By the Sword (52 page)

The King of Rethwellan made no secret of the fact that he suspected collusion on the part of the provincial governor. Kero was fairly sure, from her sources of information within the Guild, that he was right. The governor was an old man, a man who had suffered through a series of serious illnesses. Kero had seen his kind before, and sniffed cynically as she thought about him.
Odds are he's figured out that he's as mortal as the rest of us for the first time in his life, and he's been looking frantically for someone, anyone, who'll promise him a quick and easy route into some kind of paradise when he kicks over the traces.

She sipped again at her wine; carefully, it wouldn't do to have a head in the morning. But wine was the only thing that kept the dreams away.

She resolutely turned her mind away from those dreams. Not because they were unpleasant; quite the contrary, they were too pleasant. Seductively so. The trouble was, they featured Eldan, and he was a subject she was determined to forget.

She'd dreamed of him often ... far too often for her own comfort. The dreams had come frequently, in those first years, when she was unsure in her command, and unhappy—and lonely. Sometimes in those night-visions they hadn't done more than talk, and she'd come away with answers she desperately needed.

But sometimes, especially lately, they'd done a great deal more than talk. Since she was half-convinced that her dreams were simply fantasies conjured up by her sleeping mind, those dreams were a cruel reflection on her current state of isolation, and while those incorporeal rolls in the hay might be what she
wanted,
they didn't make waking up any easier of a morning.

She told herself, over and over, that her self-imposed loneliness didn't matter. Look at what she had built in the past few years! Most
male
mercenaries never made Captain, most male Captains had not achieved their rank until well into their late forties. That it had cost her little more than hard work, sleepless nights, and a lack of amorous company was hardly something to complain about. And she knew very well the reasons
why
she needed to keep herself free from amorous entanglements. Tarma had explained that aspect of command to her in intimate detail, with plenty of examples of what not to do.

A Captain of a Company did not take lovers from the ranks; that was the quickest way in the world for suspicions of favoritism to start—and
that
let in factionalism and divisiveness. A Captain always remained the Captain, even among old friends.

The hired charms of the camp-followers were not at all to Kero's taste—and her peers either regarded her (rightly) as possible competition, or at best, a rival and equal power. But there was more to it than that, though most of Kero's peers would have laughed (if uneasily) if she'd told them her chief reason. It was asking for trouble to take someone into your bed with whom you might well find yourself crossing swords one day.
You never know who's going to be hired to come up against you. Having someone on the other side who had that kind of knowledge of me—in no way am I going to take that kind of risk.

She put the flask down, and traced little patterns on the table with her wet forefinger.
That's the one thing Tarma never warned me about,
she reflected, waving away another puff of sharp-scented smoke.
She never told me that rank and holding yourself apart makes for lonely nights. She always had Grandmother for friendship—and she never wanted a lover thanks to that vow of hers. Gods know being Swordsworn would be easier than overhearing some of what goes on in the tents after dark. She could ignore it; I try, but can't always.

Being Captain didn't necessarily mean an empty bed, even if you didn't much care for whores. More than a few of her fellow Captains went through wenches the way a ram goes through a flock of ewes. They tended to pick up country girls bedazzled by the glamour and danger, and abandon them when their lovers got a little too possessive. Kero had never been able to bring herself to just lure off some wide-eyed farmboy as if she was some kind of mate-devouring spider. And besides, more than half the men she met these days seemed overwhelmed by her.

I've been awfully circumspect,
she thought, with perverse pride, looking back over the years.
There were three—no, four minstrels. That worked. All four of them were too cocky to be intimidated by me. The only problem was, while the Skybolts make good song-fodder, they don't offer much more to a rhymester. So I lost all four of them to soft jobs in noble houses. There were a couple of merchants, but that didn't last past a couple of nights. And there was that Healer. But every time I went out he was in knots by the time I came back, figuring it would be me that got carried in for him to fix—that alliance was doomed from the start. It's been cold beds for the past two years now.
Unlike
Daren.

She had to smile at that, because this campaign against the Karsites had brought her back into personal contact with “the boy,” as she had continued to think of him. Meeting him again had forced her to change that memory, drastically. He'd matured; not his face, which was still boyishly handsome, if a bit more weathered, but in the expression around the eyes and mouth. Not such a boy anymore—

They hadn't renewed their affair; it would have been a stupid thing to do in the middle of a war for one thing, and for another, while they found themselves better friends than ever, they discovered at that first meeting that they were no longer attracted to each other.

Daren had achieved his dream of becoming the Lord Martial of his brother's standing army. One thing about him had not changed; he still worshiped his older brother. Kero toyed with the flask, holding its cool surface to her forehead for a moment, and wondered if the King knew what a completely and selflessly loyal treasure he had in his sibling. She hoped so; over the past several years she'd learned that loyalty in the high ranks was hardly something to be taken for granted.

Daren was as randy as Kero was discreet. He hopped in and out of beds as casually as any of the Captains she knew, and there'd even been rumors of betrothal once or twice, but nothing ever came of it.

We're too much alike.
She smiled, thinking about how even their battle plans still meshed after all these years.
Far too much alike to ever be lovers again. Just as well, I suppose. He just makes me feel too sisterly to want him.

“Captain?” Her aide-de-camp stuck his head just inside the flap of the tent. “Shallan and Geyr to see you.”

Gods. I forgot I sent for them. Must be the heat.
She stifled a yawn. “Good; send them in.” She made certain two special bits of cloth were at hand, and fished one particular map out of the pile and smoothed it out on the table.

“Captain?” Shallan said doubtfully.

“Come on in,” she replied easily. “No formality.”

Her old friend—whom Kero wanted to make Lieutenant of the specialist corps—slipped inside, followed by the man Kero intended to make Shallan's co-commander.

A year ago Shallan had lost Relli to a chance arrow, and for a while Kero was afraid they were going to lose the surviving partner to melancholy or madness. But given the responsibility of command of a squad, Shallan had made a remarkable recovery. She and Geyr had never actually worked together; Kero had a shrewd notion they'd do fine, not the least because they were both
she‘chorne.
They looked like total opposites; Shallan still a golden blonde as ageless as the mysterious Hawkbrothers, and Geyr, a native of some land so far to the south Kero had never even heard of it before he told her his story, a true
black
man from his hair to his feet.

The two of them stood a little awkwardly in front of her table. She stayed seated; even though she had said “no formality,” she intended to keep that much distance between them. They were friends, yes—but they had to be Captain and underling first, even now.

“How's Bel?” Shallan asked immediately. The scout-lieutenant had been taken victim, not by wounds, but by the killer that fighters feared more than battle—fever. That same fever had already struck down one of the co-commanders of the horse-archers.

“I had to send him back, like Dende,” Kero replied regretfully. “The Healers think he'll be all right, but only if we get him up into the mountains where it's cool and dry. That's why I wanted you here. I want to buck Losh over to command the horse-archers, and put you two in charge of the specialists.”

Shallan's mouth fell open; Geyr looked as if he thought he hadn't rightly understood what she'd said. He scratched his curly head, as Shallan took a deep breath.

She waited for them to recover; Shallan managed first. “But—but—”

“You've earned it, both of you,” she said. “I've been shorthanded with the horse-archers, and that's really where Losh belongs. The troops know you, and you've both been handling squads up until now with no complaints. I think you'll do fine.”

“What about the dogs?” Geyr asked slowly, the whites of his eyes shining starkly against his dark skin. “Do I keep on running the dogs?”

“Damn bet you do,” Kero told him. “The only difference this command will make in that, is that now
you and I
will be the only ones deciding when to run them, and when it's too dangerous. I know you and Losh didn't always agree on that.”

Geyr grinned, showing the gold patterns inlaid in his front teeth.
“Khala il rede he, Ishuna,”
he replied, in the tongue that he alone knew. “Blessings follow and luck precede you, liege-lady. I and mine thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she said, with a little weary amusement. She had
yet
to get Geyr to understand the difference between Mercenary's Oath and swearing fealty. Maybe in his land there
were
no differences. She turned to Shallan. “What have you to say, Lieutenant?”

“I—” Shallan swallowed hard and tried again, her eyes dilated wide in the lamplight. “Thank you, Captain. I accept.” She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Geyr, and Kero saw her face grow thoughtful, her expression speculative. “This isn't an accident, is it?” she stated, rather than asked. “You picked us both because we're
she‘chorne,
and we'll be able to work together without sex getting into it.”

Kero chuckled. “One reason out of many, yes,” she admitted. “And by seeing that, I think I can safely say you're starting to think like an officer. Good.” She rolled up the map in front of her, and passed it across the table to them. Shallan took it. “This is the initial battle line for tomorrow. I want you two to study it, and come back to me if you have any changes you'd like to make. Otherwise, that is all I have to say to you for now.”

She picked up the two Lieutenant's badges that had been hidden under the pile of papers at the side of the table. Both her new officers took them gravely, saluted her with clean precision, and took themselves out. The tent flapped closed behind them, letting in a breeze that was a little fresher, but no cooler.

It's going to be impossible to sleep tonight without some help.
Kero sighed, reached once more for the wine flask, and downed the rest of the contents in a single gulp.
Better risk a bit of a headache than no sleep.

She peeled herself out of her clothing before the wine could fuddle her, and left the uniform in a heap for her aide to pick up, falling onto the cot as a flush of light- headedness overtook her.

Maybe it's a good thing I don't have a lover,
she thought muzzily as she allowed sleep to take her.
Between battle plans and supply lists,
I'd
never see him unless he disguised himself as a gods-be-damned map.

“What are you trying to do, work yourself into an early grave? ” Eldan crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “Or are you planning on drinking yourself there first?
”

Inside she was quaking, a cold fear clutching at her heart. She'd had her wine. She shouldn't be having this dream. Drinking had always kept the dreams away be
fore—

“What? Free to
what?
Nobody's made a move in Karse since the Prophet started her power play. So what's the big problem here?” She turned her back on him, and spoke to the vague, gray mist that always surrounded them in her dreams, hoping he wouldn't see how her shoulders were shaking. She wasn't sure of anything. She was terrified he 'd touch her—and she wanted him to touch her, so badly, so very badly....

“You know what I think?” she said before he could form a reply. “I think the big problem is that I'm fighting for money. That just sticks in your throat, doesn't it? And it sticks in your throat that I'm good at it, that I could probably teach
your
people a trick or two,
that—”