Back inside with Valthan, Dorrin told him what she expected. “They would have had word their attack on Phelan failed—quicker here than in Vérella. I am sure the Duke and his brother had plans for that contingency, known to those at Verrakai House. They would have followed those plans and awaited word from the Duke.”
“And no word would have come—”
“We cannot know that,” Dorrin said. “Haron could have assigned messengers not known to be his agents—ordinary merchants, they might seem, innocent travelers—who’d carry word from Vérella of his success or failure there.”
“And you’re sure failure would not lead them to capitulate?”
“Cooperate with an Order of Attainder? No. For one thing, at least some of them must be guilty, and thus would face certain execution. They’ve all practiced magery and as you reminded me, the practice of magery was outlawed. They will not want to give that up any more than a man with two legs will volunteer to hobble on one.”
“So we may expect violent resistance?”
Dorrin frowned. “I do not know how violent … but some combination of magery—which may be quiet and cunning rather than open violence—and force. Some of the servants, at least, will be Liartians by belief, not out of fear alone. We should be provisioned so that we need eat no food prepared there until I’m sure of the kitchen staff for instance.”
“I still wonder—how can we know you will be able to hold off their magery? What if Liart strengthens theirs against you? Or—or invades you?”
“Do you, as a Girdsman, think Liart is stronger than Gird and the High Lord?”
“No, but …” His voice trailed away; he looked around the common room. “With all due respect … who in this kingdom knows what your powers really are, or whence they come?”
Dorrin wished Paks would walk in the door—the sudden appearance of a paladin of Gird being likelier than that of the Knight-Commander, and undoubtedly more to Valthan’s taste—but when the door opened, it was for someone who looked like a mason, down to the mortar splashes on his clogs. “What proof would convince you?” she asked.
“I—I don’t suppose you could show—something—somehow?”
“Violate the Code to satisfy you?”
He flushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Dorrin said. “But it’s what you’re asking. The only reason the prince granted me permission to use magery is to ward off that of my relatives.” Then she had a thought. “What if we talk to Marshal Berris, and if he agrees, I will show you a little in the grange, where you can witness whether or not Gird approves? Will that do?”
He nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
“Then, we’ll do that. My plan is this: Since you will have to transport those under attainder to Vérella, I will bind their magery for your protection. Unless a priest of Liart intervenes, they should be unable to break those bindings themselves. Therefore I recommend you lodge them in a Girdish grange each night, and have the Marshal help watch over them.”
He nodded, clearly happy with that idea. “With so many granges between here and Vérella that should be easy enough, and I can use a courier to warn the Marshals.”
Dorrin went on. “Even without magery, and without weapons of their own, they will do everything they can to injure you and your troops and escape. Do not assume that because they are women of high family with fine manners they will be docile; you must be as wary as if they were a band of brigands. Travel with all speed.”
“I understand. Will you send the Phelani cohort with us for extra guards?”
Dorrin shook her head. “My cohort must stay with me, to keep order in Verrakai lands until I am certain all members of the family have been found and turned over to the Crown. I have been gone so long, I do not even know how many there are.”
“What order of march do you recommend when we go into Verrakai?”
“Half your troop in front, and half behind, mine; I will ride with you in front. We need the royal colors visible; I have had no chance to change mine from Phelan’s.”
“You could at least change saddlecloths to blue,” Valthan said.
“My troops are but lent, from Phelan—or whoever comes after him. They have their own colors.”
“They’re mercenaries; they’ll serve who pays.”
Dorrin stared at him until he looked down. “Mercenaries, sir, have loyalties as well as greed. My troops have fought years with me, and are loyal to me, but through me to Phelan, to whom I was loyal.” To whom she had hoped to stay loyal, to become a vassal in Lyonya, but now that was impossible. “Nonetheless, a change of saddlecloths might be a good idea. Excuse me.” She pushed back her chair and went outside.
“Captain, what orders?” As always, one of her cohort stood sentry by the door.
Dorrin took a deep breath and tried to relax the tension in her shoulders. “Where’s Selfer?” she asked.
“In the stable, Captain, checking the farrier’s work. I can go—”
“No, I’ll go,” she said. Calm. She must stay calm. She must not react to such slight insults as Valthan’s assumptions about mercenaries; her relatives would try that, too, hoping for a chink in her mental armor.
In the stables, the familiar smells of dung and hay and animals took the last knot out of her shoulders. In the aisle, one of the men held a horse’s lead, while Selfer picked up one hoof after another. Dorrin paused to watch, and when he was done, he looked around and saw her.
“Captain—I was just checking—”
“All done, then?”
“Yes; everything’s shod, all the straps mended, ready to pack up—do we march?”
“I want your opinion on something, you and the sergeants. Find Kefer and Vossik and meet me in the harness room.”
“Yes, Captain.” He jogged away; Dorrin walked to the end of the stables and turned in to the small room lined with pegs for harness, now mostly empty but ready for the traders and their wagons come summer.
The three entered a few moments later. “You know what I’m going to Verrakai for,” Dorrin said. “I’m thinking about the effect of taking you there—I need you, and you’ve all agreed to come, but under normal conditions a new duke would be wearing House colors and carrying the family banner. Instead—” She gestured. “We’re all in Phelan’s colors, and all our insignia are his.”
“You want us all to change uniforms?” Vossik asked.
“No. But I’m thinking it might be a good idea to indicate that though you’re Phelani, you’re temporarily operating as legitimate troops of the Verrakai Duke: me. We could replace the saddlecloths with blue ones, get a blue banner made up … I’m asking your reaction to that, and your opinion of the troops’ reaction.”
Selfer frowned. “Won’t they think you hired mercenaries to enforce your rule?”
“That’s exactly what I am doing,” Dorrin said. “But if I change my colors and your saddlecloths are blue, then I’m hiring mercenaries as a Verrakai—not coming in as a Phelani captain. It gives you some legitimacy as Verrakai troops.”
“I’ve marched under the fox-head since I joined,” Kefer said slowly. “Never thought I’d be anything other than the Duke’s man. But now he’s king, and he says we can’t stay with him there in Lyonya …”
“Captain—or should we even say that now?—are you hiring us permanently? Or just for a short campaign?” Vossik looked wary.
Dorrin ran her fingers through her hair. “I hadn’t thought about hiring you permanently; you’re still technically part of Phelan’s Company—”
“Which doesn’t exactly exist,” Selfer said.
“Of course it does,” Dorrin said. “The Crown isn’t going to dissolve it; they need it to protect the north against Pargun. It’ll be Arcolin’s instead of Phelan’s, I expect.”
“Not the same,” Vossik and Kefer muttered together.
“True,” Dorrin said. “But it’s still the Company. The Duke—damn, I’ve got to quit calling him that—the king left resources at the stronghold for Arcolin and I’m sure you’ll have work there as long as you want it.”