The two approached the head table, and bowed slightly. The man stayed about a half pace behind the woman; interesting positioning. No doubt that’s partially because she’s the ranking officer—but it’s also partially because he’s guarding her back. Wonder if anyone else will notice that.
The young woman began to speak; she had a wonderful, musical contralto, and she knew how to use it to gain her listener’s attention. Kero listened closely and carefully as Talia explained what had brought them. The girl’s Rethwellan wasn’t bad, but her accent and occasional odd turn of phrase made it very clear that she didn’t have complete mastery of the language yet.
“... and so my Queen has sent me here, directly, rather than to speak through her embassy. You will have heard, your majesty, of the events in Hardorn these past two years?” the young woman asked. Faram nodded, and she clasped her hands behind her. Only Kero was near enough to see that those hands were white-knuckled with tension. She’s scared to death, Kero realized with surprise. She’s nowhere near as casual as she seems about this; it’s a life-and-death situation, and she knows it. But she’s not going to give that away. She felt herself warming to the young woman, for no apparent reason other than a feeling that she was going to like this Talia.
“Ancar of Hardorn is friend to no man, and no nation,” Talia continued flatly, and there was something in her lack of expression that sent off vague feelings of alarm in Kero. After a moment she realized what it was. Severely traumatized veterans would speak in that flat, expressionless tone, about the battle experiences that had broken them.
What on earth could King Ancar have done to the Queen’s Own Herald? And how did he happen to get hold of her? And why? Something terrible had happened to this young woman at Ancar’s hands, she was as certain of that as she was of her own name.
And so was Need. For the first time in years, Kero felt the blade stirring.
“Ancar is guilty of regicide and patricide,” Talia continued. “He has visited terrors that no sane man would countenance on his own people, and he has turned to dark powers to grant him his desires. I have proofs of this with me, if you would care to see them.”
Faram shook his head, and indicated that she should go on.
“We stopped him once, we of Valdemar,” she said. “We held him at our Border and turned him back. Now he amasses a new army, one of men and steel rather than magic, and he marches again on our Border.”
“So what is it you want?” Faram asked, leaning back in his chair so that his face was in shadow and could not be read.
“Your aid,” Talia said simply. “We simply don’t have enough armed men to hold him back this time.”
As the Queen’s Own Herald continued to speak, Kero grew more and more puzzled. I don’t understand this. Grandmother must have told me the story of the way she and Tarma got rid of Leslac the Bard a dozen times—and every single time she told it, she mentioned the pledge King Stefansen gave to Herald-Prince Roald; that Rethwellan owed Valdemar a favor equal to that of putting a King on his rightful throne. And how Valdemar had never redeemed that favor. She watched as Talia’s hands clenched tighter and tighter behind her back, the only outward sign of the young woman’s increasing desperation. I know for a fact that Valdemar hasn’t cashed in the pledge since Grandmother told me the story. So why is she pleading for help when she could demand it?
She glanced back at King Faram—and saw that he was just as tense as the Herald, and a swift appraisal of Daren, whom she knew better than she knew his brother, convinced her that they were mentally torn—
For some reason, she decided at last, Queen Selenay purely and simply does not know about the pledge. Faram knows about it, though, and Daren—they’ve figured out that Selenay doesn’t know of the pledge, and as people, they want to help. But as the King, Faram has to be reluctant to get Rethwellan involved in a war with someone who isn’t even on his border, who isn’t any kind of a threat to him.
So he is not going to remind anyone about the pledge, if it’s been forgotten.
In a way, Kero could understand that kind of attitude—except that it was ruinously short-sighted. Half of their trade is with Valdemar, and that trade is going to vanish if Valdemar’s involved in a losing war. And if Ancar wins—he will be on the border, and he doesn’t sound to me like the kind of neighbor Id welcome. And if Faram can’t see that—
Thanks to Eldan, Kero knew a bit about Heralds and their country, and what she knew—even if only half of it were true—she liked.
And besides that, all through the young woman’s speech, Need had been rousing, putting a slowly increasing pressure on the back of her mind. It was pretty nebulous, confined to a vague feeling of help her!, but it was certainly getting stronger. By the time this Talia had come to the end of her speech, the sword was all but screaming in Kero’s ear.
She waited for a moment to see what Faram would do; it was always possible that he’d surprise her and offer Talia his help. But he didn’t; he spoke of the necessity of remaining neutral, of the problems with Karse and the need to guard his own border. He temporized, and said in polite, diplomatic terms that he wasn’t going to help, as the man’s face fell and the woman grew as rigid as a statue of ice. Kero felt their anguish as if it was her own. Clearly, this had been their last hope.
I can’t take this anymore. Kero sighed, hoped Daren would forgive her, and stood up.
All eyes in the room swung toward her, and even the King stopped in mid-sentence as her chair scraped across the amber marble of the floor.
“Majesty,” she said, slowly and distinctly, with every ounce of dignity and authority she could muster. “You said in this very hall as the feast began, that I could crave a boon of you in return for my actions at the hunt this afternoon.”
She saw Daren clutch the table just out of the corner of her eye, his expression pleading with her not to say what he was sure she intended to say. She ignored him. Even if Need hadn’t been goading her, the nagging of her own conscience would have forced this on her.
“This is what I ask, Majesty,” she told him, fixing her gaze directly into his eyes. “And I think it is no more than what all our honor demands. As not only the one who is owed a boon, but as my Grandmother Kethry’s granddaughter, I ask: hold to the pledge your grandfather Stefansen made to Selenay’s grandfather Roald in the library of this very castle.”
The Heralds’ faces were equally comic studies in bafflement. Daren buried his face in his hands. She waited for the King’s anger to break out.
But although he winced, he gave no sign of anger. Instead, he only sighed, and shook his head, then looked back into her eyes and spoke softly, directly to her. “I never thought that it would be a mercenary Captain that would act as my conscience,” he said ruefully. “Well, since the cat is well and truly escaped from the bag—”
He raised his voice. “My lords, my ladies, we have some private business to attend to—but let the feast continue. We shall return to you when we may.”
A hum of conversation rose when he had finished and stood up. “Daren, Captain—come with me, if you will. I have need of both of you.” He gestured, and Kero took her place at his side, though not without a certain trepidation. She could only remember the old saying: be careful what you ask for, you might get it.
I just asked for him to remember his grandfather’s promise. He may well ask me to remember who and what I am.
He directed the two Heralds to follow him, and led the little procession out a small door behind the head table, down a warmly lit hallway, and into a room Kero had not seen before.
And there was no doubt what room this was, either, not when it was lined in books, floor to ceiling. This was the famous library. The King waved at the various chairs available, all of them worn shabby and comfortable-looking, and Kero sat gingerly on the edge of one, not entirely certain that she wanted to be here—
The King waited until all four of them were seated, before speaking. “You,” he said, pointing at Kero
in a way that made her want to sink into the chair and hide, “are both a most welcome and a most inconvenient guest, Captain. I am extremely grateful that you were with us on this afternoon’s hunt, but I could wish your excellent memory to the Shin’a’in hell. Perhaps it is not to my credit, but I would have preferred not to have my country involved in a war that poses us no danger.”
She stayed silent, since she couldn’t think of any way to respond to his words that wasn’t undiplomatic at best. He dropped his hand, and shrugged. “But you reminded me of an unredeemed pledge and saved my honor, if not my country. I suppose I should be grateful for that, even if, like medicine, this is not what I would have chosen.”
The man—Herald Dirk—raised his hand tentatively. “Your pardon, Majesty,” he said, when Faram responded to the movement by pivoting to face him, “but we haven’t got the faintest idea of what you have been talking about. Just what is this pledge?”
Faram turned back to Kero. “Well, Captain,” he said smiling a little crookedly. “It began with your grandmother and your Clanmother. Would you care to start?”
Kero cleared her throat, swallowed to give herself a moment to think, and began. “It all started—for my grandmother, at least—when she and her blood-oath sister Tarma joined Idra’s Sunhawks....”
In the end, she and Daren and Faram took turns explaining the entire story to the Heralds. It was Faram who ended the tale, saying, “—so as you can see, Rethwellan owes you what you came to beg of us. I have to admit that if the Captain hadn’t made the question moot, I don’t know whether I would actually have continued to allow you to remain in ignorance of that debt. I’ve been corresponding with my niece Elspeth, and she’s a charming child—but joining my country to yours in a war is not a step to make based on how charming one’s niece is.”
“But—” Talia began, when Faram held up his hand to interrupt her.
“My conscience, at least, is much happier with the secret out in the open, even if my coldly practical side is not. The real problem, my lady, is that the Rethwellan army is composed mainly of foot. That is why we hire mercenary Companies when we need other forces. Even if I could muster them, and start them off for Valdemar immediately, they couldn’t possibly be there before....”
He looked to Daren for his answer, and got it. “Spring Equinox, assuming we started on the road tomorrow,” Daren said promptly. And the Heralds’ faces fell again. “And there’s no way we can get them mustered and on the march for at least a fortnight, so they’ll arrive later than that. But—”
“But?” said three voices together, as the King raised an eyebrow.
“The Skybolts are mounted—and really, that’s exactly the kind of troops you of Valdemar need for the initial encounters. Skirmishers, experts in ambush and strike-and-run, anything to throw Ancar’s army off-balance and keep them that way. Kero knows warfare like—like no one except her Clanmother.”
He made a little bow in her direction, as she unaccountably blushed. Dear gods, blushing, and at my age! And not for a pretty little compliment, but because he says that I’m a better tactician than anyone but Tarma! Certainly shows where my priorities have gone!
“She may even surpass Tarma by now; it wouldn’t surprise me. Between the Skybolts, the Valdemar forces, and Kero’s knowledge of tactics, she can distract Ancar for long enough that we’d have a chance to come in to take Ancar’s rear. In fact, if I were the Captain, I’d lead them chasing wild hares all over the countryside and have them exhaust themselves to no purpose.”
Kero ran the basic plan in her head, and found that she liked it. “Huh,” she said thoughtfully. “I think it would work. Especially if we let them get just inside the Border enough so they think they’re winning, then lead them up along it. Frankly, Heralds, you’re better off with us; we get paid whether we win or lose, and we don’t have any national pride tied up with appearing to lose. You might have a hard time convincing your own troops to look like cowards, but my people have done it before, and accept it as good tactics. Daren, if you let me run them ragged, you’d probably make it to us at exactly the right moment. And he won’t be expecting you; he’ll probably be completely off-guard. I’ve only got one question—we didn’t make any pledges. My lords, my lady, we’re mercenaries, and we don’t work for free. Who’s paying our way?”
“We are,” said Talia and the King at exactly the same moment. They looked at each other, and laughed weakly.
“Split the fee,” Kero advised. “This is going to be a winter march for us, and winter marches don’t come cheaply.”
Talia nodded, somewhat to Kero’s surprise. “I’ve done my share of winter marches,” she said wryly. “I think I can guess what it will be like, going over mountains in a full Company in winter. We were told about you, Captain, and advised and authorized to hire you. That was our next job; to find you and negotiate. I hope you realize how rare that is.”
Eldan? Probably. How can I miss a man so much, when I spent so little time with him, so long ago? Well, whatever, he’s getting his wish; he’s got me coming up to Valdemar now. I’m just as glad the troops don’t know about him, or they’d be placing bets on the outcome of our first meeting. Blessed Agnira, I never thought becoming Captain would mean anything like that!
“I do understand, and I appreciate that this shows your confidence in me and mine,” she said, hoping her voice sounded businesslike and didn’t betray how shaky she felt.
Nods all around the table, and she found herself vowing silently that she would not let these people down. “First things first, since you trust my skill—let’s see if we can’t work out the actual logistics of this thing....”
“I can’t believe this,” Kero said out loud, watching from Hellsbane’s back as the troops rode past, out of the big double gates of Bolthaven and up the road to Valdemar. She shifted in her saddle, and Hellsbane shifted to match her. It was a good day for leaving; not too cold, under a bright-blue, cloudless sky. Good weather was a good omen, and soldiers are as superstitious as any man.
The Skybolts rode in march-formation; two abreast, which made for a long line, but as long as they were in friendly territory, it didn’t matter. It was quite an impressive sight, and the Company looked far larger than it actually was. Every one of them had at least one spare riding animal on a lead-rope behind him, plus his own packhorse. Those with longer strings rode at the head of the column; they’d be breaking the trail, and being able to switch to a fresh horse every time the ones they were riding got tired would keep the column slogging on at a much faster pace than anyone other than Kero guessed. That was one of the Skybolts’ tricks; they had more. A lot more. And in this campaign, they’d probably need every one of them.
“You don’t believe what, Captain?” Shallan asked, her breath puffing out of her hood in a white cloud. She and Geyr waited patiently beside Kero for the last of the column to move out. The other Lieutenants were spaced at roughly equal intervals along the column, so that there would never be an officer out of effective range to handle an emergency.
“I don’t believe them,” she said, pointing her chin at the last of the column, passing out of the gates. Now the quartermaster and his pack-strings moved out. Ten years ago, Kero had made the decision that the Skybolts would have no wagons with them. If something couldn’t be carried horseback, it wouldn’t come with them. Some ingenious, lightweight substitutions had been arrived at, due to the quartermaster’s ingenuity. The tents, for instance, that could be packed twenty to a horse. New poles had to be cut each night, but it was worth it.
“There’s not near enough bitching and moaning,” Kero continued. “Here I am, hauling them out of cozy winter quarters for a midwinter march, a march across all of Rethwellan and over the mountains, and hardly a complaint out of them. What’s wrong?”
“They’re bored, Captain,” said Geyr. “Campaign ended early, they got all their resting out of the way—and half the winter yet to go. They wanted something to do. Besides, the money on this i
s worth a winter march, and it’s not like we’re having to cross enemy territory.”
“Well, it isn’t going to be a Midsummer picnic, either,” Kero replied, as the last of the supply-strings moved out. “The Comb isn’t a bad range, but I’d rather not cross any mountains in winter. Well, that’s the last of them. I’ll see you when we camp.”
Both Lieutenants saluted, so wrapped up in wool and furs that except for Geyr’s black face, Kero couldn’t tell them apart. Every trooper in the lot had a new, fur-lined wool cloak for this campaign; normally clothing was their own responsibility, but Kero knew soldiers, and she didn’t want to lose a badly-needed fighter to frostbite just because the fool gambled away his cloak the night before. Orders were that the cloaks were Company property, like tents and standard weapons; anyone found using them for gambling stakes would find himself shoveling manure, scrubbing pots, and taking the worst of the night-watches. Anyone accepting them would get worse than that.
Kero nodded permission to go, and they spurred their horses onto the side of the road, to canter up past the pack-lines. Shallan would be riding just in front of the quartermaster, Geyr halfway down the line. Tomorrow, the two that had ridden first would move back here, and the other officers would all move up a notch, in strict rotation. Except for Kero, who would ride at the very tail. Winter or summer, tailmost was the worst position on the march, which was why she always took it. That was one of the little things that gave her the respect of her troops, as well as their obedience.
The Price Of Command v(bts-3 Page 8
