Elizabeth Moon - Oath of Fealty

“Think the Crown will accept that?”

“I’ll find out,” Arcolin said, trying to sound cheerful. “I don’t know who the Crown will transfer the domain to—”

“Oh, gods! I didn’t think of that one. We could end up belonging to Verrakai or someone like that—” He gave Arcolin a searching glance. “They should give it to you.”

“They won’t,” Arcolin said. “I’m not a native; I have no family behind me—”

Foretson cocked his head. “Do you want it?”

Did he? Arcolin thought for a long moment; the mayor said nothing. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I never considered it … I never thought beyond …”

“Well, you’d best think now. There’s lords enough will want it, want it enough to squabble over it. Verrakai and Marrakai both, I shouldn’t wonder, and woe to us if Verrakai gets it. Marrakai wouldn’t be so bad, except his own land’s so far west. No overlap. We’d do better with you, Captain, though without an heir—”

“Aye. And no one’s offered it yet, and I have a cohort to take south. And I must eat and go, I’m afraid.”

“Is this to be kept secret? And if so, until when?”

“It can’t be,” Arcolin said. “People must know; they deserve to know. But they need to know even more: what’s coming next, and that I can’t tell them. I should learn more in Vérella, and when I do I’ll send word.”

“I hope he’s safe in Lyonya,” Foretson said. Then, shaking his head: “Royal-bred and half-elf, and I never saw it … what a fool I must be.”

“If you, then all of us,” Arcolin said. “Including himself, for that matter. He had more chance to figure it out than any of us.”

Foretson laughed. “I suppose … but I’m not calling the Fox a fool, even with him this far away and not coming back.”

Not coming back. Arcolin shivered, but supper was hot and tasty, and he mounted again determined to do his best for Phelan’s land and people, whatever that might turn out to be.

He refused the mayor’s offer of an escort back to the stronghold, and rode away in an icy drizzle that stung his face. It would be sleet or snow by morning; he hoped it would blow over before they marched away in it.

Halfway back to the stronghold, he met a squad with torches; Cracolnya had sent them. Soon enough he was safely inside, cold and wet but in a seat by the fire, upstairs in the Duke’s study. Valichi was there, with his personal pack; he had even brought his armor. Stammel, waiting for Arcolin by the inner gate, had followed him in and up the stairs. Arcolin waved him to a seat as well.

“Fontaine told me,” Valichi said. “Though I find it hard to believe.”

“So do we all,” Arcolin said, pulling off his wet boots. Servants had put dry clothes to warm by the fire; he stripped off his wet ones and dressed as they talked.

“How’d the village mayors take it?” Cracolnya asked.

“Stunned. Confused. Glad we’re taking hungry mouths away, but worried about the future. Who the Crown will give the land to.”

“It could be you,” Valichi said. “You were here from the beginning.”

“I don’t think so.” But he could not help imagining it, seeing familiar things, familiar people, in a new way. He pushed that aside. “And anyway, I’ve got that contract to fulfill. I can’t start off by breaking one.”

“You need the Crown’s consent, remember—if you don’t get it, the merchants will understand.”

“That doesn’t produce gold or grain,” Arcolin said. He yawned. “Believe me, I will argue hard if they refuse; I will not toss away what Kieri worked so many years to build. How’s the preparation going, Sergeant?”

“On target, sir. All the farriery finished today. The smiths say they’ll have the last of the weapons and repairs done by supper tomorrow. We’ll be ready to march day after tomorrow, as far as the fighting troop’s concerned. And Sef says the road’s no worse than usual, this time of year.”

“We split the recruits already,” Cracolnya said. “Your cohort’s up to the usual start-of-season strength. I didn’t know what staff you’d want to take along for just one cohort—you’ll want a smith, I’m sure, but will you want a quartermaster? Clerk? Teamsters and wagons?”

“Teamsters and wagons, yes,” Arcolin said. “Most will come back here with replacement supplies. Kolya’s still in Vérella; she can supervise that. A smith for certain, and one of the surgeons. Stammel, who in the cohort might make a quartermaster?”

“Devlin, sir, if he weren’t my junior sergeant. Don’t see how he could do both.”

“Agreed,” Arcolin said. “Others?”

Stammel shook his head. “No, sir.”

“We need someone,” Arcolin said. “One of the quartermaster’s assistants, then; we need him here. Stammel, talk to the quartermaster—I’m inclined to think Maia, but leave it to him.” Arcolin yawned, then stretched. “It’s time we went to bed, captains. Tomorrow will be a full day.”

They rose; Arcolin gathered up his wet things and carried them to the kitchen, to be dried by the cooking hearth. Back upstairs, he went into Kieri’s office and looked around.

Kieri had asked for nothing from this office, from the stronghold. Things he had bought in Aarenis or Vérella: the striped rug Tammarion had chosen, a carved box with a running fox on its lid, a favorite whetstone always placed on the left of the great desk, a candleholder of translucent pink stone that glowed with light when the candle was lit, the chest in which—as Arcolin knew—Kieri’s dead wife’s armor and the children’s daggers were wrapped in Tammarion’s troth dress. Kieri had asked for none of these.

Not ever to return. Arcolin forced himself to take a deep breath and consider what records he might need, for either a contract or … that which he did not want to consider.

Tired as he was, he sat up late, making notes, packing away those records he would not take in the chest where they belonged, packing the ones he would need into waterproof bags. The room seemed emptier than it should, emptier than it ever had.

“I’m trying,” he muttered to himself, then shook his head and went to bed.

Arcolin woke to the memory of yesterday’s surprises, and the realization that he needed to parade the whole Company. They had given their oaths to Kieri, who had now left them. They must now give their oaths to him. That ceremony could not be omitted.

Outside, the previous evening’s storm continued, alternating brief snow flurries with rattling sleet and icy rain. Perhaps it would stop by noon; Arcolin went down to breakfast and found Valichi staring thoughtfully at the weapons on the dining room wall.

A kitchen servant arrived with steaming bowls of porridge and loaves of hot bread. Valichi sat down and started eating. Arcolin poured a little honey, thick with cold, into his porridge and tried a spoonful as Cracolnya came in from outside.

“Nasty,” Cracolnya said.

“Think it will clear away at all today?” Arcolin asked. “I need to parade the Company and take their oaths.”

The two captains stared at him, then at each other. “I had forgotten,” Cracolnya said. “If he’s not coming back—if he’s the one to break it—then we all—” His voice trailed away.

“We all swore to him, personally,” Arcolin said. “He’s not our duke anymore, so whether the Crown confirms me or not, for the time being we need a single oath to bind us. And—” He shrugged. “That’s to me.” As he said it, he realized he would also have to travel to the villages again, taking their charters, getting the oaths of mayors and councils, making a copy for the Crown. That would take an entire day.

“I understand.” Cracolnya dug into his porridge, eating fast for five or six mouthfuls. “I’ll do it, of course. It’s what he’d want.” He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, my pardon. It’s what I want.”