Oath of Fealty

23

At the inn where they’d been quartered, Arcolin paid the innkeeper’s last charges and heard that the cohort had marched off three full glasses ago. Once out of the city gates, he considered putting on his helmet, but the morning was already warming; he wanted to feel the breeze on his head. He checked the hooks—yes, he could free it quickly at need. He legged his mount to a canter on the dirt path to the left of the trade road and its drainage ditch. If only Tsaia had roads like this, it would take six days less to move a cohort north and south.

Traffic on the road this close to the city seemed sparse for the time of day. He saw one small flock of goats herded toward the city on the other side of the road, and an oxcart on the road itself, driven by a farm woman, a small child alongside the ox with a goad. In the cart, a stick cage held geese, their long necks poking between the bars. They honked indignantly. He passed a moderate-sized caravan heading east, a half-glass after he left, with guards armed with bows atop each wagon. He waved; the guards raised their bows in salute. Ahead, the road curved around a hill slope covered with trees; Arcolin knew from past years that a trail easy for horses cut through the trees and met the road again, saving some distance. It was also an easy place for bandits to ambush a lone traveler. He’d taken it often enough before when in a hurry … but not today. He passed the fork in the trail, noting fresh hoofprints and a pile of droppings where it entered the trees.

He kept to the path beside the main road, slowing to pass a group of foot travelers and give them greeting. Three men, two women, one older than the other, four children, all with packs and staves. His horse, eager as always to run, tossed its head; Arcolin legged it to an easy canter again. The morning’s problems blew away as the breeze brought him the fragrance of blossoming trees; his horse pinned one ear and quickened stride. Arcolin grinned. This one, of all his mounts, most loved to run, and he’d held it to a foot-pace all the way south. He took one hand from the reins to steady the hilt of his sword and closed his legs.

The horse bolted in great leaping strides, not quite bucking, then flattened out, running fast enough to bring tears to his eyes. Arcolin caught a blurred sensation of movement to his left, but they were past it before he registered the sudden appearance of five men on horseback and the flash of sunlight on drawn swords. Hooves thundered behind; he could not tell how many. His horse pinned both ears and quickened again. Arcolin switched hands on the reins and drew his own sword, though he doubted any bandits had mounts as fast as this one.

Then he remembered the foot-travelers. Were they there merely to slow riders like him, or were they in danger? And what about that caravan? Surely its guards would be enough to hold off a few brigands. He glanced behind. Two riders, kicking hard, but their horses could not keep his pace. More behind them turning back to the westbound path. A quick glance at the road showed nothing ahead; behind, when he looked back again, he saw dust rising, saw one of the brigands lean out to strike at someone on the ground.

Arcolin sat back, hauling his mount down; the two chasing him yelled in triumph. He swung his mount to the right, jumped the ditch between the footpath and the road, and reversed back down the road, passing the brigands before they could change direction. He heard his pursuers’ horses grunt as they too jumped and the clatter of their hooves behind him.

The odds weren’t good, Arcolin saw, as he neared the altercation on the footpath. One of the women was on the ground—dead or injured, he couldn’t tell. The men, trying to fend off armed horsemen with walking staves, showed some training, but the four brigands were ahorse and armed with swords. He reined in as he passed the fight and jumped back across the ditch on the Valdaire side. Two of the brigands had noticed and turned to meet him. One of his pursuers tried to jump the ditch, but his horse refused, and plunged uselessly in the muddy bottom.

Arcolin charged straight at the fight. The two facing him spread apart; Arcolin reined for the one nearer the trees, then, with a shift of his weight, sent his horse at the other, who had committed too early to attack his flank. One stroke of his sword took the man’s arm. His own horse squealed and bucked, as a clang reminded Arcolin where his helmet was—on the saddle instead of his head. He heard the solid THWACK as his horse’s hind hoofs connected with the brigand’s horse.

Now he was in the thick of it, hoping the foot travelers would realize he was on their side, but with no time to explain. No time to retrieve his helmet, either. He felt like a fool, but the helmet had saved his horse an injury. He parried a sword stroke meant for one of the travelers. One of the men, using his staff expertly, managed to unhorse a brigand; the other woman smacked the downed man on the head. If he could only get them in order, they were now four to four, but—he parried a stroke aimed at him, and on the backstroke came so near the brigand’s face the man flinched back and accidentally reined his horse away. Arcolin shifted his weight and signaled his mount. His horse reared, hopped forward, and struck the rider with front hooves, knocking him out of the saddle. The man’s sword flew from his hand, and his horse bolted away.

He couldn’t reach the man on the ground with his sword, but one of the foot travelers could. Four to three now. One of the men knocked the brigand trying to climb out of the ditch back into it.

The remaining two brigands reined their horses around and, kicking vigorously, rode at speed into the woods. Arcolin listened to their receding hoofbeats. His own mount was breathing hard, finally, sweat showing on its neck. He looked around. The man whose arm he’d severed sprawled on the ground, unconscious or dead—his horse had slowed to a stop some distance away and was now snatching nervously at grass on the verge of the path.

Arcolin rode over to the ditch, where the last brigand was trying to catch his horse. The horse moved faster in the muddy ditch bottom than the man, and finally scrambled out on the near side; the man managed to grab its tail for help up the slope, then pulled himself into the saddle from the off side, as Arcolin rode toward him. The man smacked his horse with the flat of his sword, and kicked; the horse threw a tremendous buck, then another and another, and the man flew off, landing with a loud thump. Arcolin was off his horse and had run him through before the man caught his breath. Then he saw the leg bent at the wrong angle and realized the man would have been no danger.

“We owe you thanks, sir.” One of the travelers came toward him, staff still in a defensive position. “It would have gone hard with us—”

“You use your staves well,” Arcolin said. “Are you Girdish?”

The man beamed. “Yes, sir. All of us, and the children, too. And Tamis there—” He nodded at one of the others. “He was in the Foss militia two more years than I was.” He paused. “You’re one of Phelan’s captains, aren’t you? I saw a Phelani cohort pass by a while ago. Haven’t see one for the past few years; wondered if they were ever coming back.”

“Yes, I’m Captain Arcolin,” Arcolin said.

“So the Red Fox is back, is he?”

“No, not Phelan himself,” Arcolin said. “When you get to Valdaire, some of the rumors are true—he’s king of Lyonya now. I’m leading the Company.”

“Liss is hurt bad,” one of the other men said, coming up. “She won’t be able to walk.”

Arcolin led his horse closer. The woman on the ground had a lump on her head, but the worse injury was to her leg, trampled during the fight. The younger woman knelt behind her, supporting her shoulders to give her a sip of water.

“There’s a caravan headed east a ways behind me,” Arcolin said. “If we get you over onto the road, they may be able to help.”

His horse jerked up its head and looked back eastward. Arcolin looked along the road and saw a horseman approaching at speed, carrying a maroon and white pennant. Closer yet, he saw it was Sergeant Devlin, on one of the spare horses.

“Captain, what’s happened?” Devlin asked.

“Brigands,” Arcolin said, waving at the bodies on the ground. “Six of them attacked these travelers and me.”

“He came back to help us,” one of the men said. “Without him—”

Devlin looked at Arcolin, then pointedly at Arcolin’s mount with the helmet still hooked to the saddle. Arcolin grinned and shook his head. “No time,” he said. “This woman’s got a broken leg; she needs a physician. We’re a glass or less from Valdaire: ride in, tell the city guard what happened, and ask for a cart for them—”

“We don’t have money for a cart,” the man said.

“You’re still in Valdaire’s domain,” Arcolin said. “You can call on them for aid, since they haven’t cleared out those brigands.” To Devlin he said, “I’ll stay here until you return, then have you stay while I ride on to the cohort. I know they’ll be worried, but we can’t leave this party unprotected. If the caravan will lend me a few guards when they get this far, I’ll go ahead then.”

“At once, Captain,” Devlin said. He rode off at a canter. Arcolin unhooked his helmet, felt the slight dent where the sword had struck, felt inside—no change in the liner—and put it on. He checked the man who’d lost an arm—dead already from blood loss—and the two the travelers had downed. One still lived, unconscious; Arcolin finished him. Technically, he was due a bounty for proven brigands killed within the city’s outbounds, but he had no need for it, and these travelers did. He explained it to them.

“I don’t know what the current rate is, but I know the bounty’s still in effect.”

“But you killed some of them—”

“I have pay,” Arcolin said.

Before Devlin returned, the caravan appeared, trundling slowly along the road. Arcolin jumped the ditch with his mount again, and waited for them. They did not slow at first, but the caravan master climbed off the first wagon to speak to Arcolin.

“What is it? Someone in your colors rode by telling us there was danger ahead.”

“Brigands here—that party there has an injured woman, and we killed four of them—two got away into the woods.”

“So we keep moving and warn others, eh?”

“Yes, but I want to hire a couple of your guards to ward those travelers until the city sends a cart out for her. I need to go ahead and tell the cohort why I was delayed.”

The caravan master chewed his lips a moment. “Well. You are Phelan’s captain and you did give us warning. I can let you have two, but they must follow as soon as others come to help. And it will cost you a nata each.”

“Here.” Arcolin dug into his saddlebags and handed the man two natas.

“Jori! Baltis! Come down here.” Two guards slithered down from the loads atop their wagons. “These are good men,” the caravan master said, as they approached. “Four years with me on the road, and Jori knows wound care, as well.” He turned to them. “Stay and guard those people until help comes,” the caravan master said. “They fought off a brigand attack; there might be more.”

“The bounty for the four brigands killed so far goes to the travelers,” Arcolin said.

“Understood,” the caravan master said. He turned and jogged toward the front of the caravan, now three wagons ahead.

With the guards, Arcolin crossed the ditch again, this time on foot; his horse made no difficulty, hopping the deepest muck at the bottom and scrambling up the bank in two heaves of its hindquarters. It was dry again, breathing normally.

“These men will stand guard with you until a cart comes for her,” he said, nodding to the woman. “I must go now.”

“Gird’s grace go with you,” they all said in a ragged chorus. Arcolin mounted and turned his horse eastward again, letting the horse roll into a strong canter.

He caught up with the cohort at last, to the obvious relief of his new young captain; by then his mount was willing to walk quietly along as he explained what had happened. He did not mention leaving his helmet off; that story would be all over the cohort as soon as Devlin returned, he was sure.

The rest of the march to Cortes Vonja was uneventful as they followed the familiar trade road to Fossnir and Foss, then the river branch that led down the Immerest to Vonja and Silwan. The eve of the Spring Evener found them near enough Fossnir to see the bonfires on the city towers; Arcolin wondered where his old companions were. He imagined Kieri presiding over a formal celebration—blooding a ploughshare, perhaps, or a spade—and then lighting the ceremonial fire. If elves did that sort of thing. Dorrin, he was sure, would have a bonfire. As captain of the cohort, he cut his hand and blooded his own blade, then touched it to the others’. The next morning, the sun rose indecently early—with the others he had stayed up singing most of the night—and they went on.

Burek, though much younger, had all the qualities Aesil M’dierra had claimed, and Arcolin saw nothing in his manner that should have set off even the prickly Count of Andressat. Burek’s speech and behavior were both mannerly, respectful of all, without indicating any weakness. His sergeants liked him; Stammel, usually noncommittal about new officers, sought Arcolin out to commend the choice.

When they reached Cortes Vonja, the city militia commander, a man Arcolin remembered vaguely from the last year of the war against Siniava, explained why the militia needed help.

“It’s not like it was before,” he said. “No more campaigns of city against city, each one knowing why and when. Now it’s wandering troops, no allegiance but to themselves, some with a grudge against a city, and some without, but all hungry. Trade’s down—I’m sure you know that from over the mountains—and caravaners expect cities to patrol the trade roads and keep the brigands off ’em. There’ve even been attacks between here and Valdaire, if you can believe it.”

“I can,” Arcolin said. “I was in one. Brigands attacked a party of foot travelers in broad daylight, right beside the trade road, still in Valdaire’s outbounds.”

“With your cohort there?”

“No. I was riding alone, having been delayed leaving the city.”

“But you got away safely, I see,” the man said.

Arcolin felt a prickle of irritation. “We killed four of them,” he said. “The foot travelers were good with their staves.”

“You—pardon me, Captain, for my assumptions. I had forgotten the reputation of the Duke’s Company. You stopped to aid. That is exactly the attitude we need from the troops we hire, and so few have it—”

Arcolin, who remembered the Cortes Vonja militia scattering in disarray, said nothing, but their commander flushed a little.

“Well,” he said, and made a face. “Here we are, again. We have the trade road to patrol, and fewer men to do it with than back in your day. Our farms and outlying towns are being attacked—mostly those to the south and east. Cortes Cilwan says the same, and Sorellin.”

“What about Andressat?” Arcolin said.

“The Count has accused us of letting brigands get away to harry his borders. He hasn’t told us of any other problems.”

“Is there concern that any of these brigands are part of an organization?”

“Well … the Duke of Immer, he that was Alured the Black, does say he should by rights take toll of the roads, even these up here. But Immerdzan’s a long way away.”

Arcolin looked at the map the commander had laid out. “One cohort can’t patrol that much territory—better to seek out your brigands and try to break them up.”

“Exactly. But our people have no idea where they’re hiding. From Andressat’s complaints, possibly in the rough country below the downs.”

Arcolin visited Kieri’s banker before returning to the cohort, to ensure that he could transfer funds to Valdaire as they had before, and then spent the rest of the day with Burek going over the maps the militia commander had given him.

“Someone here must know who the brigands really are,” Burek said. “More than two years—they’re getting support from somewhere or they’d be dying out; the problem would be smaller.”

“My guess would be Alured the Black,” Arcolin said. “Did you ever meet him?”

“No,” Burek said.

“He’s ambitious and cruel,” Arcolin said. “Easy to offend, but also a natural leader and a reasonably good field commander. My guess is that he wants it all—all Aarenis.”

“Not that different from Siniava,” Burek said.

“Quite so. Something none of us recognized when we made alliance with him. We needed his aid, we thought, and Siniava’s evil was so obvious …” Arcolin shook his head. “We erred. It wasn’t until after Siniava’s death, when we went downriver with Alured as we’d pledged.” He pushed the memory of those days from his mind and dragged it back to the problem at hand. “I think I’ll have Stammel send a couple of our best gossips around the taverns tonight and see if we can find out anything, but we’ll march tomorrow down this way—” He pointed.

“The brigands will find out we’re asking questions,” Burek said.

“If they don’t already know the details of the contract, I’d be surprised,” Arcolin said. “They’ll have spies in the city, of course. And they’ll be trying to find out things from our men. That’s a game all sides can play. We have some very good players.”

The five Phelani soldiers who started their evening at the Flowing Jug brought a momentary lull to conversation and an anxious look to the owner’s face. Peering past them, he said, “Is that whole mercenary company coming into the city?”

“Just us,” Devlin said, grinning broadly. “Sergeant said we’d done so well, we could come in and fetch him back a jug. We’ll each have a mug, to start with.”

“Here’s a table,” Jenits said. “We could eat—”

“You don’t think of anything but food,” Tam said.

Devlin leaned on the counter, ignoring their familiar and well-rehearsed opening. He tapped a Cortes Vonja nata. “I’m buying this round,” he said and pushed it across.

“This round?” the owner said. “And shouldn’t you take that jug back to your sergeant?”

Devlin laid a finger along his nose. “He doesn’t know which tavern we went to, does he? Happen we’ll need to visit them all, to find one with ale good enough for our sergeant.”

Three rounds later, the little group left that tavern, had a noisy argument in the street, split up, and the pair swaggered into the Blue Pig demanding drink while the trio joined a circle of gamblers playing Leg and Hand at the Cat and Crow. Each complained bitterly about their former comrades and dropped carefully planned nubbins of gossip about the Company. The trio, accused of cheating by the other gamblers, were invited to leave by the tavern’s security, quarreled again on the doorstep, and staggered off in three different directions. The pair, meanwhile, had struck up a friendship with a young woman and after serenading the tavern with an off-key rendition of “Sweeter than the Honey-Bee” were thrown out. They had their quarrel four doors down and like the others sought further adventure on their own.

Torre’s Necklace shone far to the west when they returned to camp, sober and well supplied with gossip.

“I’d forgotten how much fun this is,” Tam said. “You’d think they’d learn.”

“We do it best,” Devlin said. As the most cat-eyed of them, he led the way. “Trade secrets passed down from generation to another.”

“If any of it was true,” Jenits said.

“The bits we all heard will either be true or what someone’s passing as truth,” Devlin said. “But wait until we get to camp.”

In the light of the lamps in Arcolin’s tent, Tam’s idea of fun showed up as bruised knuckles and a cut on his forearm.

“What happened?” Arcolin asked.

“It became necessary to show fight, Captain. For the honor of the cohort—”

“Specifically,” Arcolin said.

“Oh—it was after we separated. I was supposed to be staggering drunk, and someone believed it. If he hadn’t breathed so loud, he might’ve hit me with that billet, but that and his breath-stink revealed him—so I ducked and he hit the wall where my head had been. The cut’s from his friend.”

“And?” Arcolin said when Tam seemed to have stopped.

“Well, Captain, you know it’s not safe for civilians to have weapons they don’t know how to use, so I tried to make the streets safer by disarming them. But sometime in the altercation the one with the club split the skull of the one with the knife, just as the one with the knife sliced the one with the club. I’m lucky to have got off with just a cut.”

“The night guard arrived, didn’t they?” Arcolin said.

“Yes, and I explained very carefully,” Tam said. “They thanked me for my intervention, but suggested I might want to return to camp. It was all polite.”

“I’m sure,” Arcolin said. “Did you by any chance hear anything useful?”

“Yes, Captain.” Tam’s expression changed from one of false innocence to that of a competent soldier. “I thought the fellow at the first tavern was overanxious about us, though we were just drinking quietly and saying how good it was to be back in the south, where it’s warmer and the food is better and the girls prettier.”

Arcolin glanced at the others. “You agree?” They nodded. “Go on, Tam,” he said.

“I noticed there weren’t any girls in the tavern, the way they were three years ago. We used that as an excuse to move on, and that’s when we split into three and two. I was with Jenits. We went on to the Blue Pig. It was more like it had been, there: three pretty girls, two of them from down the street, where there’s a house. They all kissed Jenits, but he’s younger than me.”

Jenits, Arcolin noticed, turned red.

“One man asked if we’d been hired to chase bandits, and we said yes, and he said good luck in a tone that didn’t mean it. Made the Trickster’s sign where he thought I couldn’t see. Jenits said he’d rather chase women than bandits, and the girls were all over him.”

Most of the stories were the same, but for Devlin’s. He had abandoned the pretense of drunkenness as soon as he was alone, and walked to the east gate of the city, where—on the pretext of trying to find some soldiers who’d overstayed their leave from the camp—he chatted with the gate guards. Then he’d gone outside the walls and walked back around the long way, noting which windows still showed light at the wall.

“I nearly ran into something,” he said. “Some men standing around a hole in the ground … and out came another, and handed over a bag of something that clinked.”

“A tunnel,” Arcolin said. “Think you could find the entrance again by daylight?”

“Certainly, Captain. By daylight or dark. I’ve no doubt it’s concealed, though.”

Arcolin considered telling the militia captain about it, but he’d been hired for a different job and past experience with Vonja suggested it would be more profitable to let the Vonjans deal with any smuggling themselves. Likely some of the militia were involved.