Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  Something is happening in Pargun, but I do not yet know what. Lyonyan fisherfolk say the Pargunese who used to chat with them freely are now close-mouthed; they don’t feel welcome across the river at all. Trade is down in Riverwash, where some Pargunese ships used to bring in goods from downriver. We have no reliable spies in Pargun; I’ve asked in Harway, but the Tsaians also seem to have no one. Several forest rangers made it across, as I told you was planned, and came back with reports of troops on the move. But none of the rangers speak Pargunese.

  “Do we have anyone who speaks Pargunese?” Kieri asked Sarol.

  “I can’t,” Sarol said. “I don’t know if any of the Squires can … we’ve never thought we needed it.”

  “We do now,” Kieri said. He knew Pargunese, but he could not spend days creeping around across the river to find out what they were up to. “I’ll write Talgan … surely some of the people who live along the river speak some Pargunese.”

  Once again he felt torn between multiple demands. He needed to know what Pargun was up to—but he also needed to know about the elves. If he had to mount a defense against Pargun—if they invaded—he needed to know if the elves would help defend the taig or if they’d hide in the elvenhome and leave all the work to the humans. What did they really intend? What might explain the Lady’s behavior?

  Over the next days, he found scraps of time to talk to the other older servants, retired and still active. Tekko the huntsman spoke of his mother’s prowess on horseback, with weapons. “Bold, not afraid of anything,” he said. “They told us she was ages older than your father, but she rode like a young girl. Armsmaster then—he died years back—told us she was fastest he’d seen with a blade. She never missed a shot with her bow. But your father, Sir King, was as good—the two of them, with just one huntsman to manage the hounds, could bring meat enough for a banquet. Fine pair, they were.”

  Was that why she’d gone alone with him on that journey? he asked.

  Tekko sucked his teeth. “Dunno, Sir King. There was talk. Some said she refused an escort of Squires, expecting to travel with elves—but we didn’t see them here. Your father, now, he was angry with himself he didn’t insist on Squires or Royal Archers. There was a Queen’s Squire said more, but she was killed in a riding accident not long after.”

  “Riding accident?”

  “Aye. Horse started bucking, there in the palace courtyard, finally went over backward. Broke her neck and its, both.” Tekko paused, then went on. “Odd, that was. You know the Squires’ mounts, all well-trained. But everyone was still mourning the queen’s death; this seemed just another sorrow.”

  A convenient accident, Kieri thought, but too long ago to leave useful clues lying about. He listened to the rest of Tekko’s tales, including that of the hound pup he’d long forgotten about, until someone interrupted them. After a few more conversations, he realized that some treachery had indeed taken place, but he was not at all sure whose. A lifetime of dealing with courts and councils had taught him how easy it was to foment quarrels, misdirect attention, cast blame on the wrong person.

  Finally he called the Seneschal to his office one morning. “What I most need to know now,” he said, “is the limit of the bones’ knowledge. I have talked to others who knew my parents, and they remember things that seem to corroborate what the bones hinted. But can bones know more than the people who bore them?”

  “No one knows for sure,” the Seneschal said. “I have not known them to convey anything beyond the lifetime of the flesh.”

  “What I say now must stay between us for the time,” Kieri said.

  “Of course, sire.”

  “My sister’s bones hinted at treachery, treachery somehow related to our mother’s death—and that means treachery related to my captivity as well. I think my sister believed the Lady complicit in this.”

  “The Lady!” The Seneschal’s eyes widened.

  “And the thought of it made me sick,” Kieri said; even now his stomach cramped as he spoke of it. “I have talked, as I said, to others who were here at that time. I am not so sure who it was—but I am increasingly sure that treachery was involved. There was, at the least, tension between the Lady and my—our—mother. Someone else could have exploited that. Human or elf, but elf, I fear, is more likely.”

  “Not a random attack by brigands?”

  “No,” Kieri said. “By several accounts, she expected an elven escort on the journey—refused a human retinue—and as a full elf should have been able to enter the elvenhome with me if danger threatened. As well, she was skilled with weapons—she would not have been easy to take down. Yet she had no elven escort—they did not arrive when expected, and she chose to leave without them. A Squire who mentioned treachery at the time was soon thrown from her horse and killed. So treachery seems likely—but my sister’s suspicion of our grandmother could be based on as little as a minor argument she overheard.”

  “Your sister lived to adulthood,” the Seneschal said. “She could have heard more than you, firsthand, from those who knew your mother and the Lady.”

  “My father’s bones have indicated no such suspicion,” Kieri said. “Would he not have known more?”

  “Not … necessarily.” The Seneschal frowned. “Knowledge can pass from mother to daughter, or father to son, through bone and blood. Your sister might have some awareness of what your mother knew, from before your sister’s birth.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know.” The Seneschal spread his hands. “In the old days, the old humans believed such was possible. That was one reason for raising the bones and honoring them. They had true wisdom that their descendants might share, at least in part. Certain knowledge and certain skills passed mother to daughter and father to son. Parrions, they called those.”

  Kieri thought of something else. “Did you ever hear rumor that the Lady was unhappy at her daughter’s wedding a human? At the need to reintroduce taig-sense into the royal family?”

  “No … though elves have always acted as if it were a greater honor to the king your father than to your mother. But I thought that natural.” The Seneschal paused, then went on. “Sir King, will you ask the Lady of these things?”

  “If she will talk to me,” Kieri said. Bitterness flooded him again. “She can always hide there, in the elvenhome … and she has been doing just that.”

  “It must be settled,” the Seneschal said. “It must be settled for the good of the realm … that is what the bones want, I am sure.”

  “I will speak to Orlith,” Kieri said. “Or any elf I can find.”

  But when he looked, he found none. Not Orlith, not Amrothlin his own uncle, none of them. His half-elven Squires, when he asked, said they thought all the elves were having a meeting in the elvenhome.

  Vonja, in Aarenis

  Three days before the contract was over, Arcolin camped outside the walls of Cortes Vonja and went into the city to deal with the Cortes Vonja Council. As he expected, they were not pleased that he hadn’t eliminated the threat, but after some hours, during which he showed the maps, the daily journal of activities, and the number of enemy killed, they agreed that he had done as well as a small force could. He turned in the money taken from the fallen brigands and the counterfeiting dies they’d found, as well as the ten Cortes Vonja pikes. They stared at those last as if they were vipers, not needing to be told what it meant that their weapons had shown up in enemy hands.

  “We could hire you until the Fall Evener,” one councilman said.

  “No,” Arcolin said. “I must attend Autumn Court in Tsaia; my king commands it. And I have scarce time to travel there as it is.”

  “How long will you be here, then?”

  “Only long enough to let the men spend a little money and complete the business I have with those who helped my sergeant.”

  With coinage the banker considered legitimate, Arcolin paid the troops enough to let them go—one tensquad at a time—into the city for a few hours, while he
visited Marshal Harak and the others.

  “I’d like to see him again,” Harak said. “I’m sure Tir’s Captain would, too.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Arcolin said.

  “What’s this about the Blind Archer?”

  “You’ve heard of that?”

  “It was all over the market last week: the Blind Archer has returned. I thought at once of Stammel, but surely—”

  “He can shoot a crossbow,” Arcolin said. “And when we were attacked, he stood there in the open and called out that he was the Blind Archer—I’d never heard that story—and shot the first man that yelled at him. And then others. Eventually about half of the attackers fled. Don’t ask me how—it must have been the gods.”

  “Hmm.” Harak turned and pulled a ragged scroll from the stuffed pigeonholes in his office. “It’s in here: Cornlyn’s Instructive Stories. Sometimes it’s told of Falk, but in this …” He unrolled the scroll, frowning. “Here. Balester of Gaona—not on any map we have—being blinded and exiled by the malice of Tagrin for having failed to kill the princeling and heir of the former and rightful king as ordered but instead placing him in safe fosterage, learned archery by the grace of the Master Archer and returned to kill the said Tagrin of hated memory, to the glory of the Lord of Justice and as proof that no infirmity need make a man—or woman—incapable of serving the right.” He rolled the scroll again. “A southern tale; I doubt Gird ever heard it, but I’ve used it in homilies. So did my predecessor. And so now Stammel thinks he’s the Blind Archer?”

  “He’s blind, and he’s an archer—he’s too sensible, I think, to believe more than it’s a tale with a use—and a good use he made of it.”

  At the Field of Falk, the Captain greeted him warmly. “I have the Halveric sword cleansed, blessed, and ready for travel,” he said. “I took the liberty of having our Field leatherworker make it a scabbard—it may not be the Halveric scabbard, but it is good quality and will not dishonor the blade.” Arcolin thanked him, took the sword in its scabbard, and went to find the Captain of Tir.

  He found the gruff-voiced Captain bare to the waist and trading buffets from a stick with two soldiers. “So, how is our blind hero?” the Captain asked. “I hear tales of the Blind Archer returning to end corruption and evil.”

  “Not that,” Arcolin said, and explained.

  “A brave man,” the Captain said. “An honor to Tir, that one. Send him to me; I would give him a blessing before he leaves. And Tir’s thanks to you, for not wasting his courage, for letting him return to the life he knows.”

  Back at camp, Stammel was on the point of leaving with Suli for guide and another eight. Arcolin told him he should visit Marshal Harak and the Captain of Tir, and Stammel nodded. “I meant to,” he said.

  The night before they left Cortes Vonja, Arcolin offered Stammel a choice.

  “I must go north, to Autumn Court in Vérella,” he said. “I will be granted the North Marches permanently then, and from there I must go north again, to the Duke’s—to my stronghold. Burek is well able to command the cohort on the road and in winter quarters. It is up to you whether you come with me or stay in Valdaire. You would be of use either way. If you choose to stay south, I’ll take Devlin.”

  Stammel thought for a long moment. “The cohort needs a sighted sergeant,” he said. “Burek, too. He’s good, but he’ll need someone who knows all the local tricks.”

  “Well, then. We ride tomorrow, you and I, at speed.”

  One of the horses went lame between Foss and Fossnir; they had made good time before that, and Arcolin decided they would stay at an inn that night since they had arrived far too late to ride on. On a whim, he thought of the Blind Archer, which proved to be, in the way of inns in Foss Council towns, a clean whitewashed place with good stables.

  They came into the common room to eat; it was moderately busy, mostly with obvious merchants. Arcolin chose one of the smaller tables to one side of the main entrance, where he could see both the door and out the window to the busy street. They ordered, and while they were waiting for their food someone behind him—a man he had barely noticed—asked for paper and ink in a querulous voice. A voice he knew—but the other conversations in the room grew louder; he could not hear the man’s voice anymore.

  Stammel leaned forward. “It’s Andressat,” he said softly.

  “What?” Arcolin did not turn around. “How could it be?” But Stammel was right. It could be Andressat’s voice.

  Stammel shrugged. “I don’t know, but it must be.”

  They ate when their food came; Arcolin wanted to turn and look, but did not. What he could remember of the man from his first casual glance around the room had not matched his memory of the Count of Andressat.

  Later, in their room, a knock came on the door. Arcolin opened to find one of the servant girls, who curtsied and handed him a tightly folded paper. He opened it.

  You do not know me, but I recognize you and your uniform. I have urgent word for your Duke. I travel incognito. I would speak with you. Jeddrin, Count of Andressat.

  “It’s Andressat,” Arcolin said. “He wants to talk to me; he’s traveling under a false name. And being Andressat, he names no place or time, nor does he give his alias; I’m supposed to find it myself.”

  He went back downstairs. Andressat had wedged himself into a back corner seat, hat pulled low. In the room full of merchants and travelers, all chatting amiably about something, he might as well have been dipped in whitewash. Arcolin went over and without lowering his voice said, “There you are! I forgot to tell you earlier, the price of that cloth in Cortes Vonja was only two natas a roll lower, and the transport—well, you know. So can we make agreement on the price now?”

  A few heads had turned casually at the greeting, but an almost completed agreement for the purchase of a few rolls of cloth wasn’t as interesting as their own conversations.

  Andressat, hunched over a bowl of fish soup, glared at Arcolin, then gestured. Arcolin sat down. “You didn’t say when or where,” Arcolin murmured. “Or what name you were using, or what occupation you claimed. But cloth merchant is safe enough, and I would have the authority to bargain for cloth for uniforms. Wool, winter-weight.”

  “I—” Andressat cleared his throat. “It is nothing. I have chosen this out of necessity, and I must carry it through. I need your help.”

  “I cannot delay my journey,” Arcolin said. “I am summoned to Autumn Court in Tsaia. But if I can help without delay, I will do so.”

  “Phelan is now king of Lyonya, I hear,” Andressat said.

  “Yes,” Arcolin said.

  “The legitimate son of a former king, it is said.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Arcolin said. “Half-elven—none of us knew that, including him.”

  “I must see him,” Andressat said. “I found—” He leaned closer. “I found things in the archives—in Cortes Andres—he must see and know. You must ask him to come and see for himself.”

  “I am not likely to see him,” Arcolin said. “I doubt he will come to Autumn Court in Tsaia, and from there I must go north, to take formal possession of the land that was his, and is now mine.”

  Andressat sat back, scowling. “You cannot go to Lyonya first? It is not far, is it? I thought all the northern lands were just the other side of the pass at Valdaire.”

  “The Eight Kingdoms are larger than all Aarenis,” Arcolin said. “I have maps with me—would you like to see?”

  “I—yes. I suppose if you cannot—but you are a hire-sword, can I not hire you?”

  The Count, Arcolin realized, was frightened, being out of his own place. No one had ever heard of Andressat traveling—and so ignorant of lands he did not know that he thought a side journey from Tsaia to Lyonya would be a matter of hours or a day or two. “I’m sorry, my lord,” Arcolin said as gently as he could. “I am bound to my liege, you must understand, and when he bids me come on a day, then I must come.”

  “I see that,” the Count said. “But—but it is mos
t inconvenient.” He looked around the room, flinching a little as someone banged a jug on a table in a demand for more ale.

  “What name do you travel under?” Arcolin asked. “It will seem more natural if we call each other by name. I’m Jandelir Arcolin; a merchant would call me Captain.”

  “I am naming myself Manis Turgold,” Andressat said.

  Arcolin pushed back his chair and stood. “Well, Master Turgold,” he said, “come up to my room when you’ve finished your meal, and we’ll settle it then. Third floor, end of the passage, left side.”

  “Certainly, Captain,” Andressat said. “Less than a glass.”

  Up in Arcolin’s room, Andressat was the same proud, prickly man Arcolin had met before, though he seemed far more provincial than Arcolin had suspected. When Andressat looked at the maps Arcolin showed him, he seemed astonished at the size of the land north of the mountains.

  “And the duke—the king—is over here? How many days’ travel? And I must visit the Tsaian court as well, I suppose.”

  Arcolin shook his head. “No, my lord, at this time I do not advise it. They’ve had trouble this year and are wary of strangers. Take the southern trade road—go with a caravan, if you can, as far as the Lyonyan border, then ask directions to Aliam Halveric’s from there. You know him, and he will give you the best route north to Chaya.”

  “You have been there?”

  “To Aliam’s? Yes, but never to Chaya. You are welcome to ride with us—with me and my sergeant—to Valdaire and over the mountains; when the road turns north, it forks; the east fork is what you want. In Valdaire I can find out which merchants are headed east to Bannerlíth; you can travel with them safely enough, and then, as I said, turn aside once in Lyonya to find Aliam. Send a courier ahead to Kieri—to the king. You do have some of your people with you, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Andressat said. He glanced aside at Stammel. “Send your man to the stable to find Daslin and bring him here.”

  Arcolin shook his head. “My pardon, my lord, but I have reason to keep him close. An inn servant can go.” He rang the handbell on the table.