Limits of Power (7 page)

O
n that final morning, the new troop—now in Fox Company maroon tunics, newly sworn to Arcolin—marched out to the tune of “Gird at Greenfields,” with the yeomen of the nearest grange arrayed beside the road singing with them. Another change, Arcolin thought as he rode in the lead, persuading his chestnut not to caper about like a colt. In Kieri's latter days, there'd been no notice taken when the recruits left the stronghold for the south.

He ticked off in his mind all he had accomplished—he had already written it down back at the stronghold, but it made a goodly recital. He hoped he would not be delayed long in Vérella, though he was eager to find out what had happened with Beclan Mahieran. Somewhat to his surprise, Count Halar met him at the border of their domains with two of his men-at-arms and a pack mule.

“I'm on my way to Vérella,” Halar said. “I wanted to ride with you if I might.”

“Of course,” Arcolin said.

“I told your Captain Valichi you might recruit on my land.”

“Valichi wrote to me; I thank you for that,” Arcolin said, hoping the man hadn't changed his mind.

“Wanted to be sure you understood I wasn't just shipping off troublemakers,” Halar said.

“I didn't think you would,” Arcolin said, though it was common enough for local lords to encourage their wilder youth to enlist in someone else's militia.

Halar cleared his throat. “In fact, I have a son—he's too young this year, but he asked me to ask you—would you consider taking on a squire?”

Arcolin frowned. “You do realize it's not like squiring here in the north. There's real danger. Kieri lost squires to war.”

“I know. My father hated him for it, though it wasn't one of his own.”

So that was the cause of the former count's enmity. Arcolin wondered if that was all of it.

“Friend of his,” Halar said.

“But you would risk your son?”

“Kaim's going to run off and sign on somewhere under a false name if I don't find him some place,” Halar said. “He says the training at the grange isn't enough. I'm hoping a year in a real military unit will cure him of his ideas—or make him a good leader if this war the king worries about comes to the north.”

“It could,” Arcolin said. “And we'll need as much training as we can put into our people.” He thought for a long moment. “Would you consider sending him as a junior squire to my recruit captain up at the stronghold? He'd learn how soldiers are trained, but he wouldn't be at as great a risk. Then, if he still wanted to go and you were willing, perhaps next year or the year after…”

“I thought Valichi was your recruit captain.”

“He was; he's retiring later this spring. Arneson's a veteran from the south, blind in one eye but a good man. Look at this troop—” Arcolin pointed to the cohort first in line.

“I saw. Fairly young, aren't they? How long have they served?”

“They're last year's recruits—well, we still count them as recruits until they've been in battle. It takes almost a year to make a soldier from a raw youth.” They rode on a little way, and Arcolin said, “If you're willing, I'll tell Arneson when I next send a courier—you can await his reply.”

“Thank you,” Halar said. “I—that's very generous of you.”

“Not at all,” Arcolin said.

“If you permit … I could send one of my men to your stronghold now.”

“Your son's that eager?” Arcolin said.

“Yes. And his mother's that worried that he'll run off and get himself killed right away.”

“Very well,” Arcolin said. He signaled a halt, reined off the road, and spoke to Cracolnya. “March them on, Captain; I'll catch up within a half-glass. I'm sending a message north by Count Halar's man.”

“Yes, my lord.” In a moment, the cohorts were moving again, marching steadily past Arcolin and Count Halar. Arcolin wondered if Halar noticed the older troops in the mixed cohort. He dismounted, rummaged in his saddlebag for writing materials, and scrawled a note to Captain Arneson, suggesting that he take on Count Halar's son as his squire but giving him the choice and bidding him send word either way to Count Halar.

Halar's man saluted and rode off at a brisk pace. Arcolin mounted, and he and Halar caught up with the troop. “You should have an answer by the time you're back from the city,” he said. “And if he goes, he should have no more than two mounts and clothes he can work in. We're not fancy up there.”

Halar nodded. “Kaim's not one for fine clothes and dances. I'll say this for him, father as I am: he works and doesn't quit once he's started a task.”

“Sounds as if he'll suit,” Arcolin said.

Once in Vérella, Arcolin reported to the palace while the recruits marched on through the city and out onto the south road to wait for him.

At the palace he was quickly immersed in all that had happened with Beclan Mahieran.

“And he's now Duke Verrakai's kirgan,” the servant leading him to the king's study said.

“Count Arcolin,” the king said. “Welcome. You're on your way south?”

“Yes, sir king. If possible, I should continue on today. It's best not to overnight a cohort of inexperienced troops next to a city.”

“Understood. Are the gnomes well settled?”

“Yes. And as the dragon promised, we've had no difficulty with Pargunese to the east. I've asked my recruit captain to enlarge the recruit cohort this year—”

“Excellent,” the king said. He shuffled some papers on his desk, then looked up. “I must thank you, Count Arcolin, for your advice in the matter of my cousin Beclan. Even though it did not turn out as I hoped—your advice was sound. He is not invaded, but after the High Marshal's relic proved that, we—I—chose to use him as bait for those who might hope he was. It was a bad decision, and many died as a result. In short … he has some mage powers, and it was necessary to alienate him from the royal family. He is now with Duke Verrakai, adopted by her as her heir.”

“I gathered something like that from the page who brought me,” Arcolin said.

“I cannot stop that gossip,” the king said. “It had to be publicly done to preserve the Crown. With my aunt Celbrin in house arrest now, there's less new gossip about Duke Verrakai; I'm hoping the Duke will be more accepted. You should know that although I'm still not comfortable with her magery, I chose to trust her with my cousin. And she is still Constable for this realm and will be until … unless…”

Arcolin said nothing, waiting the king out.

“It is possible,” the king said, “that the regalia she found and gave to me may create such a danger for this realm that it must be taken away. And if so, she is the only one who can move it. It answers to her will, not mine or the High Marshal's or even a paladin's.”

“I think,” Arcolin said carefully, “that she will not go until you command her, sir king.”

“You may be right. In that case, I hope I choose the right time.” The king sighed. “You must be on your way; you know what I want from you in the South. Go with Gird and send me word as you can.”

“Yes, sir king.” Arcolin bowed and withdrew.

Within the hour he had ridden through the city and out the south gate, and spotted his troops ahead, having their noon meal under Cracolnya's watchful eye. Cracolnya saluted. “Leave now, my lord?”

“No. I didn't eat in the palace. Any extras?”

Cracolnya grinned. “I thought you might miss lunch. Ham or beef?”

“Beef,” Arcolin said. Cracolnya handed him a fat beef roll, and he ate it standing up beside his mount. They were on the way shortly, this time with Cracolnya's cohort in front.

The rest of the trip south, through alternation of watery spring sunshine and miserable cold rain, as the days lengthened and the Dwarfmounts loomed ever higher, Arcolin and Cracolnya discussed the Company, the situation in Tsaia, what might have happened in Aarenis over the winter, and made plans for every contingency they could imagine. Behind them the two cohorts marched along, the novices learning from Cracolnya's veterans how best to keep themselves comfortable in overnight bivouacs. And not to dice with veterans.

“Not,” Cracolnya said one day at a midday halt, as they leaned on a rail fence together, “that we won't be beaten on the head by something we never thought of.”

“True enough,” Arcolin said, though he privately thought Cracolnya put the worst face on things he could. “But I hope not.”

Chaya

D
orrin Verrakai eyed her squire and heir with a mixture of amusement and severity. “Beclan, you have now been invited to dinner at
how
many Siers' houses?”

“Five,” Beclan said. “This would be the sixth. Is that bad, my lord?”

“No, not bad, but—I think it's annoying your—Rothlin.” She tried not to say “your brother” or “your father,” though she still thought of them that way and was sure Beclan did as well. “The princess fawning on him went back to Falk's Hall; he's had only one invitation I know of.”

“He'll have his choice of the girls at court in Tsaia,” Beclan said.

Dorrin shook her head. “Not the right attitude, Kirgan Verrakai. He's not your enemy; you should wish him well.”

“We're not supposed to be together,” Beclan said. “Unless you think I should ask the families who invited me to invite him.” That with a challenging look, almost pert.

“Enough,” Dorrin said, firmly enough that he wilted. “You know better than that, but you could have made him seem like someone they might invite.”

Beclan looked thoughtful. “I didn't think of it. I just thought—”

“How pretty the daughter of the house was and how much the family seemed to approve of you?” Dorrin asked.

“Well … yes.”

“And I had said you might find the girls here interesting. Yes. Well, you're too young to marry, and I would like to see you a knight. If the king permits, and I think he will, you could go to Falk's Hall. By then, it would be appropriate. Tell me, did any strike your fancy more than another?”

Beclan's enthusiastic descriptions of all the girls made it hard for Dorrin to keep a straight face. Every family had offered an opportunity to chat with the girl or girls, a stroll through a garden, a reason to sing or dance or both. Considering his confinement most of the winter, his lack of experience at court before, and all that had happened, his exuberance seemed inevitable.

“Well, then,” Dorrin said when he finished, “you've made friends here, and in the next few years, your choice may settle. Let me know at once; I will need to speak to the family or families.”

A knock came at the door; Dorrin said “Enter,” and Kieri came into the room. Dorrin and Beclan rose and bowed; Kieri waved them to seats and took one himself.

“I have a request that may seem unfriendly but is not meant that way,” he said. “I know that you and Duke Mahieran were to ride together with Arian to Tsaia, but with all that has happened—”

“It would be better if we left separately,” Dorrin finished. “Do not think I will misunderstand, sir king.” In front of Beclan, she could not be other than formal. “We have stayed longer than planned already, and we do not wish our king annoyed. Arian has told me of a direct way to Verrakai Steading. We might reach one of the rangers' shelters if we left now.”

“Not until tomorrow, at least,” Kieri said. “Arian wants to speak with you first, and there is something you must see in my office. But if I have your agreement to leave tomorrow or the next day, I may persuade Duke Mahieran to wait a few more days for Arian in case she should be able to travel that soon.” His expression shifted for a moment, and Dorrin realized what “able” meant. He went on. “All the preparation for this visit to Tsaia was undone by the poisoning.”

“Of course,” Dorrin said. She turned to Beclan. “I leave you to supervise the packing, Beclan. It would be best if you sought no last meeting with Rothlin unless Duke Mahieran suggests one.”

Beclan nodded. “Yes, my lord. We have said … what we could say, anyway.”

Dorrin followed Kieri to his office and looked in when he opened the door. “That was a beautiful carpet,” she said. “It looks quite different this way…” Kieri did not answer, and she walked on into the room, aware of his attention behind her. Something she should see? The floor was the most obvious, but though different, it was all clearly a stone floor, squares of green and gray. She looked around and caught her breath at the pattern of colored stone in its center.

Once having looked, she could not look away from it. Colored bands formed a pattern of curving and intertwining lines, forcing her gaze to move along them. She shut her eyes with an effort; against the darkness, little bright lines now writhed as if attempting the same pattern.