Oath of Fealty

by Elizabeth Moon

  Selfer frowned. “Won’t they think you hired mercenaries to enforce your rule?”

  “That’s exactly what I am doing,” Dorrin said. “But if I change my colors and your saddlecloths are blue, then I’m hiring mercenaries as a Verrakai—not coming in as a Phelani captain. It gives you some legitimacy as Verrakai troops.”

  “I’ve marched under the fox-head since I joined,” Kefer said slowly. “Never thought I’d be anything other than the Duke’s man. But now he’s king, and he says we can’t stay with him there in Lyonya …”

  “Captain—or should we even say that now?—are you hiring us permanently? Or just for a short campaign?” Vossik looked wary.

  Dorrin ran her fingers through her hair. “I hadn’t thought about hiring you permanently; you’re still technically part of Phelan’s Company—”

  “Which doesn’t exactly exist,” Selfer said.

  “Of course it does,” Dorrin said. “The Crown isn’t going to dissolve it; they need it to protect the north against Pargun. It’ll be Arcolin’s instead of Phelan’s, I expect.”

  “Not the same,” Vossik and Kefer muttered together.

  “True,” Dorrin said. “But it’s still the Company. The Duke—damn, I’ve got to quit calling him that—the king left resources at the stronghold for Arcolin and I’m sure you’ll have work there as long as you want it.”

  The two sergeants looked at each other. Selfer looked at his boots.

  “Well, Captain,” Kefer finally said. “It’s like this. Been in the Company nearly as long as you, as you recall, and nearly all of it in your cohort—transferred after Etund died, as you recall—” Dorrin nodded for him to go on. “And it’s not something we talk about, but let’s just say Duke Phelan didn’t hire bad captains. Been your sergeant now for over ten years, and a lot of fighting, and I trust you. And Arcolin, of course, but—he’s not the Duke—the king—begging your pardon.” He glanced at Vossik again, and Vossik took over.

  “Speaking for me, Captain, I’d be glad to soldier with you, if I can’t with … with the king. I’d say most of the rest would too. Can’t speak for ’em all, of course. But as for me, if you’re asking, I’m saying my oath to you.”

  Here was a new problem. She had not intended to settle any outsiders in Verrakai lands, certainly not nearly a hundred fighting men and women. Yet it would mean having trusted people at her back. She turned to Selfer.

  “Well?”

  He looked up. “I’m not sure.” Kefer shifted; Dorrin shot him a glance and he went stone-still again. “It’s not any doubt of you, Captain, or your ability. But I’ve been thinking, anyway—of going for knight’s training. I’ve saved my pay, and—and you’re a Knight of Falk, and—I wouldn’t leave you now, in an emergency, but later—”

  “I’m not asking a lifelong commitment, Selfer,” Dorrin said. He flushed but she went on. “You’ve got the talent; you’re a born commander, and if things hadn’t changed I’ve no doubt the king would’ve recommended that you take formal knight’s training, either at Vérella or Fin Panir, even if you came back to him as a captain. If you’re willing to spare me a year, it would be helpful—it might not even take that long.”

  He nodded. “Of course I can, Captain.”

  Dorrin turned to the sergeants. “I do not feel comfortable offering you and the cohort a permanent position without talking to the king and to Jandelir. The king offered me the loan of you, and without his consent I won’t commit for longer than a year. But if he consents, and if it poses no threat to his former holding—which Jandelir can tell me—then that offer is on the table.”

  The sergeants nodded, eyes bright. “Thank you, Captain,” Vossik said.

  “Yes,” Kefer said. “Thank you—and you, sir, too,” he added, to Selfer. Then, with a brisk nod, Vossik led them both out of the harness room.

  Dorrin waited a moment, her mind buzzing with a thousand new details that had just sprung up to encumber what had been a simple plan. Then she turned to Selfer.

  “I know,” he said, before she could speak. “Blue saddlecloths and some kind of banner. A pennon. Blue and silver. It may take more than a day; I’ll be as quick as I can.” He paused. “Blue surcoats?”

  “No. Not yet. We’re not trying to fool them; we’re just making legitimacy clear.” She thought of something else. “I have the ducal seal. The prince sent it to me, along with the chain of office. If you run into any reluctance to sell to us—”

  “Good. I’ll be off, then.”

  Dorrin went back inside. Valthan was talking to some of the other Royal Guard, but turned to her immediately.

  “Blue saddlecloths,” Dorrin said, before he could speak. “That was a good idea. I’ve sent Selfer to arrange blue saddlecloths and a blue pennant. It may delay us a day or two.”

  “I’m sorry I upset you—”

  Dorrin waved her hand. “It’s the common view of mercenaries. I should be used to it by now. Come, let’s talk of other things. Why don’t you introduce me to your comrades? Then we’ll visit the Marshal.”

  “Introduce you … as the Duke?”

  “It’s what I am, by the prince’s own command. Best begin here, in Harway, as we mean to go on.”

  He bowed, but did not turn to the others. “My … lady … there is one problem. In living memory, Tsaia has not had a woman duke. How do I style your name and title? Are you my lady duke, my lady duchess? Surely not my lord—?”

  “In Phelan’s company, we always used sir, to man or woman commander. And I am displacing a duke’s widow, who is used to the term lady. Let it be ‘my lord,’ odd as it may seem to your ear. It is an odd situation.”

  Valthan nodded, and turned to the others. He had all the names, the order of precedence, and presented each with grave courtesy to “my lord, the Duke of Verrakai” and Dorrin acknowledged each bow with a slight one of her own.

  Marshal Berris listened as Dorrin explained what she wanted to do to reassure Sir Valthan and gave Valthan a sharp look. “I saw her fight over near Darkon Edge,” he said. “I have no doubt of her loyalty to the Crown. And if the paladin I met there believes she has sufficient magery—and his own note proves she has the prince’s permission to use it—”

  “I am responsible for my troop,” Valthan said. He sounded stubborn.

  “Dorrin?” Marshal Berris said, using her name as if he considered her a friend. Her heart warmed to him.

  “I was reluctant to demonstrate my powers to Sir Valthan alone,” Dorrin said. “I suggested coming here, precisely because it is Gird’s Code that forbids the use of magery, and thus we can assume Gird will be watching to assure that I do not go beyond the barest need. Also I believe that you, Marshal, will be able to discern if I am using any evil source of power. I fully understand why Sir Valthan feels he must know something of what I can do.”

  Berris chewed his lip a moment. Finally he nodded. “Come into the grange,” he said. “First we pray, then we see what happens.” He led them inside, then shut and barred the outer door. His yeoman-marshal came out of the back offices, brows raised. “Sarn, I have business I may not speak of this morning. Go to the barton gate, and tell any yeomen who come that I will open the main door when I can. We should be through here by noon, should we not?” He looked at Dorrin.

  “Yes,” she said. “I doubt more than a turn of the glass.”

  “You don’t know how long my prayers will take,” he said, with a grim smile. “Tell them, Sarn, and do not interrupt or come nearer.”

  “Yes, Marshal,” Sarn said, and went out, closing the side door behind him.

  Dorrin looked around the big room with its platform at one end, the weapons racked along the walls. High windows let in diffused light.

  “Come onto the platform,” Berris said. He himself went to a niche at the end of the room, and withdrew something from it. “This is a relic,” he said. It looked to Dorrin like a roughly hewn knobbly stick. “We believe Gird actually held it. Dorrin, it is a truth-test, and I will not de
mand you take it—you are a Knight of Falk and I know Falkians to be honorable—but it might reassure Sir Valthan.”

  Dorrin took the stick, worn smoother at one end by long handling by many. “I am willing,” she said.

  “Do not be surprised,” Berris said, “if something happens. I will ask questions.” Dorrin nodded. “Dorrin Verrakai,” he began. “Do you serve Falk and the High Lord?”

  “Yes,” Dorrin said.

  “Do you intend your magery to serve good?”

  “Yes,” Dorrin said.

  “Have you ever, in any way, consented to Liart’s evil?”

  Dorrin hesitated; the wood in her hands grew warm, warmer than her grip should make it. “As a child,” she said. “In pain and fear, when I could no longer resist, I did a few times as I was commanded.”

  “Have you ever used magery for your own profit, in any way whatsoever?”

  “No.”

  “By the power of Gird and the High Lord, I ask if truth be proved,” Berris said.

  In her hands, the wood glowed as bright as any magic weapon; she could see the bones of her hands through illuminated flesh. Then it faded.

  “Well,” Berris said. “I believe we may trust whatever comes, Sir Valthan. And now let us all pray.”

  They knelt in silence for a time, Dorrin with them. When Berris rose, Dorrin and Valthan did also.

  “What proofs would you have?” Berris asked. “We cannot produce a Verrakai lord—other than Dorrin, here—to test her powers on.”

  “She has said she wants to shield us from attack—if there is any way to show that—”

  “I cannot both shield you and attack you,” Dorrin said. “But I can shield myself and you, or myself and the Marshal, while the other one attacks physically. Will that serve?”

  “If that’s the best you can do—” Valthan began.

  “Gird’s arm!” Berris said. “I suggest three things. Make light. Hold one of us—or both of us—still so we cannot move. Then as you suggest, protect yourself and one of us against attack. That would convince me, if I were going with you.”

  “You’d be welcome to come,” Dorrin said.

  “Nay, I spent time enough away this winter. Let’s get to it. Can you make light?”

  In answer, Dorrin set her hands alight and—as she had learned—expanded that light, making it brighter until the men squinted against it.

  “Well and good,” Berris said briskly. “Now—Sir Valthan, do you and I draw blades, and starting at the main door, walk toward her, and see if she can stop us, and how far her power extends.”

  Dorrin, on the platform, let them get to the door and turn, then sent her power out—and they both stopped midway of their first step. Valthan’s eyes widened; Berris scowled. She relaxed the power slightly; they struggled forward, like men walking in deep water. When she increased it again, once more they stopped short; when she released it, they both staggered before walking toward her at their usual pace.

  “That must be what happened to the prince,” Valthan said, frowning. “Horrible feeling; I strained every muscle to move and could not.”

  “What interests me,” Berris said, “is that I have seen and felt no taint of evil in it at all.” He looked at Valthan. “Do you want to go on with the third test?”

  “I—yes. I believe she can do it, but—I would like to see it.”

  “Curiosity,” Berris said.

  “If the Duke doesn’t mind.”

  “I don’t,” Dorrin said. “Come, Valthan: Let the Marshal attack us.”

  She was used to making the shield, having practiced that most in Lyonya, and Berris—though a Marshal of Gird in Gird’s grange—could not touch either of them with a weapon.

  “And so her powers are proved,” Berris said, putting a pike back in the rack. “And proved in Gird’s own grange—I hope you’re satisfied, Sir Valthan, because I can think of no more tests to perform here.”

  “I am,” Valthan said. He bowed to Dorrin. “I’m sorry, my lord, for my doubts.”

  Dorrin shook her head. “Sir, no apologies are due. You proved yourself a true Girdsman by your doubts, and honorable by your willingness to accept evidence. I do not consider your wish to protect your troops a discourtesy to me.”

  “Good,” Berris said. “And since it was Valthan’s desire to come here, you, sir, owe me an exchange and the grange a gift. Dorrin, you go open the doors and tell Sarn he can come in.” Valthan looked startled, but complied, taking one of the wasters Berris handed him and stepping up on the platform.

  By nightfall, all the mounts had blue cloth covers over Phelani saddlepads, and the troops, still in Phelan’s maroon, had blue armbands. Twists of blue yarn marked halters and headstalls. Dorrin’s own saddle now sported a quilted blue suede cover held on with star-shaped silver brads, a large blue saddlecloth trimmed in pale gray, and a drape of silver-gray brocade behind it. More of the silver brads adorned the cheekpieces and browband of her bridle. Dorrin felt her eyebrows going up.

  “Leatherworker had some fancy brads,” Selfer said. “He said the former duke always had fancy saddlery, so I thought it’s what they’d expect.”

  “I see you put new stirrup leathers—”

  “Not taking any chances, Captain.”

  “You’ve done well, Selfer. Now—from now on, I’m ‘my lord Duke’ to everyone, and you are Captain.”

  “Yes, my lord Duke,” Selfer said promptly, without even a hint of a grin.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Dorrin said. “Valthan has introduced me to his men, and swears they’ll be ready to ride on the morn.”

  “So will ours, my lord,” Selfer said. “Did you have time to find clothes for yourself?”

  “No success,” Dorrin said. “I did ask at one place, but someone had already bought all the blue cloth they had.” When Selfer looked abashed, she grinned. “Don’t apologize, Captain. I have my formal clothes, and Marshal Berris has lent me a blue cloak. It’s Girdish blue, not Verrakai blue, but it will do well enough.” It would also infuriate those of her relatives who still thought, and spoke, of Gird as “that peasant upstart.”

  Next morning Dorrin woke more rested than she’d expected. She dressed: undershift, mail shirt, pale gray silk shirt, with her black velvet dress doublet over it, riding leathers, boots. She hesitated over the ducal chain—wear it? Carry it in its case? What would Kieri Phelan have done? She knew; she had been there. She lifted the chain over her head, started to tuck it inside her doublet and then, half-defiantly, left it exposed, gold against the black velvet.

  She bundled the rest of her clothes, all the familiar maroon of Phelan’s Company, into a pack, snatched up the Marshal’s long blue cloak, and was downstairs before the first light grayed the sky. The innkeeper’s watch lamp gave only dim light in the common room, but a streak of light from the half-open kitchen door lay across the floor. She heard the rasping scrape of a broom there, the crack of sticks broken for kindling, and low voices.

  When she pushed the door wider, a sleepy cook setting out bowls on a work table glared at her, and a boy paused in his sweeping.

  “No breakfast yet! The fire’s not even up.”

  Dorrin smiled. “I woke early and did not want to go out the main door, lest someone think I was off without paying.”

  The cook’s face relaxed. “Ah … you think Bal’s even awake at this hour? Nay—’tis the smell of breakfast cooking that wakes him. If you’re going to the jacks, best take a lantern—it’s blacker than pit out there, and wet; the cobbles might’ve been greased.”

  Dorrin walked outside, into a chill drizzle; the drops sparkled in the light of her lantern. Across the yard, she could see a gleam of light; it vanished and returned, vanished and returned. Her sentries, she hoped. At the jacks, she met Selfer coming out.

  “My lord Duke,” he said, formally, with a bow. “A wet day for travel, but at least not snowing.”

  “Good morning, Captain,” Dorrin said. “I think the weather will shift by midmorning if n
ot before—the wind’s already changed.”

  “The kitchen’s awake?”

  “Yes, but a half-glass or more from breakfast; they had just woken the main fire when I came through.”

  “I’ll tell the sergeants.” He moved off, into the dark yard that now felt, to Dorrin, a little warmer than even a few minutes before.

  By the time the cooks had a hot breakfast ready, Selfer had roused the cohort. “And we woke the Royal Guard’s night watch, who were wrathy with us, until we pointed out this gave them an equal chance at breakfast.”

  Dorrin laughed. “It’s just as it was in Vérella, leaving with Phelan … remember how we were packed and ready hours before they were?”

  “But they’re brave,” Selfer said, more to himself than her.

  “Oh, yes, they’re brave, and skilled at their style of warfare,” Dorrin said. “What they’re not, is used to constant travel. Not their fault; they’re not often used for this duty.” She could hear her soldiers in the kitchen now, and yet Selfer was with her. She cocked her head. “So you’re letting Kefer and Vossik run the cohort?”

  “Only to check on you, my lord Duke, and to see if you have additional orders.”

  “No, Captain; no new orders. We march when ready; you’ve seen what charts I have, and you know as much of the potential defenses as I do.”

  “Very well, then.” He bowed and left her in the common room, now lit with several lamps.

  Almost at once, one of the serving wenches brought in her breakfast platter. She was spooning honey onto the hot bread when Sir Valthan came in, yawning.

  “Do you ever sleep?”

  “I confess to waking unusually early—it should prove an interesting day.”

  “I hope not too interesting,” he said. “My men tell me the town’s not unhappy to see a new duke in Verrakai.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Dorrin said, through a mouthful of honey and bread. “Haron was as bad a lord as a land could have. I’ve no doubt he threatened merchants and traders here and on the roads near and through his territory. We know that granges on the south road were attacked—people missing or found dead after torture.”