Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Does he know for certain that such a crown exists?” Dorrin asked.

  “He believes so,” Andressat said. “Were you at the coronation? Did you see anything to support his belief?”

  “I was there.” Dorrin tried to think how to proceed. Though too many people knew about the crown for it to remain a secret, King Mikeli had asked his peers to say only that it was held in the royal treasury. “Did you find out what Alured thinks the crown looks like? The Tsaian crown is mostly rubies.”

  “Was the Tsaian crown lost or hidden for a time?”

  “No,” Dorrin said. “I think it was made after the Girdish wars, as the old crown had been lost.”

  “Lost—its fate not known?” His eyes brightened. “That could be it—not a crown of Aare but of Tsaia’s old king—”

  “The royal treasury has several crowns,” Dorrin said. “Rumors of a hidden crown before the coronation could have been spread by traitors among my own relatives. Alured’s spies might have heard and believed such rumors.”

  “That could be,” Andressat said. “But Alured believes in such a crown, and believes he has a right to it. He has gathered troops; I am convinced he is behind the counterfeiting of Guild League currency. He will have agents in the north, even now, seeking that crown. If he connects your name with it—”

  “I doubt he will, but I take your warning,” Dorrin said. “More important than my safety is the security of Tsaia. My king charged me with the organization of the kingdom’s military—to assess the threat that disorder in Aarenis might spread north and to prepare. What you have told me makes it imperative that you go to Vérella and tell King Mikeli what you have told me. Tell me, what did Kieri—the king in Lyonya—say when you told him?”

  Andressat scowled. “I cannot blame him—he, a king and royal-born, after the way I treated him in my own realm—but he scarcely listened. He was concerned about Aliam Halveric, whose lady had begged me to carry a message to the king—and when he read it he made haste to leave for Halveric Steading.”

  “What’s wrong with Aliam?” Dorrin asked.

  “I do not know,” Andressat said. “He seemed older, and unhappy, but—” He shrugged. “I do not know why the king left in such haste, before I could explain my errand.”

  “Aliam took him in, when he was a starveling stray, and made him squire and then sponsored him to Falk’s Hall,” Dorrin said. “If Aliam needed him—if Estil thought Aliam needed him—of course Kieri would go at once.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “My lord Count, I beg you not to think he left to slight you. His story is his to tell, not mine, but he has every reason to value Aliam Halveric highly, to consider his welfare important to that realm. Instead, let me urge you to go to Vérella and speak to King Mikeli. I will give you an introduction and an escort. If I were not needed here, I would go with you, so important do I think your warning. You must rest a few days, of course, but the king must know of the peril you mention before winter closes in and travel becomes difficult. You will wish to be back in the south, on your own land, by then.”

  The next morning, Dorrin talked to Selfer about the cohort’s return to the Company. “Arcolin will send some south early,” she said. “He wants a full three cohorts in Aarenis next season, and will be sending at least a cohort as soon as he’s made his dispositions in the north. From what Andressat tells me, he’ll need every one of them, and there will be plenty of work.”

  Selfer nodded, trying not to look pleased at the prospect of returning to the Company. “When will you release us?”

  “As soon as the Count is rested and can travel again,” Dorrin said. “Andressat needs a strong escort to Vérella—the king must know what he told me, and it is not safe for him to travel alone. I presume you’ll be staying on with Arcolin as a captain.”

  “I hope so,” Selfer said. “Though I still want to complete my training as knight.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Dorrin said. “I expect the Count will be ready to travel in a few days.”

  Andressat, when she asked, looked out the window at what was now a steady cold rain and asked if there was any chance the weather might clear later on. Dorrin thought of the high, dry hills near Cortes Andres and wished her magery could whisk him home. “It might clear,” she said. “Not today or tomorrow, but perhaps the next day. Rain comes with the cold blowing down from the north this time of year.”

  “How many days to Vérella?” he asked.

  “It depends on the roads,” Dorrin said. “Right now they’re muddy; this rain won’t help. When they freeze, later in winter, before the snow’s too deep, it’s easier, but—” He was shivering at the thought. Dorrin looked more closely at his clothes. He wore southern style, she realized: cloth woven from the fibers of southern plants; her own shirts for campaigning were of the same stuff. His silk sur-coat wasn’t heavy enough for this cold spell.

  How could she offer what he needed without offending him?

  “After the Evener, people here wear wool,” she said. “I daresay you brought no wool, thinking it too warm, is that not so?”

  “Yes. At home we hardly feel a chill in air until half-winter and then it is but a chill.”

  “My lord Count, please honor me by accepting warmer clothes—plain but more suited to our climate—for the rest of your journey.”

  Andressat grimaced but then nodded, and she had warm winter clothes delivered to his suite. When he came back again, clothed in layers of wool, he looked much more cheerful and said he could be ready to travel in a day or two.

  Dorrin took that opportunity to talk to the cohort herself. One or two, she thought, might want to stay with her rather than face a season of hard combat or retire to the harsher climate of the north. To her surprise, eight stepped forward at once.

  “We never swore oath to Captain Arcolin,” Vossik said. “Our oath was to Duke Phelan, only when he took the crown he released us, and then we came with you—we been with you all these years; we know you—”

  “You know Arcolin, too,” Dorrin said. “A fine captain he’s always been and a fine count now. He’ll be a duke in time, if that’s what—”

  “It’s not.” Vossik swallowed and looked at his companions.

  “And there’s Captain Selfer, who’s your captain—he needs you—”

  “Not as much as you do, my lord.” Again that hasty look aside and back to meet her eyes. “We want to stay here. We want to serve you, give our oaths to you.”

  Dorrin looked at them: five men, three women, all veterans she’d known for years. All were Girdish, not too surprising, but—“Did the Marshal-General tell you to keep an eye on me?” she asked. “Is that why you want to stay?”

  “No, my lord,” Vossik said. “We wasn’t even in Vérella with you, as you know.”

  “I know she’s written Selfer,” Dorrin said.

  “Aye. He told us, too. And it’s not that we don’t respect him, but he’s not you.”

  “I can’t abide the thought of the stronghold without the Duke,” Voln said. “It was him I swore fealty to, that first year, and now he’s gone—”

  “I can’t go back,” Natzlin said. She had been silent until then, as she had been since she returned from Lyonya, recovered from her physical wounds, but very different from before. “I can’t go and see—think about—Barra—”

  Dorrin felt more sympathy for Natzlin than the others; she had been so dependent on Barra, putting up with Barra’s difficult personality and by that relationship isolated from others. But they were all correct: legally, these men and women had been oathbound to Phelan only so long as he was both their liege and Mikeli’s vassal. Now it was as if he had broken his oath, and those who had sworn fealty to him were free until they swore to another.

  “I’ll talk to Captain Selfer,” she said. “You’re right: your oath to Phelan is void, and since you have not yet sworn to Arcolin, you’re free to make your own choices. I will remind you that all your friends and companions of years past wil
l be with the Company under Arcolin.”

  “But we were always in your cohort,” Voln said.

  Selfer, when she spoke to him, agreed that the eight could stay without argument from him. “The Company’s still over strength. The Duke—the king—would not want his veterans forced into service, even if there were a legal way to do it, and there’s not. They’re veterans; they’ve the right to leave. In fact, I should probably ask them all openly—especially if you’re willing to take those who want to stay with you. You know them; you can trust them.”

  “I’m worried about Natzlin,” Dorrin said. “I know she’s physically recovered from her wounds, but she’s been so quiet … I don’t know if she can recover from Barra.”

  “Better here with you than anywhere else,” Selfer said. “And you wouldn’t know this, but I’ve heard rumors about her and someone in a village near—not Kindle, but Oakmotte. Best thing for her, if it works out.”

  “You’re right,” Dorrin said. “And I could use as many as want to leave. They—and you—have accomplished a lot with the Verrakaien militia, but it takes more than a half-year or so to change a lifetime’s habit.”

  Selfer’s talk to the cohort resulted in seven more choosing to stay. He and Dorrin went over the accounts that afternoon as the cohort prepared to march—he insisting that the cohort had eaten enough at her table to wipe out the debts for which she’d signed and Dorrin determined not to take advantage. They shook hands on it at last. The next day a stiff north wind blew the rain clouds south, and the following morning Selfer mounted and led the cohort away, with Andressat, bundled to the nose, riding beside him. Dorrin watched her former cohort go with a lump in her throat. She’d thought she was past mourning for her old life, but that last glimpse of the fox-head pennant disappearing into the trees pierced her heart.

  Enough. It was done, it was over, and she must waste no more time. She looked at the fifteen left behind, whose expressions showed what she felt, along with a determination to stick with the choice they’d made. “It’s time to put on Verrakai uniforms,” she said. “Change, and then come back and I’ll take your oaths.” They were back very shortly, bare legs now in gray wool trousers, blue tunics instead of maroon over them. Dorrin took their oaths using the same form she had used for the original Verrakai militia, with her squires as witnesses.

  “You’ll be the nucleus, the training cadre, for the force I’m supposed to keep ready for the Crown,” Dorrin said. After what she’d heard from Andressat, she had no doubt the king would need it. “What I’m proposing now is that you’ll be split into three hands, each hand having a sergeant and two corporals—though I expect you’ll all be promoted within two years. You’ll be paired with two or more hands of the existing militia, and I’m going to give each of the squires a chance to command one of these groups. I’ll expect you to work with the new Girdish bartons and granges, to recruit suitable young people to the militia, and keep improving the skills and fitness of those already in.”

  “How much fighting do you think we’ll see?”

  “I don’t know,” Dorrin said. “I still don’t know where all my relatives are, or when trouble might erupt elsewhere. But with you for a core, and the squires as trainee commanders, I can disperse the militia to cover more of the domain—and as you help the militia grow, that will improve even more. I’m thinking now of ten-day patrols, village to village with an overnight or two-night stay in each. One group will stay here, while the other two go out, and then rotate. You can model the proper way to move troops and treat civilians.”

  Next morning, Gwenno Marrakai headed east with her fifteen, under orders to patrol as far as the Lyonyan border, if possible, and then return. On the fifth day, Dorrin sent Dar Serrostin west. Beclan Mahieran, predictably, grumbled about being the last to leave on patrol.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Dorrin gave him her best quelling look. “The short answer is, because I ordered it. The longer answer—which you would have had without asking if you’d been patient—is that I wanted you for the south sector, which I consider the most difficult. You’ll be going as far as Konhalt lands; as you know, they’re also under attainder, and have a new count they don’t know. It would not surprise me to find rebels lurking in the woods down there. You will have two full tensquads, not just three hands of troops, and you have been given an extra ten days to work with them, to come to know them, before you leave.”

  He looked abashed, as well he might. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think—”

  “Not thinking can get you killed,” Dorrin said. “Put in this time with your troops—convince them you care about them, and expect them to perform well. Think about the possibilities, all along the way: where ambushes might be placed, where allies might be found.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Beclan said. Dorrin could tell from his expression that he was thinking—and he had a good tactical mind, she’d learned, when he chose to use it for the right reasons.

  Lyonya

  Kieri had just finished breakfast when he heard voices in the entrance, louder than usual. One of his Squires looked out.

  “Sir King, it’s a courier.”

  “If you please,” Kieri said to his breakfast companions, and they cleared the room at once as the courier hurried in. To the courier, Kieri said, “You are fatigued; will you have breakfast?”

  “No, Sir King; the news is too urgent. I come from the Royal Archers, near the river.”

  “Invasion?”

  “Not exactly …” The man handed him a scroll; Kieri broke the seal and unrolled it.

  “You might as well have a hot drink while I read,” Kieri said. “There’s sib in the pot.” He scanned the terse report. Someone had come across the river at night; a Royal Archers’ patrol had taken him in custody. Though dressed like a fisherman, he claimed to be the king of Pargun. He had no proof of his claim; he might be crazy, the Royal Archer officer had written, but he carried himself like one used to command.

  “Did you see the man?” Kieri asked the courier.

  The man swallowed hastily. “Yes, Sir King. But I have never seen the king of Pargun, so I cannot say—”

  “He swam, or came in a boat?”

  “A boat.”

  It made no sense. Why would the king of Pargun—if it was he—sneak across the river at night? To spy? He must have spies; he would not need to spy himself. If he wanted to visit Lyonya—see his daughter, perhaps?—why not come openly, with an entourage?

  “Did he say more?”

  “I don’t know, Sir King. The captain bade me ride with all speed; I left as soon as the captain had written that message.”

  “If he is the king—or the king’s envoy—then I must know his purpose quickly.”

  “You cannot risk yourself—” one of his Squires said.

  “He doesn’t know my face any more than I know his,” Kieri said. Surely he could ride north as fast as this messenger had come south, and surely the Pargunese—whoever he was—would not know how fast he could ride. “Aulin, tell Garris that I will need an escort of King’s Squires, those well rested and able to ride at once for the river. Then tell the Master of Horse we will need remounts, as well as mounts saddled, and someone to care for them.”

  In less than a glass they were on their way, riding on a forest track Kieri had not seen before. Kieri wore hunting clothes without royal insignia; the King’s Squires wore plain tunics in place of the royal tabards.

  When he arrived at the Royal Archers’ bivouac, a turn of the glass after sending in a Squire to warn the Archers he was incognito, their captain greeted him only as “my lord.” Kieri nodded and looked around the camp until he spotted a burly man sitting against a tree, two Royal Archers nearby watching.

  The prisoner wore a fisherman’s rough smock, short trousers, and striped stockings; his boots were piled with his other possessions in the boat in which he’d come, now pulled up away from the water. His light hair—blond going gray—and pale blue eyes were comm
on to many in the north, and his face and hands were sun-marked like those of men who worked outdoors all the time. The only indication of kingship was the gold ring with its seal, but his eyes reminded Kieri of Elis.

  “He says if we kill him, there will be war and Lyonya will be burnt to ash,” the captain said.

  “I’m not planning to kill him,” Kieri said. “Unless I have to. He might be a simple fisherman who’s had river fever and merely thinks he’s a king.” Unlikely, but possible.

  “With that ring?”

  “Or a thief. Every realm has thieves, even Pargun.” Kieri ignored the man, instead inspecting the boat and its contents. The boots had spur scuffs on the heels. He shook them. “Did you turn these out?”

  “No, my lord. We saw the ring. The man’s gabble sounded Pargunese; we thought you should see first.”

  Kieri upended the boots into the boat, shaking vigorously. Out fell a small knife in a sheath and four silver Tsaian coronets.

  “He had eight coppers in his belt-pouch, my lord. Two with a Prealíth mark, one of ours, the rest from Tsaia.”

  Currencies mingled in river towns; that fit the character of a fisherman. Kieri felt inside the boots: nothing more. He pulled the knife from its sheath, watching the prisoner. The man’s face showed no expression. The blade showed a dark stain, as if it had been dipped in some liquid, since dried. Poison, possibly. Kieri put it back in its sheath. The boot heels next—he twisted. One turned, revealing a small compartment. Inside was an oiled-leather packet marked with runes. Kieri tipped that out without touching it; poisons could be carried in such packets. Next he emptied the pack. In that were clothes more suited to a peddler than a fisherman, a box of trinkets—mostly small religious charms—and enough food for a few days’ travel.

  “When did you capture him?” he asked. He knew already, but the captive didn’t know that.

  “Three nights agone, my lord. We sent word to you—we thought the king should know.”