Oath of Fealty (35 page)

“Had the crisis this morning, I heard,” Farin said. “Fever gone so fast—is that real, or will he relapse?” She said that quietly, to Dorrin, across the kitchen from Mikeli.

“I believe it to be real,” Dorrin said. “Falk’s grace, I call it.”

“Falk! I’ve never heard my lords and my ladies talk of Falk’s grace.”

“You will hear me do so,” Dorrin said, touching her ruby. “I’m a Knight of Falk, remember.”

The cook gave her a long look. “Does that mean no more of those … with the …” She made a gesture, circle and horns.

“No more priests of Liart, no more blood magery,” Dorrin said. Everyone in the kitchen but Mikeli stopped short and almost cowered. “No more,” Dorrin said, louder. “I am your Duke, and my word
is your law, but my word is founded on Falk and the High Lord, not those scum.”

“But—but I—” That was a kitchen maid by the bread oven, a girl perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Dorrin remembered her as one of those who had carried water for her bath. “I—they made me swear to—”

“Be quiet, Efla!” Farin said.

Dorrin walked over to the girl. “Efla, what did they make you swear?”

Tears ran down the girl’s face. “They—they made me swear to him—to Liart—they hurt me and hurt me and I was so scared—”

Dorrin reached out; the girl flinched but Dorrin pulled her closer, into a hug. “Child, the gods forgive such oaths … you are not bound to Liart. You can renounce that oath and take a better one.” The girl sobbed in Dorrin’s arms; Dorrin patted her back. “Efla, listen … listen to me. I’m your Duke now. I’m your protector.”

Efla pulled back a little, gasping out her story through her sobs. “They—they made me—he—he took me—he put his—and a child—they said it—was really—Liart’s—”

Dorrin hugged the girl close again. “It’s all right, Efla. They lied. The Bloodlord’s servants lie to scare people, and lie to trick them, and lie to harm them. If you have a child inside you, it is the human child of whoever raped you, not a god’s child. The Bloodlord cannot engender life.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. When did this happen?”

“Ten-days and ten-days afore you came. Right before a lot of them left to go somewhere. It was Hagin, son of Jurin, son of Haron who did it. And—and I don’t know, and—”

“Come, sit down here.” Dorrin led the girl to the stool she herself had sat on that morning. “Bring me a wet cloth,” she said to the others. Motion resumed; the others moved around and Farin brought the cloth.

“Wipe your face,” Farin said to Efla. “What a silly girl, to bother the Duke with all this. And I still think you wanted it, only you got caught and made up all that about being forced—”

“I did not!” Efla said, with another burst of tears. “I was in the pantry there, I told you—”

“I want to hear all her story,” Dorrin said to Farin. “She may have
something to tell that will help me clear the last evil from this place. Can you watch Mikeli for me? Will eating too much now make him sicker?”

“Oh!” The cook looked over at the table, where Mikeli was reaching for a pot of honey. “I’ll watch him, never fear.”

“Now, Efla,” Dorrin said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

It was much as she expected. One of the young men had found her in the pantry, late in the evening, when she was finishing the evening audit as assigned. She had been unable to move; he had laughed, fondled her, kissed her, and then forced her to come with him to the old keep, into the dungeon itself. Horrible monsters had been there, dressed in red and black. They’d tortured a kitten in front of her and rubbed her face in its blood. They’d hurt her under her clothes, and laughed at her, and the man—Hagin—had hurt her most between her legs. They’d threatened worse, showing her the tools, the fire, and made her swear eternal loyalty to Liart of the Horned Chain.

“I didn’t want to … but it hurt so much …”

“And now you think you’re with child?”

Efla hung her head; Dorrin could barely hear her voice. “I didn’t bleed.”

“If you are with child, I promise you again it is a human child, not a demon’s. Those monsters were human men, in robes and masks … not anything but that.”

“And the Bloodlord won’t come to take me away if I … if I unsay it?”

“No. But you can’t undo what’s done, or unsay what’s said … you can say differently this time.”

“They said we all had to,” Farin said. Now she looked worried; the other kitchen help edged nearer. “And once we swore, the Bloodlord would know and we could never get away.”

“That’s not true,” Dorrin said. “Anyone can turn from evil if they want to; the gods act through people—through us.” Almost always; Paks had that circle on her forehead through a direct act, but she was a paladin.

Thinking of Paks, she thought of the Duke—the king, she reminded herself yet again. She counted the days … was it two or three until the Spring Evener? She looked around the great rooms, dimming as the winds brought a layer of cloud across the sun …
nothing like the palace in Chaya, full of color and life. So easy to imagine the bustle of servants, guests, the talk and the laughter, the music—no. That was self-pity, and she would not indulge.

She found Selfer still supervising the removal of salvageable items from the tower. “Shall we burn it now, or hope that’s rain enough to keep any flames from the other buildings?” he asked.

“I’m thinking perhaps we should do it on the Spring Evener,” Dorrin said. “A day of renewal and also balance, restoration.”

“I think you’re right,” he said. “But if it rains—”

“Barrels of oilberries,” Dorrin said. “We’ve enough oil to burn even the old dry wood. In fact, we can start pouring that on it now. And light it on the Eve.”

“We can call it an honor to the king at his coronation,” Selfer said, grinning.

“And it will be,” Dorrin said. “If I could, I’d light fires for him all the way to Aarenis.”

O
n the road south, at the head of his cohort, Arcolin half ignored the Vonja agent who wanted to chatter about his new status. His mind ranged ahead to Valdaire and the south, and behind to the north where his domain—
his
domain—waited. He made plans—
his
plans, not that different from Kieri’s, but his own. Rain came as it always did; the road was a quagmire where it always was; the cohort stopped in the usual places.

“Gettin’ back to it, is he?” he heard over and over. Arcolin nodded and waved without pausing to explain. When they finally made it over the pass and he saw once more the Vale of Valdaire opening below, his heart lifted.

The Duke’s great barracks just outside the city on the northeast, originally a caravansary, had been sublet by his factor to another company. Valdaire did not permit troops to camp near the city, so Arcolin found them cramped accommodation in an inn northeast of the main market. His cohort filled every available room; some slept in the stable loft as well. Arcolin went out at once to deal with the business that held them in Valdaire: money and the need to hire captains.

News of Kieri Phelan’s new position as king of Lyonya had reached Valdaire as a rumor, widely disbelieved but a good item of gossip. As he chatted with men at the hire-sword hall, everyone had a different version of the rumor, and they all asked for more. Arcolin turned the questions aside and asked his own, interviewing everyone
who looked like officer material, talking to the other captains he knew.

“So, Captain, they’re saying your duke turned out to be royal-born.”

Aesil M’dierra, the only woman commanding a mercenary company, stirred her sib and then sipped it, eyeing him over the rim of the mug. Arcolin hoped for her assessment of the freelance mercenaries hanging around the hire-sword hall. He had a short list of possible captains.

“What have you heard?” Arcolin said, not answering. M’dierra, he knew, would expect some verbal sparring before an answer she could trust.

“The moneychangers’ courier, some ten days ago. The one who brings the current exchange rate to the Guild League cities.”

“Bannack?”

“That’s the one. My senior captain buys him dinner and drinks, and we get the news from the north.”

“So,” Arcolin said, in a joking voice, “what wild story did Bannack hand you?”

“Kieri Phelan’s an elf king’s son and he’s off to some elvenhome kingdom to be king of the elves. He was stolen away at birth and hidden in a castle—locations vary from across the sea to here in Aarenis.” She took another swallow of sib. “I don’t believe that; elves can find elves, and anyway he doesn’t look like an elf. That story might work over the mountains, but here, no. Kieri is not an elf and though he could be a king’s son I can’t imagine whose.”

“Interesting,” Arcolin said. “Always helps to know what rumors are running.”

“Fast horses aren’t the strongest,” M’dierra said. “Now are you going to tell me, or do I have to buy you a meal and pretend to admire your handsome face?”

Arcolin laughed. “Let’s share a meal. I’ll tell you about Kieri and then ask your opinion of some men I’m thinking of hiring as captains.”

“Well enough, but I must reassure my anxious employers that I’m not switching sides just because I’m seen dining with you. Get us one of the side rooms at the Golden Fish, for two full glasses from now.”

Arcolin nodded and she rose, a woman near the Duke’s age, dark-haired, tall, lithe, though he noted she moved a little more stiffly than
she had a few years before. On the way out of the inn’s common room, she signaled two Golden Company soldiers, her escort.

His own employer’s agent, across the room, saw her leave and came to Arcolin. “What did she say? Who are you hiring?”

“I don’t know yet,” Arcolin said. “It was just a cup of sib; we’re having dinner to discuss business. Speaking of which—” He rubbed thumb and fingers together.

“Oh. Well, I haven’t had time to see the bankers today; tomorrow will do, won’t it?”

“On arrival in Valdaire,” Arcolin said, trying for Kieri’s tone.

“But the banks—you don’t want to wander around with a sack of gold.”

“On arrival,” Arcolin said. “And we arrived before noon.”

Grumbling, the agent admitted that he did, indeed, have that part of their payment; Arcolin went with him to the Golden Fish, not really surprised the agent was staying at such an expensive inn. On the way, he told Jamis, one of his escort, to fetch a pack mule.

The Golden Fish advertised its elegance with fresh paint on the doorframes and shutters, pots of flowers out front, and two stout door guards alert to keep out anyone they suspected of not having enough money. They ignored the agent, Arcolin, and Arcolin’s remaining escort; Arcolin paused and told the nearer guard that Jamis would be coming with a mule to take away the ale he was planning to buy.

“He can’t block the entrance,” the man said.

“No, of course not.”

“In uniform?”

“Yes. Phelan’s Company.”

“Good enough. S’long as he don’t park a mule across the entrance, we won’t bother ’im.”

Inside, the floors shone with oil; the common room smelled of fresh herbs. The innkeeper came to meet the Cortes Vonja agent, then led them to the inn strong room with its impressively iron-bound door and heavy lockplate. Inside, shelves held labeled sacks and boxes. In the presence of the innkeeper the agent opened a box with Cortes Vonja’s city seal on the lid, and counted out the first installment of southern gold, natas and nas with the Guild League and Cortes Vonja mint marks. Arcolin and the agent both signed a paper
stating Arcolin’s receipt of the money. The innkeeper signed as witness.

“As you see, Captain, I have a good, secure strong room and would be happy to protect your payment overnight, until the banks open tomorrow.”

“No, thank you,” Arcolin said. To his eye the strong room was not proof against anything but casual and incompetent thieves. Valdaire abounded in such, but also had a branch of the Thieves’ Guild. “I have ample guards. I will, however, buy two kegs of your best ale, if you have it to spare.”

“Certainly, certainly,” the innkeeper said, beaming now.

“And in a glass and a half, one of your side rooms for the evening. M’dierra dines with me.”

“Yes, of course, my—Captain.”

“You’re dining here?” the Cortes Vonja agent said, frowning.

“M’dierra’s choice,” Arcolin said. “You object?”

“Er … no. I just wondered.”

“Captain, Jamis is here,” Tam said.

“Excuse me.” Arcolin bowed and looked around the common room. How long would it take the innkeeper—? But there he was, behind two servants, each with a keg. “This way,” he said to the servants, leading them to the front door. As he paid the innkeeper, Jamis and Tam packed the money first, and then the kegs on top of them. Arcolin went on ahead. Kieri had an arrangement for after-hours deposit at his banker’s. Arcolin gave the coded knock, a guard opened the door, and when Jamis and Tam arrived, the money went into a vault far safer than the innkeeper’s strong room.

“So, when’s himself coming down again? Or is it true what I hear, that he’s become a king somewhere up north?” Fenin Kavarthin, the banker, gray-haired and a little stooped, secured the vault door while Arcolin looked politely the other way.