The cohort’s captain, Madrelar, a lean, angular man with a weathered, sun-browned face, eyed him up and down and then shrugged. “We march in a ladyglass,” Madrelar said. “There’s your horse. Get your gear tied on and be at my side when we mount up.”
The mounted troop moved quickly, riding longer and faster than Luden had before, into territory he had never seen, ever closer to the Dwarfmounts that divided the Eight Kingdoms of the North from Aarenis. His duties were minimal. When he first attempted to help the way he’d been taught at home, picking up and putting in place everything the captain put down, carrying dishes to and from a serving table, Madrelar told him to quit fussing about. Luden obeyed, as squires were supposed to do.
He had hoped to learn much from a mercenary captain, a man who had fought against Siniava and might have seen the Duke of Immer when he was still Alured the Black and an ally, but Madrelar said little to him beyond simple orders and discouraged questions by not answering them. Pastak, the cohort sergeant, said less. The troopers themselves ignored him, though he heard mutters and chuckles he assumed were at his expense.
Finally one evening, when the sentries were out walking the bounds, the captain called Luden into his tent. “You should know where we are and why,” Madrelar said. He had maps spread on a folding table. “We guard the North Trade Road, where the road from Rotengre meets it, so Immer cannot outflank the duke’s force. It’s unlikely he’ll try, but just in case. Do you understand?”
Luden looked at the map, at the captain’s finger pointing to a crossroads. Back there was Fallo, where he had lived all his life until now. “Yes,” he said. “I understand outflanking, and I can see . . .” He traced the line with his finger. “They could come this way, along the north road. But could they not also follow the route we took here, only bypassing us to the south?”
“They are unlikely to know the way,” Madrelar said.
“What force might they bring?” Luden asked.
Madrelar shrugged. “Anything from nothing to five hundred. If they are too large, we retreat, sending word back for reinforcements. If they are small enough, we destroy them. In the middle . . .” He tipped his hand back and forth. “We fight and see who wins.” He gave Luden a sharp glance out of frosty blue eyes. “Are you scared, boy?”
“Not really.” Luden’s skin prickled, but he knew it for excitement, not fear.
Madrelar grinned. “That will change.”
The next day they stayed in camp. Madrelar told him to take all three of the captain’s mounts to be checked for loose shoes. Luden waited his turn for the farrier, listening to the men talk, hoping to hear stories of Siniava’s War. Instead, the men talked of drinking, dicing, money, women, and when they would be back in “a real city.”
“Sorellin?” Luden asked, having seen that it was nearest on the map.
They all stopped and looked at him, then at one another. Finally one of them said, “No, young lord. Valdaire. Have you heard of it?”
“Of course—it’s in the west, near the caravan pass to the north.”
“It’s our city,” the man said. “Any other place we go, we’re on hire. But in Valdaire, we’re free.”
“The girls in Valdaire . . .” another man said, making shapes with his hands. “They love us, for we bring money.”
Luden felt his ears getting hot. His own interest in girls was new, and his father’s lectures on deportment both clear and stringent.
“Don’t embarrass the lad,” the first trooper said. “He’ll find out in time.” His glance quieted the others. “You ride well, young lord. It is an honor to have a member of your family along.”
“Thank you,” Luden said. He knew the other men were amused, but this one seemed polite. “My name is Luden. This is the first time I have been so far.”
Silence for a moment, then the man said, “I am Esker.” He gestured. “These are Trongar, Vesk, and Hrondar. We all came south from Kostandan with Ganarrion.”
Luden fizzed with questions he wanted to ask—was the north really all forest? Was it true that elves walked there? Esker tipped his head toward the fire. “Janits waits you and the captain’s horses. Best go, or someone will take your place in line.”
“Thank you,” Luden said, and led the horses forward.
* * *
When he returned the horses to the hitch-line strung between trees, it was still broad daylight. He glanced in the captain’s tent—orderly and empty. The men were busy with camp chores, with horse care, cleaning tack, mending anything that needed it. Luden’s own small possessions were new enough to need nothing.
Luden spoke to the nearest sentry. “Would it be all right if I went for a walk?”
The man’s brows rose. “You think that’s a good idea? You do realize there might be an enemy army not a day’s march away?”
“I thought . . . nothing’s happening . . . I could just look at things.”
The sentry heaved a dramatic sigh. “All right. Don’t go far, don’t get hurt, if you see strangers, come back and tell me. All right? Back in one sun-hand, no more.”
“Thank you,” Luden said. He looked around for a moment, thinking which way to go. Little red dots on a bush a stone’s throw away caught his eye.
The dots were indeed berries, some ripened to purple, but most still red and sour. Luden ate some of the ripe ones, and brought a neck-cloth full back to the camp. At home, the cooks were always happy to get berries, however few. Here, too, the camp cook nodded when Luden offered them. “Can you get more?”
“I think so,” Luden said.
“Take this bowl. Be back in . . .” he glanced up at the sun, “a sun-hand, and I’ll be able to use these for dinner.”
Luden showed the sentry the bowl. “Cook wants more of those berries.”
“Good,” the sentry said.
Near the first bush were others; Luden filled the bowl and took it back to the cook. After that—still no sign of the captain—Luden wandered about the camp until he found Esker, the man who had been friendly before, replacing a strap on a saddle.
“If you’ve nothing to do, you can punch some holes in this strap,” Esker said.
Luden sat down at once. Esker handed him another strap and the punching tools, and told him how to space the holes. Luden soon made a row of neat holes. “Good job, lad—Luden, wasn’t it? Have you checked all your own tack?”
“It’s almost new,” Luden said. “I didn’t see anything wrong.”
“Bring it here. We’ll give you a lesson in field maintenance of cavalry tack.”
Luden brought his saddle, bridle, and rigging over to Esker where he sat amid a group of busy troopers. Luden had cleaned his tack, but—as Esker pointed out—he hadn’t gone over every finger-width of every strap.
“You might think this doesn’t matter as much,” Hrondar said. Esker’s friends had now joined in the instruction. Hrondar pointed to the strap that held a water bottle on his own saddle. “If that gives way and you have no water on a long march, you’ll be less alert. Everything we carry is needed. Every strap should be checked daily to see it’s not cracked, drying out, stretching too much.”
Other men shared their ideas for keeping tack in perfect condition—including arguments about the best oils and waxes for different weather. Luden drank it in, fascinated by details his father’s riding master had never mentioned.
Captain Madrelar found him there, two sun-hands later. “So this is where you are! I’ve been searching the camp, squire.” The emphasis he put on “squire” would have sliced wood. “I need you in my quarters.”
Luden scrambled to his feet, threw the rigging over his shoulder, put his arm through the bridle, and hitched his saddle onto his hip. The captain had turned away; Esker got up and tucked the trailing reins into the rigging on his shoulder. Luden nodded his thanks and followed the captain back to his tent.
There he endured a blistering scold for his venture out to pick berries and his interfering with the troopers at their tasks. F
inally, the captain ran down and left the tent, with a last order to “Put that mess away, eat your dinner without saying a word, and be ready to ride in the morning.”
Luden put his tack on the rack next to the captain’s, shivering with reaction. He’d been scolded plenty of times, but always he’d understood what he’d done wrong. What was so bad about gathering food for others and learning more that soldiers needed to know? He hadn’t been gossiping or gambling.
He looked around the tent for something useful to do. A scattering of maps, message tubes, and papers covered the table. He heard the clang of the dinner gong; he could clear the table before the cook’s assistant brought the captain’s meal. He’d done that before; the captain never minded.
Luden picked up the first papers then stopped, staring at a green and black seal, one he had seen before. Had the captain found it somewhere? It was wrong to read someone else’s papers, but this was Immer’s seal. The enemy’s seal. The hairs rose on his scalp as he read. Captain Madrelar—the name leapt out at him—was to put his troop at the service of the Duke of Immer, by leading them into an ambush, four hundred of Immer’s men, within a half-day’s ride of the crossroads Madrelar had shown him. For this Madrelar would receive the promised reward and a command. If he had been able to talk Fallo into sending one of his nephews or grandsons along, then Madrelar should drug or bind the sprout and send him to Cortes Immer.
Luden dropped the paper as if it were on fire and started shaking. It was the most horrible thing he could imagine. The captain a traitor? Why? And what was he supposed to do? He was only a squire, and how many of these men outside, these hardened mercenaries, were also traitors?
He had not understood fear before. He had thought, those times he climbed high in a tree, or jumped from a wall, that the tightness in his belly was fear, easily overcome for the thrill with it. This was different—fear that hollowed out his mind and body as a spoon scoops out the center of a melon. His bones had gone to water. All he’d heard of Immer—the tortures, the magery, the way Andressat’s son had been flayed alive—came to mind. As soon as the captain came back and saw that he’d moved things on the desk, he might be overpowered, bound, doomed.
He had to get away before then . . . somehow. Even as he thought that, and how impossible it would be, his hands went on working, shuffling several other messages on top of Immer’s, squaring the sheets to a neat stack. He rolled the maps as he usually did, noting even in his haste the marks the captain had made on one of them. They were not two days’ ride from the crossroads, but one: the captain had lied to him. He put the maps in the map-stand as always. What now? He glanced out the tent door. No immediate escape: the cook’s assistant was almost at the tent with a basket of food, and the captain had already started the same way, talking to his sergeant.
Luden took the dinner basket from the cook and had the captain’s supper laid out on the table by the time the captain arrived. When the captain came in, he stood by the table, hoping the captain could not detect his thundering heart. The captain stopped short.
“Who did this?”
“Sir, I laid out your dinner as usual.”
“You touched my papers? When?”
“To have room for the dinner.” Luden gestured at the stack of papers at the end of the table. “It took only a moment, to stack them and put the maps away. Just as usual.”
“Hmph.” The captain sat and pointed to his cup. “Wine. And water.”
Luden poured, his hand shaking. The captain gave him a sharp look.
“What’s this? Still shivering from a scold? I hope you don’t fall off your mount with fright if we do meet the enemy.” The captain stabbed a slab of meat, cut it, and put it in his mouth.
Madrelar said nothing more in the course of the meal, then ordered Luden to take the dishes back to the cook, and eat his own dinner there. “I will be working late tonight,” he said. “It’s dry; sleep outside, and don’t be sitting up late with the men. They need their rest. We ride early.”
Luden could not eat much, not even the berry-speckled dessert. What was the captain up to, besides betrayal? Were the other men, or some of them, also part of it? Was the captain really prepared to sacrifice his own troops? And why? Luden’s background gave him no hint. He tried to think what he might do.
Could he run away? He might escape the sentries set around camp on foot, but the horse lines had a separate guard. He could not sneak away on horseback. And even if he did escape afoot, he might be captured before he reached home—they had ridden hard to get here, and going back would take him longer. Especially since he had no way to carry supplies.
What then could he do? He looked around for Esker, but didn’t see him, and dared not wander around the camp, in case the captain looked for him. Finally, he went back to the captain’s tent. A light inside cast shadows on the wall . . . two people at least were in it.
Outside, near the entrance, he found a folded blanket and a water bottle on top of it. The captain clearly meant for him to stay outside. He picked them up, went around the side of the tent, rolled himself in the blanket, and—sure he could not sleep—dozed off.
He woke from a dream so vivid he thought it was real, and heard his voice saying “Yes, my lord!” He lay a moment, wide awake, chilled by the night air. The dream lay bright as a picture in his mind: his great-uncle, the Duke of Fall, speaking to all the children as he did every Midwinter Feast. It is not for wealth alone, or tradition, that the Dukes of Fall have ruled here for ages past, since first we came from the South. But because we keep faith with our people. Never forget what you owe to those who work our fields, who take up arms to defend us. They deserve the best we have to give them. And then the phrase that had wakened him: Luden, look to your honor.
He was a child of Fallo; he was the only one of that House here, and these men around him—some of them at least, and maybe all but the captain—were being led to slaughter. He still had honor, and the duty that came with honor.
And he badly needed the jacks. He threw off his blanket and stood up. Overhead, stars burned bright in the clear mountain air; he could see the tips of the tallest mountains, snow at their peaks even in summer, pale against the night sky, and enough silvery light glimmered over the camp to show him the way.
He had taken but ten steps toward the jacks when someone grabbed his arm and swung him round.
“And where d’you think you’re going?”
It was Sergeant Pastak. Had the captain set a watch over him? Of course: he would need to, just in case. And so the sergeant was in on it, also a traitor.
“To the jacks,” Luden said, glad his voice sounded slightly annoyed.
“To be sure, the jacks,” the sergeant said, with a sneer. “Young lads . . . always eager to go to war until they get closer to it. Thinking of that, are you?”
“I’m thinking I ate too many of those berries before I gave the rest to the cook,” Luden said. “And I need the jacks.”
The sergeant shook his arm; Luden stumbled. “Just know, lad, you’re with a fighting troop, not some fancy-boy’s personal guards. You’re not running off home.”
That was clear enough. He stiffened against the sergeant’s arm and adopted a tone he’d heard from his elders. “I am not one to run away, Sergeant. But I would prefer not to mark my clothes with berry juice and have someone like you think it was fear.”
The sergeant let go of his arm as if it had burned him. “Well,” he said. “The young cock will crow, will he? We’ll see how you crow when the time comes—if it does.” He gestured, the starlight running down his mail shirt like molten silver. “Go on then. To the jacks with you, and if you mark your clothes red and not yellow, I’ll call you worthy.”
Red could mean blood and not berry juice. Luden held himself stiffly and stalked off to the jacks as if he hadn’t thought of that. He was not the only one at the jacks trench, though he was glad to see he had room to himself. He did have a cramp, and what he had eaten the previous day, berries and al
l he was sure, came out in a rush. He waited a moment, two, and then, as he stood, saw another man nearby.
“All right, Luden?” It was Esker. “The berries were good, but I think they woke me up.”
“I ate handfuls raw,” Luden said.
“That can do it. These mountain berries—they look like the ones back in the lowlands, but they clear the system, even cooked.”
Could he trust Esker? He had to do something, and Esker was the only one he had really talked to. “Esker, I have to tell—”
“I thought I told you to leave the soldiers alone, sprout!” It was the captain. No doubt the sergeant had told him where Luden was. “No chatter. Get to your blanket and stay there. And no more berries on the morrow.” Luden turned to go. Behind him, he heard the captain. “Well, Esker? Sucking up to the old man’s brat?”
“He had the gripe, captain, same as me. You know those mountain berries. I’d have sent him back in a moment.”
Then murmurs he could not hear. Back near the tent, a torch burned; the sergeant stood beside it. Luden returned to his blanket and lay down, feigning sleep. He knew they would not leave him unwatched. Once again, sleep overtook him.
He woke to a boot prodding his ribs. “Hurry up. It’s almost daylight.”
Stars had faded; the sky glowed, the deep blue called Esea’s Cloak, and the camp stirred. Horses whinnied, men were talking, laughing, he smelled something cooking. As he rolled his blanket, the captain stood by, watching. Luden yanked the thongs snug around it, and stood with it on his shoulder.
“Don’t forget your water,” the captain said. “You’ll be thirsty later.”
Luden bent to pick up the water bottle.
“Your tack’s over there.” The captain pointed to a pile on the ground; two men were already taking down the captain’s tent.
Luden picked up his tack and headed for the horse lines.
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