Honor among thieves

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Croy could stand, and if he used Ghostcutter as a cane, he could even walk. He pushed aside the hands of the Skilfinger nurse who had tended to him and stepped out of his tent. His head swam and black spots appeared in his peripheral vision, but he was determined not to stop now.

The Skilfinger camp was busy, always, with soldiers running here and there on errands, working on digging ditches and building palisades or simply practicing their drills. They were incredibly well disciplined and organized. Had Croy possessed a company of them when he met Morgain in Greenmarsh he would have carried the day.

Unfortunately they were some two hundred miles from where they needed to be. Croy hobbled across a parade ground and up to the tent where Sir Hew and Bethane were in constant council. When he lifted the tent flap, eighteen inches of steel blade leapt out at his throat. He was just able to wobble backward and avoid being beheaded.

Hew said something in the tongue of Skilfing, and the guard withdrew his weapon without apology. Croy demanded none-the guard was only obeying his duty.

“You’re up and about,” Hew said, nodding in Croy’s direction. “Good. You can tell us the situation at Helstrow. Her Highness has been kind enough to tell us what she could, but of course she is untutored in military strategy. I mean no offense, my queen.”

Bethane was seated in a carved wooden chair at the back of the tent, wrapped in heavy quilts. “None taken,” she said. Then she jumped up and ran to throw her arms around Croy. “I thought you would perish, my champion.”

Croy did his best not to be knocked over by her embrace. “Your highness. There are matters of decorum and-”

“I don’t care. Without you, I would be dead right now,” Bethane told him. “And surely, I have a royal prerogative to touch any of my subjects I choose. Especially those wounded in my service. They tell me that my touch can cure scrofula, did you know that?”

“I’ve… heard as much,” Croy said. Personally, he’d never actually seen it happen. But it was one of the legends of the kings and queens of Skrae that they could cure a variety of diseases simply by personal contact. He shook his head, remembering the direct manner and plain speech of Ulfram V. Clearly the father had passed this trait on to his daughter. “Sir Hew, I need to speak with you at once.”

“Of course. We’re planning our next move. As an Ancient Blade, it is proper your voice should be heard,” Hew said, ushering Croy inside the tent. It was open and airy inside, and everything was washed with the colors of the painted canvas. A dozen Skilfinger knights stood with Hew around a table bearing a map of all Skrae. All of them were armored in shining steel, as if they expected an attack on the instant.

“I thought we might speak alone. These men are-mercenaries, is that correct?”

“It is. Ulfram V, Lady remember his name, was wise enough to send for them even before the barbarians arrived. The contracts are signed and the retainers paid. You can trust them. Anyway, none of them speak our language.”

Croy met the gaze of one of the knights. It was the same man who’d found him in the hills and brought him to Hew. “Very well. I have come to ask your help in the rescue of the Free City of Ness.”

Hew shook his head and bent over his map. “You have my regrets, but no. Ness is a lost cause. Eight thousand of the barbarians have surrounded the city and my latest reports tell me Ness will fall in a matter of days. No, we’ll be marching on Helstrow, and we leave tomorrow.”

Croy limped over and leaned on the table. “I must ask you to reconsider. If the horde takes Ness, they’ll control half the kingdom, and-”

“And if we take back Helstrow, and then Redweir, we’ll have the other half. The eastern half. We’ll be between them and any reinforcements they might call up from beyond the Whitewall.” Hew drew one finger down the length of the map. “If we control the river Strow, we’ll be well on our way to taking our land back.” He pounded on the table and looked up, into Croy’s eyes. “I know your sentiment is with Ness. It’s where you’ve lived so much of your life. But you must think like a general now.”

Croy closed his eyes for a moment. Hew was right. He could see that much from the map. He knew that much if he trusted his military instincts. Helstrow would be poorly defended, and Redweir would be garrisoned by only a skeleton crew of barbarians. Two easy victories that could turn the war around-turn certain defeat into sudden and almost bloodless success.

It didn’t matter. “If you allow the barbarians to have Ness, the suffering of the people there will be unthinkable,” Croy said. Cythera’s suffering will be… unbearable, he thought. It was possible she was already dead. No, he would not accept that. The Lady had spared his life so many times. Surely she would have just let him die if he was not meant to do this. To save Cythera.

If he followed Hew’s lead, and rode with him on Helstrow, they might win the eastern half of the kingdom before winter choked the land. But then it would be many months before they could even think of moving on Ness. Cythera would be alone, and defenseless, that whole time.

That was not acceptable.

“This is war, Croy. People suffer in time of war. Even people we love.”

Croy nodded. “I understand that. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I was there when Baron Easthull made the last stand against the barbarians, in Greenmarsh. I was on that field.”

It was an ungallant blow, to point out that while Sir Hew had been running for his life, Croy had been fighting for Skrae. But it could not be unsaid.

Hew pulled back the chain mail hood of his hauberk and the padded cloth gambeson underneath. He chafed at his ears as if they were burning. “I’ve given you a place on my council, Croy. Don’t mistake the bounds of that authority. Don’t forget your station.”

“I’m an Ancient Blade, same as you,” Croy said.

Another few words, another challenge to Hew’s supremacy here, and it could come to a duel. An Ancient Blade’s honor was his most valued possession, and Croy knew if he took this any further, he would be trampling all over Hew’s honor. He had been forced to kill Bikker, his teacher and the former bearer of Acidtongue, because of poorly chosen words. He had no desire to face Hew and Chillbrand just because he couldn’t accept the place he’d been given.

Yet he couldn’t back down. He’d fulfilled one sacred compact by getting Bethane to safety. Now he must continue with another. He thought of begging a horse and riding for Ness on his own, if he had to. Yet what would that accomplish? He would be slaughtered by the first band of barbarians he ran into. Dying that way would do Cythera’s memory honor, but it wouldn’t save her.

No. If he was to rescue her, he needed the Skilfinger mercenaries. He needed an army.

“You, my friend, are a knight errant. And I,” Sir Hew said, obviously choosing his words with great care, “am Captain of the King’s Guard.”

An insult-and a piece of logic. Hew was giving Croy one last chance. He could choose to take umbrage with being called a knight errant, and challenge Hew to a duel then and there. Or he could accept the fact that Hew outranked him, and be relegated to the status of a lieutenant. And lieutenants didn’t lay orders of battle.

Croy’s hand was already on Ghostcutter’s hilt. If he drew the sword even an inch from its scabbard, the choice would be made. He tightened his grip.

“What of the Queen’s Guard?” Bethane asked softly.

Hew and Croy turned as one to look at her. The Skilfingers, who could not know what was happening, looked at each other and shrugged. They filed out of the tent, clearly intending to let the knights of Skrae settle their own differences.

“Your Highness,” Hew said, his brow furrowing. “It was your father’s intention that I continue to serve in that post, as guardian of yourself and your crown.”

“My father is dead,” Bethane pointed out. “I can choose my own protector. And if I base that choice on who has more experience guarding my life, my choice is clear.”

Hew’s face darkened with anger, or perhaps fear. “My queen, I may be forced to remind you that you have not yet come of age.”

“That is true,” Bethane said. She didn’t look concerned.

“Until your eighteenth summer, when you attain your majority,” Hew said, very carefully, “you do not, in any official capacity, rule Skrae.”

“I know the law,” Bethane said. Her face did not change.

“And thus, I am truly sorry to tell you, you cannot abnegate my rank or my posting,” Hew finished, as if reciting the final element in a mathematical proof.

Bethane nodded agreeably. “All correct, Sir Hew. All quite correct. I cannot command you yet. However, is it not also true that in such a case, when the reigning monarch has not yet reached her majority, that the law requires the appointment of a regent? One of proper age and attainment who may rule in her name, and at her pleasure? I believe the law to be unclear as to who selects the regent. Traditionally it is the royal family, meeting in conference, who appoints to that role.”

Sir Hew said nothing. He could only swallow meekly and stare at the girl. At his queen. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing as Croy. That he had never seen better evidence for the royal blood in Bethane’s veins. She spoke not as a fourteen-year-old girl, but as a monarch. As a ruler.

“Seeing that I am the last surviving member of the royal family, at least as far as anyone knows-I find that I must appoint my own regent. So, Sir Hew, you remain Captain of the Queen’s Guard. And you, Sir Croy, may approach me and kneel.”

Croy did as he was told, though he nearly fell trying to get down on his knees.

“Be my voice, and my will, and in the Lady’s name, serve always Skrae,” Bethane said. “Do you swear to uphold the law and protect the people?”

“In the Lady’s name, I do,” Croy said.

“Then it is done. I give you all the powers of my crown, and all rights, ranks, privileges, and titles thereby appended, for the remainder of my minority. Lord Croy, please stand, and be regent of Skrae.”

Croy rose stiffly. He turned and faced Hew, careful not to let a mocking smile cross his lips. That would be ungallant to a fault. “Please advise your mercenary knights,” he said, keeping his tone formal, “that tomorrow we march for Ness, and the relief of the people there.”

Such a difference one pronouncement could make. For the next four years, Croy would rule Skrae, with every power of a king. As far as the law was concerned, he was now the king of Skrae.

He allowed Hew a moment to wrap his mind around that. Then he raised one eyebrow, because the knight had failed to respond. He stared Hew down until his old friend bowed stiffly from the waist, and rose again.

“As you command,” Sir Hew said, his face a wooden mask. “My liege.”