There were cheers from the second circle, and not just from her own followers.
“There is news from the east,” she said, her voice carrying across the whole meeting, strong and determined. “The mercenaries have returned.”
For the briefest of moments there was a sudden silence, and then the whole meeting erupted in furious tumult. Several of the chiefs shot to their feet and shouted, some in alarm, some in angry denial.
“Ah, now we see who oppose her,” Gudon said.
Korigan waited until the some of the noise had subsided. “My people have fought with them. Thirty mercenaries were killed.”
“Whose mercenaries?” a man’s voice demanded. All eyes turned to a chief on the other side of the fire from Korigan. He was big for a Chett, wide and strong-armed. His face was pitted and crevassed, his nose squashed flat, his lips wide and thin.
“Rendle’s,” Korigan answered.
“How do you know this? Was Rendle with them?”
“No, but you know, Eynon, that I have sources of information outside of the Oceans of Grass.”
“Your spies,” Eynon spat.
Gudon whispered into Kumul’s ear: “He is chief of the Horse clan. His father was the most determined and the strongest enemy of Korigan’s father, and the one defeated here at the High Sooq in the last, great battle. It is no surprise that he is opposed to Korigan.”
“My spies?” Korigan said, her voice cold. “
Our
spies.”
“We had no need of them before ...” Eynon let the sentence hang, but everyone knew he meant before Korigan’s father had united the Chetts.
“Before the Slaver War?” Korigan said. “Maybe that was why we suffered so cruelly at the hands of Rendle and his ilk.”
“Oh, nicely done,” Ager said admiringly. “She turned that around.”
“Rendle is a mercenary first and foremost,” another voice said. Another chief stood up, a woman. She looked as old as Herita, but stood straighter. “His presence on the Oceans of Grass does not mean he has returned to take slaves.”
“Akota,” Gudon told Lynan. “Chief of the Moon clan.”
“Another old enemy?”
“No, but the clan has always fiercely independent. Its warriors always doubt what they themselves have not seen.”
“Whatever else Rendle may or may not be, slavery was his trade in the past; how do we know he has not returned to it?” Korigan demanded, asking the question of the entire first circle.
“But the great queen in Kendra would not allow the slavers to ride again,” another chief countered, standing to get everyone’s attention. “She promised us they would never return!”
There was a loud sound of agreement from many of the chiefs and their followers.
“The great queen is dead!” Korigan announced.
The chief who had spoke froze. Akota slumped to the ground. Even Eynon looked bewildered.
“Dead?” he asked. “When?”
“The beginning of summer,” Korigan said.
“But her son would not tolerate slavery any more than she—”
“Berayma was murdered before he could be crowned. Areava, his sister, now rules Grenda Lear.”
Now even Eynon sat down.
“Every time you speak you deliver a blow to us,” Herita said hoarsely. “Your spies have told you all this?”
“I did not need spies for this news. You know my clan’s territory abutts the Stranger’s Sooq. The news of Usharna’s death, and that of her son, was common knowledge.”
Akota stood up once more. “But Areava—or any of Usharna’s children—would never allow the slavers to work again.”
“Areava is not Usharna,” Korigan said evenly. “I know that Rendle and others were commissioned under her authority.”
“For what purpose?” Akota asked. “And what others?”
“To guard their border with Haxus, or so Areava says. And others? Jes Prado for one.”
Again the chiefs and their followers let loose with loud cries, some in alarm, some denying Korigan’s words. All the chiefs were standing now, speaking all at once.
“Haxus is not at war with Grenda Lear!” shouted one of the chiefs. “Why would Areava use mercenaries instead of her own troops?”
“Someone is lying!” Eynon declared, and all other voices were stilled. “Either Areava or Korigan! And I know which queen I believe!”
Before Korigan could say anything, Akota said: “What kind of loyalty is this you show for our queen?”
Eynon laughed harshly. “Our queen? Which one?”
“You know whom I speak of, Eynon. Again I ask, what kind of loyalty is this?”
Eynon pointed at Korigan. “Rather you should ask: what kind of queen is this?” He turned to face the second circle, and as he spoke, he turned slowly, his arms wide and encompassing them all. “This girl has inherited her title! She has not earned it! She knows she is not welcome among some of the clans, and she knows the only way she can unite us all behind her is to make us think the slavers have returned! There are no slavers! There are no mercenaries! There is only Korigan, a shadow of everything her father ever was!”
“And what would you have?” Korigan demanded, her voice rising above his. “A new ruler in my place? Someone like yourself?”
Eynon faced her squarely and shook his head. “I would have no king or queen in the Oceans of Grass. One queen in distant Kendra is enough. We need no more.”
“The world has changed since our fathers’ day,” Korigan replied. “We cannot count on help coming from Kendra. We cannot even count on Kendra looking on us with any favor now that Usharna has gone. We
must
be united!”
“Against whom?” Eynon said. He turned to one of the chiefs, a young man who looked barely old enough to shave. “Terin! Your clan territory is closest to Haxus! Have any mercenaries raided your people?”
Terin shook his head uncertainly. He looked at Korigan with an expression of helplessness. He was obviously no friend to Eynon, Lynan saw, which was undoubtedly why Eynon had chosen him: if even Korigan’s own allies could not support her story, why should anyone else believe it? Lynan started to move forward, but a heavy hand grasped his arm. He looked over his shoulder and saw Kumul.
“It is too dangerous, lad,” Kumul whispered fiercely.
Gudon gripped his other arm. “He is right, your Majesty.”
Eynon again faced the second circle. “Has anyone seen these mercenaries?” No one would answer him. “Will no one stand for Korigan?” The derision in his voice was unmistakable.
“Her clan stands for her!” Gudon shouted and, releasing his grip on Lynan, he stepped forward from the second circle.
“Who speaks?” demanded Herita.
“I am Gudon, son of Kathera Truespeaker, cousin to Queen Korigan.”
“Gudon?” Eynon asked suspiciously. “You have not been seen or heard from for many years. How do we know it
is
you? Come into the light!”
Gudon strode to the fire and took off his hat. Herita, Eynon, and Akota came up close to study his face.
“I am not sure,” Herita said.
“Maybe it is not him,” Eynon suggested.
“It is he,” Akota said with certainty. “I knew the True-speaker, and this is her son.”
A murmur passed around the two circles like a breeze across the plains.
“He seems well known,” Ager muttered.
“Where have you been all this time?” Akota asked.
“In the east.” Gudon smiled humorlessly at Eynon. “I was one of Queen Korigan’s spies. It is I who brought back word about Rendle and Prado. They ride again.”
“This is ridiculous!” Eynon said angrily. “Because he is the son of the Truespeaker does not mean he is one himself! He is Korigan’s worm!”
Gudon’s hand went to his sword hilt. “I am no one’s worm,” he said coldly.
“There is no need for insult and threats here,” Akota spat, and she and Herita stood between Eynon and Gudon. Eynon stepped back a pace, his hands clearly well away from his own weapon, and Gudon let his own hand drop.
“My words were hasty,” Eynon admitted, but then turned once more to the second circle. “But if we do not believe Korigan, why should we believe her cousin? I ask again, has anyone seen these mercenaries? And I do not ask this of the White Wolf clan, for we know where their interests lie.”
Lynan moved so quickly he broke from Kumul’s grip before the giant could tighten it.
“God’s sake, lad!” Kumul hissed, but Lynan ignored him. He stepped well into the light of the fire. His hat cast a dark shadow across his face and hid his features. Eynon and the other chiefs turned to face him. Gudon groaned. Korigan came up to him and said under her breath: “Lynan, you do not have to do this!”
Lynan looked squarely at her and said: “I made a choice to come to the High Sooq. Now I have to make that choice work.”
“And despite my words, yet another from Korigan’s clan comes forward,” Eynon cried loudly. “Her followers are loyal to a fault, but not so good of hearing.” Many in both circles laughed at the small figure who had appeared in front of them.
“I am not born of the White Wolf clan,” Lynan said loudly enough for all in the first circle to hear. “And I have seen the mercenaries.”
“Then whose clan were you born into?” Eynon asked, his voice still jesting.
“A clan you know well, Eynon. The clan of the kestrel.”
“I have never heard of this kestrel,” Eynon said. “And certainly know of no such clan.”
“You would know it by its other name.”
“First, my little Chett, by what name should we know
you
?”
“My name is Lynan.”
Eynon’s face turned sour. “That is not funny. No Chett may be called Lynan after the last of that name passed away.” There were murmurs of agreement from all the chiefs. “His name is not one we cherish.”
“I am not a Chett.”
Eynon was too startled to speak, but Herita said: “If you are not a Chett, what right do you have to speak to the two circles?” She turned to Korigan. “Will you break with our tradition so easily?”
“I have the right,” Lynan said before Korigan could reply, taking off his hat and drawing out the Key of Union from beneath his poncho. The firelight gleamed off his white skin and the Key. He heard gasps all around him.
“Do you recognize this?” he asked of all the chiefs.
“I have never seen it,” Akota said under her breath, “but I know it. All Chetts know it. It was the symbol of Usharna’s sovereignty over us.”
“The Key of Union,” Eynon said numbly. “How come you to have it... ?” His voice drifted off as he realized the truth.
“I am Lynan Rosetheme, and the sea hawk is my family’s emblem. As son of Queen Usharna, I have the right to be heard before the two circles. And as son of Elynd Chisal, who was born of a Chett woman, I have the right to be heard before the two circles. And as the White Wolf returned, I have the right to be heard before the two circles.”
In the uproar that followed, Ager turned to Kumul and said, “He’s getting quite good at this, isn’t he?”
Kumul grunted, but could not deny the sudden joy in the cries of the Chetts around him.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a prophecy or something foretelling Lynan would appear like this,” Ager continued.
“If not,” Kumul said, “we can always make up one.”
They watched Lynan stand in the firelight, holding up the Key of Union for all in the two circles to see. Korigan stood beside him, her relief obvious in her expression. Gudon moved to stand beside the pair, a grin as wide as the Gelt River across his face. But both Ager and Kumul were watching Eynon; it was his reaction that would determine what happened next.
Eynon surveyed the second circle, listening to the cheering and excited cries. He approached Lynan and an apprehensive silence fell across the meeting.
Lynan stood his ground, looking haughtily at the chief. When Eynon was no more than two paces, the chief bowed his head. For a moment nothing else happened, then Akota and Herita stood before Lynan and bowed as well. Then each of the chiefs in the first circle paid obeisance. When the last chief had bowed, every Chett in the second circle bowed as well.
“Impressive,” Ager muttered under his breath.
“It is,” Kumul admitted, and could not help but feel great pride in what Lynan had achieved. “It is not the way I would have done it, but it is the way it should have been done.”
Jenrosa put an arm around Kumul’s waist. “You are used to the ways of the east, of the royal court. Lynan seems to know instinctively how to behave with the Chetts.”
“Well, that might explain his lack of success back in Kendra,” Ager said. “Lynan is a barbarian at heart.”
Ager’s words sent a shiver down Kumul’s spine. “For the kingdom’s sake, I hope you are wrong.”
Freyma was scattering the last bale of feed in the pad-dock when he saw the group of horsemen approaching along the south road. He thought quickly, and realized he would not be able to reach his house to get his sword before they arrived. There was a pitchfork in the barn, though, and that might be handier than a sword against a mounted foe. He called to his five cows and they lazily lumbered across the paddock to pick at the feed. Pretending to be as casual as his beasts, he sauntered to the barn, opened just one of the old, creaky wooden doors, made sure his pitchfork was within reaching distance, and waited for his guests.
One rider galloped ahead of the rest. He saw Freyma but ignored him at first, instead riding around the yard, looking through windows and around corners. He was dressed in good leather gear, the chest piece hard and shiny from boiling; a long cavalry sword was in a scabbard attached to the saddle. When at last he halted in front of the barn, he looked down on Freyma with something like curiosity.
“Hello, friend,” Freyma said.
The rider nodded but did not reply.
“I hope you’ve just come for water or to buy some eggs.”
The rider shook his head, and pointed to the rest of his group, six riders, now passing the farm gate.
Can’t do much against seven,
Freyma thought.
But if I take this one out now, I’ll make at least some account of myself.
His leaned against the barn door and grasped the pitchfork in his right hand. “One of your horses is lame,” he said. The stranger looked over his shoulder, and as he did so, Freyma quickly moved forward, bringing the pitchfork up and around.
“Hold it, Freyma!” cried a harsh voice, and the farmer hesitated. The rider Freyma was about to impale whipped around, his sword already in his hand. Before Freyma could do anything the pitchfork was spinning out of his grasp.
“God’s death, you’re fast,” Freyma said, and waited for the sword to bite into his neck. But the rider just grinned down at him.
By now, the other riders had reached the barn. One of them dismounted and slowly took off a pair of black gloves. “Age has slowed you, my friend,” the man said.
Freyma stared at him in surprise. He recognized the voice, the well-muscled frame and horribly scarred face with its crooked nose. “I don’t believe it. Jes fucking Prado.”
Prado put his hands on his hips and roared in laughter. “You should see the color of your face. You’d think I was a ghost.”
“I thought
I
was going to be a ghost,” Freyma said. He waved at the other riders. “Who are your friends?”
“My escort.”
“Escort? Since when does a farmer in the Arran Valley need an escort?”
Prado shook his head. “News still travels here slower than a corpse. I’ve been gone from the valley for over half a year.”
“Gone? Where? Who’s looking after your farm?”
Prado snorted. “I never thought I’d hear you sound so concerned over a few square leagues of dirt.”
“It’s how we feed ourselves, remember?” Freyma said resentfully. He looked at Prado’s companions again. “Or did. You’ve obviously moved on.”
“How much do you make here, Freyma?”
“None of your business.”
“After you’ve paid your taxes, and for transporting your milk and grain and eggs. How much? A dozen gold pieces a year?”
“Still none of your business.”
“And how much did you make when you rode with me? Some campaigns you made a dozen gold pieces a day.”
“Those days are gone, Jes. I’m just a farmer now.”
Prado grinned and put his arm around Freyma’s skinny shoulders. “I’m here to tell you that those days are back again.”
Freyma did not have enough food for all seven guests, so Prado paid him three gold pieces straight off for one of the cows. For that amount Freyma said they could have the vealer, and three hours later they were eating rare fire-roasted beef and downing a few flagons of his best cider and mead.
“So you’re actually working for the Rosethemes now?” Freyma shook his head disbelievingly. “I never thought that’d happen. Not in a thousand years.”
“That’s right. I’ve even got her commission.”
“They made you a captain?”
“A general,” Prado said. “I want you to be my captain.”
Freyma’s eyes narrowed. “I told you, Jes, I’ve got my farm.”
“I’ll pay you three times what you get from your farm. And there’ll be booty.”
“Slaves?”
Prado shook his head. “No. Areava’s munificence won’t extend that far. But there’s plenty of rich takings in Haxus, and the Strangers’ Sooq.”
“That’s true,” Freyma admitted. He rubbed a pockmarked cheek with a long finger. “How long does this commission last?”
“Six months, a year. Until we do the job.”
“You goin‘ to stretch it out?”
Prado’s eyes hardened. “I want Rendle dead. I want Lynan dead. The only thing I want to stretch are their necks.”
Freyma’s brow creased in thought.
“I know what you’re thinking, you dog. You can be my captain, get rich, and be back here before next summer.” Prado chuckled. “Well, that’s fine by me, if that’s how you want to play it. But I have a feeling there’ll be more work for us after this job is done.”
“I haven’t got many good years left in me, Jes. I don’t want to die with a sword in my hand.”
“None of us is young anymore. I reckon if I recruit most of the old company, and take on their sons and daughters who can ride and use a sword, we’ll be back to almost full strength.”
“You’ll need more than that to take on Rendle, especially if Salokan’s backing him.”
Prado nodded. “I hear Black Petra settled his company near Sparro.”
“That’s right. I ran into some of them at the Sparro fair this autumn past. But Black Petra’s dead, Prado.”
“Gored by one of his bulls, no doubt. He liked farming, too, I seem to remember.”
“Knifed. Got in a brawl with a local.”
Prado sucked his teeth. “No way for a soldier to die.”
“No way for a farmer to die either. You thinking of recruiting his people as well?”
“As many as I can get.”
“Sal Solway put her company down near Black Petra’s. That’s another hundred or so. She’ll join up, at any rate. I hear her inn was burned down.”
“We’ll make the biggest company Theare has ever seen,” Prado said, his eyes gleaming.
“We? I haven’t said I’d join up, Prado.”
“You didn’t say, that’s true.”
“You’ll pay me six times what I make from my farm, and I leave in summer with all the booty I can carry.”
“Anybody would think you were a mercenary.”
Freyma laughed, and the two men shook hands.
Prado set up in the second largest inn in the valley’s largest town. His men wondered why he did not stay in the largest, but Prado would not tell them the largest inn was where he had kidnapped Lynan, slaying the owner of the tavern in the process.
Once word got around he was recruiting, over eighty of his old company came to see him and sign up, many of them bringing their children to sign up as well. By the end of the first week, he had over two hundred on his roll.
He sent Freyma to spread the word among any other mercenaries he could find closer to the Chandran capital, Sparro, and by the end of the second week his numbers had swelled to four hundred, many of them veterans, and even including a few locals with no military tradition but eager for adventure and easy money. Freyma had been right about Sal Solway, and Prado now had his second captain. She was a short, solidly built woman of middle years with short black hair. He let Freyma and Sal choose their own lieutenants and sergeants, and within a month of arriving in the Arran Valley had a force of five hundred mercenaries, all mounted, and divided into two companies of roughly equal strength. Freyma wanted to start training right away, but Prado told him to wait until they were on the border with Haxus.
“I want to get north and find billeting before spring.”
“They can’t train in winter,” Sal complained.
“They can and will,” Prado said harshly. “They’ll do whatever they have to do if they want to stay in my company.”
“How long before we leave the valley?” Freyma asked.
“Another day or two, then we head for Sparro, picking up any of Sal’s and Black Petra’s old companies that still want to join, then north, recruiting where we can until we get to the border with Hume. I hope to have at least two thousand under me before I start calling on Queen Charion for some of her regiments.”
Sal was impressed by Prado’s ambition. “Two thousand! We can do a lot with two thousand mercenaries.”
“We only have to do two things,” Prado reminded her. “Kill Rendle and kill Lynan. If I can avoid using Charion’s regulars, I will.”
“You said it was Areava who first commissioned Rendle ...” Freyma began.
“What of it?”
“... did she employ other companies at the same time? Could we get them to join us?”
“They’ve already taken Areava’s gold. She wouldn’t look too kindly on us paying them again.”
“Not whole companies, maybe,” Freyma mused, “but a troop here and there?”
Prado grinned. “Well, maybe a troop here or there. I’ll leave that to you.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have at least two others with you now,” Sal said to Prado.
“Who do you mean?”
“Bazik and Aesor. They were your sergeants once, weren’t they? Stuck closer to you than ticks on a dog.”
“I was wondering when they’d turn up,” Freyma added.
“They won’t be here,” Prado said darkly, and something in his tone told Sal and Freyma to leave well enough alone.
On their last day in the valley, as their company gathered with their mounts along the main street, Prado still kept open a table for any last-minute recruits. He was glad he did. So far, five more locals, each armed with their own bow and arrows, had signed up, and there was a short queue still waiting to be processed. He wanted as many of the Arran Valley archers as he could get his hands on: there were none better in Theare.
“Have you been in combat before?” Freyma was asking the next in line, a boy barely old enough to shave, but he had weapons and a horse.
“No, sir.‘’
“Then your pay is one gold piece a day, and one share of any booty after each battle.”
“Good enough.”
“Can you write?”
“No, sir.”
Freyma pushed over the page he had been writing on as he asked his questions. “Make your mark here,” he said, handing him the stylus. The boy did so, and Freyma then gave the stylus to Prado to countersign. “Right, report to Lieutenant Owel at the end of the line; she’s the one with a roan mare and a scar shaped like an arrow point on her forehead.”
The boy nodded, bowed a little to Prado who patted him genially on the back, and made way for the next in line, a man who had seen better years and came with the yellow sash of the grieve’s office and a dress sword that would be good for little except sticking fruit.
Well, we can’t expect them all to be warriors,
Prado thought to himself, then brightened when he saw a small group of riders approaching from north of the town. They were well mounted and well armed. Now these were the kind of recruits he wanted.
“Name?” Freyma asked the man in the yellow sash.
“Goodman Ethin.”
“Occupation?”
“Clothier by trade.”
“Any military experience?”
“None. But I am currently grieve hereabouts.”
Freyma nodded. “That will do.” He pointed to Goodman Ethin’s sword. “We can’t afford to arm you with anything better. You fight with what you bring.”
“I’m not here to sign on to Jes Prado’s company,” the man said.
“Then why in God’s name are you wasting my time?” Freyma spat.
“To arrest your general.” The man turned to Jes Prado. “Sir, I am placing you under arrest to answer charges of murder and kidnapping.”
Prado stared at the grieve in astonishment. “What are you on about, man?”
“I am charging you with the murder of a local innkeeper, Yran, and the kidnapping of a youth, on a night during the summer past.”
Freyma laughed at the grieve. “You must be joking?”
Some of the locals in the queue started drifting away.
Prado’s face went red with anger and surprise. “Do you have any witnesses to either the murder or the kidnapping?”
“You deny the charges?” the grieve returned.
“Do you have any evidence at all?” Prado insisted.
“I have the testimony of patrons that you were among the last customers in the inn on the night of these events. At any rate, I am arresting you until the charges can be proven or cleared.”
“You can’t do that!” Freyma shouted indignantly. “He’s a
general
in Queen Areava’s service!”
Goodman Ethin regarded him coolly. “Even the queen is not above the law.”
“The youth in question was an outlaw,” Prado said.
“So you do admit it!” the grieve declared.
Freyma stared at Prado. “Jes, what are you talking about?”
“I admit nothing,” Prado said. “I took the youth into custody. He was to be delivered to the queen for trial.”
“To the queen, you say! And why would she be interested in him?”
“Because he was Prince Lynan, murderer of King Berayma and traitor to the crown.”
The grieve’s face went white. “No.”
“Oh, yes. You might remember his companions?”
“Of course...”
“Kumul Alarn, ex-constable of the Royal Guard, Ager Parmer, ex-captain of the Royal Guard, and Jenrosa Alucar, student magicker.
All
outlaws.”
“The big one was Kumul Alarn? Kumul of the Red Shields?” The grieve’s eyes were almost popping out of his head. He shook his head. “But what of Yran? Do you deny murdering him?”
“Killing him? No. Murdering him? Yes. He tried to defend Prince Lynan.”
The grieve shook his head. “This is incredible.” He regarded Prado carefully. “Nevertheless, the charges still stand. If you are right in what you say, then you will be found innocent and can continue with your business—”
“I don’t have time for this. I am on an important—a vital!—commission for the queen. Nothing must stop me.”
“For certain,” the grieve said, his voice starting to quaver, “the law will stop you, sir.”