“It’s that inn—the Smoking Chimney,” Dorrin said.
A wider space had been cleared of snow in front of the inn. A heavy door stood open, with a blanket hung to keep out a draft. From inside, Kieri heard familiar Tsaian accents.
“An’ I don’t doubt the captain and himself’ll be here soon enough, so there’ll be no wanderin’ off nowhere to get into trouble. You’ll stay here until we get orders otherwise—”
Varñe knocked on the door; they heard footsteps approaching. A man with a long apron tied around his waist poked his head out from around the blanket and said, “I’m sorry, we have no rooms—oh! Sir King—come in—” He held the blanket aside.
Before Kieri could adjust his sight, the drum of boots on the floor told him what was happening. Sure enough, the cohort stood in perfect order, tables and stools in the inn’s common room shoved aside.
“Well,” he said. Their faces struck him to the heart. How many years he had led these soldiers up and down from his steading to Aarenis and back. How many years they had followed his orders, fought his campaigns and won them. And now … now he must hand them over to someone else.
But not just yet. Now was the time to do what they expected, to reassure them—after a night alone in a strange city—that they were safe, that he still cared. He walked along the lines, as at any inspection. Boots polished, brass bright. He knew without asking they had all had breakfast, all made their beds—whatever their beds were, here. The innkeeper looked calm; the servants—over there, watching—looked more curious than anything else.
The main thing, besides letting them see him, letting them absorb the differences—his gold and green clothes instead of maroon and white, the King’s Squires—the main thing was to keep them busy, until he must send them away home.
“Are the horses here, Captain?” he asked Dorrin as he moved to the end of the front rank, with a little nod for the corporal.
“Yes, Sir King,” she said. This time she did not stumble over it; he didn’t expect she ever would again. “This inn had enough stable room; I chose it for that reason.”
“Excellent,” Kieri said. “After inspection—Jamis, you missed a spot on your left boot—” Jamis turned red. “You’ll want to check your mounts and exercise them.” He glanced at Astil. “Where could a troop ride, and not cause a problem? The Royal Ride?”
“Sir King, the Royal Ride certainly, but closer to this inn are the river meadows. I’m sure one of the stableboys could show you the way.”
“It’s up to you, Captain,” Kieri said. “The horses will need light exercise today and some work every day the weather and ground conditions allow. We won’t want to turn the river meadows into a quagmire. Innkeeper—” The man came forward, face alight. “You have met Captain Dorrin, I know, but let me be clear about your fees—”
“You don’t need to worry, sir—sire,” the man said, flushing. “It’s an honor, it is, to have you in my inn—”
“I’m not worried,” Kieri said with a smile. “But I know how much my soldiers eat. Be sure that you will be paid, and regularly, for their board, as long as they stay here. And if there should be any problems, do not hesitate to tell Captain Dorrin.”
“I was scared at first, sire,” the man said. “Them being foreign soldiers, and mercenaries at that. But they’re less trouble than some merchants, I’d say. Why that’n—” He pointed at a man in the third rank; Kieri recognized Ulfin, a ten-year veteran. “—he already rehung a door on its hinges that a drunk had kicked out two nights agone and I’d had no time to fix. They can stay as long as you like, sire, so long as I can buy the food to feed them.”
Dorrin stayed with the cohort to organize their exercise; Kieri and the King’s Squires headed back to the palace. Kieri looked around; from this direction, he could tell the city—town—stretched off to the east, though he could not tell where it ended. He would have to spend a day exploring, or find a map.
As they passed the trees bordering the Royal Ride, Berne stared off down the grassy stretch. “Someone’s there!” he said. “Coming down the Ride.”
Kieri looked. A red horse, its tall rider leading a gray he also recognized. “It’s Paks,” he said. “She’s exercising my mount Banner …” He hardly recognized the feeling that tightened his chest. She was another he would lose, when she left—when Gird or the gods called her away on quest. He wished suddenly he could have met her family, her father. Did they even know what she had become? Would they ever?
She had spotted him now, and waved; he waved back. The red horse lifted into a trot; his gray surged forward, then slowed at a flick of the red’s ear, keeping polite pace without crowding or rushing. As they neared, Paks smiled down at him. “I didn’t think a short trot would hurt,” she said.
“He looks good,” Kieri said. Banner took a step forward, toward him, then stopped, eyeing the red horse.
“Here,” Paks said, tossing him the lead rope. He caught it neatly, and Banner came to him, lowering a velvety muzzle to his hands. “He was no trouble—a bit stiff at first, as you suspected, but loosened up quickly.”
“I’ll take him back myself,” Kieri said, “if you want to ride longer.”
“You? Sir King, one of us can take—” But as Astil reached for the lead, the horse threw up his head and snorted.
“He’s used to me,” Kieri said. “And he’s trained for war.”
“A gray,” murmured Panin, who had said least so far. “You know they’re high-strung, Astil.”
Kieri sensed some bias he needed to know. Stroking the horse’s neck, he said, “Grays are high-strung?”
“Everyone knows that,” Panin said. “They’re air and water—unstable, changeable, capricious. Earth-fire horses, like that—” He nodded at Paks’s horse, standing like a statue, ears forward and only little puffs of vapor coming from its nostrils in the cool air. “They’re much steadier.”
“Hmmm,” Kieri said. Not the right time to question their prejudices, but he’d never seen grays as particularly flighty. Certainly not Banner. He had an impulse to show them how steady Banner could be, but even Banner might act up if he swung up bareback in this strange place. “Come along, Banner,” he said instead, and walked on, the gray horse at his side.
“Do you need me, Sir King?” Paks asked.
“No,” he said, hoping she meant only “for the present” but knowing he must say the same if she was leaving forever.
“Then I’ll let this fellow stretch his legs,” she said. Some signal passed from her to the red horse, or the horse took it on himself to disprove the Squires’ beliefs, for he pranced in place, half reared, then wheeled, and bolted flat-out back up the Royal Ride, wet divots spraying up behind him.
“She rides like a horse nomad,” Panin said.
“She rides like a paladin,” Kieri said. “Horse nomads would worship her as the Windsteed’s bride, if they saw her on that horse.”
“Sir King—Sir King—!” A groom hurried from the opening of the mews, to the left as they entered the palace gate. “I can take him, Sir King—you need not—”
“Just show me where he’s stabled,” Kieri said. “His name’s Banner—I don’t think I told anyone when we arrived.”
“Sir—down here, then, if you will.” The row of stalls seemed to be mostly empty, but the stall the groom led him to was amply large, clean, freshly laid with deep straw. Kieri stopped the horse outside.
“He’s been exercised in the Royal Ride, and it’s wet—you’ll want to check his hooves, make sure he’s thrown all the mudballs out.”
“Of course, Sir King. Jemi—come hold this horse—” A younger man, hardly more than a boy, came out of a stall down the row and hurried to take the lead.