A mercenary’s welcome to Cygna

Entering the country of her birth brought neither deja-vu, forbidding portent, nor sense of kinship. The earth still greened beneath the previous season’s winter-browned stalks, the slow incline of the road stayed as twisted and rocky, and the budding leaves remained a chartreuse lace against dark green firs.

The few people she passed seemed suspicious and belligerent at once, but unafraid. She put their reaction down to her outlander appearance. Cygnese women didn’t wear a mercenary’s short leather jack over trews and riding boots. They wouldn’t know the deep mist-purple color of the jack’s soft, near immutable leather was the natural skin color from a wild ox found in the mountains south of the distant Zankiri Peninsula. The fawn leather trews, when not scuffed and scratched, were a functional alternative for a woman rider. The Cygnese would only see the foreign dress and short hair. The chin length strands tended to tangle in wild loose curls and waves, a style even more unlike the fastidious, conservative local fashion.

With most of her weapons safely packed away, except, of course, her boot knives, Kissre felt her appearance largely unthreaten­ing. Her dress caught the natives’ attention, but it was the glitter of gold at her ears and right brow that raised Cygna suspicions and widened their eyes, sending them scurrying away. Kissre supposed it just as well that the serpent-bird tattoo wrapping her right wrist and snarling down her hand remained hidden under gloves she had pulled on for warmth.

She hadn’t traveled five furlongs beyond the border before two riders bore down on her, authority implied in the brown uniforms and superior attitudes. One lawman seemed much older than herself, one much younger. Their small but rugged long-haired mountain ponies pulled up before Bother. It was absurd. Bother topped both shaggy gray beasts by at least three hands, maybe more.

She suspected them unfamiliar with warhorses, trained to dispose of small obstacles barring their rider’s way. She squeez­ed her fingers softly, backing Bother two steps. The roan packhorse pulled up close to her right leg before stopping. Fudge growled and she warned him. “Out.” His head swung toward her, then back to the officers. He sat. A quick yawn exposed a fine set of incisors before his long tongue wiped his muzzle and hung in a light pant.

“Officers?” Kissre asked and greeted in her tone.

“State your business in Cygna, sir!” The younger one spoke first, all appointed aggression.

Kissre stared at him, and when his hand clasped a small hilt, decided escalating the provocation would get her nowhere. She rested her hands on her saddle’s pommel. “Visiting. My sister. I was told she was in Sidih.”

The man looked at her not only in obvious disbelief, but also contempt. “You have relatives in Cygna?” Patent skepticism lined the words.

“Just so.”

“Your name?” His voice supplied insult to the request.

Kissre straightened in the saddle at his tone and looked down on him from Bother’s greater height with a look that worked well on new and recalcitrant recruits. Her fingers gave a subtle twitch on the reins and Bother did his part. His great head rose, alert from his lazy stance, his nostrils widening as if he smelled trouble. The man’s tension showed as his pony protested the sudden jerk of reins.

“Cygna does not easily welcome strangers, sir,” the second officer said in a mollifying tone. Kissre turned to look at him. Obviously the senior officer, but she couldn’t tell from any insignia on their uniforms. Kissre cursed Tyna silently. She considered abandoning her visit and returning to Kaereya, but knew herself too stubborn to retreat before this hurdle.

“Tell your youngster,” she said, looking at the senior officer as she nodded toward his companion, “that inflammatory gestures are a clear challenge to any mercenary. In response, I have restrained my mount from crushing his pony, and my dog from ripping out his throat or hamstringing his animal. If that is not sign of peaceful intent, I don’t know what is.”

The older officer didn’t move but she saw humor gleam in his eyes. The younger man’s hands moved abruptly from his sword and he backed his pony out from under Bother’s nose. Kissre relaxed back into the saddle and Bother’s head lowered with a soft snort of air.

“We still need your name, sir.” The man was good, his voice conciliatory, but the attitude unyielding.

“Kissre Pierce. I’m trying to find my sister Tyna. She brought a trade caravan in about a year ago. And it is ‘mistress’ not ‘sir.’”

Both men started at her comment and Kissre cursed under her breath at their assumption or insult. At that moment, the roan packhorse, with a quick toss of her rust head, bit Kissre’s thigh. Cursing in colorful soldier’s terms, Kissre snapped the ends of the lead rope over the mare’s nose.

The roan snorted, threw her head up and backed, pulling on the lead. Fudge rose to bark and nip at the packhorse’s hocks. The surly animal bucked, and kicked at Fudge before careening forward into Bother. Kissre jerked on the lead, grabbing the halter in a pain-inflicting action. The mare froze, her attention on her pinched nose.

Kissre yelled at Fudge, but by then, his loud barks and circling leaps had spooked the officer’s ponies. The men had their hands full of shying ponies. It took some moments to restore order.

Only Bother stood quiet, swishing his tail in annoyed impatience, his chin drawn into his chest, one foreleg pawing the ground. As the mare settled, Kissre released the halter’s pressure.

“My apologies, officers, for the disruption.” Her anger replaced by chagrin, she rubbed the afflicted spot just below her buttock. “I bought the pack nag before leaving Kaereya. She’s a good beast with a few bad habits.”

The older officer openly grinned, the younger she couldn’t read. “That’s a fine vocabulary you have, Mistress Pierce. Sorry to have delayed your journey, but I think you no harm to Cygna. Just doing our duty, you understand. Good traveling.” In unison the two twirled their mounts and cantered away.

With an exasperated look at Fudge, she said, “no welcome at all.” He barked.