Oath of Fealty

by Elizabeth Moon

  “That I’m someone’s bastard.”

  “But not whose?”

  “It’s immaterial now.” Since Siniava’s War, boundaries had changed and rulers as well; what had been lay now in ruins, he was sure.

  “Is it? Is it ever immaterial? It certainly wasn’t for Kieri. If he’d known—”

  “Siniava would still rule the South, Aesil.” There. He’d used her first name. “You’d have that to deal with, and no Kieri to lead us all against him.”

  “I wonder,” she said. “Men like Kieri seem to bring trouble with them. We need trouble, we mercenaries, but we don’t thrive in big wars. No one does.” She tipped her head to one side. “Are you still in love with me, Jandelir?”

  “I grew up,” Arcolin said. “As men do.”

  “As some men do.” She sighed and ran a finger around the rim of her dessert bowl. Her knuckle, he noticed, was scarred and swollen. “I was young and proud, in those days, intent on having my own company, on proving myself. I saw no profit in you, and that was unfair.” She looked squarely at him. “I do not apologize often, Jandelir Arcolin, but this is an apology. I do not think I could have loved you then, even had I stopped to consider what manner of young man you were, but I should have done you that courtesy at least. And later, when I realized it, I should have said so then.”

  Arcolin could not speak for a moment; all the old longing swept over him once more, then departed. He had loved her; she had loved—or thought she loved—Kieri Phelan; Kieri had loved only Tammarion, and Tammarion had died. If any bard had known all this, it would have made a ballad, but no one did, no one but the people involved. He cleared his throat. “I did love you, Aesil, and admired you as well, and it was years before I gave up the hope that perhaps, someday … but you need not apologize, except to ease your own heart.”

  “And so it is,” she said, sitting back and folding her hands on the table. “You are the man I thought you were, once I saw past my own ambition and my own losses. Friends?”

  “Always,” Arcolin said. “Unless, of course, we’re hired by enemies, but even then—”

  “We have the Code, and we are content, are we not?”

  “We are content,” Arcolin said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Next day, when Arcolin was coming back from another visit to the banker, he saw ahead of him a gaunt man in dirty, thread bare clothes with a rag tied around his head approaching the inn door. The door ward blocked him.

  “Show me your money, or go your way.” The door ward sounded both bored and hostile.

  “I need to see Captain Arcolin.”

  “Not likely, beggar—he’s no time for the likes of you—” The door ward flourished his billet. The man’s shoulders drooped; he turned away from the door, and Arcolin could see that the rag on his head covered his left eye.

  “Wait—” Arcolin came closer and signaled the door ward to move back. “Aren’t you Arneson, captain in the Blues? M’dierra told me you might come to see me.”

  “Yes,” the man said. “I’m Arneson. No longer captain; they said after this—” He raised a hand to his face. “I was no use to them.” The wound that had taken his eye had pulled his face awry as well; Arcolin recognized the damage done most often by a curved blade.

  “I’m hiring captains to go north,” Arcolin said. “Northern Tsaia, north of the Honnorgat—”

  “Where Phelan came from—is he still Duke, or is the rumor true, that he’s gone to be king somewhere?”

  “Lyonya; he’s king of Lyonya now. I’m taking over his domain and Company, with his blessing. I have a one-cohort contract with Cortes Vonja. But come in—it’s time for lunch. Eat with me; we’ll talk and see if you want the job.”

  “I’ll take any job,” Arneson said, squaring his shoulders. “If you think I can be of use. And if you don’t—better we talk before we eat. I’m not taking a meal from you, if—”

  “Well, then, if you insist—how many years were you with the Blues?”

  “Nine fighting seasons. I was at Cha in Siniava’s War.”

  “You were on our right flank, if I remember—”

  “No, on your left.”

  “So you were.” Arcolin realized he had already gone past the warped face, the missing eye, to liking the man, wanting him to qualify. “Your company was mostly swordsmen, like ours—did you ever command polearms?”

  “Only in training—we trained with them, but rarely used them.”

  “Same as us, and mostly so our swords can practice against them. Tell me, do you consider yourself fit enough for duty? M’dierra said you were sick a long time. Are you healthy now?”

  “Yes, sir. I know my missing eye is a problem, but I’m otherwise whole of body and limb. If you wish to test my sword skills, I’m afraid I must ask for the loan of a sword.”

  “You wouldn’t have lasted nine fighting seasons with the Blues if you weren’t a good swordsman. I think you’d better have lunch with me, Captain, because if you’re willing, you’re hired.”

  The relief showed through the scar. “I—thank you, sir.”

  “Come on in, meet the sergeants. They’re staying south with me, but they can fill you in—”

  “Sir, I’d—I’d rather not—the way I am—”

  Arcolin nodded. “You haven’t asked about your pay—you’re due a signing bonus. We have to get you on the rolls for that—come in for that, and then meet me for supper.”

  Despite his ragged clothes—he’d probably sold his good ones for food or lodging—Arneson already moved more confidently. Arcolin ordered hot bread and sib. “We have to share bread and salt,” he said. “It’s our custom.”

  Arneson smiled as best he could. “I grew up with that. Thank you—I have a pinch of salt.”

  Arcolin sent Stammel, who had been waiting for him in the common room, to fetch the cohort rolls. As they waited, Arneson sat straight, almost rigid, carefully not looking at the bread. Arcolin knew better than to offer. Stammel brought in the rolls, a quill, and an ink stick and bowl, then withdrew. Arcolin mixed the ink, tested the quill, and turned to Arneson.

  “Your full name and your home, where you were born?”

  “Talvis Keri Arneson, of Sorellin, but my parents came from the north, from southern Fintha. They were dyers by trade.”

  Arcolin wrote that in, and had Arneson repeat the familiar oath, changing Kieri’s name to his own. Then Arcolin broke the loaf; Arneson shook the meager contents of a paper twist of salt onto it, and Arcolin pushed the pieces together. Joining heart-hands, they turned it over three times and then broke off pieces, each offering one to the other. Arneson signed the book, and they were done.

  “You might as well help me eat this,” Arcolin said.

  His new captain shook his head, but drank a mug of sib and ate half the loaf anyway.

  Three glasses later, when Captain Talvis Arneson reappeared, the door ward did not hesitate to let him in. Arcolin, fetched by Sergeant Devlin, recognized only the scar. Clean, shaved, his hair neatly clubbed at the neck, an eye patch rather than a rag covering his ruined eye, in clean clothes only slightly worn, boots oiled, a plain but serviceable sword at his side, he looked nothing like the ragged beggar he’d seemed before. He must have spent the entire advance, Arcolin thought, to look that good that fast.

  “Reporting for duty,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Arcolin said. “I’ve just hired a second captain, who’ll be going north with you. He’s gone to fetch his things from his lodgings. He has his own mount, but no spare; you’ll need to visit the horse yards tomorrow and find a mount and spare for yourself. Our limit for officers’ mounts is twelve natas. Right now, I need someone to check with the quartermaster—how close are we to being ready to march? Sergeant Devlin, this is Captain Arneson; introduce him to the quartermaster, answer his questions, and so on.”

  “Yes, sir,” Devlin said. He turned to Arneson. “Captain, this way, sir.”

  The next day, Arcolin watched his newly hired
captains as they carried out task after task he gave them. Arneson, sent to the horse market, came back with three horses—two for himself and a spare for Versin. All three were exactly the kind of sound, useful mounts Arcolin would have chosen for the long ride north. Arneson had had them freshly shod, as well. Versin, sent to market to obtain travel clothes and supplies, returned with a reasonable selection. Burek, chosen to stay with Arcolin in Aarenis, spent the entire day with the sergeants and the troops, supervising drill in a field outside the city. Around noon, one of the troops came to the inn to report that Stammel thought the young captain would do.

  “What did you think?” Arcolin asked.

  “He’s got a funny accent, but he knows his business, sir. Stammel asked him to set us a tactical problem, and he got us working with one of the Free Pikes cohorts. Says we’ll do another this afternoon.”

  “Excellent,” Arcolin said. “Tell him that I’d like him back here for supper with the other captains before full dark.” He spent the afternoon writing letters to Cracolnya, the prince in Vérella, and Kieri Phelan.

  He wondered where the Halverics were; he’d been here three days and heard nothing of them. Had Aliam retired? Then he remembered that Halveric came from Lyonya. Of course he had stayed north, to attend his protégé’s coronation. Arcolin let himself imagine, for a few moments, what that might be like. How would elves crown a king? Or would it be just the humans? Nobody had ever explained how that worked, the joint rule of a kingdom, and he could not figure it out. He wished he could be there to see Kieri crowned … but he was better here. The Company—his Company—needed him.

  At supper that night, Arcolin ate with his three new captains. Versin and Arneson had met; Arneson had accepted the additional clothes Versin bought for the journey with the air of a man who knew he had been given charity and knew also he must accept it graciously. He’d changed to a clean shirt and trousers for dinner.

  Arcolin kept the table talk to business; time enough for them to share personal matters later. “You two head north tomorrow,” he said to Arneson and Versin. “I’ve written you a safe-passage through Tsaia on the trade road. Ordinarily you’d travel with a northbound caravan, but I need you in the north sooner than that. You’ll have to stop in Vérella at least one night; I’m sure the Council will want a report from you on the south. They know I was planning to hire replacement captains here; they’ll probably be watching for you. Don’t get drawn into political discussions; even if you know something about Tsaian nobility, best not to show it.”

  He laid out the situation as he knew it, including Dorrin’s probable elevation to the dukedom of Verrakai and the Order of Attainder on Verrakai and Konhalt. They listened attentively, including young Burek, who’d be staying with him in the south.

  “Are we authorized replacement mounts in case one goes lame?” Versin asked.

  “Yes. I’ve made a list of the people we deal with in every town; I spoke to them on the way south and they’ve agreed to supply you. You’ll have to sign for it, of course. Check in with the moneychanger listed for each town; he will authorize your lodging and, if necessary a mount.”

  “So we will not need to carry much money,” Versin said.

  “That’s right. Safer than showing gold on the road. The Duke set it up that way years ago, as soon as he could afford it. I must warn you, though, with the Verrakai mess going on, Tsaia may not be as safe as usual, even on the trade road. You will be safer traveling as civilians, but some count’s alert reeve, or some Girdish Marshal, may insist on stopping you and asking questions. Show them the pass; everyone on that route knows me and knows the Company.”

  Arcolin noticed that Arneson ate no faster and no more than the others; he admired the man’s determination to hide his poverty. Still, the sooner the man put some weight on his scrawny frame, the better. He called Arneson back as the others were leaving.

  “I can tell that you’re basically healthy,” he said. “But I want our physician to see you, to see if he thinks you need a special diet. Fever, they tell me, does some damage that certain herbs can heal.”

  “Sir, I’m well enough—”

  “I don’t doubt you are well enough for duty, but humor me in this, if you will. The road north is long and hard; you will be meeting many travelers who may carry disease. A recurrence of your fever would be bad for both of us. If the physician tells you to follow a certain diet, and it prevents trouble—can that be so hard?”

  Arneson flushed. “No, sir. I just—I just do not wish to cause you extra expense.”

  “I’m certain you won’t. Let me introduce you to Master Simmitts.”

  The physician, as Arcolin expected, recommended that Arneson eat more, to gain at least a stone. He also had specific recommendations for ordering meals at each inn. “This early in the season, traveling north, you won’t find fresh fruit. Take a sack of candied plums with you, eat at least three a day. Fresh greens, only lightly steamed, at your evening meal, along with redroots. Cows should be calving; you should be able to get fresh milk and butter. If not, be sure to eat cheese. Fever like you had thins the bones …” He was writing as he talked, and eventually handed Arneson a list. “And here’s a salve for your scar; use it morning and night. If it doesn’t last you all the way, here’s the name of a physician in Vérella who will give you more.” He took the list back, scribbled another name on it, and handed it over again.

  “We have candied plums in our supplies,” Arcolin said, as they walked back to the common room. “Be sure to take a sack. I’ll be up at dawn; see me before you and Versin leave.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arneson turned to the stairs and went up them with a spring in his stride.

  Arcolin watched him go. If he managed only one thing right, he had given that man back hope. He could do this—it was easier every day to talk to people as if he, not Kieri, were this Company’s commander. Kieri would be pleased if he did it well. No … he would be pleased with himself if he did it well.

  Arcolin woke before dawn and came downstairs to find Arneson and Versin both before him—a good sign, though he had planned to be waiting for them.

  “Breakfast together?” he said.

  “The horses are ready, sir,” Arneson said. Versin looked hungry.

  “Breakfast,” Arcolin said. “Better here than up the pass.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Versin said.

  The innkeeper, warned last night of early departures, had porridge ready, bread almost out of the oven, he said, and eggs. He set out bowls of porridge and a pitcher of cream.

  “The good thing about the south,” Arcolin said, having ordered everything offered, “is how early milk and eggs come in. We leave home with the cows all dry and the hens not laying, and arrive in Valdaire to the full bounty of spring.” He poured cream into his porridge; the others did the same.

  Burek came into the room, carrying a bowl of porridge with a spoon stuck in it like a flagpole. “The men are up,” he said. “Moving their tackle downstairs.” He sat down and reached for the cream pitcher. Arcolin made a note to remind him that Phelani were not all men, and the preferred term was “troops.”

  “Summer, more like,” Versin said, as the innkeeper brought a basket of bread still steaming from the oven. Versin broke one open then blew on his fingers. “It’ll be sweaty already, down on the plains.” He scooped a lump of butter onto the torn side of the chunk, and it melted instantly. He bit into it. “Not that I don’t like butter and eggs.”

  “And here they are,” the innkeeper said, setting a platter of stirred eggs and fried ham on the table, along with a bottle of a red southern sauce. “And your plates, gentlemen.” He dealt those out, and then hurried off, as Stammel told Arcolin the troops were starting their breakfast line.

  Sun gilded the mountains behind Valdaire when they came out into the yard. Arcolin handed over the packet of letters. Arneson and Versin checked their girths, then mounted and rode away. Arcolin turned to Stammel, supervising the cohort’s breakfast.


  “All good so far?”

  “Yes, Captain. That Captain Burek—” He nodded across the yard to the corner where Burek was checking off boxes the first soldiers to finish breakfast were loading in a wagon. “—he’s a good choice, sir. Young, but energetic and seems to know his business. Should be a big help to you.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Arcolin said. “What did you think of the others? Or hear of them?”

  “Both have a good reputation in the city. There’s feeling against the Blues for casting Arneson off without even his death money.”

  “They did that?”

  “Yes, sir. Said they’d use it to bury him if he died, and there was no use wasting it beforehand. Their physician said he was hopeless. His friends supported him while he was still fevered, but after that he wouldn’t take charity. Sold everything he had to pay his last bills, and tried to find work as common labor, but most wouldn’t hire him, he looked so bad.”

  “And Versin?”

  “Good, solid, experienced—what I’m guessing Aesil M’dierra told you. Doubt you could’ve found better than the three you signed, Captain.”

  “Guess I learned something from the Duke,” Arcolin said. Then he shook his head. “I’ve got to remember to say ‘the king’; he’s not a duke anymore.”

  “I don’t think he’d mind, sir. And when are they giving you a title, do you know?”

  “Not yet, is what I know. Our prince will be crowned this Midsummer; he might do it then, or he might wait until I come back through in the fall.”

  “Will we be staying south, this next winter? Or do you know?”

  He didn’t know; he should be planning for that but his plans went only as far as Cortes Vonja. “We’ll see how Burek does,” he said. “I have to go north; I would want to be sure Burek is permanent before leaving you with him.”

  “Oh—of course, sir. That makes sense. Only I heard from one of the Clarts that the Duke’s factor who handles the winter quarters rents them out early—we wouldn’t need the whole place, but to reserve part of it …”