“Who are you?” Selfer asked. Those who were left looked as if they could scarcely stand, but they had lined up in rows.
“Corporal Nannsir, sir. We’re what’s left of Sobanai Company, sir, and we surrender to the Duke’s Company under the Mercenary Code.” Blood ran down his arm and dripped off his hand, but he stood stiffly upright. “They thought it was a patrol from Foss—never come this far before, he said, but it couldn’t be let go back, and they must not know about us.”
“Sobanai! We heard in Valdaire that the entire company perished of disease. Yes—of course you are under our protection, under the Mercenary Code.” He turned to his nearest sergeant. “Feed these people, patch them up. We’ll camp here—bring the supplies down—and start back tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir,” Nannsir said. “I—I don’t know your right name, but—but you carry the Fox’s mark. I thought then we might be saved.”
The rest of that day, Fox Company set up camp, and took care of the former prisoners.
“Most died,” the corporal told Selfer after his arm was bandaged and while he was eating, he said, the first hot meal in two tendays. “There was fever, right enough, all through the city, but Commander Sobanai, he didn’t let us drink the well water wi’out boilin’ it, didn’t trust it. But then assassins killed him and his son and his captains—all in one night, that was, and before we knew what was what, cohorts of the Duke of Immer was all over us. We fought hard, but—there was too many.”
“Are there any of you besides these?” Selfer asked.
“Was some still in Rotengre when we marched out. Doubt they’re still alive. I’m surprised I am.” He took a swallow of sib, then grimaced. “We got nobody to ransom us, Captain Selfer. But I beg you, sir, don’t turn the lads over to the Debtor’s Court. I know we owe you for rescue and our keep, but—”
“You owe nothing,” Selfer said. “You were in Siniava’s War, just like me—I’m not going to mistreat a comrade, and that includes you. All of you.”
The man’s eyes glittered; he sniffed back tears. “Thank you, sir. But you can’t—”
“Duke Arcolin left me in charge. I can. Come now—I see the washpots are steaming. Let’s get you lot cleaned up and some clothes on and then some rest. We’ve a long march back to the city, though we’ll take it as slow as we can.”
Early the next morning, Selfer sent a mounted courier to Foss to request assistance and supplies for the Sobanai survivors. Fox Company had not brought more provisions than they needed for their own march. Despite their best efforts, it was a day and a half before they met the Foss Council militia, who had brought wagons as far as they could and then come on with loaded pack animals. Everyone was hungry, and the Sobanai men were exhausted despite everything the others could do to help them.
“They skirted Sorellin and Pler Vonja,” Selfer told the militia captain. “There’s an old drover’s track along the foothills out of Pler Vonja … that’s where they started cutting the new road, but they were headed straight west, not so far north as that track. There are—or were—more Sobanai prisoners in Rotengre, and if they send another group to work on the road, be ready for a dozen or more well-armed nasty characters with them.”
“What about your prisoner?”
Selfer glanced at the man, now wearing the same shackles the Sobanai men had worn and burdened with a pack from one of the mules so that an injured man could ride.
“He’s in your jurisdiction,” Selfer said. “I doubt he can tell you more than the Sobanai had told me, but he’s yours.”
“I doubt they’ll waste time on him,” the militia captain said. “But he can carry that load a ways.”
Once they reached the wagon the Foss militia had left—another day and a half—Selfer put the Sobanai survivors in the wagon, loaded pack animals with the supplies, and headed back to Foss and then Valdaire. He had been gone days longer than planned; he knew those left behind would be worried.
They were. Fox Company’s courier had ridden out to see where the company was and met them between Foss and Valdaire.
“The pass wasn’t open, after all. Clear enough on this side, but the gnomes say it’s closed on their side and will be at least another three hands of days. They’ll send a messenger down to Valdaire, they say, to prevent what they call too much traffic on mud.”
Selfer nodded. On the north side of the pass, the road ran across gnome territory; humans could use it only with gnomish permission. “We ran into—not exactly trouble—but what could be. Clandestine road from Pler Vonja west, up in the foothills … and the survivors of Sobanai Company, who were prisoner labor on it. Foss Council is not happy.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Go back to Valdaire, set up a separate area for the Sobanai—”
“You didn’t take them prisoner—”
“No, they’re under our protection. Mercenary Code, remember? Immer’s agents in Valdaire will want them dead. Send out one of our wagons; tell any who ask we have some injured soldiers.”
Duke’s Stronghold, North Marches, Tsaia
The half-Evener storms arrived early, piling snowdrifts as high as the north wall of the stronghold and giving recruits plenty of exercise keeping pathways open from barracks to mess to stables and the main gate. The half-Evener itself dawned clear, the wind no more than an icy whisper across the expanse of white outside the walls.
Jandelir, Duke Arcolin, looked out the window. Below, one of the cook’s assistants hammered on the thick ice of the inner court’s well with an iron bar. When the ice finally shattered, the water looked black against the white. Smoke rose from the mess hall chimney. Arcolin raked at the coals in the bedroom fireplace and put on more wood. Behind him, Calla stirred in the bed, then yawned.
“It’s brighter,” she said. Arcolin grinned at her and handed her the robe hung on a peg beside the bed.
“Not snowing,” he said. “We may get the courtyards completely clear today. I should ride over to Duke’s West.”
She was out of bed now, shrugging into the thick robe and then padding to the door. “I’ll get Jamis up.”
Arcolin dressed and went downstairs, eager to see how deep the snow was. Through the gate to the main court, he saw a line of recruits heading to breakfast. Knee deep at least; the recruits would have plenty of healthy exercise today and half tomorrow, he estimated. The inner, smaller court had been partially sheltered by the surrounding buildings, though snow lay waist-high against the downwind wall.
He went back in, meeting Arneson, his one-eyed recruit captain, in the hall near the dining room, and his foster son, Jamis, coming down the stairs with Calla. “Your recruits are headed to breakfast,” he said to Arneson. “They’ll have a job getting the courtyard emptied out.”
“Better outside than in,” Arneson said. They all sat around one end of the big table while the cooks brought in a hearty breakfast: porridge, slices of fried ham, hot bread, butter, and honey.
“Da, may I go outside today, please?”
Arcolin looked at Calla. “What do you think?”
“I think he needs a good run around the court if he won’t be in the way,” she said. “Once before lessons and again after.” She turned to Arneson. “Are you taking the troops outside?”
“Not today, milady,” Arneson said. “We’ll want the courtyard clear of snow as soon as may be, and it’s not going to warm up enough to melt off. But it won’t bother me if the lad’s there as long as he stays clear of the shovels.”
“I can shovel,” Jamis said. “I shoveled snow on the walkway in Vérella.”
Arcolin thought back to the previous winter, when gnomes had been living in the cellars. “We have a couple of short-handled shovels, Jamis—it would be a help if you’d shovel in the inner courtyard. A clear path from the door to the well, for instance.”
“I can do that, Da. Promise.” The boy squared narrow shoulders and nodded formally.
“Finish your breakfast, then, and be sure you wear your mit
ts.”
Soon the recruits were busy in the main courtyard, and Jamis, furnished with a short-handled shovel cut down for the gnomes, had started a path to the well. Arcolin went through to the main court, skirting the busy recruits on his way to the stables. Here the stablemaster had a string of horses ready for exercise.
“I thought I’d lead ’em down the road, see how it is, just to get ’em out of the stalls and loosen ’em up. Anything we need to take to Duke’s East or back from there in case I make it that far?”
“No, but I was going to ride that way myself—both vills if I could make it.”
“Is Captain Arneson coming with you?”
“I hadn’t thought to ask. Just a moment.” Arcolin went out to the court and called Arneson over. Arneson shook his head.
“Not unless you need me, my lord. I’ve plenty to do here.”
“That’s fine,” Arcolin said. He saddled his roan ambler, and he and the stablemaster rode out together, a string of horses trailing behind. Once out the gate, the string swung wide, lunging at the snow.
“Race you?” the stablemaster said. “A short run won’t hurt ’em.”
Arcolin grinned and closed his legs on the roan. Off they went, not particularly fast in the snow. The stablemaster had veered wide of the road to be sure none of the string stumbled into the ditch. Arcolin stayed on the road, and the roan plunged on. About halfway, the roan slowed, and Arcolin let it continue at a slow pace. He was almost to Duke’s East when he saw a small figure emerge from between the buildings and walk toward him over the snow. A child, he thought at first. One of the boys Jamis played with when he brought Jamis into the vills with him. But something … As he came closer, he saw that it was a gnome, and not one of his gnomes. Aldonfulk by the braid on his jacket. What was an Aldonfulk gnome doing this far north in winter?
He dismounted and walked forward, pulling the ends of his gnomish scarf loose. His gnomes had insisted he should wear or carry it always, in case he met gnomes, so they would know who he was and treat him “in the Law.” The gnome stopped at what he now knew was the appropriate distance away and bowed.
“It is that you are prince of Arcolinfulk?”
“It is,” Arcolin replied in his increasingly fluent gnomish. “And it is that you are of Aldonfulk.”
“My prince sends you greetings and news he considers urgent. I am called Faksutterk. Where is the hall of Arcolinfulk?”
Properly, the “hall” was that still being excavated by his tribe of gnomes, but Arcolin was of no mind to ride there today in the snow. As well, he knew that his tribe needed more time to make what they considered a proper hall. On the other hand, gnome protocol insisted that a gnome hall was the proper place to discuss business.
“It is that I must speak to the mayor of this vill today,” Arcolin said. “You are welcome in my stronghold as envoy of Aldonfulk, incurring no obligation.”
Faksutterk bowed. “It must ask: Stronghold is Arcolinfulk hall?”
“No,” Arcolin said. “Arcolinfulk hall is in hills to west.” He pointed. “Stronghold is for human troops in training.” He wondered how much Faksutterk understood of his situation.
“It is that all is aboveground?”
“No,” Arcolin said. “Stone below as well, chambers for kapristi visitors, where Arcolinfulk dwelt until they had excavated enough of the tribe’s stone right.”
Faksutterk bowed again. “I will go and await Prince Arcolin’s return if that please the prince.”
“It pleases the prince,” Arcolin said. “Go in Law, carrying Law.”
Faksutterk’s eyes gleamed. “Law is life.”
“Law is life.” Then, to the stablemaster, Arcolin said, “Go swiftly back to the stronghold and tell Captain Arneson to expect this gnome and be sure all is prepared for him in the best cellar. I must speak to Mayor Fontaine and will then return. I had hoped to make it to Duke’s West today as well, but courtesy for the guest must come first unless there is an emergency.”
The stablemaster saluted, turned the exercise string—now much more docile—and picked up a trot along the road back to the stronghold. With a last bow to Arcolin, Faksutterk followed the horses.
Mayor Fontaine wasn’t at his house but with a half dozen men at the mill, clearing the drifts from the mill lane. “My lord Duke!” Fontaine said. “How fares the stronghold?”
“Recruits are busy clearing the courtyard,” Arcolin said. “And my stepson is doing his best to clear a path to the well in the little court.”
Fontaine grinned. “My lord, you’re fortunate in that lad. And his mother, of course, but I must say … the lad should make a fine officer some day.”
“And a fine heir, perhaps?” Arcolin said. “I’m pleased with him, I admit. Started calling me ‘Da’ sooner than I expected, and he’s cheerful and active. Tries to be helpful, as today.”
“Village likes him,” Fontaine said. “He gets along with the childer when you bring him in, speaks polite to adults.” He chewed his mustache a moment. “If you chose, m’lord, to adopt him as your heir, wouldn’t anyone here mind, I’m thinking, assuming he grows as he started.” He yanked his shovel out of the snow. “Most do.”
“Anything in the vill I need to know about?”
“Savin’ that gnome passed through this morning? But you met him already—no, nothing once we get the mill going again. You might drop in on Kolya; she’s had a bit of fever. M’wife’s checked on her ’most every day but not yet today.”
“I’ll do that.” Arcolin mounted again and rode over the bridge to Kolya’s house. Smoke rose straight into the sky, but he saw no marks in the snow from a visitor that day. He hitched his horse, took the shovel from its mount over the door, and cleared the doorstep and then the path to the gate. The latchstring hung outside, coated with snow; he brushed it free, knocked twice, then opened the door.
Kolya, bundled in blankets, half lay on a chair with a footstool placed near the fire. She turned her head, then threw back one blanket. “My lord—” A cough racked her.
“Don’t get up,” Arcolin said, closing the door behind him. “Fontaine said you had a fever.”
She nodded and lay back in the chair, her hand plucking at the blanket. Arcolin looked around the neat front room, then opened curtains to let in the sunlight before approaching her. She looked tired and sick, her lips more gray than pink. He spotted a copper can set near the fire—sib, probably—and an empty mug on the table at her side and poured a mug for her. She sipped it but put it down still more than half full.
“Fontaine said his wife checked on you daily—but Kolya, you need more care than that.”
A shrug; she looked away.
“Kolya … is it just the fever? What else is wrong?”
“He’s never coming back,” she said.
“Who—oh. Stammel.” Who had died far away in the South.
“He had friends here,” Kolya said. “We would have helped—”
“And he chose to go—and did not say a word to you.” Arcolin had known that she and Stammel were friends, but … had they been more? He tried to think back to the days before her injury and retirement or even the years she had lived in Duke’s East.
“No. I hoped he … but he didn’t. And now he’s gone.”
“You have friends here,” Arcolin said. “And away, as well. Your Kuakgan, who sends you apples.”
“The trees are old enough now,” Kolya said. “And I have trained others to trim them. They don’t need me.”
That sounded ominous. Arcolin had seen sick people give up before; fighting a fever could be exhausting. But Kolya had always been a fighter. Was all this about Stammel, or was there something else? He went into the back room and found a hotpot, now cold, with a meal the mayor’s wife must have brought the day before. A loaf of bread with one slice cut off was wrapped in a cloth next to an overturned bowl—he lifted it. A mound of butter on a plate. Bread knife, spoons, and small bowls lay nearby. He found a tray, loaded all this onto it,
and carried it back into the front room. He set the hotpot in the fire and set about slicing bread.
“I’m not hungry,” Kolya said.
“I am,” Arcolin said. The little iron pot heated quickly; he stirred the stew of meat, barley, onions, and redroots as it warmed and put slices of bread into the toasting rack that sat near the hearth. The smell of toasted bread mingled with that of the stew; he buttered the toast and set it near Kolya. “And you aren’t drinking enough. Finish your sib.”
“I … I’ll need to go—” She moved her head to the side.
“I’ll help.” Before she could protest, he had an arm behind her back, helping her up. She paled; he held her upright until she could stand on her own, then helped her to the jacks in the back of the cottage, wishing he’d thought to light the brazier there beforehand. The small room was as cold as outdoors. He left her there and went to get a small shovel of coals for the brazier.
Once reinstalled in the chair, wrapped again in shawls and blankets, she seemed a little more comfortable. Arcolin urged her to drink the rest of the sib, then poured water for her and handed her a slice of buttered toast.
“I’m not really—”
“You need food,” he said firmly, the voice of captain to soldier, and she ate, though slowly. He put a little stew in the bowl for her and took more for himself, carrying another chair across the room from the table. She ate one spoonful, then another.
“She’s a good cook,” Kolya said. “I just … I didn’t feel like eating.”
“A bad storm … and being sick …”
“She brought wood, too, for the fire.”
“Good,” Arcolin said. He watched as she ate several spoonfuls more. Then he said, “You’re on the village council, Kolya. You’re important to us. I think you should have someone here until you’re well again.”
“I don’t want to trouble anyone—”
“It’s my responsibility. If you were still active in the Company, I wouldn’t leave you alone when you’re sick. Same with this.”
She nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to ask the mayor—”
Crown of Renewal Page 4
