A Lord's Duty

by J. S. Crews

  All else aside, it was plainly obvious the Peacock was no stranger to silver in his purse, perhaps even gold. Such affluence was conspicuous, which explained having the Bear as hired muscle; it drew attention both because of the rarity of such wealth this far north of the capital as well as because this man was obviously not a nobleman. Ansel had served with highborns during his soldiering days and could recognize breeding and education by simple mannerisms. The Peacock was lowborn—rich perhaps, but lowborn nonetheless. Like as not, he was the son of a merchant or something similar looking to make his own fortune.

  Nothing wrong with that, of course. Ansel believed it was every man’s prerogative to make his own way however he saw fit. Even valuing his religion, he had never considered it right to judge how others put coins in their pocket as long as no one got hurt. The business of judging folk fell to the lords in their castles. As long as a man was willing to risk losing a hand or his head or ending up in a hangman’s noose for his troubles, Ansel’s simple philosophy was that it was that man’s business and nobody else’s.

  That being said, Ansel was also a gods-fearing, law abiding citizen. Mostly anyway. That was why he had insisted on meeting this man, who had put the shine of gold in Allet’s dreams, before himself agreeing to participate. He might be guilty of poaching a time or two to keep his family fed, but what man wouldn’t under Lord Wendel’s taxes? Whatever plan this character was cooking up must be more serious, however, in order to warrant such secrecy.

  These thoughts had passed over a few brief seconds, so that when Ansel turned back toward Allet he was having a small clay cup of wine pushed into his hands. Allet was himself already drinking as he began nudging his brother-by-law across the common room. Oddly, it was not until the wine cup was being pressed on him that he realized his hand had subconsciously drifted to the small carved wooden amulet of his goddess hanging from his neck.

  They approached the table just as the Peacock was apparently finishing up another conversation, spitting into his palm and offering it to the man opposite him to shake. Definitely lowborn, Ansel thought. No lord would have a peasant’s spit rubbed into his hand.

  The man—whose back was to them as they approached—stood as they shook. As they neared, the Peacock’s face opened in a wide smile that revealed at least one gold-plated tooth. The thing Ansel noticed most, however, was the flash of silver as the other man stuffed something into his tunic and lowered his eyes, hastening out of the way.

  "Allet!" the Peacock greeted his brother-by-law. "My friend! Come! Sit! Drink with me! Introduce me t’yer companion!"

  The man was all smiles and warmth, but Ansel’s instincts told him that it was but a mask he was wearing, a shiny veneer hiding something else entirely. He had always been a shrewd judge of people, a trait he had inherited from his father, but those instincts were much refined during his five years on the northern border. His military service had provided him with exposure in equal measure to everything from common soldiers angry over lost wagers and accustomed to being bullies back home to opportunistic noblemen and wily, grisseled Wodi clansmen each looking for glory in their own ways. Through it all, his evolving instincts about people had not only proven sharp but also saved his life.

  Growing up, his father had told him instinct was no less than the gods speaking, and so Ansel Wood made sure to listen. Those instincts were now telling him the man before him was a salesman. His accent marked him as a foreigner, likely from the Kingdom of Lyrounne to the south of Galennor. This was a detail of which Allet was either unaware or oblivious, but one which Ansel had already suspected based on the name he’d been given.

  Knowing what he knew, Ansel decided to cut through the charade immediately. "Yer Hunald an’ I suspect ya know full well who I am, since ya sent my wife’s brother t’recruit me."

  And there it was, naked before them all, but only for an instant. His reason for speaking out of turn had been to see if the mask Hunald the Peacock was wearing would slip and slip it did. In one instant, the man was everyone’s best friend and then he suddenly wasn’t; warmth was replaced with cold steel and perhaps even some respect, a quiet acknowledgement from one serious man to another. Then, just as quickly as it had disappeared, the mask and it’s attendant smile returned, but Ansel now knew what he had truly come to The Skinny Minstrel tonight to learn: Hunald wasn’t really a peacock, but rather a viper masquerading as such.

  Through the smiling facade, he countered, "Well then, it’s good we know each other. Only proper if we’re going t’do business, eh?"

  He motioned for them to sit, Allet doing so immediately and seeming to have noticed nothing odd in the previous exchange. Ansel paused briefly before sitting and nodded toward the Bear, who had yet to move or speak. Hunald understood the implied question and smiled even wider. "Worry not o’er my friend here. He hears all but says little, content with ‘is own thoughts fer company."

  Ansel allowed his gaze to linger on the big man, nodding his acceptance, then said, "Whether we’ll ‘ave business or no still depends." Allet started to speak in protest, but Ansel shut him down with a sharp look. "That’s why I’m here. T’see what this’s all about."

  A pause hung in the air just then, giving no indication what direction the conversation was headed. After just a moment, though, the foreign dandy laughed and said to Allet, "He’s so serious. One like him would prob’ly get along better talkin’ t’this one—" he motioned toward his companion— "while you and me play dice." Returning his attention to Ansel, he continued, "Alas, it’s me with the business sense, so we’ll just have t’make do, no? What is it ya wish of yer friend Hunald?"

  Friend indeed, Ansel thought to himself, then replied aloud, "I’ve come t’find out more about what exactly is going t’be involved in this ‘business’ venture I’m hearing about."

  "This is an understandable thing t’seek, this knowledge," the man agreed. "Very understandable. Alas, no smart business man gives away ‘is position so early."

  Shaking his head, Ansel answered, "You expect a man t’agree t’take part in somethin’ without knowin’ what he’s agreein’ to?"

  “T’be clear," the answer began, "the stage o’ this arrangement our good Allet has talked t’you about is jus’ the beginnin’." He continued, "Those who wish t’profit from our venture will learn more once agreements’ve been reached t’take part. In the meantime—" with this he slid his hand, palm down across the table, removing it to reveal a small pouch— "a taste t’ease yer worries?"

  Ansel had a strong suspicion what he would find within, yet he could not help himself. Opening the pouch and pouring the contents into his hand revealed what looked to be a shilling’s worth of silver pennies. He did not count it, of course, because there was little point in being exact. The gesture had accomplished precisely what it had been meant to accomplish.

  Suddenly, he was faced with the reality that Hunald must be a serious commodity in truth to be freely handing out such sums simply as enticement. In addition, finding himself suddenly a shilling or so closer to paying the tax that had been weighing on him for weeks was having a powerful effect. Everything inside Ansel was screaming that he should get up from the table, go home to his family, and forget he had ever met this shady foreigner or listened to Allet’s hairbrained scheming. The problem was thoughts of his family were a double-edged blade that also reminded him of his need for the money.

  "Alright," came the guarded response. "What must I do?"

  Chapter Eight

  “The Young Lord”

  A log deep within the cookfire had burned through to glowing coals, causing the blaze to collapse with a loud crackle. A plume of sparks rose skyward, briefly illuminating the rapidly encroaching darkness. The members of the patrol to which Jonas and Alastar had been attached, under the command of Lieutenant Teagan, were camped in a clearing that abutted a well-worn track serving the area as a road.

  It was not a road in the fashion of the crownroad. That represented a feat of engineering, the sh
eer magnitude of which was said to rival anything built by mankind. Learned men, under the patronage of the Crown and using the labor of the army, had laid often arrow-straight thoroughfares of flat paving stones over a foundation of chipped rock melded together by a substance that could be poured but would then harden like stone. All of these roads ultimately lead back to the capital city of Callicane, forming a network that allowed for swift travel between major population areas. Extending it to include the two major cities in the Northern Realm, Newport and Glendon, had taken decades, the roads themselves being built—section by section and paving stone by paving stone—even as those cities themselves were coming into existence.

  Now, more than twenty and one hundred years later, that great project was long since completed but for regular maintenance. One could travel at greater speeds and in much more comfort, so long as their destination lie along the crownroad. Barring such a seemingly supernatural turn of good fortune, however, one must needs avail themselves of the next best option. Generally, this was a dusty path of hard-beaten earth where hooves and wooden wheels had packed the ground flat and prevented the forest from swallowing it. It was alongside one of these that the patrol was camped, in the shadow of a fortified guard compound.

  They had made good time, riding the crownroad in comfort for the first few hours of their trek, since it ran westwardly a bit before turning south toward the far-off capital and forcing them onto a wilder path. Their mission was a simple one: show their strength as a policing force on a three day circuit that would tour part of Duke Valdimir’s holdings. The first leg of their assignment had been to ride west and slightly south for about forty miles, stopping for the night once reaching the guard post. Tomorrow’s patrol was to take them due north a slightly lesser distance, where apparently they would stop at a small village. The third and final day would see them returning to Newport on an easterly track, having completed a circuit in the shape of an elongated triangle lying on its side.

  The broad strokes of their mission had been explained not long after the patrol’s departure. True to his word, Sergeant Hammid wasted little time making the suggestion to his commanding officer that he take some time with the two young squires, since it was painfully obvious no one else had bothered to do so before placing them under his tutelage. The sergeant had fallen back to the boy’s position in the cavalry column, directing them to "... git yer arses moving an’ report t’the Lieutenant immediately!" and they did just that.

  Spurring ahead to where the Lieutenant rode quietly in the vanguard of the column, the two young men sidled up alongside him and waited to be addressed. The moments seemed to drag by, however, with not an inkling that he had noticed them, the only sounds being the leathern creak of saddlery, the clopping of hooves, and the babble of voices originating from the patrol members talking softly amongst themselves. After what seemed an unbearable interval, Alastar shared a quick look with Jonas and prepared to speak.

  "Could be argued you two’re owed an apology o’ sorts," Teagan had spoken suddenly, interrupting before Alastar’s words could issue from his already opened mouth. He continued, giving no indication he had taken notice of startling the two youngsters, "I’ll be the first t’congratulate ya on that, since it’s not ev’ry day a soldier gets an apology from the higher ups.

  "Sorry t’say, though, it’n me that’s the one t’give it t’ya, since it wasn’t me fool enough t’send two boys on a three day run without so much as givin’ ‘em a chance t’pack their own saddle bags. Nor’s it matter, ‘cause hearin’ it won’t change a damn thing an’—time we get back—ain’t nobody gonna ‘member ya was mistreated anyway. So I’d say ya won’t be hearin’ no ‘I’m sorries’. That a problem?"

  The question had come so suddenly that it caught them unawares. Before they knew it, the officer in command was simply riding along, quietly waiting for an answer they had not mentally prepared themselves to provide. His expression remained stern, yet he truly seemed curious. The panic and indecision of that first moment under unexpected scrutiny quickly faded, and both young squires nodded in the negative. The Lieutenant continued staring at them silently for another few moments, plainly trying to read whether their eyes told the same tale. Apparently satisfied, he soon nodded himself, and said, "Good. It’s a fool that gits wrapped up in ‘is own pride an’ lets it distract from the tasks he needs t’git done. That’s yer first lesson from me."

  He paused, rummaging in his saddle bags to produce a hank of jerky from his trail rations. Ripping off a mouthful, he chewed as he rode, appearing as though lost in thought and either unaware or unfazed by their waiting for him to continue. After a few moments, though, he did begin again. "We ride as a regular patrol in force, completely normal an’ routine. Our purpose, in plain language, is t’make sure any bastards thinkin’ of robbin’ along these roads knows they’ll have m’lord’s soldiers t’deal with an’ t’help the good citizens feel safe by seein’ the same.

  "We’re one platoon o’ what I’d say’re His Grace’s finest. Some’d no doubt argue we’re a squadron, since we’re cavalry today—" he had turned and winked, giving them an unexpected hint of another side of his personality, quickly adding—"but best, I think, if we don’t git all fancy. That’s two squads of ten, eight knuckle draggin’ grunts with a corporal as squad leader an’ a lance corporal as second. On top o’ them, we got three unattached men t’work as scouts ‘r message runners ‘r replacements fer men lost in a fight. Today, they’re scouts," he added offhandedly. "Over all o’ them is Sergeant Hammid, an’ I’m his commander.

  "Yer purpose –" he had sharply emphasized the word ‘your’, spoken as it was in his lowborn slurred accent—"is t’listen to e’rythang e’rybody tells ya ‘cause, highborn ‘r not, yer both fresh as baby colts an’ the lowliest ditch digger in my bunch knows more ‘bout bein’ a soldier than both o’ ya t’gether, beggin’ yer pardons an’ all. Ya will, each of ya, ride alongside a diff’r’nt squad leader each day the first two days, beginnin’ right after this talk, an’ yer gonna do that t’get a feel fer their diff’r’nt ways o’ doin’ things. You will watch an’ learn, an’ obey all commands as if they’d come from me. Clear enough?"

  This time, both of the young squires answered immediately in the affirmative, almost talking over one another. Jonas believed that he had seen a glimpse of mirth in the officer’s eyes just then, but he could not be sure, shielded as Teagan was by the air of authority and professionalism he was projecting.

  "Excellent," the Lieutenant commented. "You’ll do the same kind o’ shadowing t’observe me ‘n’ the Sergeant as well. That’ll be most o’ the last day an’ whenever else ‘tween now an’ then there’s somethin’ I think’d be good for ya t’learn, so be ready t’jump when I say jump an’ I mean right then.

  "Hear me now," he had turned in his saddle to face them, his gaze penetrating. "You two don’t seem stupid, so I’ll expect ya know yer bein’ tested. Plenty o’ folks is noble-born that never git the privilege of commandin’ troops, ‘cause their betters’re wise enough t’know an army’s gotta respect their leaders t’be willin’ t’die fer ‘em. You squires are expected t’be commanders one day, but ya gotta be able t’earn it, an’ ya start learnin’ how t’do that right here."

  He had dismissed them then, promising to speak to them more later and directing them each to report to one of the squad leaders and begin their lessons. His words had left a lasting mark, so much so that Jonas felt uneasy about the question on his mind. Instead, he had waited until later and broached the subject with Corporal Dekin, the squad leader he was observing. He had asked why Teagan—a full lieutenant—had been assigned to this patrol of a single platoon. It was something that had bothered him since that morning, since normally such duty would fall to a 2nd Lieutenant instead. It was then he learned something which only further strengthened his resolve to prove he and Alastar worthy, namely that Lieutenant Teagan was chosen by the Duke himself and entrusted with the task of gauging their abilities.

/>   The guard post position that marked the end of their day’s journey was a log fort, built beside the hard-packed earthen road. Its layout was roughly rectangular with walls constructed of stacked logs. These were about twice the height of a tall man, the logs cut so that they fit together snuggly, broken only by a sturdy-looking wooden gate. All along the interior of the walls, a fighting platform had been constructed that would allow soldiers to stand and fight anyone attempting to come over the walls or to rain arrows on anyone standing beyond.

  The area within the walls was perhaps eighty paces by one-hundred paces. There were several buildings, all likewise log-built and roofed with fresh-looking thatch. The focus of the interior was a main hall where communal meals were served and which doubled as a workspace for the officer in command of each rotation. Additional buildings included a cookhouse, a rudimentary smithy, stables, and several sheds for storage. The largest of the buildings was a long barracks that ran nearly the length of the entire facility, leaving only enough room at each end to form tiny alleys for ladders up to the fighting platform. One end of the barracks sported a second entrance, this small section—perhaps one-tenth of the overall building’s area—being a separate, private apartment for the officer in residence. Every sworn soldier served revolving duty cycles at such posts, a fresh garrison relieving those in residence each new moon.

  Jonas and Alastar knew the layout, not from being invited to join Lieutenant Teagan in the officer’s quarters as expected by right of nobility, but because he had taken them with him on an inspection tour upon arrival. The fort looked large enough to house between one-hundred soldiers and a score more than that, but it was at full capacity with a regular rotation of troops on site. Teagan’s patrol—himself included—would spend the night in a field encampment beyond the walls.