Oath of Fealty

by Elizabeth Moon

  Arcolin felt stupid. “I should have looked at our merchant’s coins more closely. They looked fine to me, but now I wonder—why was he carrying so much money, not as an agent of the Moneychangers’ Guild?”

  “Were they all southern mint?”

  “I didn’t even see that,” Arcolin said. “Some were gold, some silver … I did see a Cortes Vonja mark on a few on top.”

  “Seems unlikely all the mints would start minting bad coins at once,” Burek said. “Though it’s a way to stretch a treasury until people figure out there’s plenty of money and few goods.”

  “But … if someone else were making the false coins—sending them to various cities—that would cause trouble, as in Cilwan.” He looked around. Nothing to see, nothing to hear but the gurgle of water over the ford. “Alured, I’ll wager. He wants the Guild League broken; he knows it financed the last war … if the cities war against each other, if the merchants can’t trade as they have … he could move in with more than brigands.”

  “I don’t see why he isn’t happy with a dukedom,” Burek said.

  “Nor I,” Arcolin said, with a sigh. “And our immediate problem is these brigands and tonight’s camp.”

  Burek flushed. “Sorry, sir—”

  “No—that wasn’t a correction. Thinking long-term is what made Phelan successful, but while thinking long-term we must not lose track of today’s duties. Let’s get these wagons across—we may have to unload them—and try to reach that village—ruined or not—tonight.” He cast a last look at the bootprinted game trail before turning to the cohort.

  Devlin’s choices as junior sergeant and corporals had already shown their ability and energy in the previous night’s camp. Now Jenits in particular pulled almost equal weight to Devlin. Arcolin, remembering the brash youth of Jenits’s first campaign year, the last of Siniava’s War, watched the serious, determined young man organize his two files quickly and get the second wagon unloaded even before Devlin had the first one ready to cross. And it was Jenits who suggested using the spare horses and the four mules to move cargo across the stream alongside the wagons.

  More quickly than Arcolin expected, they were across, the wagons reloaded, and on their way. The next village site, when they came to it, looked clearly deserted—the cottages no more than tumbled stone walls pierced by saplings and weeds. It had backed on the woods, with fields before it … fields now growing up in weeds and bushes, even young trees. The village well, surprisingly, had a few flowers, barely withered, on its curbstone.

  “Someone uses this,” Devlin said. “And it smells clean.”

  “Dip a bucket,” Arcolin said. The wellhouse and axle were gone, but the stone edging was remarkably clean. Someone was maintaining this well—someone who cared about the merin. The bucket came up with clear water that smelled fresh. Arcolin dipped a handful—it tasted as clean as it smelled.

  He took the bucket and walked around the well, pouring a thin stream. “Thanks to the merin of the well, for the good water,” he said aloud. “We honor the Lady and her handmaidens. No harm will come to this well by our use.” Then he turned to Burek and Devlin. “We’ll camp here tonight. A solid defensive perimeter. When my tent is up, I want to talk to both of you.”

  While Devlin organized the camp, Arcolin rode out into the fields a short way, weeds brilliant with yellow, blue, and white flowers up to his horse’s belly. Ample cover for a force to approach on that side, the old furrow ridges and hollows concealed by tall vegetation. He saw no sign of disturbance, off the wagon track, but with the thick growth he knew he could miss such signs easily. He rode across the wagon track and there, near the forest edge, found a well-traveled footpath running just along the margin, between field and wood. Well-traveled, but not by many, and the only footprint he found was bare.

  In the last year of Siniava’s War, he’d seen the like: peasants driven from their villages, eking out a poor living in the edges of woodland, hiding from everyone. A clean well would be a boon to them. And such people would not welcome brigands any more than soldiers. If he could convince them to talk to him, he might save the cohort time and blood.

  He rode back to the camp, now bustling as his people dug a ditch, cut stakes, and laid out the campsite itself. All were at work but the sentries and the scouts he’d assigned to patrol beyond the perimeter, even Burek. As he dismounted, he caught a glance from Devlin; he nodded, tied his horse to the tail of a wagon, and went over.

  “Problems, Sergeant?”

  “Not exactly,” Devlin said. “But—I have a feeling.”

  “So do I,” Arcolin said. “There’s a lot more going on than some brigands bothering farmers or merchants. Is the feeling about this place, or more than that?”

  “I wish we had two cohorts,” Devlin said. “Or all three. Marching through the woods today—I don’t know, sir, I just—it’s been a long time since I felt like we were a small group.”

  “We are a small group,” Arcolin said. “For what it’s worth, I had the same feeling. I’m half inclined to go back tomorrow, just patrol in the open land closer to the city. But I think it’s as much having Stammel gone, and the five we left there, as real danger. You’re having to bring along juniors faster than ever and we’re down six, including a sergeant and a corporal.”

  “I know we’ve lost only one in combat,” Devlin said. “It’s just …” He shook his head.

  Arcolin clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk when camp’s made.”

  As soon as the camp was set up, Arcolin called Burek and Dev into his tent. “We’re in over our heads,” he said quietly. “There’s much more going on here than some leftover homeless peasants and soldiers from Siniava’s War.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Cortes Vonja

  Matthis Stammel burned in a fire that had no beginning and no end. It had been before he could remember. Voices he dimly remembered called on him to hold a line he could not see, to stand in the fire, to endure … Don’t give in, they pled. Don’t quit. Young voices, older voices … he had no way to answer them, to ask what, why, who? Something—someone—dire held him down in that fire, someone who demanded that he give in, give up, let go, die. Someone who promised ease and rest if only he would retreat.

  He fought with every fiber of will and strength to do what the voices asked, but the other one, the interior one who needed no voice to speak, demanded surrender. He wanted to ask the captain … ask the Duke … if he couldn’t please, just for a moment, have someone else take his place. He had not heard their voices for a very long time. The last thing the captain had said … the captain trusted him. The captain trusted him to hold.

  He could feel his flesh burning away to nothing, the blood in his veins bubbling. His breaths, when he was aware of them, burned his throat; fire blazed in his lungs. Why am I not dead? he cried silently. The unspeaking one in his mind promised he would be, dead and cold, if only he would surrender. It was too much, too long, for anyone to endure. The unspeaking one agreed, offering hope, offering a dream of green grass, shade, cool water, if only he would let go, let the other take control.

  He was so tired, tired of the pain, tired of the struggle. Wherever this was, whoever the enemy was, no man lived forever; no man could fight forever. The voices he knew faded, returned, faded … one came again, a girl’s voice, trembling, begging him …

  “You promised to tell me more about Paks,” she said; he could barely hear her over the crackling that was his bones in the fire.

  Paks. What Arcolin had said. What the girl—he struggled to think past the burning, past the pain, past the pressure that bore in on him, the dark presence that held him down—who was the girl? Paks had—had gone into the thieves’ lairs, in Vérella … she had endured five days and nights. How long had he endured? Forever, the dark presence told him. And it will go on forever unless you yield. He struggled—was it really forever? The girl was still murmuring to him. “The Marshal says it won’t last; the demon’s weakening …”
r />   Demon? Was it a demon he had inside him? Stammel strained, trying to see, feel, somehow know what—who—it was. Fire—fire and smoke, and a shadowy something, the first actual, visual image of his enemy. Pain seared him, worse than ever, but this time he had a focus; he concentrated not just on holding on, but on attacking, pushing back at it. He still did not know how or when it had come, but he was not—not—going to fail the Duke, or his captain, or Paks or his other recruits.

  He heard the voice more clearly now—not Paks, but another of his recruits—he could not think of her name or see her face, but he knew he had known them. Flames licked him again, white-hot as always, and he cried out. This time he heard himself cry out, felt the hands that held him … and something cool and wet on his burning lips, his parched tongue. The pressure inside swelled, but this time, as he fought it back, it retreated a little. He reached out, in that shadow-world of fire and smoke, grasped at it, and squeezed … squeezed as it struggled and fought in its turn, as it shrank, shrank to the size of a wasp—and with one last bone-piercing pain, stung like a wasp and was gone.

  Silence, after the roaring of the flames, but for the very human voices he heard around him. The pain … was gone, as if it had never been. He could feel some hard surface under his back, wet fabric on his body. He was cool at last—too cool, cold and wet and shivering suddenly in reaction.

  “Fever’s gone,” came a gruff voice. “And he’s breathing.”

  Stammel took a breath. Easily, as if it had never been different, cool air moved into his nose, filled his lungs. No burning. No smoke. Hands touched him, gentle hands pulling away the wet cloth, drying him, laying something soft on him.

  “When do you think he’ll wake?” came the girl’s voice, from somewhere near his head.

  “I don’t know,” the gruff voice said. “And I don’t know what he’ll be like when he wakes. That fever alone—that many days—such fevers can leave men reft of sense and speech.”

  But he was not senseless. He did not know where he was, or when, or what had happened, but he would know—he would remember—he was sure of that.

  He tried to speak, to say that, and though he felt his tongue move in his mouth, the sound that came out was a rough, animal noise, nothing like words.

  “Let’s see if he can swallow,” the gruff voice said. “Lift his shoulders, one of you.”

  Someone held his head; someone else slid a strong arm under his shoulders and lifted him to rest against a living, breathing human. A cup came to his lips; water flooded his mouth. He swallowed, swallowed again.

  “That’s good,” the gruff voice said.

  “Sergeant—it’s me, Arñe,” said another voice, older than the girl’s. “Are you all right now?”

  “Of course he’s not all right,” the gruff voice said. “He’s been battling a demon for days. Let the man rest … we’ll get him to a bed now …”

  Stammel felt himself being turned, lifted, carried somewhere … he didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t flames. He slid into sleep without realizing it.

  When he woke again, he could hear someone breathing in the room with him. He felt clean, rested—a sheet lay over him; he moved his legs, and whoever it was stirred. “Sergeant? Can I get you something?”

  It must be night, it was so dark, and they had left someone with him—and it had been dark before. He must have slept the day around. But fear ran a cold finger down his spine.

  “A light, first,” he said, rejoicing in the sound of his voice—his own voice, sounding like himself, and ignored the fear.

  The hiss of indrawn breath told him a truth worse than fire. He felt himself trembling, tried to sit up and could not. “It’s not … dark …” he said.

  “No, sir,” the girl said. “It’s broad day outside, and—and I must tell the Marshal you’re awake.” Her feet scraped on the floor—a stone floor, by the sound.

  “Wait,” he said. He was not ready to face anyone else. “Is there water?”

  “Yes, sir. Just a moment.” He heard the small sound as she picked up a jug, then the water falling from the jug to a mug—clay by the sound—and then her footsteps coming to the bed. It had to be a bed; her footsteps were below him, and the surface felt like a bed. “I—I don’t know—”

  “Take my hand and put it on the mug,” he said. This close he could smell the familiar uniform; she was one of theirs, a soldier. Probably a first-year, from her nervousness. Her hand on his was firm, callused—definitely one of theirs—and she pulled it up, set the mug firmly in his palm and waited until his fingers gripped before she loosened her grip, but only to guide his hand toward his face.

  “Should I lift your head?” she asked. He could hear the tension in her voice.

  “Probably,” Stammel said, trying for a lightness he did not feel. “Or I may spill it.” His arm was trembling with the effort—he hoped that was the reason.

  She lifted his head and guided the mug to his lips. He drank, a cautious swallow first, and then drained the mug. “That was good,” he said. “Now tell me—what happened? Where are we?”

  “The Marshal said I shouldn’t tell you things,” she said.

  He remembered Paks saying something about her time in Kolobia, how annoying it was when people wouldn’t explain. “Perhaps you should find the Marshal, then,” he said. She eased her hand out from under his head, set the mug back on something—a table?—with a little clunk, and went out. The door was on his right … her receding footsteps told him of a passage.

  A current of air from his left suggested a window; the smells with the air—rotting vegetables, human filth—meant a city. Had he caught a fever and been left behind? But he knew better than to drink tainted water or eat the foods most likely to give men fevers.

  He tried again to sit up, but he felt dizzy and sick. He lay back, feeling for the side of the bed, for the wall. He had these few moments—for he heard heavier footsteps, booted footsteps, coming down the passage—to prepare himself, to master the turmoil he felt.

  “Suli—your private—said you were awake. I’m Marshal Harak. I saw you at your camp, but we did not meet.”

  Harak. The name meant nothing to him, but a memory came of the Marshal who had come for the Captain, and later ridden away with him … and he himself … he had been … the memory faded.

  “Suli said you could not see.”

  “It’s dark,” Stammel said. His voice was firm, at least.

  “I’m going to look at your eyes,” the man said.

  Stammel felt the warmth from his body, the breath on his face.

  “Your eyes are bloodshot, as if you’d been slugged,” Marshal Harak said. “They were like that when your captain brought you here. Do you remember anything about that?”

  “No.” Stammel struggled with a darkness as black as the flames had been white. “Only the fire. White … hot …” Sudden nausea twisted his gut. “I—I need the jacks—”

  The man called out; other footsteps came running; the man’s strong arm heaved him up and another grabbed his arm and put it over a shoulder. The two men half dragged him out … through another door, to a room he could smell. He heaved, felt the stuff come out his mouth, smelled it, felt the splash on his bare chest. Again … again … they supported him; he was too weak …

  When that was over, they wiped him down with wet cloths, and carried him back to the room … he could still feel his own warmth on the bed when they laid him down. “Drink this,” the Marshal said, holding the mug to his lips. This time the water had some herb in it, not numbweed’s bitterness but something … he wasn’t sure.

  “You’re alive and sane,” the other man said. His was the gruff voice he’d heard before—how long before? “I am Verstad, a Captain of Tir, and I tell you, soldier, you have fought long and bravely to come through so hard an ordeal. Though your captain brought you here, the Marshal has granted me the right to tend you alongside Marshals—”

  “I’m in a … grange?” Stammel said.

  “Y
es.”

  “Gird has no quarrels with Tir,” the Marshal said. “And your captain said you followed Tir.”

  “I do. I … did.” Stammel struggled to keep his voice level. “But if I am blind—”

  “Tir does not despise the wounded, and that includes the blind,” the Captain said.

  “But I can’t fight—”

  The Captain grunted. “You fought off a demon without sight or movement … I would not call you helpless.”

  “I … don’t …”

  “If you remember anything, now or in the next days, it would be good to tell us about it,” Harak said. “We know only what Captain Arcolin told us happened, not what happened inside you.”

  Stammel lay still a moment. “I want to know why I can’t even sit up.”

  Again Verstad grunted. “That would be because you lay for days in a high fever without eating and with only the little water we could drip into your mouth, the flesh melting from your bones: your clothes would be loose on you now. Anyone is weak after a long fever. You will have to rebuild that muscle.”

  “I must—I have to be able to get to—to the jacks myself!” He hated the sudden whine in his voice, as he lost control of it, his diaphragm seized in a cramp.

  “You must eat and drink first,” Harak said. “Has the nausea passed?”

  “Yes.” One word at a time he could manage in close to his normal voice.

  “Then we start feeding you. Or rather, your own soldiers will. And you consider giving thanks, Matthis Stammel, for your captain’s quick wit in bringing you here, and the days and nights your own people have watched over you.”