Oath of Fealty

by Elizabeth Moon

“I’m glad you slept,” Harak said, before Arcolin could say anything. “If you’ll trust us, I swear by Gird and the High Lord we will care for him. Everything. He’s still fighting; the fever’s a little less, your surgeon says. I think we’ve convinced him we’ll keep up the cooling cloths. They do seem to help a little. The Councilors came by, wanting to talk to you, but I sent them away. You’d been in a fight yourself—”

  “Nothing like his,” Arcolin said.

  “If he recovers,” Harak said, “it will be several tendays—perhaps as long as Midsummer—before he’s fit to return to you—if he can. I will send word, if there’s anything—”

  Arcolin went to the platform again. Seli was at Stammel’s head, whispering to him. When he saw Arcolin he moved aside; Arcolin laid his hands on Stammel’s head—would it be for the last time?—and said, “Stammel—old friend—hold that line! Hold it, until the enemy’s gone. I will be back; I swear it. Friends are with you.”

  “I have Girdsmen enough for the chores,” Harak said. “Your people are needed elsewhere, but for four or five, if you can spare them, to keep talking to him, reminding him who he is.”

  “Yes,” Arcolin said. “Sergeant Devlin—your choices?”

  “Corporal Arñe, Little Tam, Bald Seli—he’s here, Doggal, Suli—she’s only a first-year but she was promoted in that fight—”

  “I remember,” Arcolin said. “Good choice. So we have someone here to watch with him now, and we’ll send the rest back. Marshal, I thank you for your hospitality, but I cannot let it stretch to feeding and housing five of my soldiers without compensation.” He dug into his belt pouch and pulled out a handful of natas. “Here’s a start; I’ll stop by my banker on the way out and make sure he knows you can draw on the account as you need. Captain—” The Captain of Tir looked up. “My thanks, and Stammel’s, for your prayers.” To the rest of his people, Arcolin said, “All you Phelani but Bald Seli, come with me now. Time to go—”

  “Sir …!” It was more protest than anything else. Arcolin shook his head at them. “Could he be in better hands? Can any of us pray like three Marshals of Gird and a Captain of Tir? Stammel will have our prayers as we do our duty; he will have five of the Company with him at all times. Sergeant Devlin has chosen them well. Form up!”

  His horse, rested, fed, saddled, stamped outside; Vik held the rein while he mounted. “Devlin—take them back to camp; tell Burek to start out. Once more I must finish a few things in the city before I follow.”

  “Sir, with all due respect … put your helmet on this time.”

  Arcolin unhooked it from the saddle and put it on, fastening the chin strap. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, torn between grief and pride. “You’re absolutely right.” At the end of the street, he turned toward the street of moneychangers, and heard his men marching away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It was noon before Arcolin made it out of Cortes Vonja. In addition to visiting Kostin the banker, where courtesy demanded he accept a glass of cordial and nibble a few of the seed-crusted cakes while ensuring the Marshal would have access to Company funds, he had to visit the Council chambers once more. They insisted on having one of their clerks take down his story of the previous day’s events and were inclined to blame him for not warning them of Korryn’s magical abilities. He set them straight, and they finally agreed that he could not be blamed for not knowing what they and their guards had also not seen.

  Now, in the heat of midday, with the sun beating down on his helmet, Arcolin set his slower mount off at a steady amble. He had left the speedier chestnut in the city, for his people to use if they needed to contact him. The cohort was long out of sight; they would be—if Burek had them moving as briskly as he hoped—between the first two villages.

  Away from the city, the countryside was just as hot but smelled better. Fat cattle grazed in the water meadows near the river; beyond that, a patchwork of grain fields in brilliant greens, orchards in darker colors now the flowers had fallen. In a few, early cherries were turning color, red as blood. Along the hedgerows, brambleberries flowered in shades of pink and rose; boneset and heal-all raised their white and blue clusters; myriad other flowers—yellow, pink, red, blue—made the hedgerows a ribbon of color. Arcolin noticed the beauty, but his mind was fixed ahead on the cohort and behind on Stammel.

  Within a half-glass, dust showed where the cohort might be, just beyond the village he could see. His horse pricked its ears and quickened its pace a little. Arcolin squinted, but could not make out the details under the dust. He heard nothing; the wind blew across the road, not along it.

  As he came to the village, no one fled. A woman hanging washing on the bushes outside her cottage barely looked at him; children ran beside him a short way, then went back to whatever they’d been doing. It was too hot for the two dogs he saw to give chase; each barked from its own resting place under a berry bush, but without getting up.

  Now he could see a little better … wagons, with horses tied behind. Burek had mounted scouts out on the flanks, as he should; at that distance, he could not see the colors, but the formation was enough. In spite of his worry about Stammel, his heart lifted. This was his place; these were his people; of course he had to be here. He nudged his mount out of the amble into a canter. The guards on the rear wagon raised a shout … and then he was within easy hail.

  “Yo, Captain! How is he?”

  Arcolin reined in. “The Marshal thinks the fever may have dropped a little. Where’s the surgeon?”

  “Asleep in the first wagon, Captain.”

  “Good. And the others—?”

  “The same. Captain Burek said he wanted them ready to fight later.” The slightest tone of uncertainty there.

  “Exactly right,” Arcolin said. He lifted the reins, and his mount picked up the fast amble again, past the first wagon, past the pack mules loaded with sacks of grain, past the cohort—smaller than it had been—Devlin alone at the head of it, and then Burek, on his roan.

  “Sorry it took me so long,” he said to Burek as he came abreast of him. “First the bankers, and then the Council. Would you believe they thought it was my fault Korryn attacked? When they were the ones who’d insisted on an examination?”

  Burek shook his head. “Vonja,” he said.

  “Yes, indeed. I’d rather deal with Foss Council any day.”

  “How is he, sir?”

  “Still fighting,” Arcolin said. “Three Marshals and a Captain of Tir are with him; they’ve pledged the resources of both grange and camp to do everything they can. I don’t know—” He took a breath. It would not help Burek or the cohort to hear him say they could not go on without Stammel. He should not even think it. “I’ve been thinking about who to make temporary sergeant and corporals. With Arñe back there, we’re short on both. I’ll talk to Devlin, of course, but I wanted to ask your thoughts.”

  “Mine?” Burek looked surprised, then thoughtful. “I haven’t been with them long enough, is my thought. Let me think. There’s Jenits … he’s always right there, doing what he should and more. Volya’s another good one, but you have many good troops. And I’m not sure—besides that—what to look for.”

  “You’re on the right track with Jenits,” Arcolin said. “It’s not just being good with weapons, or obeying orders. We have long-time veterans who are steady as stone in a battle, reliable when someone else is giving the orders, but will not stir themselves without. What we need in corporals is someone with the potential to be a sergeant, and what we need in sergeants is someone who can see what needs to be done and do it—or know who to tell. It’s not age and experience; you find youngsters with the ability to see and the will to do, and older ones too. We may not have formal battles this season, but if we did you’d see that our sergeants and corporals also keep order in battle. Exhorting, encouraging, reminding recruits what commands mean. So they must be steady, able to stay calm in any situation.”

  “I don’t think all companies choose them that way,” Burek sa
id, frowning slightly.

  “No, they don’t,” Arcolin agreed. “But it works for us, and it worked for Aliam Halveric. Some companies won’t let women into those positions, which is silly. One of the best sergeants I ever had—no shame to Stammel—was Dzerdtya. She didn’t want to be a captain, she said when offered the chance at knight’s training, but you could not ask a better cohort sergeant. We saw that in her from the first tenday of her training.”

  “She retired?” Burek asked.

  “She died,” Arcolin said. “At Dwarfwatch, along with my junior captain Ferrault. She and Stammel I would place at the top rank. Different personalities, but everything you could want in a sergeant.” And the cohort had survived Dzerdtya’s death; it would survive Stammel’s, if that came to pass.

  “My father said I was crazy to become a soldier,” Burek said. “He was content as horsemaster, and thought I should be, but I said you could die of a kick to the head or a bad fall.”

  “Crazy or not, I’m glad to have you here,” Arcolin said. “You did well keeping the cohort in order while I was in the city.”

  His horse threw up its head; so did Burek’s roan. Arcolin raised his hand and signaled halt; behind him the cohort stamped its halt; far behind, two horses snorted. One of the forward scouts came into view, waving for attention. Arcolin checked his flanking scouts; both had halted, waiting for orders. He waved to the forward scout to come in and report.

  “Captain—that village where we took the headman—the brigands must’ve attacked. There’s smoke—looks like two cottages burned—no sign of that herd of cows.”

  “They probably attacked the night after we went through,” Arcolin said. “Any sign of the villagers?”

  “Could be bodies on the lane, I didn’t go closer to count.”

  “They massacred the whole village?” Burek said.

  “Probably not,” Arcolin said. “Probably killed a few, took a few prisoner to do work in their camp, and sent the rest away with threats. They want to scare their food supply, not destroy it.” He looked at Devlin. “Devlin, come up the road with me a bit.”

  Out of earshot of the cohort, he said, “We may be fighting later today or tonight. Who do you want for sergeant and corporals?”

  Devlin shook his head at first. “None of ’em’s ready to be sergeant—but I have been thinking—”

  “Well, think faster. They may have set up that village as a trap and it’s less than a glass away.”

  “Yes, Captain. In that case … Jenits as sergeant. Kef and Sim as corporals. They’re all young, so they won’t mind being bumped back when we’re back to normal.” His look at Arcolin pled for reassurance Arcolin couldn’t give.

  “Or when we have more time to consider,” Arcolin said. “Good point. Go tell ’em; let them know it’s temporary.” So far, he told himself.

  Devlin pulled Jenits up to the front, then Kef and Sim, and told them what they’d need to do as they continued on to the village. Arcolin sent additional scouts out.

  They all smelled smoke now, wisps of it still rising from ruined cottages. The headman’s cottage—a ruined heap. The one next to it, and the one across the lane, also burned. Heaps of rags that were, as they neared, clearly bodies … three men … four women … two children. The other cottages, still whole, were tight-shuttered in the midday heat. A trampled track across the young grain showed which way someone had come and gone.

  Arcolin raised his voice. “If anyone is hiding here: Your former headman is under sentence in Cortes Vonja for aiding the brigands who did this to you. You have no safety here while the brigands prosper; you should go to the city, or a village where you have relatives.”

  No one answered, but he was sure there were listening ears, whether villagers or brigands.

  “Do we follow them?” Burek asked.

  “Not where they want us to,” Arcolin said. “They’ve had plenty of time to set up a good ambush on land they know far better than we do. We’ll go on south and then cut east where I hope they won’t see us doing it. But we will bury these bodies and make sure the village well’s clean. Someday people will live here again.” He looked at the sky. “If we do all that, we might as well camp in the village tonight.”

  By nightfall the dead had been decently buried, and timbers and stones from the ruined cottages arranged in a barrier to protect a perimeter around the remaining buildings. Arcolin insisted on checking inside each of the cottages. “Not for survivors,” he explained to Burek. “For brigands waiting to attack us.” They found neither people nor food.

  Somewhat to Arcolin’s surprise, they were not attacked that night, and made an early start the next morning without incident. They passed through the village where they had found the merchant and his wagons before; the headwoman grinned at them and waved as they approached.

  “We have one friend,” Burek said.

  “As long as we bring gifts,” Arcolin said. “You ride on; I’m going to talk to her.”

  “I knew you’d come back,” she said, when he reined in beside her and dismounted. “What did them in the city do to that fellow with the wagons?”

  “The merchant? Threw him out of the Guild. Confiscated his wagons and his merchandise.”

  “Them brigands is mean, angry folk,” the woman said.

  “Angry?”

  “Yesternoon, it was, when they come riding down the road like a pride of princes. Smelled of smoke and death; I had all my people hidden. Said they was hunting the one as told the Fox army—they mean you—how to find their supplies.” She grinned wider. “I told ’em you didn’t need anyone’s help; you’d done no more than walk past the wagons and you knew about the false floors.”

  “Did they find the gifts?”

  She shook her head. “Gifts, my lord? I never saw no gifts, nor did anyone else. Nobody gives us gifts; the tax man takes away and so do them villains, I told ’em so. They looked in my house, walked in like they owned it, but o’ course I have nothing of theirs.” She leaned close. “We had full bellies that night, my lord, all the mush even the childer could stuff down, and our hogs had the rest. Wasn’t a single extra grain here when they searched, nor anything but what they expected. And it was good warning you gave us, not to store any. They was looking for that red southern grain in our jars—stirred every one and found only what we grow here, wheat and spelt.”

  “When did they come?” Arcolin asked.

  She thought a long time, spreading one hand to touch her fingers, then shaking it to cancel the count; he wasn’t sure she knew how to reckon days. Finally she said. “It wasn’t the night we feasted, or the night after, or the night after that, but the next day.”

  “Thank you,” Arcolin said. “And now—do you know where the outbounds of Vonja are? We’re bidden to stay within them. Is there another village within the bounds farther on this road?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, my lord. There was one before Siniava’s War, but I heard it had been destroyed, and I haven’t left here since I got back. There’s our hog-wood just to the south of us—and there’s a sort of ford over the creek in about a sunhand’s walk, but your wagons may have trouble with it. The pigherds say someone should have repaired it. That other village was most of the day’s walk at one time.”

  “Perhaps we should look,” Arcolin said. “Thank you, for your time. I am sorry I have no grain for you this time—but this—” He handed her two of the copper coins southerners called pages.

  “Thank you, my lord. You was kind before and these’ll hide easy, if them brigands come back.”

  Beyond the village, the lane deteriorated even more as it led into the woods. The wheelmarks of the merchant’s wagons showed clear, and old ruts with them, but certainly wagons passed this way only a few times a year. Soon the trees shut out all sight of the village behind. The road twisted back and forth as they climbed a low rise. Around one turn, they came on a sounder of swine, the herdboy trying to prod them off the way, but two were intent on something on one
verge, rooting determinedly, and the boy’s stick made no difference to them. A prick from the tip of Arcolin’s sword was another matter; with an annoyed grunt, the two trotted off down a woods path after the others; the boy gaped at Arcolin, then ran after them.

  Down the other side of the rise, they came to the stream the headwoman had mentioned, the remnants of a gravel ford now scattered by many a spring flood, and mucky holes on both banks. Rough-trimmed timbers along both sides showed how the merchant had managed to get his wagons across. But with only seven men altogether? Arcolin rode out into the stream and looked upstream and down. On the right bank of the stream, a game trail wide enough for humans ran alongside the stream, and when he looked closely—yes, rain-softened boot marks.

  “Checkpoint,” he said to Burek. “The ford’s been deliberately made more difficult. They’d meet the wagons from the south here—check the cargo—help them across—and then meet them again at that village—must be closer to their camp.” He chewed his lip, trying to think out the logic of it. How was the merchant paid? Wait—those two sacks of coins he’d found in the false-bottom of the first wagon, under the sacks of grain. They had not been marked with the seals of the Moneychangers’ Guild. Would a merchant carry so much of his own money after he bought goods and before he sold them? Arcolin had first thought of that money as a bribe … but if the brigands hadn’t taken it—why not? What if, instead of a bribe, the brigands had added it to the load?

  “Burek, when I was in Valdaire, my banker told me some Guild League cities had started minting bad coins. Did you hear anything about that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Burek rode his horse into the ford. “M’dierra’s company got some; she was furious. It was while I was with that cohort in Andressat. She had the rest over in Cilwan, and her banker refused about twenty percent of the payment. She had a row with the Count of Cilwan—it was Cilwan-minted coins the banker refused—and the Merchants’ Guild came in on his side, until the banker gave a public demonstration. The coins were counterfeit, all right. The natas were the weight of nas, lead-cored. The Count blamed merchants for bringing in counterfeit, swore up and down his mint was honest. The merchants were furious and blamed the Count; the Moneychangers’ Guild backed M’dierra’s demand for the rest of her pay. But Cilwan’s not the only mint to turn out bad coins—there’s been complaints of other mints, too.”