Oath of Fealty (46 page)

“I do, sometimes,” the first man said. “There’s more than one of us.”

“One of them comes to meet you somewhere outside the village? Or inside?”

“Outside.”

“And you’re supposed to report after this meeting, aren’t you? They know you’re here.”

“Yes,” the second man said, when the first hesitated.

“Well, then,” Arcolin said. “Tell them we don’t trust you, would not pay you, and intend to stay on the road, not go haring off across the fields like a bunch of novices.”

“Is that true?”

“I’m telling you,” Arcolin said. He gave a covert hand signal, saw it picked up and passed along. In moments, Stammel was just in view at the far side of the fire, but well back. Arcolin stood abruptly, as if out of patience. “Take these two to the perimeter and send them away,” he said to the nearest soldiers. “Tell the sentries I don’t want them lurking around the camp.” He threw out his hand, as if tossing them away, then turned and went into his tent. Would they go back to the village, or would they go to meet the brigand? He trusted that either way one of his own expert scouts could follow without detection.

Burek was still up, copying the day’s notes onto the map. Arcolin looked over his shoulder. The younger man had neat handwriting, the writing of someone who had been schooled early. “I’m almost done,” Burek said.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Arcolin said. “If there’s trouble, it’ll come after the turn of night. One of us must be fresh, and if we’re lucky I’ll have a report coming in within the turn of the glass.”

“Thank you, sir,” Burek said. Another few minutes, and he sat back, fanning the map with his hand to dry the ink. “That’s all, I think.” Arcolin looked again.

“Very good. If I get a report before your watch, I’ll add it myself.”

Burek followed him outside and disappeared in the direction of the jacks; Arcolin began a circuit of the sentry posts. This was their first truly hostile camp, though after the attack on the road, he had insisted on a camp defense even under the walls of Cortes Vonja. Here they’d erected a barrier of bramble and stakes.

Arcolin heard nothing he should not hear—their own animals munching grain in their nosebags, the familiar night sounds of the south—grassfrogs, treefrogs, various insects, a night-bird singing in the distance—were what they should be at this time of year. A light breeze eased across the camp, moving away the smells of men and armor, fire and food, and bringing a hint of cow dung, sheep, and the stronger smell of spring grass and herbs. He greeted each sentry, took a report, and went on to the next. At the sunrising post, opposite the camp entrance, he met Devlin, making a circuit the other way.

“All’s well summer-side, Captain,” Devlin said.

“All’s well, winter-side, Sergeant,” he said. They each continued their respective circuit, meeting again at the camp entrance, sunsetting.

“A quiet night,” Devlin said. “But watchful, I think. Or maybe I’ve been away too long.”

“I threw two rocks in the water,” Arcolin said. “I’d like to hear a splash.”

As if in answer, a distant cry broke through the gentler night noises. When it cut off, not a sound came from frogs, insects, birds, for what seemed a long time, then something went “crrrrick … crrrrick …” again.

Stammel appeared out of the darkness. “Trouble?” he said to Arcolin.

“I don’t know yet.” They waited another while in silence, and then Arcolin said, “I hope that wasn’t one of ours—” He stopped abruptly as one of the horses stamped, then snorted. Then he heard the footsteps running this way and laboring breath.

Devlin, Stammel, and the sentries kindled more torches; Arcolin squinted into the gloom and could just make out something moving, coming nearer. He hoped it was his people, but he couldn’t yet tell.

Then they were panting up to the entrance, gasping the password, with a dark form trussed up in a Phelani cloak between them. “Stupid clods of dirt-grubbers.” That was Vik, the wiry redhead who had been one of Paks’s close friends. “If they’d just said what you told them—but they didn’t, and the brigands killed them before we could do anything.”

“And who’s this?” Arcolin asked. The bundle appeared to be breathing, or trying to.

“The live brigand,” Tam said. “We didn’t think he ought to go back and tell his friends that someone had attacked them out of the dark. Might be bad for the villagers.”

“And we thought you might want him,” Vik added, dropping his end of the prisoner with no concern for the prisoner’s welfare. “He must live on rocks; he weighs as much as a bullock.”

“Is he wounded?”

“A knock on the head is all,” Tam said. “He should live, I think, but it was dark.” Arcolin had his doubts. Tam’s fist had killed men before.

“He was breathing when we wrapped him up,” Vik said.

“Stammel, take charge of the prisoner. If he lives, we’ll see what he has to say when he wakes up. Devlin, check the perimeter again and let’s set an extra guard on the stock. Tam, Vik, come with me.”

Their report was brief and simple: The two men from the village had gone through the village and then out in the fields, where they’d met two other men. They’d been asked about the cohort; they’d first answered as Arcolin suggested, but when challenged, they’d elaborated.

“One of them said they weren’t afraid anymore, because you were going to get rid of all the bandits. The other threatened those two—it was ridiculous. There they are, no weapons, no reserve force, and they’re challenging men they must know have killed a dozen times, more.”

“I’m surprised they were killed quickly,” Arcolin said.

“The dead brigand had a temper,” Vik said. “Whipped out his sword—one of those curved ones from the coastal region—and had the head off the first man, so the second brigand ran the other one through.”

“We didn’t realize in time,” Tam said. “They had just this little light, and it was the shine of the sword that we saw, too late. Then they started arguing with each other, and we got to them.”

“Who yelled?” Arcolin said.

“This one,” Vik said, with a jerk of his head toward the camp. “We got the first one, but this one yelled, and then Tam hit him. Twice.”

“He didn’t hold still,” Tam said, scuffing one boot in the ashes. “And he still had his blade.”

“So,” Arcolin said, “in the morning I get to explain to the village headman that two of his friends were killed by brigands right under our noses?”

“Not right under, sir,” Vik said. “Way off there, where there’s that block of woods.”

“They might think their two stumbled on a brigand and killed him, after he wounded them, and then they died,” Tam said.

“The one with no head helping his friend stab the brigand, you mean?” Arcolin asked.

“He could’ve thrown a rock, before,” Tam said. His brow wrinkled. “See, he hears something—he throws a rock, it hits the brigand, who cuts off his head, and then his friend—”

“Without making a sound, manages to stab the brigand with his nonexistent sword while being stabbed. Of course. I’m sure the village will see it that way. I, on the other hand, am aware how easy it is to kill an unarmed peasant with any decent blade. I don’t suppose you brought it along?”

“Only one,” Tam said, producing it from behind his back. “We left only one brigand, so we could leave only one blade.”

The curved blade had a deadly elegance; Arcolin hefted it with care, not only for its edge but the stench of death on the blade. He handed it back to Tam. “See that it’s clean, and wrap it so no one gets cut. Then get some sleep, both of you.”

In his tent, Burek snored lightly, deeply asleep; Arcolin made his own notations on the map and in his log, then went out to walk the perimeter again.

A
t the change of watch, Arcolin told Burek what had happened.

“I slept through that?” Burek looked ashamed.

“No harm done,” Arcolin said. “I may sleep through the next little problem. Wake me if you need me.”

He woke to the smell of breakfast cooking. That meant it was near dawn or after; the tent wasn’t as dark as it had been. He had one boot on when Burek poked his head into the tent. “Sir—good, you’re awake—”

“What is it?”

“The man died, and I thought you should know before the villagers found him—”

“Found him?”

“And the scene, I mean. He died about midwatch, so I told off a squad to take the body back to where the fight was. I thought that way we didn’t have to explain why we had his body here.”

Arcolin had a quick mental vision of four of his soldiers, two lugging the dead brigand’s body, over the fields in the dark. He could imagine the track they’d leave on the dew-wet grass—

“I worried about the track they might leave,” Burek went on. “But Stammel said the grass was dry enough, just be back here in a glass or less. And they were, and dewfall came after that.”

Arcolin pulled on his other boot and stamped down into it. “Good
thinking,” he said. “I suppose you had them take his weapon back with him?”

Burek stared, then flushed. “No, sir—I didn’t think of that.”

“Never mind,” Arcolin said. “They’ll think someone stole it, or there was a third brigand.”

“Do we march today, after all this? The brigands must be near.”

“We march, because we’re not supposed to know the brigands are near.” And with luck they could be packed and on their way before the villagers found the dead men. “We know nothing, we heard nothing, we saw nothing … they told us no brigands were anywhere around and they’d had no trouble, so … we go on being ignorant.”

Burek grinned. “Stammel thought you’d say that.”

“Stammel is a wise man,” Arcolin said.

By the time the sun had cleared the trees beyond the fields, they were ready to march, leaving behind only flattened grass: the jacks filled in, scraps of food burnt to char and then the fire pit watered down and raked, the brambles pulled into a pile. Burek had arched his brows at the care taken.

“Leave a mess behind, find a worse mess when you return,” Arcolin said. “Duke’s saying; I expect he learnt it from Aliam Halveric. Farmers don’t like their fields and pastures damaged, and they’ll find ways to cause you trouble the next time you come through.”

Burek thought about that for a moment, then said, “Dead men aren’t a mess, then …?”

“Not if it’s nothing to do with us. They’ll think it does, but more like we drew trouble down on them, the brigands spying on us. That reminds me—” He turned, just as Tam came up with something wrapped in a cloth. “Ah—thank you, Tam.”

“It’s really pretty, Captain,” Tam said.

“It’ll go in the Company records as split between you and Vik,” Arcolin said. “It’ll be the end of season, most likely, before you see a copper out of it.”

“’Sfine, Captain. I just wondered.”

“And remember—no talking about it, anywhere we go.”

“No, Captain. I’ll tell Vik.” He paused. “I can tell Vik, can’t I?”

“Tell him not to talk about it. Nothing happened. That’s the important part. Nothing at all happened.”

Tam grinned, saluted, and hurried off. Arcolin unwrapped the
cloth. The grip of it was made of some intricately carved bone or tooth—he didn’t want to meet the animal with such teeth—inlaid with gold and silver. No guard but a narrow flange of metal where the two met, and the blade itself had the waterflow pattern that meant the best steel.

“Rich brigands,” Burek said. “Or they’ve been robbing rich men.”

“Rich men with exceptional taste in weapons,” Arcolin said. “And this one’s seen considerable use.” The carving had worn down almost to the inlay, just where a hand would put the most pressure. He wrapped the cloth around it again. A shout came from behind the wagons, in the direction of the village. Several shouts. Arcolin loosened the cord of his saddle roll, pushed the wrapped weapon into the center, and retied the cord.

“Try to look stupid,” Arcolin said to Burek. “Whatever you do, don’t smile. Mount up.” He mounted his own horse, and turned it out of the lane, where he could see what was coming.

The rest of the cohort, now in marching formation in front of the wagons, were doing their own best to look stupid. Hurrying up the lane toward them was yesterday’s village headman and two others, waving their arms. Arcolin knew the wagon guards would stop them.

“Stammel, a hand with us, and start the rest down the road.”

“Captain.” Stammel named five, who fell out and lined up beside Arcolin and Burek. The others filled in, Stammel gave the command in a voice that could probably be heard in Cortes Vonja, and the cohort marched off, in perfect step. Behind them, the first wagon’s driver slapped reins together and yelled at the mules; harness creaked and harness rings jingled as that wagon, and then the next, followed.

“With me,” Arcolin said, and nudged his horse forward, toward the approaching villagers.

Faced with two armed men on horseback and five armed soldiers afoot, the villagers straggled to a halt, breathing heavily.

“What’s amiss?” Arcolin asked.

“You—you can’t leave—I demand—you killed four men!” the headman said.

“We did not kill four men,” Arcolin said with perfect honesty. “And you are not authorized to place demands on me—my contract is with Cortes Vonja, in whose outbounds your village lies.”