Kings of the North (46 page)

“No, my lord,” Vossik said. “We wasn’t even in Vérella with you, as you know.”

“I know she’s written Selfer,” Dorrin said.

“Aye. He told us, too. And it’s not that we don’t respect him, but he’s not you.”

“I can’t abide the thought of the stronghold without the Duke,” Voln said. “It was him I swore fealty to, that first year, and now he’s gone—”

“I can’t go back,” Natzlin said. She had been silent until then, as she had been since she returned from Lyonya, recovered from her physical wounds, but very different from before. “I can’t go and see—think about—Barra—”

Dorrin felt more sympathy for Natzlin than the others; she had been so dependent on Barra, putting up with Barra’s difficult personality and by that relationship isolated from others. But they were all correct: legally, these men and women had been oathbound to Phelan only so long as he was both their liege and Mikeli’s vassal. Now it was as if he had broken his oath, and those who had sworn fealty to him were free until they swore to another.

“I’ll talk to Captain Selfer,” she said. “You’re right: your oath to Phelan is void, and since you have not yet sworn to Arcolin, you’re
free to make your own choices. I will remind you that all your friends and companions of years past will be with the Company under Arcolin.”

“But we were always in
your
cohort,” Voln said.

Selfer, when she spoke to him, agreed that the eight could stay without argument from him. “The Company’s still over strength. The Duke—the king—would not want his veterans forced into service, even if there were a legal way to do it, and there’s not. They’re veterans; they’ve the right to leave. In fact, I should probably ask them all openly—especially if you’re willing to take those who want to stay with you. You know them; you can trust them.”

“I’m worried about Natzlin,” Dorrin said. “I know she’s physically recovered from her wounds, but she’s been so quiet … I don’t know if she can recover from Barra.”

“Better here with you than anywhere else,” Selfer said. “And you wouldn’t know this, but I’ve heard rumors about her and someone in a village near—not Kindle, but Oakmotte. Best thing for her, if it works out.”

“You’re right,” Dorrin said. “And I could use as many as want to leave. They—and you—have accomplished a lot with the Verrakaien militia, but it takes more than a half-year or so to change a lifetime’s habit.”

Selfer’s talk to the cohort resulted in seven more choosing to stay. He and Dorrin went over the accounts that afternoon as the cohort prepared to march—he insisting that the cohort had eaten enough at her table to wipe out the debts for which she’d signed and Dorrin determined not to take advantage. They shook hands on it at last. The next day a stiff north wind blew the rain clouds south, and the following morning Selfer mounted and led the cohort away, with Andressat, bundled to the nose, riding beside him. Dorrin watched her former cohort go with a lump in her throat. She’d thought she was past mourning for her old life, but that last glimpse of the fox-head pennant disappearing into the trees pierced her heart.

Enough. It was done, it was over, and she must waste no more time. She looked at the fifteen left behind, whose expressions showed what she felt, along with a determination to stick with the choice they’d made. “It’s time to put on Verrakai uniforms,” she said. “Change, and then come back and I’ll take your oaths.” They were
back very shortly, bare legs now in gray wool trousers, blue tunics instead of maroon over them. Dorrin took their oaths using the same form she had used for the original Verrakai militia, with her squires as witnesses.

“You’ll be the nucleus, the training cadre, for the force I’m supposed to keep ready for the Crown,” Dorrin said. After what she’d heard from Andressat, she had no doubt the king would need it. “What I’m proposing now is that you’ll be split into three hands, each hand having a sergeant and two corporals—though I expect you’ll all be promoted within two years. You’ll be paired with two or more hands of the existing militia, and I’m going to give each of the squires a chance to command one of these groups. I’ll expect you to work with the new Girdish bartons and granges, to recruit suitable young people to the militia, and keep improving the skills and fitness of those already in.”

“How much fighting do you think we’ll see?”

“I don’t know,” Dorrin said. “I still don’t know where all my relatives are, or when trouble might erupt elsewhere. But with you for a core, and the squires as trainee commanders, I can disperse the militia to cover more of the domain—and as you help the militia grow, that will improve even more. I’m thinking now of ten-day patrols, village to village with an overnight or two-night stay in each. One group will stay here, while the other two go out, and then rotate. You can model the proper way to move troops and treat civilians.”

Next morning, Gwenno Marrakai headed east with her fifteen, under orders to patrol as far as the Lyonyan border, if possible, and then return. On the fifth day, Dorrin sent Dar Serrostin west. Beclan Mahieran, predictably, grumbled about being the last to leave on patrol.

“Why?” he asked.

Dorrin gave him her best quelling look. “The short answer is, because I ordered it. The longer answer—which you would have had without asking if you’d been patient—is that I wanted you for the south sector, which I consider the most difficult. You’ll be going as far as Konhalt lands; as you know, they’re also under attainder, and have a new count they don’t know. It would not surprise me to find rebels lurking in the woods down there. You will have two full tensquads, not just three hands of troops, and you have been given an
extra ten days to work with them, to come to know them, before you leave.”

He looked abashed, as well he might. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think—”

“Not thinking can get you killed,” Dorrin said. “Put in this time with your troops—convince them you care about them, and expect them to perform well. Think about the possibilities, all along the way: where ambushes might be placed, where allies might be found.”

“Yes, my lord,” Beclan said. Dorrin could tell from his expression that he was thinking—and he had a good tactical mind, she’d learned, when he chose to use it for the right reasons.

Lyonya

K
ieri had just finished breakfast when he heard voices in the entrance, louder than usual. One of his Squires looked out.

“Sir King, it’s a courier.”

“If you please,” Kieri said to his breakfast companions, and they cleared the room at once as the courier hurried in. To the courier, Kieri said, “You are fatigued; will you have breakfast?”

“No, Sir King; the news is too urgent. I come from the Royal Archers, near the river.”

“Invasion?”

“Not exactly …” The man handed him a scroll; Kieri broke the seal and unrolled it.

“You might as well have a hot drink while I read,” Kieri said. “There’s sib in the pot.” He scanned the terse report. Someone had come across the river at night; a Royal Archers’ patrol had taken him in custody. Though dressed like a fisherman, he claimed to be the king of Pargun. He had no proof of his claim; he might be crazy, the Royal Archer officer had written, but he carried himself like one used to command.

“Did you see the man?” Kieri asked the courier.

The man swallowed hastily. “Yes, Sir King. But I have never seen the king of Pargun, so I cannot say—”

“He swam, or came in a boat?”

“A boat.”

It made no sense. Why would the king of Pargun—if it was he—sneak across the river at night? To spy? He must have spies; he would not need to spy himself. If he wanted to visit Lyonya—see his daughter, perhaps?—why not come openly, with an entourage?

“Did he say more?”

“I don’t know, Sir King. The captain bade me ride with all speed; I left as soon as the captain had written that message.”

“If he is the king—or the king’s envoy—then I must know his purpose quickly.”

“You cannot risk yourself—” one of his Squires said.

“He doesn’t know my face any more than I know his,” Kieri said. Surely he could ride north as fast as this messenger had come south, and surely the Pargunese—whoever he was—would not know how fast he could ride. “Aulin, tell Garris that I will need an escort of King’s Squires, those well rested and able to ride at once for the river. Then tell the Master of Horse we will need remounts, as well as mounts saddled, and someone to care for them.”

In less than a glass they were on their way, riding on a forest track Kieri had not seen before. Kieri wore hunting clothes without royal insignia; the King’s Squires wore plain tunics in place of the royal tabards.

W
hen he arrived at the Royal Archers’ bivouac, a turn of the glass after sending in a Squire to warn the Archers he was incognito, their captain greeted him only as “my lord.” Kieri nodded and looked around the camp until he spotted a burly man sitting against a tree, two Royal Archers nearby watching.

The prisoner wore a fisherman’s rough smock, short trousers, and striped stockings; his boots were piled with his other possessions in the boat in which he’d come, now pulled up away from the water. His light hair—blond going gray—and pale blue eyes were common to many in the north, and his face and hands were sun-marked like those of men who worked outdoors all the time. The only indication of kingship was the gold ring with its seal, but his eyes reminded Kieri of Elis.

“He says if we kill him, there will be war and Lyonya will be burnt to ash,” the captain said.

“I’m not planning to kill him,” Kieri said. “Unless I have to. He might be a simple fisherman who’s had river fever and merely thinks he’s a king.” Unlikely, but possible.

“With that ring?”

“Or a thief. Every realm has thieves, even Pargun.” Kieri ignored the man, instead inspecting the boat and its contents. The boots had spur scuffs on the heels. He shook them. “Did you turn these out?”

“No, my lord. We saw the ring. The man’s gabble sounded Pargunese; we thought you should see first.”

Kieri upended the boots into the boat, shaking vigorously. Out fell a small knife in a sheath and four silver Tsaian coronets.

“He had eight coppers in his belt-pouch, my lord. Two with a Prealíth mark, one of ours, the rest from Tsaia.”

Currencies mingled in river towns; that fit the character of a fisherman. Kieri felt inside the boots: nothing more. He pulled the knife from its sheath, watching the prisoner. The man’s face showed no expression. The blade showed a dark stain, as if it had been dipped in some liquid, since dried. Poison, possibly. Kieri put it back in its sheath. The boot heels next—he twisted. One turned, revealing a small compartment. Inside was an oiled-leather packet marked with runes. Kieri tipped that out without touching it; poisons could be carried in such packets. Next he emptied the pack. In that were clothes more suited to a peddler than a fisherman, a box of trinkets—mostly small religious charms—and enough food for a few days’ travel.

“When did you capture him?” he asked. He knew already, but the captive didn’t know that.

“Three nights agone, my lord. We sent word to you—we thought the king should know.”

“Word has been sent,” Kieri said. He put down the box on top of the other things, picked up the small knife, and walked over to the captive. He could feel the man’s anger and loathing as if it were visible waves of color. “He has been given food? You know the king’s orders about that—?”

“Yes, my lord. Food, water, and a blanket at night, though we dared not unbind him in the dark.”

Kieri squatted down in front of the captive. In Pargunese he said, “This is not a fisherman’s knife. It is not the knife for gutting, or the knife for scaling, or the knife for filleting. With this knife, you would only poison a fish and make it unfit to eat. Why would a fisherman poison a fish?”

The man spat, but the gob of spit did not reach Kieri. Then the man looked away.

Still in Pargunese, Kieri said. “If I were minded to kill you, you would be dead already. If I were minded to hurt you, your flesh would already be torn. You claim to be a king in your own land—what are you doing here?”