Groj was bigger and very strong, but Stammel had more speed and many more years of experience; he fought silently, exulting in the expertise he had not lost to blindness, feeling and hearing Groj’s surprise, the grunts of effort, the gasps as Stammel found yet another way to pin the bigger man. If demons could not defeat him, no big hamfisted smith—
“Hold!” came the command. Groj fell back, gasping; Stammel pushed himself away a little, only somewhat winded.
Footsteps on the grass. “Well,” Marshal Harak said. “What do you think now, Groj?”
“You’re right, Marshal. He’d have half-killed anyone else. I’m blown.”
“Sergeant, I expected you’d explode some way, so I gave you Groj. I didn’t think you could hurt him, but you’ve left marks on him will take tendays to vanish.”
He hadn’t realized that. He’d been so happy … “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No need,” the Marshal said. “You’ve been entirely too controlled since your ordeal; it had to come out sometime.”
Arcolin’s Camp
The messenger from Cortes Vonja carried two letters for Arcolin, one with the seal of Gird on the flap and the other addressed in Arñe’s writing, sealed in the same wax as the other but without a seal. Arcolin felt his heart sink. Good news would have been Stammel riding into camp with the others.
He slid his dagger blade under the flap of the Marshal’s letter first. Your sergeant lives, the Marshal had written.
But he is blind, and like to remain so. Despite this, he has been drilling with my yeomen, greatly to their improvement, I may say. The first time he attempted unarmed fighting, with the biggest in my grange, he threw him down. Though he is not yet recovered to his full strength, I judge his health improved enough to leave the grange, and so does he. The Council, at the urging of all three Marshals and the Captain of Tir whom you met, and also a Captain of Falk you did not meet, awarded him a small pension, enough to survive on if he chooses to stay. I understand he will have a pension from your Company as well. He knows of the pension but has said nothing to me. He wants to know your will in this and considers himself still under your orders.
Arñe’s letter was less formal:
Captain,
Sergeant Stammel is well and strengthening daily, but he is blind. We have all done what we can; Suli has a blind uncle and so guides him the most. We have been calling her Stammel’s eyes. I know—
That part was scratched out. Arñe added,
He wants to come back, but he won’t ask. He would do any work you gave him.
What work could he give a blind man when they might be in combat at any time? Yes, he had hired a half-blind captain, but the man still had one eye. Stammel … Arcolin squeezed his eyes against the thought of telling Stammel he must leave the Company. At least he must take Stammel back north, back to the stronghold, to safety. He called Burek into his tent and showed him the letters.
“Blind!” Burek said. “I thought he would live or die, and if he lived, recover.”
“It is … hard to imagine,” Arcolin said. “Hard for us all; you knew him only a short while, but for many of us …”
“You will pension him, surely.”
“I will think,” Arcolin said. “Go find Devlin and send him to me.” Devlin, who had been Stammel’s corporal for so long before the disruptions of Siniava’s War had promoted him.
“You have word,” Devlin said as he came into the tent.
“He’s alive, but blind,” Arcolin said. Devlin looked stunned, the way he himself felt. “He can walk; he can even drill, after a fashion. He threw a yeoman in an unarmed fighting drill. The Marshal pressured the Council to give him a small pension, if he wants to stay there, and will find him a room in someone’s house.”
“No,” Devlin said. “No, that can’t be.”
“I’m sorry,” Arcolin said. “But it’s true.”
“That’s not what I meant, sir. I understand: he’s blind. But he can’t—he will die—if he’s penned up in some spare room, alone, without us. Sir, you have to bring him here. He can walk; he can march with us. If he can drill, he’ll get stronger. He knows so much—he can teach me, and Arñe and Jenits and the rest.”
“But if we’re in combat—he can’t fight—”
“He can at least be with us,” Devlin said. “I know that’s what he’d want—he probably won’t ask you—but it’s what he wants. What he needs. And we need him. If he’d lost a leg or something, if he couldn’t keep up—but you say he can—”
“The Marshal says he’s well enough to move out of the grange, but—ours is a hard life for men with sight.”
“And the life he knows,” Devlin said.
“The Duke—” Arcolin began; Devlin interrupted him.
“It’s not Phelan’s Company anymore, sir, but yours. Maybe you think Kieri Phelan would have sent him back north, but you can do what you want.”
He wanted Stammel back, but he wanted the Stammel who no longer existed, the Stammel who had not lost his sight because Arcolin had agreed to a civilian’s request. But he wanted Stammel back here to talk to, to steady the troops.
“They’ll need horses,” he said. “Let me think—Stammel should have my ambler; he’s steady and a smooth ride. He won’t have ridden in a while. Arñe or Doggal can ride the fast one I left up there. And four more. We don’t have four spares, unless we don’t move and send the wagon teams … or switch out mules …”
“I’ll take care of that, sir,” Devlin said. “Thank you, sir!”
Arcolin wrote out the orders for Arñe. He wanted to go himself, but the cohort could not afford to lose another senior person; the courier could take the orders back. He wrote a letter of thanks to Marshal Harak and one each for the Captains of Tir and Falk.
Only a few days later, a small party of horse travelers proved to be the missing six, all wearing absurd floppy straw hats over their helmets. Arcolin thought Stammel looked perfectly normal at first and wondered if he had regained his sight, but then he saw Suli, riding beside him, touch his arm and take the rein of the horse.
Arcolin strode forward, but Stammel had dismounted by the time Arcolin reached the group, and Arñe greeted him. “No problems on the road, Captain.”
“Glad to have you all back with us,” Arcolin said. “You’ll want to see Sergeant Devlin; we’ve made some temporary assignments. He will explain.” Arñe told Tam and Doggal to put the horses up, then, at his nod, headed for Devlin, who was near the fire-pit. The other two, at another nod, headed for their companions. This close, Arcolin could see that Stammel’s eyes did not focus on him, but wandered, as if searching for the light, their once-clear brown clouded. It was eerie; he tried not to shudder. At least the whites were no longer red. Stammel stood upright, rigid as if at inspection, his face unreadable. “Stammel—” Arcolin said; he felt his throat close, took the two steps forward, and gripped Stammel by the shoulders. The bones were closer to the skin than they had been. “I thought—I was afraid we’d lose you, man.”
“Thank you for letting me come back, sir,” Stammel said. He sighed. “But you have lost me, one way. A blind sergeant—not much use in a fight. I’ll try to be useful at something, until—until we go north. I can still scrub pots and chop redroots.”
“Stop that,” Arcolin said. “I didn’t order you back here to scrub pots. We need you, your expertise. You’re the senior sergeant, just as if you’d broken a leg and were riding in a wagon. From what Marshal Harak told me, you were already starting to train his yeomen.”
Stammel’s face relaxed. “Just wanted to give you a chance—”
“What, to waste the best sergeant I ever had? I may not be Kieri’s equal, but I’m not stupid. Let’s start this over. Welcome back, Sergeant Stammel.”
“Glad to be back, Captain,” Stammel said.
“Devlin already has some ideas for you,” Arcolin said. “But I wanted to brief you on the situation. It’s gotten complicated.”
“Complicated?”
“It’s not just brigands we’re fighting. I don’t know if someone—Alured, for instance—is trying to infiltrate a whole army into southern Vonja or something else …”
“That money the merchant we captured had. I heard in the city it was counterfeit.” That sounded like the old Stammel.
“You heard?”
“People see a man being led around by a young woman, they think neither of them can hear. Or think. Suli’s my eyes now, sir, but I’m the ears. I don’t think I hear better, but not seeing … I pay more attention. Anyway, she’d take me out on walks in the city. We stopped in a tavern … and I heard men talking. Merchants, I think, because one was talking wool prices, and then their voices got lower and it was about coins. That some of the Guild League cities are minting false coinage, cheating their own people.”
“I wish I’d thought to look at those money bags,” Arcolin said. “All I saw was silver and copper coins; when he said it was his own, I thought I’d let the Council figure it out.”
“Well, they have. ’Course, what I heard could be just rumor, but I heard other things that fit in. Those coins were supposed to have been minted here, in Vonja—had the Vonja die marks. But the Vonja Council swore they weren’t, by some secret mark no one’s supposed to know. The odd thing is, most of ’em were the right weight and passed the float test, whatever that is. Only some of the silvers were too heavy. Why would anyone make counterfeits with too much silver?”
“I’m not sure,” Arcolin said. “Burek told that last season, most of Golden Company contracted there and the bankers turned back a lot of their contract payment as counterfeit. Those were Sorellin natas … or they bore Sorellin’s mint marks. Burek said it almost caused riots.”
“Did M’dierra tell you about it, sir?”
“No. She did mention some counterfeiting—so did the banker—but she didn’t tell me specifically about her experience.”
“Burek still doing well?”
“Very well. And I found out what Andressat has against him. He may be a bastard grandson of the old man, and he chose not to take the job the count offered him. That would be enough with Andressat; he’d think it ingratitude. His foster father is a horse master at the count’s stud.”
Talking to Stammel the way he always had eased the strangeness; Stammel sat the same way, held his hands the same way, had the same expressions on his face. Arcolin tried not to look at his eyes.
“The thing is,” Arcolin went on, “there are more brigands—or whatever they are—in the woods around here than can possibly be supported without regular resupply. You know that village we camped near at first?” Stammel nodded. “They came down on that village, destroyed a couple of the cottages, killed some of the villagers and took the rest—left a trail a blind—sorry—anyone could follow across the grain. We stayed there the night after I left Cortes Vonja. No attack. We went as far as the deserted village beyond the one where we found the merchant.”
Stammel scowled. “Is that the one just south of a stretch of woods?”
“Yes. I remembered it when I rode out into what had been fields; we passed that way coming up from Sibili, last year of Siniava’s War. The cottages are all collapsed now, but someone’s tending the well. Flowers, and that.”
“And the merchant came that way …” Stammel said.
“Yes. There’s a ford in the woods, well out of sight or hearing of either village if they were both occupied. In the old days, it had stones laid down—they’ve been moved, to make a hole—wagons can’t get through without risking an axle unless you unload and load them. And there’s a footpath—a wide one, with bootmarks—along the stream to the east.”
“So the merchant could deliver the food and money there. Why did he have it still when we found him?”
“I think the brigands gave him the money,” Arcolin said. “It’s backward, I know, brigands giving money to merchants instead of robbing them, but if you wanted to put counterfeit money in circulation, who better than a merchant going to trade? As for the food, I think that’s farther from their camp, wherever it is.”
“I suppose,” Stammel said. “But it only makes the merchant richer, doesn’t it? I mean, if it weren’t discovered? And if it is, he’s dead and they don’t have a supply line.” He shook his head. “I don’t see the gain for them—or whoever hired them.”
“If the coins aren’t discovered, then with more silver or gold—or what’s taken for gold—I suppose that would spread somehow … but I can’t figure out if prices would go down or up.”
“Up,” Stammel said. “They always go up.”
Arcolin laughed. “Seems so, indeed. But scarcity always makes them go up more, and sometimes they go down in a good harvest year.”
“One of the conversations I heard,” Stammel said, “one man said if the Guild League cities started adulterating their coinage, there was no use to have a Guild League at all. He said … he said there was only one reliable mint in all the south. The others laughed at him and called him a fool.”
“Did he say where that was?” Arcolin said.
“No, sir. I think he showed them a coin—I heard one fall to their table. But I couldn’t see—and Suli was away just then, for a few moments, and didn’t see.”
“Sounds like a spy,” Arcolin said. “And very much as if someone doesn’t want the Guild League itself to prosper. I can think of only one lord down here who might have ambitions that high. Most of them are still recovering from Siniava’s War. But that only adds to my concerns. We’re only one cohort.”
“We’ll be all right, sir,” Stammel said. “Where are we, exactly? Other than two and a half days’ ride from Cortes Vonja?”
“Sitting athwart one of their main trails,” Arcolin said. “We move every two days—they’ve become better at attacking our camps, but we’ve had only minor casualties. Here—I’m going to take your hand and put it on this map—I’ve put out sticks and things to show how the land is here.”
Stammel grimaced but put out his hands; Arcolin took one and guided it to the map. “These stones are the last village we passed. Only six huts; three more in ruins. About half the fields they used to farm are overgrown; they run pigs in the woods and let cattle have the overgrown fields. I’m trying to find as many of the trails as I can, and thus figure out where their camp is.”
“You don’t think they’re moving about like we are?”
“No … largely because the villages differ so in how they react when asked about them. If they were always on the move, I’d expect the villages to have about the same contact with them, but that’s clearly not so.” Arcolin swallowed. He had to talk to Stammel about the effect of his blindness on the cohort, but he dreaded it. He tried to keep his voice light. “I wanted to ask you about Suli—she’s your usual guide, isn’t she?”
“I’m used to Suli now, sir. I know it’s strange, having a woman as my guide—all the things we’ve said—but there’s nothing—”
“I didn’t think that.” He was sure of Stammel, less sure of a young girl whose good heart might lead her too far.
“It’s her experience, you see. Her uncle went blind. She understands just how much help I need. She doesn’t try to smother me, and she doesn’t leave me lost.” Stammel swallowed. “It’s not fair to her, o’ course. She signed on to be a soldier, not a blind man’s guide. She says she doesn’t mind, but—”
“We’ll let the two of you train others,” Arcolin said. “This may not be the last time we have someone blinded. Most of our people know how to tie up a bleeding arm or leg now; they might as well learn this. Then she can rotate back into her regular duties.”
“Makes sense,” Stammel said. “Whatever the cohort needs, sir, you know I’ll go along.”
“Your needs count, too. You’ve already brought me valuable information. But now, I’ve kept you long enough. Suli can take you to find Devlin; you and Dev decide who to start training as Suli’s assistant.”
Arcolin stood under the tent
flap, watching Suli and Stammel walk across to the tent where Devlin waited, talking to Arñe. Except for his hand on Suli’s shoulder, Stammel seemed the same as ever: his carriage upright, his steps firm and even. With a guide, he would be able to march with them; he would not need a horse or a seat in a wagon. His mind was as clear as ever … he would gain weight and muscle, Arcolin knew, with time. Stammel alive, sane, healthy—should he be grateful for that and consider sight a small price to pay? He closed his eyes, shutting out the sunlight, the familiar faces of his cohort, trying to imagine it, but he could not. Sight was not a small price, no matter what else was left.
By evening everyone had greeted Stammel, and the mood of the whole cohort seemed better. Devlin, in particular, had lost his worried expression; Arcolin had seen the two of them, Stammel’s hand on Devlin’s shoulder, doing a circuit of the camp.
“I did not think it would make so much difference, having him back,” Burek said.
“You hadn’t had time to know him,” Arcolin said. “Those here who hadn’t fought with him before trained with him in the north. He’s everyone’s favorite uncle or older brother.”
“M’dierra has a sergeant like that—the recruits are first terrified, then adoring.”
“Minicor?” Arcolin asked. When Burek nodded, he said “I met him years ago; you’re right; he is very like Stammel. The troops could stand to lose me better than Stammel.”
Burek looked horrified. “But sir—if you—then I—”
“Not ready for it yet?”
“Not if it means you—something happens—”
Arcolin shrugged. “These things do happen, you know. I believe you’ll do well if it does, but in the meantime, I do wear my helmet.”
Burek laughed. Arcolin’s adventure without his helmet had indeed spread through the cohort.
“So, now that things are more as they were—not that they will be, if he doesn’t regain his sight—let me tell you what I learned from Stammel and the others who returned today.” He gave Burek a précis of the information they’d brought. “So—together with what we’ve discussed before, do you see anything else, any pattern I’ve missed?”
Kings of the North Page 14
