Oath of Fealty

by Elizabeth Moon

  Dorrin stood, raked at her hair, buckled on the sword she’d laid ready on the dining room table. “Do they understand there’s danger from the other Verrakai outside?”

  “They think any Verrakai’s an enemy, including you, my lord.” Selfer straightened the hang of her cloak, as if he were still a squire. “They’re scared, they’re confused, and of course they’re still half-starved and some are hurt. We’ve fed them; they’ve had a chance to bathe, and they’re in clean clothes, but I’m not sure of your safety, my lord, let alone theirs.”

  “I must go to them,” Dorrin said. “Safe or not—they have no weapons, do they?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “Here, in the main hall where the Verrakaien ladies were.”

  “What about the servants here in the household?”

  “We put them to work—what they say is their usual work. I’ve had a squad go through the cells, make sure we didn’t miss anyone. It would take a river to clean out that dungeon—days, anyway.”

  “I’m going to burn out the tower,” Dorrin said.

  “Can you do that without firing the house as well?”

  “I hope so,” Dorrin said. “The tower must come down, but we don’t have time now—burning it out’s the next best thing.”

  The great hall, only that morning full of Verrakaien, now held a few hands of lean, wary prisoners freed from the dungeons. They stared at Dorrin, anger and fear both obvious in their faces.

  “You have reason to hate me,” Dorrin said. “You can see in my face that I am Verrakai by birth, and you have known nothing but cruelty from my family. But some of you look old enough to remember me—the one who ran away.”

  “So they said,” one of the women said. “I didn’t believe it.”

  “Do not believe me, then, but believe this—” She touched Falk’s ruby. “I ran away, I went to Lyonya and was accepted into Falk’s service. Since I was knighted, I’ve served Kieri Phelan, once Duke Phelan of Tsaia and now the new king of Lyonya.”

  “The Fox …” someone muttered.

  “The crown prince and Council of Tsaia appointed me here, to take over Verrakai, because they knew the other Verrakaien hated me.”

  “They should have killed that scum and broken up the domain—” said a man with stringy gray hair.

  “Haron Verrakai is dead,” Dorrin said. “And his brother. All Verrakai, save me, are under an Order of Attainder—do you know what that is?”

  They shook their heads.

  “For their treason, their lives are forfeit. All will be tried; some may be found not guilty, but most will die.” They did not speak or move; their faces showed only doubt and fear.

  “I do not know why you were in prison; I do not care. If you were stealing or hurting your neighbors, do so no more.”

  “Weren’t that!” one of the women said, suddenly bold. She took a step forward. “I said only as it wasn’t fair all our food was tooken for the soldiers, and someone told the militia, and they brung me here and said I’d find out what hunger was, in them cells.”

  “It wasn’t fair,” Dorrin said. “And I took you out of those cells and saw you fed, didn’t I?”

  “Yes …” It was a grudging yes, but it was agreement, and some of the others nodded.

  “It may not be safe for you to go home, with some of my relatives escaped. So I ask if you would be willing to stay here—work here—for the time being. You will be housed, clothed, fed. If you are not willing, I will not hold you here, but I cannot promise you will be safe on your way to your homes—or there—until I’ve dealt with the other Verrakaien.”

  “Can we keep these clothes?” asked another woman, holding out a skirt that had obviously belonged to a highborn lady.

  “Why not?” Dorrin said. The former prisoners grinned at each other and some began whispering. “I’m not going to wear them.” She gestured at her own garb. “I’ve been a soldier over four hands of years; I need no fancy dresses. But—” She waited until the stir died down. “Remember the danger. If the Verrakai who fled the house see you in the clothes they last saw on their relatives, what do you think they’ll do?”

  Grins disappeared, replaced by scared looks.

  “If I were you,” Dorrin said, “I’d be wary of looking as if you’d stolen from the closets. We made the Verrakaien change to servants’ clothes, and that left only these fancier clothes for you. Those of you skilled with the needle could remake some of these—you might look like outsider merchants, and not Verrakaien.”

  “But what about Jen and Tam?” one man asked. “They should be buried in our vill, with their kin.”

  “How far away is your vill?” Dorrin asked.

  “A half day’s walk,” the man said. “Kindle, we call it, for the fire-oak grove.”

  Dorrin turned to Selfer. “Captain, is that militia squad up to escorting two bodies for burial?”

  Selfer considered. “Mounted, yes, if I send along one of my cohort. We could transport the bodies on pack mules and be there and back easily by nightfall.”

  “Very well,” Dorrin said. “Who is from that vill?”

  “Just me and Piter here,” the older man said. “Jen was my cousin.”

  “Then, Captain, find this man something less conspicuous—” The first man was wearing a gray silk shirt, embroidered blue-velvet doublet, a satin scarf around his neck and a black velvet cloak draped over all “—and do what is needful.”

  Within the half-glass, the two from Kindle were on their way home, with the bodies of their dead and the escort; the other freed prisoners had agreed to stay as servants for the time. Two claimed skill with needlework; Dorrin assigned them to restyle Verrakai finery to more practical garments.

  Now she must deal with the younger children, still up in the nursery. That took much of the afternoon, conferring with the nurserymaids and interviewing the children. Dorrin had little experience with children; these seemed normal enough, and she took the maids’ word for their character.

  Except for one, Restin, a nine-winters boy, whom the maids said had been a rambunctious, difficult small boy but had “improved” after a long illness. She’d noticed Restin doing exactly what he was told—never complaining, never arguing, always mild and biddable.

  Always watching her. Something about him made her uneasy, and she could not define what it was except his eyes seemed too adult, too knowing, for a nine-winters boy. Was he actually older, within the Order of Attainder, only pretending to be nine? She called the oldest of the nursemaids out of the room.

  “Restin—are you sure he’s only nine winters?”

  “Yes, ma—my lord. He does seem quite the little man, doesn’t he? But it’s his way, not his age. Some children, you know, ‘specially them as has the death-sickness, they change. The fever, his mother said.”

  Cold ran down Dorrin’s spine. “The death-sickness?”

  “It’s like they’re dying, long afore the crisis. Sickly, weakening. Then the fever takes them. Then the priest prays over them—the only good I ever hear of them.”

  “Where?”

  “They take ’em to the old keep, when the fever comes, to save the other children sickening. Two or three hands of days, it is, and when they come back, they’re different. Stands to reason, my lord. It’s the same with black-foot and red-spot and lump-jaw, all those ails children get. Like as not the child’s changed. Curly hair straight and straight hair curly. Only with death-sickness, they’re quieter, easier to manage, more grownup.”

  They would be, if they were in fact adult minds—adult selves—in a child’s body. Adults biding their time. Adults who—she could hardly imagine this—would kill their own children to disguise themselves.

  “When was Restin so sick? How often does the death-sickness come?”

  “It’s mostly before they lose their milk teeth,” the maid said. “But sometimes after. Restin—it was five winters back, same year as Lord Carraig died.”

 
; Dorrin shivered. Her father’s older brother; she remembered them both, too well. Could it be Carraig looking at her from Restin’s nine-winters face? “How many of the children here have had the death-sickness?”

  “We’ve been worried about Mikeli; he’s pale and not growing well this past year. That’s an early sign, often. His mother bade us watch him closely. He’s four winters; I can show you—”

  “What about older children, the ones sent off to Vérella?”

  The maid frowned and began counting on her fingers. “Kosta, he’s twelve winters, and Berol, he’s eleven. Rolyan, Pedar—it’s strange, my lord, but boys get the death-sickness more than girls. I said once to my lady that maybe girls were stronger and she slapped me to the floor. But Syryan, she had it. A right little fireball she was before, all temper all day long, but after as ladylike as you please.”

  And Dorrin had sent Valthan off with the prisoners thinking the adults would be the worst problem, that most of those children were not yet skilled in magery. Five children’s bodies that might—every instinct told her did—conceal adult intelligence, experience, and magery.

  How long had it been going on? She remembered now one of her older brothers who’d been very sick and afterward seemed different. How many generations? Were some of those minds even older, passed down from one generation to another all the way back to Old Aare?

  And what was she going to do about it? Her oath to the Crown required that she eliminate the threat from Verrakai. Carraig, if that’s who really inhabited Restin’s body, fell within the Order of Attainder. But who could believe that? She had to tell Valthan; she had to tell the prince. And she had to protect herself and the other children from whatever Carraig might choose to do.

  “Since Restin is so mature,” she said to the maid, “I will want to speak with him in a little. He will better understand the situation than some of the others, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the maid said. “We’ve made him our helper, you know.”

  That did not surprise her. Restin, even in the shielded nursery, would be able to use his magery to charm the nurses. “Send him to me after supper,” Dorrin said. “I’ll be in the dining room.”

  She found Selfer and explained what she understood. “I cannot be certain without forcing Restin to reveal himself—there’s a phrase that may work—but I dare not wait to warn Valthan. They will not have made it to the main road today; we must send a courier.”

  “What can Valthan do? Did your binding of magery include the children?”

  “Yes, it did, but I am not sure how long those bindings will last in my absence. I’m not sure what else might work. Numbweed, perhaps. Its effects might dull the magery. I’ll ask—”

  In the kitchen, Farin the cook, back at work with additional help from the freed prisoners, led Dorrin to the pantry. “In that locked box.”

  Dorrin tried the keys she’d found in the basket of things taken from the Verrakai women. One opened the box. Inside were packets neatly tied shut, tiny jars and bottles, and a smaller locked box. The cook pointed. “That there’s numbweed to put in wine for the pain of wounds, and that’s gnurtz, for calming someone in a fever rage. It dissolves in sib, but not in wine. That box is powdered deathwish, grows on rotting logs in the forest. Only the duke is allowed to use it.”

  “For suicide?” Dorrin asked. She was sure it was not that, but wondered what the cooks had been told.

  “Oh, no,” Farin said. “But if someone’s dying anyway, in pain, ’tis said a few grains on the tongue will ease it more than numbweed and give an easy death. Not for the likes of us, of course.” She sniffed. “Just for the lords and ladies.” She went on. “Now, that there is boneset, you put it in sib if someone’s broken a bone and it’s said to heal faster. And that’s lungwort, steep it in hot water and breathe it for lung fever. Some says mix it with comfortweed is best, but my lady—she that was, I mean—” Another worried glance at Dorrin, who managed a smile. “She didn’t like to do that. Now this one is shaved hadjan bark, whatever a hadjan is, something from the south I think, good for proud flesh, they said.”

  “And you mixed these things with food and drink here?”

  “Aye, my lord, all but the deathwish, that we weren’t ever to touch.” She leaned closer and her voice dropped to a whisper. “My lady that was … one of the chambermaids said she had a box like this in her own room, hidden in a hole beside the fireplace, with this and more. They could have mixed things themselves but they wouldn’t stir sib where servants could see.”

  “I see,” Dorrin said. She saw too many dire possibilities. “Do you know if this … gnurtz? … controls the magery of the person with fever rage?”

  “Yes, it does,” Farin said, nodding vigorously. “They said—my lady that was and the Duke that was—for ordinary folk like us numbweed was the most we’d need to fall asleep, but gnurtz did the same for them, mind and magery alike. That’s why I put a little in the children’s food last night, to quiet ’em like you said.” Her brow furrowed. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Dorrin said. “That was perfect. Thank you. And to prevent their distress while they’re still so confused, I think you’d better continue with it for another day or so.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” the cook said. “Lucky it’s just the children. Wouldn’t have enough if it was to hold down that many adults. Trader hasn’t come through yet this year.”

  “Trader?”

  “The one brings us this and other things. Gnurtz comes from far away somewhere.”

  Something else to worry about.

  “And for your dinner, my lord? You haven’t said what you want. And if I could know what you need for tomorrow, that would help … those soldiers you brought with you have their own supplies, they said …”

  Dorrin looked around the kitchen; all the cooks and helpers stopped at once and stared at her. Through her worry, kitchen fragrances finally reached her awareness.

  “What are you preparing for the children and yourselves?”

  “For the children, my lord? Their usual supper: milky porridge, rusks, a honeycake. For the servants, soup and bread.”

  She remembered the taste of milky porridge and rusks from her own childhood, the hard toasted crusts of bread softening slowly in the milk. Honeycakes, hard as wood, to suck on while waiting for the maids to warm the beds with coals in a pan. If they were annoyed, your bed would be ice-cold in winter.

  “I didn’t dare put on a haunch of venison for your own dinner, my lord, without your telling me, but I could do a steak—”

  “Soup and bread will do well tonight,” Dorrin said. “And cheese.” Though the cook seemed honest enough, it might be well to eat what the servants ate for a while longer.

  The cook looked surprised, but nodded. “And for the Captain out there?”

  “The same,” Dorrin said. “Dinner for two. Soup, bread, cheese.” The soup, now that she was aware of the fragrance, smelled delicious. She walked over to the hearth and sniffed, then smiled at them all and went to find Selfer again.

  The funeral escort had just returned; Selfer sent them to the stables to put up the animals. “And be ready for inspection in a half-glass,” he said.

  “Inspection … again?” one of them asked.

  “Inspection any time,” Selfer said, in a tone that stiffened them all. “At least twice a day until you meet the requirements of a decent militia. I expect those boots to shine.”

  The Phelani bit their lips not to grin, and led off at a brisk pace. Selfer turned to Dorrin. “Courier’s well on his way. Seli will report on the situation in the vill when that lot are cleaned up.”

  “I think they’ll do,” Dorrin said.

  “With some training,” Selfer said.

  “Oh, yes. My relatives never liked their servants to learn too much. Easier to control the dull and incompetent, especially the ones with weapons.”

  “People treated that way become sly in self-defense,” Self
er said. “How are you going to teach them honesty at their age?”

  Dorrin shook her head. “I can’t. But I can reward honesty; greed produces whatever brings reward.”

  “I hope so,” Selfer said. “What did you learn in the kitchen this time? Are we having a real dinner, or more bread and cheese?” He rubbed his stomach and put on a pitiful expression.

  “Bread and soup and cheese,” Dorrin said. “I left it too late for the cook to put on a roast. Tomorrow, Falk’s grace, we’ll have real food. And I need to see about supplies for the cohort and the militia, too.”

  “I don’t know about the house pantries,” Selfer said, “But the granary has plenty of grain and no sign of rodents. Sacks of dried beans, as well. I think one door is for a root cellar but you said not to open any doors without your checking them.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll go with you,” Dorrin said, “though if the cooks can enter a door, it should be well enough. I did hear from the head cook that Haron’s wife’s chamber has a hidden vault with a box of herbs—or poisons.”

  “What are you going to do about that boy Restin?”

  “That man, I believe,” Dorrin said. “And if it is, I must kill him.”

  Selfer looked horrified. “Kill a child?” Then he shook his head. “But—if he’s not really a child—”

  “Exactly,” Dorrin said. “I don’t want to believe they’ve done anything so vile as kill a child’s soul to give a man a fresh body. But the family rolls—the page I can see with mage-sight—makes it clear they were transferring Verrakai to other bodies. An adult mind in a child’s body, with full adult mage powers, would be incredibly dangerous.”

  “How do we know it was just once?” Selfer said, scowling. “Is there anything you know of that would prevent someone taking body after body, living … how long?”