the boy, who was sitting in his own
quarters with his supper, and told him to go summon the Cesino from
the slaves’ quarters. He went down the row to find the horses.
He could pick out Risun’s head peering out at him from one of
the stalls, but he couldn’t see the black colt right away, and
they’d been stabled alongside one another. He dropped the bags
to go look more closely and saw, with a sudden clenching-up in his
chest, the colt was gone, the stall door standing open to the row.
The colt’s saddle, the military-issue saddle, had been left.
Risun’s had been taken instead, along with the bridle and
halter and one of the muzzle feed-bags.
    He just stood there a moment, staring stupidly. The stable-boy came
back at a run.
    “I couldn’t find him, lord,” he said.
    He didn’t say anything right away. He couldn’t bring his
thoughts together. Then he said, stammering a little, “Never
mind it, then. You can go.”
    The boy bowed and ducked quickly away, not wanting to give him the
time to reconsider, maybe. Tyren himself went back out into the yard
and walked over to the gate. He beckoned for the guard to come down
and the man came, hurriedly, raising his right hand in a hasty
salute.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “My slave took the black colt out?”
    “Yes, sir. Not quarter of an hour ago. He said he had his
orders from you. I let him go.”
    Tyren said nothing. His heart was pounding, thoughts running through
his head too quickly. He had the absurd urge to laugh.
    The guard said, with anxiousness in his voice, “Is everything
all right, sir?”
    “No—yes. Yes, of course. Everything’s all right.
When he returns tell him to—tell him to put the colt up and
wait for me in the stable. I’ll be back presently.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He saddled Risun a little unsteadily, his thoughts drifting. He could
search for him, of course. The Cesino couldn’t have gotten far,
and people would remember the black colt. You didn’t see a
horse such as that any day. Surely the Cesino must have known he
wouldn’t get far. He turned the idea over in