I flipped a coin, result was yes, report the Lily incident to the proper authorities.
It may be wise to prepare a fight-or-flight-or-hide plan in case the "government rangers" turn out to be hostile. Also note it has not been confirmed whether Nameless is in good standing with the law.
I believe that it will be better for you if you abstain from telling them about her. While she did vow that she wouldn't be friendly on another encounter, if she sees that there isn't a bounty on her head from the incident, she may go back on that statement. Or something. I have a hunch.
So, don't tell them about Lily, and generally be cautious with these patrols. As TeamVASIMR said above, you have no idea who you are and erring on the side of caution shouldn't get you arrested or killed.
Seconded; don't rat on her.
The die is cast: ash blows through Tarnasshe on a plangent wind. Was that a movement, in the dust?
You are wracked with indecision. Lily has left; is it really necessary that you make her a wanted woman? She did try to kill you. But your skill with a gun tells you that she wasn't the first to do so; attempted murder isn't so uncommon out here on the frontier. It's easy enough to justify the attitude that if someone fails, there's no harm done, and no need to get the law involved.
The rangers are closer now. Their horses are thick-shanked and pale, like smaller versions of Gryngolet; their guns and swords glint in the first light of dawn. One wears a helmet carved from a hollowed Cacturne head – not regulation issue, but undoubtedly effective protection, and certainly better than the tattered Murkrow plumes in your hat. His mind would remain his own, if foxes attacked.
It's also terrifying, but that's neither here nor there.
There is a disturbance in the dirt that comes from more than their horses' hoofbeats. As the riders draw near and halt, you see three sleek, stubby heads erupt from beneath the sand: a Dugtrio, presumably brought along to warn them of any subterranean assault. Its whiskers can detect vibrations in the earth from hundreds of feet away.
The Cacturne-helmeted ranger prods his horse, and it steps forward slightly. The others stand aside, waiting for him to speak.
No, you decide. Lily chanced her arm and failed. Before your experience in the desert, perhaps you would have done the same. It's best to be cautious here, especially when you don't know whether or not you're an outlaw yourself. In fact, it might be good to have a plan in case you need to run.
Rosalind glances at you, and you respond with the faintest shake of your head.
“Mornin',” she says cheerily. “What can we do for you?”
When tanned right, Krokorok hide can turn a small-calibre bullet. The gun Rosalind gave you won't be enough, and neither houndtooth nor needle slugs will help here. Shellshot might work, but you have none on you right now.
“Where have you come from?” asks the leader. He doesn't remove his helmet, not yet. He does not know if he can trust you.
“Rust,” replies Rosalind. “Takin' rose oil to Scourston.” She waves an arm airily at the back of the wagon. “Take a look if you like. All above board.”
The ranger nods slowly. If you had time, you could load a houndtooth round and aim for his helmet, but you suspect you'd be dead before you could pull the trigger. There are seven of the rangers, and you are certain they're fast enough to get you. Besides, there's the Dugtrio; moles aren't generally known for speed, but there's precious little that outpaces one of them, and their claws are like ivory pickaxes.
“It don't look like you've had an uneventful trip,” he says, gesturing at the ruined canvas panel. “Is there somethin' around oughtn't be?”
You relax slightly. That's why they stopped you; it isn't that they suspect you, it's that the wagon looks like it's been attacked. If the aggressor is still in the area – well, it would be their job to relocate it. To Hell, if necessary.
“Oh.” Rosalind looks blank. “That. Uh, that was, uh, that was...”
Drapion, you finish, and the ranger fixes you with the dark eye sockets of his helmet. His eyes are invisible, but you hold his gaze without blinking. It burst out of the sand and tore through the wall. You got a lucky shot in its eye and it ran off.
“That's right,” says Rosalind eagerly. “Drapion. That's it, sure enough.”
“Drapion,” the ranger repeats. “Here. In the Scourston Riding?” He reaches up to stroke his chin and realises too late that he can't. His hand wavers awkwardly for a moment before falling back to the reins. “That's mighty strange.”
It is, you agree. They ought to look into it.
“I reckon we should.” He sounds convinced, you think. You hope. “Where was this?”
“Couple nights ago, north-north-east of here,” replies Rosalind. “A day's ride from Rust.”
“Oh, there.” The ranger sounds relieved. “We don't go that far. That makes more sense.”
Rosalind frowns.
“Since when don't you go that far?”
The ranger hesitates, and one of his lieutenants supplies the answer for him.
“Since a couple weeks ago.” She looks tired – tired and disgusted. Her work is stamped in lines around her eyes and mouth, and in the grey streaks in her hair. “There ain't enough of us.”
“I'll do the talking, Kath,” says the leader, curtly.
“I'm just sayin'―”
“I know. You always just say.” The lead ranger clears his throat, embarrassed. “Well,” he said. “We'll be gettin' on. You folks have a safe journey now.”
“An' yourselves,” says Rosalind, waving as they spur their horses into motion. “Take care!”
They gallop away, and she turns to you with a sigh.
“I think that went all right,” she says. “But somethin' ain't right with them.”
The Tarnasshe attack, you suggest. It must have taken a huge bite out of the army.
“I guess so. But still. Time was, the rangers went all the way up to Sansloy. Course, they ain't done that for months, but still...” She sucks on her teeth for a moment, then shrugs. “Ain't nothin' we can do 'bout that now. But I'll be interested to see what's happenin' in Scourston. Come on, girls!”
The goats snort and stamp, and the wagon lurches back into motion. You're back on the move.
Scourston appears a little after dawn. You could never miss it; vast, dark and crouched within its famous fortifications, it dominates the horizon. Other vehicles move towards it across the plains like ants converging on a carcase; you see wagons, caravans, horses and more exotic things still: the great unstoppable mass of a Crustle, its boulder hollowed and carved into a cottage; a fleet of airgalleys, slung beneath the bellies of Drifblim and steered by oarsmen who row with fans; a camel train, a rare visitor from the far south where the strange beasts are common. Roads begin to form in the dirt, well-trodden paths emerging out of restless sands; the caravans and riders, rowers and crabpilots, merchants and beasts and mechanical wonders all draw together onto the same trails, and the silent grip of the desert fades as a new world breaks over you. The creak of wood and wicker; the sudden passing shade of an airgalley overhead; the shouts of the merchants and the smell of their wares – gunpowder, wine, spirits, spices; the angry hiss and groan of a thundertrain, its treads crunching the sand like broken teeth; and over all, the city, growing larger and larger with every moment, rising like a monument to all that Orre has achieved in this blasted, godless land: Scourston, the great capital of the East Orrene Frontier.
It's not the sophisticated glamour of Gateon; this place is a frontier town, for all its size and wealth. It can't challenge the West Ridings in any way. But it's big, and it's dangerous, and it has its own magic that you can't imagine could ever have grown in the fertile shores around Gateon. This is the great conjuring trick of the desert: magic out of nothing, life from a barren womb.
You draw nearer, and now you can see the walls clearly, when the larger vehicles aren't in your way. They are dirt, or they were; if there is any earth still left in them, it has long been crushed into their core by the twisturne cultivated from it. The thorny fronds reach a hundred yards into the air, and are thick and strong enough that they support stone battlements on the top, complete with patrolling teams of guards.
At their base is the drum-moat: a vast ring hollowed out of the earth around the city and covered with taut-stretched canvas. Beneath it are indentured drummers who pound its surface rhythmically, endlessly, sending a low boom through the ground; the noise is barely perceptible to humans, but requiems and other burrowing predators perceive it from miles away as the movement of an unimaginably vast subterranean beast, and do not dare approach.
Here it is, then: Scourston. The mighty gates are open; the traffic, streaming in. You have arrived at last at the home of Joshua Stone.
Passage through the streets is tricky, with the crowd – but Scourston was built with crowds in mind, and Rosalind manages to get the wagon down the main west thoroughfare and off onto a less-crowded side-street without too much trouble. The people here hardly look different to those in Rust; this isn't a wealthy area of town. You see men and women in motley armour here and there, charcoal-grey sashes around their waists: Stone's militia.
There are a lot of them, you realise. And, as Rosalind brings you deeper into town, you are forced to admit that it doesn't seem like there are many government soldiers in comparison.
“The hell is up with the army?” Rosalind scans the streets, the faces on horseback or in carriages that pass you by. “How many'd they lose, exactly?”
You have no answers. The pair of you drive on in silence.
Eventually, you stop in a dusty yard adjoining a large, grey brick building that is entirely uninteresting. Apparently, this is where the oil goes.
It's also where you get off.
Men and women emerge from the building and have a brief conversation with Rosalind in the shade; you wait in the wagon for them to finish, and when they go around the back to start unloading the barrels of oil you jump down to talk to Rosalind.
You suppose that this is it.
“Yeah,” she answers. “I guess it is.”
There is a pause. You both watch the labourers for a while, rolling the barrels across the yard. The noise of the city clatters distantly in your ears – an alien clamour, after the silence of the plains.
“I can't afford to let you keep the gun,” she says. “But you're welcome to that desert woodsman Lily dropped.”
You nod, and unload your bullets from her revolver. She takes it with a sigh. You wonder what it means, but she is already handing you the sword, and the unexpected weight distracts you. It takes both hands to wield, but as soon as you touch it you know exactly to use it, and it settles onto your back with a familiar pressure.
“Now, about Stone,” Rosalind goes on. “His company's based a few buildings south of Allomach Square, right in the centre of town. You can't miss it.”
Allomach Square. You remember that name, but not what it looks like. You can tell it will be familiar when you see it.
You thank her – for everything.
“No need to thank me,” she says gruffly. “The way I see it, we're even now. I saved your life, you saved mine. Can't say fairer than that.”
You suppose you can't.
There is another pause. High above, an airgalley wafts silently by, heading for the skydock.
Rosalind sighs again.
“Take care of yourself,” she says at last. “And if you get this gun – if you figure out your name, sort all this out – well, look me up, would you? You ask around the tradin' companies, you'll find me.” She hesitates. “I'd like to call you by your name, you know. At least once.”
You promise you will. You would not like to lose the only friend you have in this world.
“Goodbye, then,” she says, and now the gruffness in her voice is very pronounced. “And good luck.”
When you wish her the same, your voice is not quite your own. You almost think about staying.
But you can't, and you don't, and you turn and walk out of the yard and into the streets of Scourston. Perhaps you'll see her again one day. Perhaps one or both of you will be dead before that happens.
Perhaps you will forget everything again, and she will wonder what became of you.
To the north are the roads that will take you to the Iron and Copper Districts. Here you will find the labourers, the cheap bars, and the foundries.
To the south are the roads that will take you to the centre of town, or further on to the Steel, Bronze and Gem Districts. Here you will find Allomach Square, the jewellers and goldsmiths, the weaponmakers, the barracks and the bankers.
To the east are the roads that will take you to the Gold and Silver Districts. Here you will find the Frontier Senate, the homes of the wealthy, and the expensive bars.
To the west are the roads that will take you to the main gate, or to the Stone Districts. Here you will find the construction companies, the civic authorities, the market and the skydock.
Note: 'Gryngolet' is the best name for a horse ever, and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is the crowning jewel of Middle English literature, at least in my opinion. Anyway, Lily may or may not have more of a claim to the name than you think. Much depends on your future actions.