Oath of Fealty

by Elizabeth Moon

  Arcolin led the way down the aisle between rows of tie stalls to the box stalls at the end, empty now but for his and Cracolnya’s mounts.

  “What is it? You look—strange.”

  “I should. You must read it yourself.” He handed over the message tube; Cracolnya opened it, unrolled the message, and started to read. Arcolin’s roan ambler moved up to the front of the stall and nudged him; he rubbed the velvety muzzle absently while watching Cracolnya’s face.

  “I—I don’t know what to think,” Cracolnya said, when he’d finished. “He’s a king? In Lyonya? How did that happen?”

  “I don’t know more than this.”

  “They have a king already,” Cracolnya said. “What’s he think about it?”

  “You missed a bit,” Arcolin said. “He stuck it in between lines. Their king died without an heir. Paks was there—that’s where she went when she left here. She felt called to find the heir.” He ran a hand over his head. “But—what do we do now? He wants troops out guarding the Pargunese border; he thinks they might use this as an excuse to attack.”

  “Scouts haven’t said anything.”

  “No. And this about a contract. You know what he said before he went south; he expected to take the Company south. But only one cohort?” He shook his head. “You know the Vonjans. They’ll want twice the work for half the pay.”

  “One cohort out, with pack mules, would ease the fodder situation,” Cracolnya said. “Two would be better, if you can talk them into it.”

  “What about protection here, though?” Arcolin said. “He’s worried about the Pargunese, and the south border. A cohort each way, plus mine in the south, will nearly empty the stronghold. And we’ll have to use the recruits, until Dorrin comes back.” However long that might be.

  Cracolnya shrugged. “This recruit cohort’s the best-trained we’ve ever had. They can garrison this; I can split mine between east and south. Or, the recruits can do their first real route march and take the southern end—we haven’t had trouble with either of the neighboring domains, barring the odd thief, since Count Halar’s father died.”

  “That’s a good idea, about using the recruits to garrison down there if needed,” Arcolin said. “But first, I need to tell the Company about the Duke.”

  “Maybe we should wait until we hear from Chaya,” Cracolnya said. “Just in case.”

  “In case—”

  “He was attacked once. Suppose Verrakai raised a large force against him?”

  “He’s got Dorrin’s cohort.”

  “He’s got Dorrin’s cohort on the way, but what if they don’t get there in time? He could be killed. Something could go wrong in Lyonya.”

  “I don’t—” Arcolin took two steps forward, turned, then took two steps back, avoiding the thought of Kieri Phelan dead. Instead, he said, “We have to tell the troops something—they have to know he’s not coming back.”

  “He left it to you,” Cracolnya said. “But if you want my advice—” Arcolin nodded. “Then,” Cracolnya went on, “make us a contract, and tell the Company that, and then tell them what you’ve heard, that it’s all we know.”

  “Ask the quartermaster how many beasts he can feed until spring grass,” Arcolin said.

  Cracolnya looked smug. “I already know. Twelve.”

  Arcolin looked down the rows of tie stalls, mostly full. “Better get moving, then.” He left Cracolnya in the stable and headed back to the officers’ quarters and offices.

  The Vonja agents had retreated to the inner court, but came to meet him as he entered. “Have you heard from the Duke?” one began. Arcolin held up his hand.

  “I have word from the Duke that I’m to make a one-cohort contract, subject to approval by the Council in Tsaia; he’s reasonably sure they’ll give it.”

  “But the Duke—is he coming?”

  “He’s … detained,” Arcolin said. “But the messenger who arrived brought his word and seal.”

  “How soon can you leave? Today? Tomorrow?”

  “Certainly not today. As the Duke himself is detained, I must visit the councils here, send couriers—” All at once the enormity of the changes ahead hit him, stunning him. Kieri Phelan had been the one constant in his life for years; he never thought that would end. He saw the concern on their faces, the uncertainty, and with his own uncertainty churning inside, it was too much. He bowed slightly. “Sirs, with this word from Duke Phelan, I have orders I must give; you must excuse me.”

  “Of course,” the senior said. “I only meant, should we ourselves pack to ride today or tomorrow?”

  “Not sooner than tomorrow, and probably the next day,” Arcolin said. To his relief, he saw one of the house servants hovering in the doorway. To him, he called, “One less for meals; I’m riding to Duke’s East and Duke’s West; I’ll eat there.”

  He felt like a fraud. As Kieri’s senior captain, trusted and experienced, he knew how to do what he must do, but—he was not Kieri. He could not be Kieri. And to have this handed him, without being able to see Kieri, talk to him, ask questions, be sure … it was too much.

  But Kieri trusted him. He had to do it.

  Cracolnya was just coming from the stable as he neared it. “Well?”

  “We’ll split the recruit cohort tonight; I’m taking enough to fill out mine for a contract. I’ll still have to get Regency Council approval, in Vérella. You’ll command the remainder of the recruits and as many of your cohort as it takes to fill them out. You go east; Valichi will have to take the southern group until I can find him a junior captain—and you, too, for that matter.”

  “Val’s not going to like campaign living,” Cracolnya said, grinning. The recruit captain, oldest of them all, had talked of retirement all winter, and used the excuse of crowding in the stronghold to move into Duke’s East after Midwinter Feast.

  “He can have Kieri’s tent,” Arcolin said. “I’ll take mine.”

  “Better take Kieri’s yourself; you need to impress the Vonjans. All those southerners think bigger is better.” Cracolnya, proponent of traveling light, had the smallest tent of any of the captains. “About supplies—”

  “I can send back supplies from Vérella, after I’ve seen the bankers,” Arcolin said. “You should have enough until then.” He glanced at the sky, gauging the amount of daylight remaining. “I must go—I have to get to Duke’s East—”

  “Shall I tell Stammel?”

  “My head! I need to do that first, of course. Thank you. Tell them to saddle the chestnut, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  The tail end of his cohort was just entering the mess hall; Stammel, by the door, raised his brows at Arcolin, and Arcolin nodded. Stammel came to him.

  “Captain?” Unasked questions danced in his tone.

  “The Duke’s not coming; we’re going south. Usual route. One-cohort contract. We fill out with recruits. Captain Cracolnya will command here; he and Captain Valichi will patrol the east and south boundaries. I know you have more questions, but I must ride to Duke’s East. We’ll have a captains’ conference tonight; join us then. How soon can we march?”

  “Day after tomorrow, sir, if we get right to it. Unless it’s an emergency, I’d like an extra day for balancing loads and the like. Road firm enough for wagons, do you think?”

  “Talk to Sef. I’ll be sending supplies back from Vérella, so if the road’s good, we’ll use them.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Eat lunch first, Stammel.”

  “I always do, sir,” Stammel said. It was an old jest; Arcolin felt better when he felt himself smiling again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  On the road to Duke’s East, the chestnut pulled hard at first, but finally settled into a smooth canter that eased Arcolin’s tension. It would be all right. He would do what the Duke wanted, even without the Duke there—he had done it before. He had the Duke’s signet ring and the Duke’s written permission to use his funds. Worry returned. What if the Crown didn’t agree? What if they
wanted to seize the Duke’s property, land, and money?

  What if the sky and land turned upside down and he fell off the road? He taunted himself, then slowed to an easy jog as he came into the town. Small children ran alongside, waving. He looked around, seeing Duke’s East with a new eye.

  Heribert Fontaine, the mayor, opened the door of his house as Arcolin rode up to it, and two boys stood ready to hold his horse. “News, I’ll warrant—I saw the courier go by, not even stopping for a word.”

  “News indeed. I’ll come in, if I may.” Arcolin dismounted, tossing the reins to the boys. “Walk him around; don’t let him just stand in this cold.”

  Fontaine held the door open and Arcolin came in. “There—left—the parlor.”

  It faced east; sun had left the windows, but the room still held a little of its warmth. A bowl of apples on the table scented the air. Arcolin pulled off his gloves and took a seat at the mayor’s wave.

  “You’d better read this,” he said, handing over the Duke’s message. “It’s all I know.”

  Frowning, Fontaine read, his brow furrowed. Then he looked up. “The Duke … our Duke … is a king? Of … of Lyonya?”

  “It would only surprise me more if it were Pargun,” Arcolin said. “All I know is that he’s taken Dorrin’s cohort, and headed east on the river road.”

  “And the paladin? Paks?”

  Arcolin shook his head. “I don’t know any more than this. Nor did the courier. I would suppose she is dead; that must be what the Bloodlord priests intended.”

  “And he’s told you to do whatever you think best. Gird’s right arm! I know you’re senior captain, but—does he mean take over the domain?”

  “I don’t know that, either. I’ve taken a one-cohort contract with the Vonjans. I know we’re squeezing supplies up here.”

  “So you’ll take … how many away?”

  “One all the way to Aarenis, if the Crown approves; the other two in the domain but not here. One cohort, under Cracolnya, to patrol the Pargunese border; one south, under Valichi, in case any ambitious lordling tries to move in. And I’ll be sending supplies from Vérella for the troops.”

  “That will ease things,” Fontaine said. “And I don’t think we’ll have more trouble up here for a while. Have you told Valichi? And will you be sending out recruit teams this year? When are you leaving?”

  Arcolin held up his hands. “No, I haven’t told Val—he’s here in town somewhere. I’d like you to send someone to him, tell him to come up to the stronghold today—we must have a captains’ conference. As for recruiting—not until the domain itself is settled. As for leaving—as soon as we can. I hope as soon as day after tomorrow. And now I must leave; I need to get to Duke’s West today as well.”

  “And you’re in a hurry. Let me have m’wife fix you a stuffed roll for the ride, if you won’t sit down to eat.”

  “I can’t stay, but I’d thank you for a roll … anything …”

  In a few minutes, Arcolin was mounted again; he set his horse’s nose to the west breeze and eyed the rising dark cloud there with apprehension. His horse was willing now to canter quietly; Arcolin unwrapped the stuffed roll—hot fried ham, onions, and chopped winter greens—and took a bite. Lucky mayor, he thought as he finished, to have such a cook in the household. A second roll nestled in his tunic, in case of need.

  The ride to Duke’s West took most of the afternoon as the cold breeze stiffened and the cloud rose higher, soaking up all the light. Before he arrived, he saw the glow of light through windows brighter than the day outside. A sentry called challenge; Arcolin halted his horse.

  “Captain Arcolin of the stronghold to speak to the mayor,” he said. He dismounted, stiffer from the cold than he’d expected. “It’s gone dark early this evening.”

  “Storm coming, Captain. Sorry to question you—”

  “No, that’s right, after the mess we had before. But I need to speak to the mayor; we’ve had word from the Duke.”

  “I can take your horse, Captain. We’ll find a place out of this wind. You’re staying the night—”

  “No, I mustn’t.” Now others had come out in the cold, windy near-dark, some with torches, and Duke’s West’s mayor, Alwyn Foretson, hurried over. Younger than Mayor Fontaine, he’d lost a hand on campaign.

  “What’s wrong, Captain? Attack?”

  “No, not that. Word from the Duke. If we could go to your house—”

  “Of course.” Foretson led the way. Duke’s West, newer than Duke’s East, was a little smaller, but the mayor’s house was just as comfortable. Rich cooking smells permeated the front rooms. “You’ll eat with us,” Foretson said, as if there were no doubt.

  “Gladly,” Arcolin said. “Do we have time to get the business over with?”

  “Yes. I told Melyin to hold the dumplings when I left the house and that’s another half-glass.”

  “Good. You should read this—it came from the Duke by courier this morning and I know nothing more.”

  Foretson raised an eyebrow, took the message, and went into the passage, coming back with a four-stick candleholder. “She put the dumplings in and she’s keeping the children in the kitchen. Let’s see now—” His brows went up his forehead as he read. Arcolin walked about, stretching after the ride. The room had a fireplace, but no fire had been laid; a blanket covered the opening. He grimaced; the stronghold had asked the villages for more wood only the week before. Foretson looked up at last. “King?”

  “So it says,” Arcolin said.

  “I served under the man fifteen years until I lost my hand. I didn’t know he was royal bred.” Foretson sounded as if that were a personal insult.

  “Nor I,” said Arcolin, who had been with the Duke longer, as they both knew.

  “Well-bred, certainly,” Foretson went on. “But a king?”

  Arcolin said nothing. The mayor’s wife came to the door, looked in, shrugged, and went back to the kitchen.

  “This is going to cause … problems.”

  “I think so,” Arcolin said. “But I have no answers. I do have a one-cohort contract with Vonja, and as the Duke requested, I’m moving Cracolnya’s cohort and the recruits to the east and south.”

  “Think the Crown will accept that?”

  “I’ll find out,” Arcolin said, trying to sound cheerful. “I don’t know who the Crown will transfer the domain to—”

  “Oh, gods! I didn’t think of that one. We could end up belonging to Verrakai or someone like that—” He gave Arcolin a searching glance. “They should give it to you.”

  “They won’t,” Arcolin said. “I’m not a native; I have no family behind me—”

  Foretson cocked his head. “Do you want it?”

  Did he? Arcolin thought for a long moment; the mayor said nothing. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I never considered it … I never thought beyond …”

  “Well, you’d best think now. There’s lords enough will want it, want it enough to squabble over it. Verrakai and Marrakai both, I shouldn’t wonder, and woe to us if Verrakai gets it. Marrakai wouldn’t be so bad, except his own land’s so far west. No overlap. We’d do better with you, Captain, though without an heir—”

  “Aye. And no one’s offered it yet, and I have a cohort to take south. And I must eat and go, I’m afraid.”

  “Is this to be kept secret? And if so, until when?”

  “It can’t be,” Arcolin said. “People must know; they deserve to know. But they need to know even more: what’s coming next, and that I can’t tell them. I should learn more in Vérella, and when I do I’ll send word.”

  “I hope he’s safe in Lyonya,” Foretson said. Then, shaking his head: “Royal-bred and half-elf, and I never saw it … what a fool I must be.”

  “If you, then all of us,” Arcolin said. “Including himself, for that matter. He had more chance to figure it out than any of us.”

  Foretson laughed. “I suppose … but I’m not calling the Fox a fool, even with him this far away and
not coming back.”

  Not coming back. Arcolin shivered, but supper was hot and tasty, and he mounted again determined to do his best for Phelan’s land and people, whatever that might turn out to be.

  He refused the mayor’s offer of an escort back to the stronghold, and rode away in an icy drizzle that stung his face. It would be sleet or snow by morning; he hoped it would blow over before they marched away in it.

  Halfway back to the stronghold, he met a squad with torches; Cracolnya had sent them. Soon enough he was safely inside, cold and wet but in a seat by the fire, upstairs in the Duke’s study. Valichi was there, with his personal pack; he had even brought his armor. Stammel, waiting for Arcolin by the inner gate, had followed him in and up the stairs. Arcolin waved him to a seat as well.

  “Fontaine told me,” Valichi said. “Though I find it hard to believe.”

  “So do we all,” Arcolin said, pulling off his wet boots. Servants had put dry clothes to warm by the fire; he stripped off his wet ones and dressed as they talked.

  “How’d the village mayors take it?” Cracolnya asked.

  “Stunned. Confused. Glad we’re taking hungry mouths away, but worried about the future. Who the Crown will give the land to.”

  “It could be you,” Valichi said. “You were here from the beginning.”

  “I don’t think so.” But he could not help imagining it, seeing familiar things, familiar people, in a new way. He pushed that aside. “And anyway, I’ve got that contract to fulfill. I can’t start off by breaking one.”

  “You need the Crown’s consent, remember—if you don’t get it, the merchants will understand.”

  “That doesn’t produce gold or grain,” Arcolin said. He yawned. “Believe me, I will argue hard if they refuse; I will not toss away what Kieri worked so many years to build. How’s the preparation going, Sergeant?”

  “On target, sir. All the farriery finished today. The smiths say they’ll have the last of the weapons and repairs done by supper tomorrow. We’ll be ready to march day after tomorrow, as far as the fighting troop’s concerned. And Sef says the road’s no worse than usual, this time of year.”