“Will be here in the meantime. Yes. There’s something else. I have a letter from the king of Kostandan, speaking of a relative of his in Aarenis.”
Arcolin frowned. “Kostandanyans … that would be Count Vladiorhynsich? Or Sofi Ganarrion?”
“You know them?”
“Both have mercenary companies; both fought with us against Siniava. Vladi said once they’d both come from Kostandan.”
“It’s Ganarrion he speaks of. A cousin, if I understand the term he uses, and his daughter married down there.”
“Married the Duke of Fall’s son, sir king. This is widely known in the South.” Arcolin saw in memory the rich farmlands of Fallo, north and east of the once-ruined fortress of Cortes Immer that Alured now occupied. If the old rumors about Sofi Ganarrion were true, then of course the Kostandanyan king would be watching events over the mountains.
“He is concerned, the king of Kostandan, that they may fall into the hands of that Alured the Black you told me of, and he asks passage for troops under one of his sagons across Tsaia, to the pass at Valdaire, to go aid his cousin. Where is the Duke of Fall’s domain? I thought all Aarenis was Guild League cities.”
“Not all, sir king.” Arcolin explained. “We should send for maps or go to the library—Alured’s ignored Fallo so far, but if he took it, it would protect his rear as he moved west.”
“Then … the Kostandanyans could get to Fallo by crossing Lyonya or Prealíth and go straight over the mountains there, I’d think. This request must be a ruse, because I have not accepted his suggestion of taking Ganlin as my wife and he would bring force—”
“No, sir king. There are no passes over the Dwarfmounts where an army and supplies might cross other than Valdaire. That’s why Lord Halveric traveled through Tsaia on the South Trade Road to bring new recruits from Lyonya in years past. That was before you were crowned; did your regency council not tell you?” Arcolin saw from Mikeli’s expression that they had not.
“But Kostandanyans are Seafolk,” Mikeli said. “They trade by ship with the Immerhoft ports; surely they could take troops south that way—”
“They could not land an army at the Immer ports,” Arcolin said. “And if they did, they’d be fighting Alured’s forces all the way upriver from the coast; Alured commands all that country. The east coast—they might be able to outface pirates and the scum of Slavers’ Bay, but that’s a dangerous coast even without pirates.” Even as he said it, he wondered … had the Kostandanyans ever traded there? Kieri had written that the Sea-Prince of Prealíth reminded him a little of Alured, but without the cruelty. Yet if they were moving troops by sea, why would they ask permission to bring them to Tsaia?
The idea came to him in a flash: to confuse Alured’s spies, lead him to think it was safe to attack Fallo—because the Kostandanyans are taking the long road. He explained that quickly to the king.
“So, sir king, a cohort or two of Kostandanyan pikes marching through Tsaia would be enough to prove to spies that they’re allied with you, and rumors about the princess make that even more believable.”
“But I’m not marrying Ganlin. Roth, maybe …”
“And he’s still in the succession, right? As good a reason, or near it. Their king won’t tell you if he’s sending troops by sea, but at the least I would advise agreeing to some coming through here. Or if it’s quicker and King Kieri agrees, it would be simple for them to go through Lyonya to pick up the South Trade Road as Halveric Company did. From Valdaire they could move east along the northern route. And that would help us if Alured moves faster than expected. If they’re anything like Vladi’s pikes … well, I’d be glad of them.”
“But how can I be sure they don’t really intend an invasion?”
“Kostandan’s never been as aggressive as Pargun,” Arcolin said. “Besides—they don’t know the terrain, and we can protect against them.”
Mikeli finally agreed and called in the Kostandanyan ambassador. The ambassador nodded on hearing Arcolin’s suggestion that they seek King Kieri’s approval for troops to march across Lyonya and use the South Trade Road. Arcolin did not mention his suspicion that some Kostandanyan troops were also being sent by sea to Slavers’ Bay.
“Looks like trying to hide plans,” the man said, grinning. “March along river, obvious. This, not so. King will like. King Kieri called Fox for good reason; he will like, too. Must be force big enough. Rumor say advance of more.”
“Have you already talked to King Kieri?” Mikeli asked.
The ambassador raised his brows. “Is not me. With pardon, lord King, is considering our beloved and admired Princess Ganlin still?”
Mikeli turned red. Arcolin intervened.
“The Royal Council has concerns, milord. Not about the lady but about other factors concerning our traditions here. For instance, she is with the Company of Falk, quite honorable, yes, but untutored in the Company of Gird and the Code of Gird.”
The man scowled. “What matters what wife knows or does not know other than obedience and pleasing king? It is not wife who rules.”
Arcolin shook his head. “Tradition here, milord, is that wives be capable of taking on a husband’s duties if necessary. King Mikeli’s mother was his regent after his father died, until she also died. She had been schooled here; she grew up with our laws, our customs. The Council feels that the king’s wife, the mother and guide of his children to be, should be familiar with the Code of Gird and be herself Girdish. The matter is still under discussion.”
“There is no more princesses. That Pargunese one will never marry.”
“We have no tradition of the king marrying princesses,” Arcolin said.
“There is another factor,” Mikeli said, having recovered himself. “My cousin Rothlin, who met the princess in Lyonya, is much taken with her. Should I come to agree with my Council, he may well seek your king’s permission to wed her.”
The ambassador pressed his lips together and then nodded. “He is in succession to you, is right? What number? Is mage or not?”
“Not a mage,” Mikeli said. “And presently third, after my brother and my uncle.”
The ambassador nodded again and then turned to Arcolin. “But would Council object, so close to throne?”
“I suspect not,” Arcolin said. “I would not object. Rothlin will not be so close to the throne when the king begins his own family, and that would give time for the princess to learn more in case …” He stopped there. One did not discuss a king’s possible death or failure to sire children in front of him. “At any rate, the important thing is to ensure that Alured—the Duke of Immer—does not succeed in his plans.”
“Yes.” The ambassador bowed to both of them. “If the lord King will send a short word over his hand, I will send courier to my king at once.”
Mikeli looked at Arcolin, then nodded. “I will do so.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out an inkstick, the mixing bowl, and other writing materials. In less than a half-glass, he handed the ambassador the letter, sealed with the Tsaian Rose, tied with the formal rose and white ribbons, enclosed in its tube, also tied with formal ribbons and then in a small rose velvet pouch. “Duke Arcolin already has his company on the march south; I suppose your king will send his quickly.”
“Very quickly,” the ambassador said. He bowed and withdrew.
“I hope that was wise,” Mikeli said. “And now—we shall go look at those maps in the library and settle the issues with your gnomes.” He led the way out of his office, and two of the guards fell in behind them. “Tell me, do you have to speak gnomish to them?”
Arcolin answered in gnomish and then translated. “That was the proper greeting from a gnome prince to his own gnomes. I have had to learn gnomish, yes. I suspect my accent is very bad, but they understand me, mostly, and I’m much better with gnomish than I ever expected to be.” He pulled out the stole he wore. “I wear this always now, so if I meet a gnome I can identify myself and we are within Law.”
“Girdish la
w?”
Arcolin shook his head. “According to gnomes, there is but one Law, that handed to them by the High Lord. They taught Gird what they could but say that no human legal system is truly Law. We are, they say, not precise enough. Where there is only the light of Law and the darkness of un-Law, we see shades between, which they do not think are real but only our blindness of mind. As the eyes of the old become clouded, they say, so are the minds of humans.”
“What are they like, really?”
“Much as you see them in the outside world: hardworking, honest, tough, skillful in their crafts.”
“The … uh … gnome women? You mentioned children last time—”
“Very reserved. Seldom seen; some, I’m told, never leave the stone-right. All we see in our travels are males.” He was not going to tell Mikeli more than Mikeli needed to know.
“Don’t they mind?”
“No. For them it is home and perfectly comfortable.”
“Dark inside?”
“No … and I do not know if the light is by gnomish magery or something they grow on the walls. They do cultivate things that glow.”
“I was wondering if they could help protect our western border. How many do you have?”
Arcolin explained how few. “Supposedly all gnomes are trained in basic weapons skills, but these were evicted from their former home. They came without weapons, and I have no idea if they’re able to fight. However—” He paused a moment. He had written Mikeli about the Aldonfulk prince’s communication. “I think all gnomes would be appalled by the mage-hunters, though they were not fond of the old magelords. They value children highly, and child killers of any kind would be considered outside Law. There are other princedoms—”
“How many? Where?”
“I may not know them all,” Arcolin said. “Lord Prince Aldon told me of those he thought I might meet in Aarenis, but I’m sure you’ve heard of Gnarrinfulk, west of the pass to Valdaire.”
“I’m not sure where they are,” Mikeli said. They were at the library now, and he entered. One of the librarians came forward. “We need maps of northern Tsaia,” he said. “Especially from the Finthan border to the North Marches.”
“At once, sir king.” The librarian went to a rack of map sticks, checked labels, and plucked out two. He hung each from a separate frame. “This one’s the most current.”
His neighbors’ boundaries—both with Fintha and with the North Marches—were clearly marked. “When the trouble in Fintha began,” Mikeli said, “I asked all the holders who bordered Fintha to look to their boundaries, make sure the markers—fence or wall or stones, whatever they might be—were clear and firmly set.”
“Thank you,” Arcolin said. “I will send word to my gnomes of their limits of stone-right and to my neighbors, confirming the existing boundaries.”
The ceremony of Jamis’s investment as Arcolin’s kirgan did not take long. Dukes Mahieran, Marrakai, and Serrostin stood as witnesses for the Council; Kolya Ministiera, on the village council in Duke’s East, and Captain Arneson, as Arcolin’s military liaison, stood as witnesses for Arcolin’s realm. Calla’s parents and Arcolin’s squire Kaim were the only guests.
Jamis, wide-eyed and subdued at his first visit to the palace, wore the lace collar without commenting on the itchiness, along with a new maroon velvet tunic with silver buttons, a snowy white shirt with a frill of lace at the wrists, maroon velvet short trews buckled at the knee, black hose, and new shoes adorned with silver buckles. The shoes, a little too big and stuffed with tags of wool, clumped when he walked.
Calla and her parents stood on one side; Kolya, Captain Arneson, and Kaim stood on the other, forming an aisle. Arcolin and Jamis walked up the middle of the room and bowed to the king.
Mikeli questioned Jamis a little, questions Arcolin had anticipated and explained to Jamis, but then nodded decisively. “Duke Arcolin, I approve your choice of heir. Jamis Arcolin, kneel and place your hands in mine.”
Jamis knelt and held out his hands. Mikeli took them between his own.
“You are too young for the oath of fealty a man gives, Jamis, but here is an oath for a boy. Repeat after me: I promise to obey my lord, my father, and obey the king’s command—”
Jamis repeated this in a voice that shook only a little.
“I promise to tell the truth and to deal honestly and fairly with all. I promise to obey the Code of Gird in Tsaia.”
Jamis’s voice steadied as he repeated that as well.
“I promise that when I come to manhood, I will take a man’s oath of fealty. By Gird’s Cudgel and the High Lord and the grace of Alyanya.”
Jamis repeated all that.
“Then rise, Jamis Kirgan Arcolin, and take from my hand this gift of your king.”
Jamis came to his feet; the king held out a dagger in a sheath with the tooled design of a foxhead, the Mahieran rose, and Gird’s initial on it, already fitted to a belt with “Jamis Arcolin” carved into it. “Take this blade, Jamis, as a sign of my favor, but draw blood with it only as your duke commands—and I am sure that command will be only to save a life, yours or another’s.”
“Thank you, sir king,” Jamis said. He was struggling not to grin, Arcolin saw.
“Let your father, your duke, put it on you—for a liegeman receives his weapons from his liege.”
Arcolin leaned down and helped Jamis put it on.
“Thank you,” Jamis said again with a jerky bow.
Arcolin also bowed. “Sir king, this was very kind.”
The king chuckled. “A soldier’s son should be recognized with a soldier’s tools,” he said, getting up from his seat. “And now—Lady Calla, I am pleased to see you again, and your parents as well. And you, Captain, and Councilwoman Ministiera. Let us see what the kitchen has prepared to celebrate this occasion and make plans for the kirgan’s future.”
The party lasted longer than the ceremony, but Arcolin left before it was over, riding out of Vérella with Kaim, eager to catch up with his troops.
Cortes Immer, Aarenis
Alured the Black could not help thinking of himself as Alured, the name he had been called almost all his life. Alured the Black, Terror of the Seas, the pirate other pirates admired and obeyed. Alured the Black, leading his troops through the southern forests, allying with the mercenaries and Guild League cities against Siniava. Strong, brave, visionary Alured, seizing the opportunity at the end of that war to take up the abandoned title of Duke of Immer and control the entire lower Immer River, from the sea to Cortes Immer. The man who had risen from impoverished boyhood to wealthy, powerful maturity … that was Alured.
He had difficulty thinking of himself as Visli Vaskronin, even though his advisor insisted it was a more suitable name for a duke who would soon be king. Insisted that he must force everyone to use it. But in these moments alone, looking out over the ramparts of his stronghold, the name Visli fit him ill, and he was, in his own mind, always Alured. Alured the boy, the boy captive, then the favorite of his master, then his master’s ally and secret weapon, then the pirate, then the brigand. Alured the Duke, yes, he could feel himself a duke; he would feel himself a king: King Alured sounded well, he thought. But that name had been changed for his own good, his advisor had said.
It did not suit your station.
Alured sighed. The advisor, who had once been his master and thought he was master still, chose his own time to come into consciousness. His advisor did not approve what he called Alured’s nostalgia or his attachment to his own name.
A slave’s name. You are a slave no longer.
That was true. He had slaves of his own now, and servants who might as well be slaves, and soldiers who accepted him as their commander, and vassals to whom he was unquestioned lord.
There will be more.
That promise—always more: more wealth, more power, more admiration, more pleasure—drew him on, as it had drawn him in that first time, so long ago.
You give up little to gain so much.
>
Indeed. Only his name and the sense that the connection to himself—the connection running back through a life from now to then, to earliest memory—frayed with every passing day. Yet his advisor had explained, and he understood, that to be what he would become—the great ruler of all, the crowned king of all the lands he knew, master of water and fire and blood—to become that, what he wanted more than anything, some price must be paid. The boy Alured, the youth Alured, must be banished from the man’s life. What belonged only to the name Alured—even the name—must go. And he had agreed.
“I am Visli Vaskronin,” he murmured, looking out over the lush green of the Immervale. “I am Duke of Immer, and I will be king.” In his mind, he heard the trumpets, saw the cheering crowds, felt the flowers thrown touch his face.
You will be king if you heed my advice. Let me take those memories from you so they will not trouble you again.
“No,” he said aloud, as if to someone standing beside him and not the being that coinhabited his body. “They fade quickly enough.” The oldest of the memories now … all earlier had faded … was of himself at perhaps eleven or twelve, his defiance of his master. It is not fair, he had yelled … actually yelled, outrage overwhelming fear for the moment. He liked remembering himself as brave. And his master had laughed and patted his shoulder, approving.
You were always brave. That is why I chose you.
Warmth spread through his body. Praise always did that, and his advisor’s praise most of all. In time he would feel like a Visli—his advisor insisted the name was appropriate, and after all, he had given Alur—Visli—so much.
That is better. You are growing more powerful every day.
His advisor said that many times; Alur—Visli—had the same warm feeling every time. More powerful. That’s what he wanted. Power, strength, long life, never to be cold or hungry or alone or hurt or frightened ever again. It felt so good to be clothed in soft garments, to have a full belly, to have water or wine at his side and never know thirst, to feel the brimming health, the supple strength of body, to see men rush to serve him, obey him.
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