Limits of Power

by Elizabeth Moon

  “But I’m not a paladin,” Dorrin said.

  “Does anyone know ahead of time if they’re a paladin?” the king asked, looking at Seklis.

  “Paksenarrion did not, by all accounts,” Seklis said. “But there’s much we don’t know about magelords … Have you done any other magery with water, Duke Verrakai?”

  “No,” Dorrin said. “Although…”

  “What?”

  “Well … my people have told me that in the year since I became Duke, the wells and springs have all become cleaner.” They started to speak, and she held up her hand. “But understand—the people had been forbidden to follow any of the old customs: dressing the wells for the merin in spring, performing the usual ceremonies of cleansing. I did nothing myself but make it clear that they were free to do so.”

  “And did you yourself dress the wells?”

  “Not except putting herbs on the two wells nearest the house. But more importantly, I had my people clean them out in the same way you’d clean a cellar. One of them, in the stableyard, had trash in it when I arrived. Stands to reason if you take rubbish out of a well, the water is cleaner.”

  “And do you feel any particular … affinity for water?”

  “Affinity?”

  “When you were in the Duke’s Company, were you in charge of water, or anything like that?”

  “All the captains were,” Dorrin said. “Dirty water makes troops sick.” She thought back, trying to remember if she’d ever done anything, however minor, to indicate any power over water. Nothing came to mind. “I do not remember that I knew more, or was more careful, than the other captains. Besides, at that time my magery had been blocked by the Knight-Commander of Falk.”

  “And was your cohort healthier than the others?”

  “No less healthy, I would say,” Dorrin said. “Duke Phelan—King Kieri—was strict about cleanliness, and ours was healthier than most mercenary companies.” Then she laughed. “One thing, though—I like to swim. Arcolin can swim but does not much like it, and Cracolnya cannot.” She glanced from one to the other and then went on. “I do not think the answer to our puzzle lies in my past. It lies in these—” She touched the regalia.

  That night, Dorrin dreamed of water … waves rising up, so clear she could see the fish swimming in them, stretching into the distance. She could smell the wet sand and rocks, feel wavelets lapping at her feet … and in that dream she walked out into the water until the waves lifted her feet from the sand below. She rode the waves the way a fallen leaf rides the current of a stream. She rose from the water in a fog, looking down on a land with streams and rivers that ran into a blue sea … and fell from the cloud as rain, to wake with rain spattering the windows of Verrakai House.

  She listened to the rain and thought about the regalia. When she’d put the regalia back into the chest, the chest’s lid and body grew together again as soon as she took her hand from it. Whatever mind inhabited the regalia, it was determined to protect itself from anyone but her. Thieves could not steal it. Could another magelord? If Alured the Black had mage powers, would he be able to open the chest? Would the necklace function like a key?

  The next day, a courier rode in from the south. Dorrin paid little attention; she had conferences scheduled with her bankers and several men of business. In late afternoon, she returned to Verrakai House to find that the courier had dropped off a letter from Arcolin, and the king wanted another private conference after dinner. He would, his message said, send an escort.

  Arcolin’s letter occupied her for the next turn of the glass; she accepted the cup of sib Beclan brought her but did not speak until she had finished it. When she put it down, her squires were all three back in the house.

  “I thought you were staying overnight with your family,” she said to Daryan.

  “Lady Mahieran is there with the two—with Beclan’s sisters,” Daryan said. “The girls backed me into a passage and wanted to know all about him. I didn’t know what I could say, so I said I had to leave.”

  “How are they?” Beclan asked.

  Daryan looked at Dorrin.

  “Of course you can tell him,” Dorrin said. “It’s not a state secret. You can’t pass messages—especially not notes—but you can tell Beclan how his sisters looked, and you can tell his sisters how Beclan is doing. Which is very well,” she said with a glance at Beclan.

  “I do miss them,” he said. “Especially Vili. She’s a pest, but—but she’s sweet.”

  “You would not think her sweet if you saw her and my sister together,” Daryan said. “My mother said they’d been a trial all the afternoon. Is that your aunt, Maris Verrakai, who was with them?”

  “Great-aunt. The family bitter apple. She’s a widow; her husband died in one of the old wars. But my father said she was sharp-tongued before that.” Beclan turned to Dorrin. “My lord, supper is ready. Would you rather we brought you a tray?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll eat in the kitchen. I’m ready now.” As they ate, she thought whether to tell them of the threats Arcolin had mentioned. Beclan would need to know, as her heir. The others—their fathers would know soon enough.

  “I’m meeting with the king after dinner,” she said. “I’m sure it’s about what Count Arcolin wrote, threats from the south. But as usual, squires, this is not to be talked of anywhere else—though if your fathers mention it, you may tell them what I’m telling you. Clear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” they all said.

  “You have probably heard about the necklace stolen from Fin Panir—”

  “Yes—and it wasn’t taken by that thief the Marshal-General invited—”

  “Correct, Gwenno,” Dorrin said. “In fact, the Marshal-General sent him to find the thief and get it back, if he could. He followed the trail to Aarenis, where the local Guild captured him and nearly killed him. Arcolin believes the necklace is in the hands of the man I knew as Alured the Black.” She finished the cutlet on her plate before going on. “He’s the one I think may try to invade the north if he can gain control of the Guild League cities. He’s using counterfeiting to disable their economic organization.”

  From their blank looks, she realized they had no idea what that meant. She had expected them—all from wealthy families—to know more about money. She pulled three silver pieces from her belt pouch. “What do you think these are worth?” she asked.

  Beclan answered in terms of the fraction of a gold crown, Gwenno in terms of how much bread a silver would buy in the market. Daryan answered last. “It’s supposed to have a certain amount of silver—weigh a certain amount, but I don’t know how much.”

  “You’re all correct,” Dorrin said. “And you’re all incomplete. I’m supposed to meet with the king again this evening; I don’t have time to explain now. But as you’ll all be part of Tsaia’s rulers someday, you must learn about both true and counterfeit money.” Dorrin finished her supper quickly.

  As she pushed back from the table, Daryan said, “Which of us do you want as escort tonight?”

  “The king’s sending an escort,” Dorrin said. “I suspect he’d rather not have you roaming about the palace waiting for me.”

  “Could we go for a walk in the city?” Daryan asked.

  “No,” Dorrin said. “A night here will do you no harm, and Beclan’s had to be on guard these days you and Gwenno were home with your families. It’s Beclan’s choice whether he wants to sleep early or stay up and talk with you. Daryan, you’re on until the turn of night, and Gwenno, you’ll have the late watch. And before you ask, I don’t yet know what day we’re leaving. It depends on the king’s wishes.”

  They nodded. Beclan, who had been up the previous night, yawned and said he’d like to sleep.

  How urgent do you think the danger is?” the king asked Dorrin. “This man has the necklace, and he’s undermining the Guild League agreements. And there’s this secret passage to the north. Count Arcolin thinks he may have captured one city—” He glanced at the scroll. “—Lûn, alre
ady, by spreading fever.”

  “Lûn and Immervale have outbreaks of fever every year,” Dorrin said, remembering that part of Aarenis all too well. “Low, sometimes marshy land. But to hear that Sobanai Company’s disbanded—that’s serious. They were allies in Siniava’s War; if they were Lûn’s troops, then Lûn will certainly fall. If Vaskronin spread fever—or another disease—and it killed enough, he could take Lûn and Immervale both. This seems what Arcolin’s suggesting. Do you have maps of Aarenis?”

  “Somewhere,” the king said. “I don’t know how accurate they are.”

  Dorrin repressed a sigh. She wanted—they needed—the accurate, annotated maps Kieri Phelan had used. They belonged to Arcolin now. “Sir king, your librarian must find them—I can look at them and add what information I remember. Arcolin has good maps; ask him to have a current one copied and sent to you. The point is that there are two routes from eastern to western Aarenis.” She began to trace them out on the table. “The southern route, along the west-leading branch, is the main trade route and a Guild League road that will take heavy traffic in any weather: stone-flagged, drains to either side. The northern route is not as traveled nor as well built. It connects the east coast, then Sorkill on the west of the Copper Hills, and on through Merinath to Sorellin and Ambela. Most trade turns south from Ambela to Pler Vonja, but there’s a usable track along the foothills all the way west to Valdaire.”

  The others stared at the tabletop as if trying to make it a map. “So—you are saying Vaskronin could move west by either route?”

  “Exactly. Or both, if he has enough troops. If he has Lûn and Immervale, he can ignore the eastern branch of the Immer, take Koury, and then strike Sorellin or Ambela, cutting off any reinforcements from the east—if any are left—to command the north road. Once past Ambela and on the lesser-used track, no cities impede him and he could bypass opposition. Up the main trade road, he needs to take Cortes Cilwan—” She paused. The Count of Cilwan was still Andressat’s ward, his father having been killed in Siniava’s War and his elder sister married to one of Andressat’s sons, who had taken over as regent. How solid was his support in the city?

  “Then surely he will take the northern route,” High Marshal Seklis said. “It is much to his advantage.”

  “What about supply?” the king asked.

  Dorrin nodded. “Yes. If he moves on the northern track, he must take all his supplies with him; the foothill farms aren’t rich, though he can eat mutton until it comes out his nose. If he takes Cilwan and Vonja, he will have food, arms, treasure in plenty.”

  “Which do you think he’ll do?”

  “I don’t know. He is clever; he learned from us that last year in Siniava’s War. He will try for surprise, and he will do something we do not expect. Without knowing his resources—how many troops he has, what supplies he has stocked—and whatever powers of magery he has, with or without the necklace, I cannot hazard a guess. That Pargunese commander used Achrya’s powers to ensorcel his troops and push them past what men will do on their own. If Vaskronin has that ability, he could do more with a smaller army.”

  “Arcolin promises us frequent reports,” the king said. “As soon as he hears anything—”

  “You can be sure he will do his best,” Dorrin said. “If it please you, sir king, let us go to the library and see what maps you have—I have none—and I will share all I know of the lands of Aarenis as it was when I last saw it.”

  “I met the Count of Andressat,” the king said. “He did warn us.”

  “And he is a staunch friend,” Dorrin said. “But his land does not lie on either of those roads. He will do well if he can defend his own land.”

  The royal library’s maps of Aarenis were as old and faulty as Dorrin had feared, but she was able to show the others where the roads were and make clear the dangers ahead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Fossnir Outbounds, Aarenis

  Three hands of days after Midsummer, Arcolin was leading his cohort alongside the Guild Road—a patrol that had proven very successful in deterring not only bands of robbers, but quarrels among caravans at this busy season—when he was hailed by a caravan master.

  “You’re the new Duke’s Company commander, aren’t you?” the man said when Arcolin rode closer. “I remember that horse from last year—when those foot travelers were attacked.”

  “That’s right,” Arcolin said.

  “Have you heard one of old Andressat’s sons is missing?”

  “No. When? Which one?”

  “Whichever one had their eastern fort. He was due at Cortes Cilwan for Midsummer Feast—visiting his sister or some such—and never arrived. Gossip along the road is he’d been riding out alone in Vonja and Cilwan lands, to and from Cortes Cilwan. Andressat patrols haven’t found him yet. There was a courier left Cortes Cilwan Midsummer night for Valdaire, they say, looking for word of him along the road.” The man hawked and spat. “What’s your contract this year, may I ask?”

  “Foss Council, Guild League security. Road patrols and other duties.”

  “Good to know,” the man said. “We had a bit of bother coming across Vonja. Do you know if that bad place in the Valdaire outbounds is clear?”

  “So I hear from Valdaire’s patrols,” Arcolin said. “I haven’t been by there since we marched here.” He turned his mount and rode back to his cohort.

  Arcolin remembered what Burek had told him about Andressat’s sons. Was this the difficult one who had disappeared? Had he defected to Alured? Not a topic to discuss here by the road.

  The rest of the day’s patrol passed without anything but the usual—the cohort intervened in a stoppage when one trader’s third wagon dropped a wheel and others tried to swerve around it. Teamsters yelled at one another about precedence, traffic stacked up behind … until the hundred and three armed men, plus two very determined captains, got everyone back in line and moving again—albeit more slowly. Burek had a tensquad unload the wagon and guard its contents while the trader’s own people mounted the spare wheel Guild League law required each trader to carry. Arcolin ordered all pedestrians and riders to the side paths and then alternated the traffic flow—two northbound, two southbound. He sent another tensquad back down the road in each direction to slow oncoming traffic and tell them to maintain their intervals and a courier to Fossnir. Anyone whose vehicle broke down on the road was assumed to be overloaded or lacking maintenance and due a fine; Fossnir would send out an official to assess it.

  In camp that evening, Arcolin told Burek what he’d heard.

  “That would be Filis,” Burek said. “The one who was angry about the Count offering me the family name.”

  “Angry enough to turn traitor to his family?”

  “I don’t know,” Burek said. “They told me he was the family hothead, but hothead doesn’t mean cold heart. And if it’s true that he was riding alone back and forth to Cortes Cilwan, it’s just as likely that Alured’s agents captured him.”

  “But he’s bound to know important family secrets.”

  “Yes. And Alured would want them. We can hope he’s just lying out somewhere with a broken leg, unable to get to help, and they find him quickly.”

  “Dead would be better than Alured’s captive,” Arcolin said, remembering what he’d seen in the Immer port cities after Siniava’s defeat. Burek stared at him. “I am serious,” Arcolin said. “I know what he does to prisoners.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Lyonya

  As time passed and no more obvious dangers threatened, Kieri decided to visit Tolmaric’s domain and see for himself how the work on the roads and the port was progressing. Arian stayed behind, for the summer heat tired her more than usual, though her pregnancy scarcely showed. “But are you well enough I can leave?” Kieri asked.

  “I am well,” she said. “It is, I’m informed by every Sier’s wife in Chaya and your uncle Amrothlin, a predictable effect of half-elven pregnancy at this stage, and I am advised to be very glad it is so
early, and to eat the proper foods. Though not all agree on what those are.” She laughed then. “Go, and do not worry.”

  “I cannot help worrying, but couriers will keep the dust in the air between us. Do not fail to send word daily.”

  “Of course,” Arian said.

  Kieri rode off with his Squires. How different from the previous summer, when he had been beset with visiting princesses and their difficult guardians and had sensed impending war. Now every tenday, Torfinn of Pargun sent a message reporting on the progress of rebuilding or offering advice on the design of a “proper port.” Torfinn wrote as he spoke, and even in writing had a tongue like a rasp, but all that old animosity had burned away. And the king of Kostandan seemed downright friendly, crediting Kieri with Ganlin’s chance of marrying royalty in Tsaia.

  But the Lady’s death made a difference, though not in Kieri’s sense of the taig. While she was alive, the elves—when not absent with her—seemed full of purpose, vividly alive. Now, when he saw elves at all, they seemed uncertain, vague, and almost too cooperative. No elves had come to the Midsummer ceremonies.

  Still, they had not left the kingdom, and that was to his credit. He had asked their advice on the road west toward Dorrin’s domain—which trees might be cut, which must be left—and they had answered sensibly enough. They had been alarmed at the thought of a river port, but mollified somewhat by his intention to use the scathefire tracks as the road to it.

  “ ’Tis a pity, in that case, the scathefire did not burn along the river from Riverwash to where you want the port,” one said. He was younger, Kieri had been told, scarcely five hundreds old. The others were horrified, he could tell.

  He shook those thoughts from his mind. Today, riding down the scathefire track with fresh green showing at its margins, he need not deal with elves. Today was for today’s problems.