“About your provisions,” Kieri said. “I see no pots on the fire.”
“Mm … yes, my lord. We … came away in a hurry. We have only hard travel rations.”
“You will eat well tonight. The palace kitchens are at work on it. Send a squad to the kitchens in a glass.”
“Thank you, my lord king. If I may—it’s good to see you again, sir, and we were all glad to hear about you.”
“Thanks, Talgan. How are the Halverics, down south?”
“Very well, sir, though we were crowding them, all of us there together so long.”
“I had the same problem in the north,” Kieri said. Talking to Talgan, he felt himself sliding back into that world he’d left. “But with the gods’ aid, Arcolin’s got them down south again. I would have taken them myself—” The memory of all those trips to Aarenis went through him like a knife blade—the sights, the smells, that view coming down into the Vale of Valdaire with all the south open before him and every opportunity. He pushed that aside; it was not his world anymore.
“I’d think being a king a lot more pleasant,” Talgan said, relaxing.
“I don’t have to wear armor in a Southern summer, at least,” Kieri said, laughing. “That last year—it’s a wonder Aliam and I both didn’t end up skin and bones from sweating off so much weight.”
Talgan grinned, then sobered. “Well, my lord king, Lord Halveric said to ask you for orders, and then let him know what you wanted of the rest. I’m to send word.”
“Do you have Lyonyan maps in your tent?”
“No, my lord.”
“Well. I should have brought them. I’ll get you one later. Let’s go sit down and I’ll do my best to explain.”
Kieri laid out his plans for the northern defense. “I can use two full cohorts easily. How soon do you think they could move?”
“A few days,” Talgan said.
“I’ve already sent the Royal Archers north,” Kieri said. “After you’ve provisioned here, you should position your group about a half day from the river. I’ve marked that on the map I’ll show you. I’ll send Sier Halveric to you in the morning to discuss provisioning.”
“Shall I send a messenger back for more, Sir King?”
“No,” Kieri said. “I have a new courier service of King’s Squires. I’ll send one of them, and you can have one with you, to use as a messenger here in case of any emergency.”
As he wrote out the message for Aliam, he wondered if his first letters, sent even before the coronation, had reached any of their destinations yet. He still thought of travel times between the north and Valdaire.
Cortes Vonja, Aarenis
Arcolin led the cohort south, away from Cortes Vonja, on a narrow road bordered on either side by fields where young grain stood knee-high. As they approached the first village, they saw people running out of the houses to hide from them.
“Surely the Cortes Vonja militia told them we were coming,” Burek said. “They must know we aren’t brigands.”
“Unless the Cortes Vonja militia’s been robbing them,” Arcolin said. “Or someone else in uniform. I wonder if the brigands are uniformed and the militia commander just happened not to tell us.”
“Surely not.”
“Cortes Vonja had a bad reputation,” Arcolin said. “We’ll find out. I’ve been here before; if the village headman’s still around, he’ll recognize our colors and come talk to me.”
By the time they’d reached the little village square, an older man was hobbling toward them, leaning on a stick.
Arcolin held up his hand and the cohort halted. “Is it Maenthar, my old friend?” he called to the man.
“Is it really the Fox’s company, come to start the war again?” the man asked. “I am Maenthar, indeed. Friend? That depends.”
Arcolin dismounted. “And I am Arcolin, as you see. If it depends on me, we are friends still.” He reached out his hand. The man hesitated but finally reached forward and touched his fingers, then put his own to his chest and forehead; Arcolin did the same.
“I thought you must have died,” Maenthar said. “They said the Fox was gone forever, back over the mountains to the north, and we were forgotten.”
“Never forgotten,” Arcolin said. Something was seriously wrong here; Maenthar had always been friendly and open before. “Even if I had stayed north the rest of my life, I would not have forgotten you and yours.”
“Me alone, now,” Maenthar said. He spat, barely a polite distance from Arcolin’s boots. “Before you wake memories better left asleep, I will tell you. My family died—two sons taken by the Cortes Vonja militia and both died in battle, they told me. One killed here, with my wife and daughter, while I was away to the city, summoned to be told of the other deaths. I have no love for soldiers now, Captain, though I remember you gave us aid that time.”
“I’m sorry,” Arcolin said.
“And they say it’s because the Fox left and went north, and left the land aflame with war. War grows no grain. He started it; he should have ended it. Let the hungry eat, I say, and kill no more.”
“Before,” Arcolin said, “you had wanted Siniava dead.”
“So I did,” Maenthar said. “He was a bad man and his raids threatened us. But now—there are many bad men, all with swords and torches. More bad men with swords than good ones, is what I see. And no peace to grow the grain, but the taxes still go up.”
“We were hired to put down brigands,” Arcolin said. “The ones that rob you and spoil the grain.”
“It does not matter whose boots trample the grain,” Maenthar said, in the same hard voice. “The grain gives no harvest, whoever marches across it. We nearly starved, in the great war, and we are still hungry. If you tell Cortes Vonja what I say, they will arrest me and have me torn in the square. And I no longer care.”
Pity filled Arcolin’s heart. He remembered Maenthar’s open, smiling face from before, his wife who made such good sweetcakes and sold them on market day, his daughter who had peered at the troops from the window of their house until her mother pulled her back inside.
“I have no reason to tell Cortes Vonja,” he said. “I only wanted to assure you that we would do your village no harm; we but march through, and perhaps, by ridding you of brigands, we can ease your burdens.”
“Bring back my wife and children from the grave,” Maenthar said. “I would have no burdens a man could not bear, if they lived again.” He looked away a long moment; Arcolin waited. Then he said, “I apologize, Captain. It is not all your fault, but you are the first I could tell. In the city, they threatened me with a trial for treason because I cried out when they told me my two sons in their army were dead. It was too much, to come back and find the others dead as well, and a hand and half more from the village.”
“It is too much,” Arcolin said. He did not try to stop the tears that flowed. Let the man see he was genuinely moved.
Maenthar was crying too, now. “I tried. I held the village together as best I could—I thought it was over—but then they came from the city and told us we were lazy scum, for sending less grain. I told them we had fewer workers and they said—those men in velvet and fur, with gold chains at their neck—they said work harder.”
“Maenthar—” Arcolin put out his hand again, and this time Maenthar gave his freely. “It is hard,” Arcolin said, remembering the loss of most of his cohort at Dwarfwatch. “I am sorry, that is all I can say.”
“I believe you,” Maenthar said. He ducked his head, swiped at his face. “I will bear you no ill will, I swear it.”
“Nor I you,” Arcolin said. “If sharing your anger with me eased your heart, I am glad.”
“The brigands have not bothered me much here,” Maenthar said, this time softly. “They have come through, telling us not to see them, and they’ve stolen a hen or two, and loaves Casra had set on the windowsill to cool, but they stayed on the road.”
“They were bold to stay on the road,” Arcolin said, as softly.
�
��Oh, they’re bold enough. But I told my people to do as they said, and it would be as well if my people thought I had done the same.”
“If you need to berate me all the way out of the village—” Arcolin said.
“I will,” Maenthar said. “But this time it will be an act.” His smile was rueful but genuine. “Two things: They talk of the old kings coming back, and their leader—of this group at least—has a tattoo on his heart-arm he touches when he speaks of someone called Ibbirun.”
“Thank you,” Arcolin said. Ibbirun … the Sandlord of Old Aare. By repute, the Sandlord was evil, either akin to, or another name for, Gitres the Undoer. He raised his voice, then, for any villagers who’d crept to the backs of the houses to hear. “Well, Maenthar, I’m sorry you feel that way. We were friends once, and I hope will be friends again. We never did you injury, and we intend no injury now.”
“Just go away, that’s the best thing you can do for all of us,” Maenthar said just as loudly; his voice once more edged like a scythe. “Stay out of the fields; give the grain a chance. And keep your men from stealing, if you can.”
“My men don’t steal,” Arcolin said coldly. “As you should remember.” He took the reins back from Burek and mounted, nudged his mount into motion, and the cohort followed.
Once they were well out of the village, Burek said, “That was instructive.”
“Did you hear all of it?”
“Should I have?”
“It depends. I need to know—if you did, I needn’t repeat any of it.”
“Yes, sir, then I did.”
“Cortes Vonja politics,” Arcolin said. “Duke Phelan always thought someone high up there was in league with Siniava, but couldn’t prove it. What if that same person has transferred allegiance to Alured?”
“Would Alured believe it?”
“He might. Or he might let whoever it was believe he believed him.”
Burek rode in silence a few moments. “Field tactics are easier than politics.”
“With one cohort compared to a city, yes. But men are men, either way.”
“Do you think that … Maenthar … will tell the brigands about us?”
“I hope so,” Arcolin said. “It will be better for him and will not hurt us. Even if one of his people spied and saw him being friendly, our past friendship excuses it and we were never alone together.”
Burek blinked. “Did you think of that at the time?”
Arcolin laughed. “We both did, I’m sure. In past years, Maenthar would’ve invited me into his house for a cup of sib, at least. He had good reason not to, as I had good reason not to take him aside.”
“You … think of more things than I do,” Burek said. “I thought I knew what a cohort captain’s job was.”
“In twenty or thirty years you’ll know more,” Arcolin said. “Sooner if you’re the fast learner I expect you are.”
Toward the end of that day, they had passed through another village and set up camp in a pasture beyond it. Arcolin had spoken to the headman of the second village, a young man he did not know. The headman bowed and promised anything Arcolin might want, if only he would not ravage the vill.
“We don’t attack villages,” Arcolin said. “We are on hire from your city, to drive away brigands who rob you and damage your fields.”
“We have no brigands here,” the man said. “I’ve heard they have problems south of here.”
That night, well after dark, two men approached the camp and asked to see the commander. Arcolin chose to see them outside his tent, asking them to join him at the campfire where cooks were heating water to wash the cookpots.
“We wanted to talk to you privately,” one of them said. His gaze shifted back and forth; the other stood hunch-shouldered and silent. “Don’t you have someplace we can go?”
“No,” Arcolin said. They looked at the tents, and back at him; he held his expression and finally the speaker sighed.
“Well, sir … knight, you must be, I guess. It’s like this. That boy Stef, he’s afraid to say, because them brigands threatened him and his wife—she’s that big with their first, due by harvest.”
“So there are brigands.”
“Aye. They come every four hands of days and take toll, and then the damned city militia, that doesn’t stir itself to help us, comes to take taxes. And if you goes after them, sir, they’ll think we told and they’ll be down on us. Burn the fields no doubt. You can’t stop ’em. No one can; there’s too many.”
“More than us?” Arcolin asked.
“They said so,” the second man said. “They said we had to tell you the wrong way, if you made us answer.”
“You haven’t told me any way yet,” Arcolin said.
The first man grinned nervously. “Well—we was thinking, maybe it would be worth something.”
“If they come and find natas in your house,” Arcolin said, “they’ll know you took money from us and then they’re most like to send the whole village up in flames.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking natas,” the man said. “Maybe a few coppers? Maybe two each?”
“I’m thinking nothing,” Arcolin said. “We’ll just go on the way we think is best, good or bad. You can tell the brigands you told us nothing.”
The man gulped; his throat moved as he swallowed. “But he said—”
“Who?”
“I told you,” the second man said. “I told you we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?” Arcolin said.
“Don’t you say anything!” the first man said.
“Oh, give over, Ari,” the second man said. “It’s not going to work, and we can’t be worse off for telling him the truth. He has the men with swords, after all.” He turned to Arcolin. “It’s our headman. He wanted us to find out what you knew, and then send you into an ambush. Ari’s right: they threatened him and he gave in.”
“Who carries the messages back and forth?” Arcolin asked. “You? Either of you?”
“I do, sometimes,” the first man said. “There’s more than one of us.”
“One of them comes to meet you somewhere outside the village? Or inside?”
“Outside.”
“And you’re supposed to report after this meeting, aren’t you? They know you’re here.”
“Yes,” the second man said, when the first hesitated.
“Well, then,” Arcolin said. “Tell them we don’t trust you, would not pay you, and intend to stay on the road, not go haring off across the fields like a bunch of novices.”
“Is that true?”
“I’m telling you,” Arcolin said. He gave a covert hand signal, saw it picked up and passed along. In moments, Stammel was just in view at the far side of the fire, but well back. Arcolin stood abruptly, as if out of patience. “Take these two to the perimeter and send them away,” he said to the nearest soldiers. “Tell the sentries I don’t want them lurking around the camp.” He threw out his hand, as if tossing them away, then turned and went into his tent. Would they go back to the village, or would they go to meet the brigand? He trusted that either way one of his own expert scouts could follow without detection.
Burek was still up, copying the day’s notes onto the map. Arcolin looked over his shoulder. The younger man had neat handwriting, the writing of someone who had been schooled early. “I’m almost done,” Burek said.
“I’ll take the first watch,” Arcolin said. “If there’s trouble, it’ll come after the turn of night. One of us must be fresh, and if we’re lucky I’ll have a report coming in within the turn of the glass.”
“Thank you, sir,” Burek said. Another few minutes, and he sat back, fanning the map with his hand to dry the ink. “That’s all, I think.” Arcolin looked again.
“Very good. If I get a report before your watch, I’ll add it myself.”
Burek followed him outside and disappeared in the direction of the jacks; Arcolin began a circuit of the sentry posts. This was their first truly hostile camp, though after the attack on
the road, he had insisted on a camp defense even under the walls of Cortes Vonja. Here they’d erected a barrier of bramble and stakes.
Arcolin heard nothing he should not hear—their own animals munching grain in their nosebags, the familiar night sounds of the south—grassfrogs, treefrogs, various insects, a night-bird singing in the distance—were what they should be at this time of year. A light breeze eased across the camp, moving away the smells of men and armor, fire and food, and bringing a hint of cow dung, sheep, and the stronger smell of spring grass and herbs. He greeted each sentry, took a report, and went on to the next. At the sunrising post, opposite the camp entrance, he met Devlin, making a circuit the other way.
“All’s well summer-side, Captain,” Devlin said.
“All’s well, winter-side, Sergeant,” he said. They each continued their respective circuit, meeting again at the camp entrance, sunsetting.
“A quiet night,” Devlin said. “But watchful, I think. Or maybe I’ve been away too long.”
“I threw two rocks in the water,” Arcolin said. “I’d like to hear a splash.”
As if in answer, a distant cry broke through the gentler night noises. When it cut off, not a sound came from frogs, insects, birds, for what seemed a long time, then something went “crrrrick … crrrrick …” again.
Stammel appeared out of the darkness. “Trouble?” he said to Arcolin.
“I don’t know yet.” They waited another while in silence, and then Arcolin said, “I hope that wasn’t one of ours—” He stopped abruptly as one of the horses stamped, then snorted. Then he heard the footsteps running this way and laboring breath.
Devlin, Stammel, and the sentries kindled more torches; Arcolin squinted into the gloom and could just make out something moving, coming nearer. He hoped it was his people, but he couldn’t yet tell.
Then they were panting up to the entrance, gasping the password, with a dark form trussed up in a Phelani cloak between them. “Stupid clods of dirt-grubbers.” That was Vik, the wiry redhead who had been one of Paks’s close friends. “If they’d just said what you told them—but they didn’t, and the brigands killed them before we could do anything.”
Oath of Fealty Page 33
