Elizabeth Moon: Oath of Fealty

“Shall I tell Stammel?”

“My head! I need to do that first, of course. Thank you. Tell them to saddle the chestnut, will you?”

“Of course.”

The tail end of his cohort was just entering the mess hall; Stammel, by the door, raised his brows at Arcolin, and Arcolin nodded. Stammel came to him.

“Captain?” Unasked questions danced in his tone.

“The Duke’s not coming; we’re going south. Usual route. One-cohort contract. We fill out with recruits. Captain Cracolnya will command here; he and Captain Valichi will patrol the east and south boundaries. I know you have more questions, but I must ride to Duke’s East. We’ll have a captains’ conference tonight; join us then. How soon can we march?”

“Day after tomorrow, sir, if we get right to it. Unless it’s an emergency, I’d like an extra day for balancing loads and the like. Road firm enough for wagons, do you think?”

“Talk to Sef. I’ll be sending supplies back from Vérella, so if the road’s good, we’ll use them.”

“Right, sir.”

“Eat lunch first, Stammel.”

“I always do, sir,” Stammel said. It was an old jest; Arcolin felt better when he felt himself smiling again.

On the road to Duke’s East, the chestnut pulled hard at first, but finally settled into a smooth canter that eased Arcolin’s tension. It would be all right. He would do what the Duke wanted, even without the Duke there—he had done it before. He had the Duke’s signet ring and the Duke’s written permission to use his funds. Worry returned. What if the Crown didn’t agree? What if they wanted to seize the Duke’s property, land, and money?

What if the sky and land turned upside down and he fell off the road? He taunted himself, then slowed to an easy jog as he came into the town. Small children ran alongside, waving. He looked around, seeing Duke’s East with a new eye.

Heribert Fontaine, the mayor, opened the door of his house as Arcolin rode up to it, and two boys stood ready to hold his horse. “News, I’ll warrant—I saw the courier go by, not even stopping for a word.”

“News indeed. I’ll come in, if I may.” Arcolin dismounted, tossing the reins to the boys. “Walk him around; don’t let him just stand in this cold.”

Fontaine held the door open and Arcolin came in. “There—left—the parlor.”

It faced east; sun had left the windows, but the room still held a little of its warmth. A bowl of apples on the table scented the air. Arcolin pulled off his gloves and took a seat at the mayor’s wave.

“You’d better read this,” he said, handing over the Duke’s message. “It’s all I know.”

Frowning, Fontaine read, his brow furrowed. Then he looked up. “The Duke … our Duke … is a king? Of … of Lyonya?”

“It would only surprise me more if it were Pargun,” Arcolin said. “All I know is that he’s taken Dorrin’s cohort, and headed east on the river road.”

“And the paladin? Paks?”

Arcolin shook his head. “I don’t know any more than this. Nor did the courier. I would suppose she is dead; that must be what the Bloodlord priests intended.”

“And he’s told you to do whatever you think best. Gird’s right arm! I know you’re senior captain, but—does he mean take over the domain?”

“I don’t know that, either. I’ve taken a one-cohort contract with the Vonjans. I know we’re squeezing supplies up here.”

“So you’ll take … how many away?”

“One all the way to Aarenis, if the Crown approves; the other two in the domain but not here. One cohort, under Cracolnya, to patrol the Pargunese border; one south, under Valichi, in case any ambitious lordling tries to move in. And I’ll be sending supplies from Vérella for the troops.”

“That will ease things,” Fontaine said. “And I don’t think we’ll have more trouble up here for a while. Have you told Valichi? And will you be sending out recruit teams this year? When are you leaving?”

Arcolin held up his hands. “No, I haven’t told Val—he’s here in town somewhere. I’d like you to send someone to him, tell him to come up to the stronghold today—we must have a captains’ conference. As for recruiting—not until the domain itself is settled. As for leaving—as soon as we can. I hope as soon as day after tomorrow. And now I must leave; I need to get to Duke’s West today as well.”

“And you’re in a hurry. Let me have m’wife fix you a stuffed roll for the ride, if you won’t sit down to eat.”

“I can’t stay, but I’d thank you for a roll … anything …”

In a few minutes, Arcolin was mounted again; he set his horse’s nose to the west breeze and eyed the rising dark cloud there with apprehension. His horse was willing now to canter quietly; Arcolin unwrapped the stuffed roll—hot fried ham, onions, and chopped winter greens—and took a bite. Lucky mayor, he thought as he finished, to have such a cook in the household. A second roll nestled in his tunic, in case of need.

The ride to Duke’s West took most of the afternoon as the cold breeze stiffened and the cloud rose higher, soaking up all the light. Before he arrived, he saw the glow of light through windows brighter than the day outside. A sentry called challenge; Arcolin halted his horse.

“Captain Arcolin of the stronghold to speak to the mayor,” he said. He dismounted, stiffer from the cold than he’d expected. “It’s gone dark early this evening.”

“Storm coming, Captain. Sorry to question you—”

“No, that’s right, after the mess we had before. But I need to speak to the mayor; we’ve had word from the Duke.”

“I can take your horse, Captain. We’ll find a place out of this wind. You’re staying the night—”

“No, I mustn’t.” Now others had come out in the cold, windy near-dark, some with torches, and Duke’s West’s mayor, Alwyn Foretson, hurried over. Younger than Mayor Fontaine, he’d lost a hand on campaign.

“What’s wrong, Captain? Attack?”

“No, not that. Word from the Duke. If we could go to your house—”

“Of course.” Foretson led the way. Duke’s West, newer than Duke’s East, was a little smaller, but the mayor’s house was just as comfortable. Rich cooking smells permeated the front rooms. “You’ll eat with us,” Foretson said, as if there were no doubt.

“Gladly,” Arcolin said. “Do we have time to get the business over with?”

“Yes. I told Melyin to hold the dumplings when I left the house and that’s another half-glass.”

“Good. You should read this—it came from the Duke by courier this morning and I know nothing more.”

Foretson raised an eyebrow, took the message, and went into the passage, coming back with a four-stick candleholder. “She put the dumplings in and she’s keeping the children in the kitchen. Let’s see now—” His brows went up his forehead as he read. Arcolin walked about, stretching after the ride. The room had a fireplace, but no fire had been laid; a blanket covered the opening. He grimaced; the stronghold had asked the villages for more wood only the week before. Foretson looked up at last. “King?”

“So it says,” Arcolin said.

“I served under the man fifteen years until I lost my hand. I didn’t know he was royal bred.” Foretson sounded as if that were a personal insult.

“Nor I,” said Arcolin, who had been with the Duke longer, as they both knew.

“Well-bred, certainly,” Foretson went on. “But a king?”

Arcolin said nothing. The mayor’s wife came to the door, looked in, shrugged, and went back to the kitchen.

“This is going to cause … problems.”

“I think so,” Arcolin said. “But I have no answers. I do have a one-cohort contract with Vonja, and as the Duke requested, I’m moving Cracolnya’s cohort and the recruits to the east and south.”