The Guardian tents, it turned out, were a collection of yurts not dissimilar to Lord Montrose's in design, but far more modest in decoration and intent. Each one served as a miniature barracks for what, presumably, passed as protectors of the Montrose Structures Inter-Provincial Roadway Project, scattered like a patchwork across the area of Bellwater designated for the makeshift camp.

Garrick wondered how long this little network had been set up—and had to think it was likely for a little while at least, considering the roads through cities in this area had been built before the holiday, and that was almost a month ago. He knew folks could get a bit restless if they had to wait around for too long, so he was surprised to see so many in good humor as he passed.

His guide, a quiet woman whose name he didn’t catch, led him along the meandering cow paths that made up the intentional community of workers. They’d weaved along in silence for a time before they found the assigned area. Then the woman had nodded at him curtly and Garrick waved as she departed.

“She seems nice,” he said to Ember, but he found that the fox was fast asleep.

The sight of the tents, each adorned with the crest of the Montrose family—a stylized road winding into the horizon—couldn't help but draw a chuckle from him. The disparity between the luxury of Lord Montrose's yurt and the functional simplicity of these apparent guardians' accommodations was stark, and yet, there was a warmth here that the opulent yurt lacked.

The first tent he came across was inexplicably guarded by the two good-natured but not particularly sharp-witted lads from before: Bentle and Gylus. They stood outside, engaged in what appeared to be a spirited debate.

"See, Gylus, the aerodynamic properties give it an unpredictable flight path, making it the ultimate stealth weapon," Bentle, the younger guard, argued, wielding a spoon with a flourish. “Like an assassin…but for soup.”

Gylus, the older and possibly wiser of the two, raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"And how do you propose to inflict damage with a spoon, Bentle? Gonna scoop their eyes out? Or maybe by feeding the enemy to death? Can’t imagine where you get these ideas from."

“It's called the art of combat, Gylus—ever heard of it? Look it up. Imagine—swooping in silent arcs, catching the sunlight just so, to blind your opponent at a crucial moment."

Gylus crossed his arms.

"Blind them? With a spoon? What's next, Bentle, a fork as a spear?"

"Ah, mockery, the last refuge of the unimaginative," Bentle retorted with a grin, clearly undeterred. "But think on it—the spoon, with its curvy…curvy…”

“Curvature?” Gylus offered.

“Right! Its curvy-cher can be used to deflect, to dazzle, and yes, in the right hands, disarm. Finesse, Gylus, not brute force—that’s what you’re not getting. You’re only ever interested in what can be bashed and-or smashed. Rather savage, if you ask me.”

“Savage? That’s rich, coming from the man claiming he’s going to start spooning people into oblivion. That’s just about the most primitive thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not primitive, Gylus!” Bentle defended. “I’m kicking off a renaissance!"

Gylus scratched his head, clearly trying to reconcile Bentle's earnestness with the ludicrousness of the proposition.

"Of course you are," the older guard muttered dubiously. "And when was the last time you disarmed someone with your remarkable spoon techniques, eh?"

Bentle's grin widened.

"Last week! Remember the big skirmish at Bool’s tavern? I deflected a particularly dangerous carrot with this very spoon. Sent it flying right back at the cook."

"That was an accident, and you know it," Gylus countered, though his smile never abandoned the edges of his lips. "And I seem to recall the cook disarmed you quite effectively with a ladle afterward."

Another ladle virtuoso, eh? Perhaps I’ll trade pointers with this cook…

“Aye, but that just proves my point, don’t it?” Bentle explained, nodding sagely. “For what is a ladle, if not just a large spoon?”

Their banter was interrupted by Garrick's conspicuous clearing of his throat, and they snapped to attention, though not without a hint of embarrassment at having been caught in such a ridiculous discussion.

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"Ah, sir! We were just, uh, discussing tactics," Bentle stammered, the spoon still in hand.

“Gentlemen,” Garrick greeted. “Don’t pause on my account, I’m interested to hear more.”

Bentle looked completely abashed as he shook his head.

“Ah, no worries on that, sir!” he said, making a valiant attempt at clandestinely stuffing the utensil into his belt. “Besides, I’m sure you’d be bored hearing us prattle on and on—”

“Not like we’ve experienced any real combat,” Gylus interrupted.

“Ah, hope for that to stay the same,” Garrick said. “Remain ignorant to the sensation of blades on flesh for as long as you can—trust me on that, gentlemen.”

“Aye, sir,” Gylus said with a stiff nod.

“What are you guarding?” Garrick asked, gesturing to the yurt both men were standing outside of.

“Oh!” Bentle exclaimed, and then straightened his posture. “Your tent, sir! We offered to give you the exclusive tour ourselves, to…uh…”

“To make up for our earlier transgressions,” Gylus finished for him, nudging the younger guard pointedly.

“Right, earlier transgressions,” Bentle nodded. “Our way of apologizing.”

“As I said before,” Garrick began, chuckling, “it’s alright. I’m not offended.”

He glanced at the yurt again before looking back to the duo, cracking a joke.

“It’s big. I’m afraid I won’t know what to do with all of this space.”

Both men’s eyes widened.

“Oh, uh, no, in fact, sir,” Gylus said. “Apologies for misrepresenting the situation once again. There is…unfortunately, not enough tent to go around. You’d be sharing this with seven others. If, uh, if that’s alright.”

“Works perfectly,” Garrick said, realizing they’d taken him seriously. He hefted his painted box before continuing. “But, don’t bother with an old man like me, gentlemen—I can find the entrance well enough.”

“Oh, it’s not a bother, sir,” Bentle said. “It’s an order. Lord Montrose wants to make sure we show you the ropes—the others have been on-site for a touch longer than yourself, and we want to get you up to speed.”

“I see,” Garrick said—considering that an apology was rarely an apology when someone commanded you to make it. That was when another thought occurred to Garrick.

“Well, you two seem pretty knowledgeable, so I suppose I should ask: how many people here are aware of my…history?”

Gylus nodded, catching Garrick’s drift easily.

“Ah, well, sir, let’s see…” he began, thinking. “There’s Lord Montrose, of course—and his son, Dashiell. I believe Arcturus—he’s the roster keeper. Then there’s the two Wardens…”

“Don’t forget us,” Bentle added. “We know, too.”

“Aye, imagine he’d have guessed that, Bentle,” Gylus sighed.

“Just trying to be helpful, Gylus—calm your pipe,” Bentle said.

“I think that rounds it out, sir,” Gylus said, tossing a dirty look in Bentle’s direction.

“Thank you, kindly, gentlemen. I wonder, though, if I could ask for a favor?” Garrick wondered.

“Anything, sir,” Bentle said nearly instantly.

“If it’s not too much trouble, can we keep that bit—my past—a secret for the moment?”

Both men blinked at him.

“Why, though, sir?” Bentle asked.

Gylus scowled at his companion.

“Obviously he wants to test ‘em, Bentle—judge their merit and see if they have what it takes to be a real Guardian. If they recognize him, they’ve got promise.”

“Yeesh, that counts us out, then, doesn’t it, Gylus?”

“Actually,” Garrick said, stoppering any continued banter, “I would just prefer the anonymity. That’s all. I’d like to interact with these folks without the implication of what may or may not have happened in my past in their minds. Rather than spread it around the whole project, I’d prefer to just be one of the gang, as it were.”

Despite that, Garrick knew how secrets of that nature tended to go: by dinner, he fully expected the entire project to be abreast of who the silly old man with the pet fox actually was.

Garrick didn’t consider himself a fool—his identity wouldn’t stay hidden for long. But, at least he could hope it would go unannounced while he was trying to pick out his bunk. If there was a double-decker sleeping arrangement, they’d be much more likely to let him have one of the bottom ones if they believed he was just some old man.

“Well, what would we call you, then?” Gylus asked.

“How about Garrick?” Garrick said, grinning. “It is my name after all. So, on that note, gents—do you two think you could keep that information on the sly? I’d be very appreciative.”

Bentle and Gylus were silent for a moment, and then—to Garrick’s great bafflement—both men saluted him as one.

“It would be our honor to carry the burden of this secret, sir,” Gylus said—probably too formally for what Garrick thought he deserved.

“We’ll carry it to our graves, sir,” Bentle said. “They’d have to torture us before we’d spill the beans.”

“I…don’t think it’ll come to that,” Garrick said. “But, I appreciate the loyalty all the same.”

Bentle suddenly turned and smirked at his counterpart.

“Hear that, Gylus? I’m loyal.”

“Aye, I heard, Bentle—that makes two things now. Him and that spoon of yours. You might want to pray the two don’t end up on opposite sides of a conflict; then what would you do?”

“I’d hope it never comes to that,” Bentle said genuinely, his hand falling protectively to where he’d deposited the spoon on his belt. “And if the gods are fair, it won’t.”

“So, uh, could I see the inside of the tent, then? I’d like to set my things down,” Garrick said, motioning to the entrance with his cargo once more. “Heavy box.”

“Oh!” Bentle said, turning and drawing an arm through the yurt’s flap to open it wide. “Of course! Right this way…Garrick.”

Bentle emphasized his name with a knowing glance, then punctuated it with a wink.

Garrick sighed internally and entered the yurt.