“Order of Attainder. And on the Konhalts.”
“So Tsaia has three domains up there with no, or new, commanders. Where I come from, that would mean war.” M’dierra scowled. “The situation here is unstable too. Has been since the last year Phelan was down here.”
“A bad time,” Arcolin said.
“Bad indeed,” M’dierra said, her voice low. “We did things—”
“We all did things we aren’t proud of,” Arcolin said. “But now it’s your turn. What’s the situation, and—most of all—what’s your opinion of these five?” He laid his short list on the table in front of her.
She tapped the first name. “What did he tell you about his experience?”
“Served with you for two hands of years, half as sergeant. Decided to go out on his own while he still could.”
“Eight years, and two as sergeant. He’s not bad, but he’s not as good as he thinks he is, and he’ll tell you what he thinks you want to hear. He’s a competent soldier, less so as a sergeant; too much temper and too fond of ale. An excellent swordsman, though, and capable with several weapons.”
“I wondered,” Arcolin said. “I thought I remembered seeing him in the ranks that last year.”
“You did. Now this young fellow—” She tapped the next name. “He’s someone’s bastard, won’t say whose, but claims he knows. Last season, he took a short contract with Sobanai and they offered him permanent, but he wanted varied experience, he said. I hired him on another short contract, in the fall, to take a cohort on escort duty to Andressat and back; the sergeant said he was diligent and honest. Andressat had some complaint—you know the Count, how fussy he can be. I’ve contracted to Andressat many times; can’t afford to have anyone he won’t tolerate, so I let him go, but have nothing against him.” She put the list down.
“I need more than one,” Arcolin said. “We’re short of captains—and I haven’t told you about Dorrin.”
“Dorrin! Was she killed?”
“No. But the prince and Council have named her the new Duke of Verrakai.”
M’dierra stared at him. “What? Dorrin? Why?”
“She’s a Verrakai. And she’s had nothing to do with them since she ran away to the Company of Falk.”
M’dierra said something in her native tongue that must have been an oath, and said, “If you need help up there, Jandelir, consider hiring Golden Company.” She was serious; she almost never used his first name.
“I don’t think bringing mercenaries over the mountains would calm the situation.”
“Perhaps not, but—why are you here, and not there?”
“Contract. And money. We were running short on supplies, with so many troops quartered up there.”
“Ah. Well, then—” She looked at the list again and put her finger on the fifth name. “Here’s another possible for you. I’d hire him if I had an opening. You don’t want the others. You’ll want to send someone reliable north, am I right?”
“Yes. Two, if possible.”
“My advice: Send this one, Versin, north; keep the young fellow with you. And the Blues let one of their captains go, Talvis Arneson; he lost an eye last year, nearly died of the infection, but survived. Good man, but you know them—won’t spend on their wounded. True, he’s only got one eye, but every other way, he’s worth the chance, especially for training recruits. He’s looking shabby now, and living rough, but my captains can find him.”
“Send him to me tomorrow, if you will, and thank you for your help,” Arcolin said.
“What will you do, without Kieri?”
“What I did before,” Arcolin said. “What he taught me. Take good contracts, do the work honestly, treat my people honorably. Stay out of politics.”
“And—what have you told them up north about your past?”
“That I’m someone’s bastard.”
“But not whose?”
“It’s immaterial now.” Since Siniava’s War, boundaries had changed and rulers as well; what had been lay now in ruins, he was sure.
“Is it? Is it ever immaterial? It certainly wasn’t for Kieri. If he’d known—”
“Siniava would still rule the South, Aesil.” There. He’d used her first name. “You’d have that to deal with, and no Kieri to lead us all against him.”
“I wonder,” she said. “Men like Kieri seem to bring trouble with them. We need trouble, we mercenaries, but we don’t thrive in big wars. No one does.” She tipped her head to one side. “Are you still in love with me, Jandelir?”
“I grew up,” Arcolin said. “As men do.”
“As some men do.” She sighed and ran a finger around the rim of her dessert bowl. Her knuckle, he noticed, was scarred and swollen. “I was young and proud, in those days, intent on having my own company, on proving myself. I saw no profit in you, and that was unfair.” She looked squarely at him. “I do not apologize often, Jandelir Arcolin, but this is an apology. I do not think I could have loved you then, even had I stopped to consider what manner of young man you were, but I should have done you that courtesy at least. And later, when I realized it, I should have said so then.”
Arcolin could not speak for a moment; all the old longing swept over him once more, then departed. He had loved her; she had loved—or thought she loved—Kieri Phelan; Kieri had loved only Tammarion, and Tammarion had died. If any bard had known all this, it would have made a ballad, but no one did, no one but the people involved. He cleared his throat. “I did love you, Aesil, and admired you as well, and it was years before I gave up the hope that perhaps, someday … but you need not apologize, except to ease your own heart.”
“And so it is,” she said, sitting back and folding her hands on the table. “You are the man I thought you were, once I saw past my own ambition and my own losses. Friends?”
“Always,” Arcolin said. “Unless, of course, we’re hired by enemies, but even then—”
“We have the Code, and we are content, are we not?”
“We are content,” Arcolin said.
22
Next day, when Arcolin was coming back from another visit to the banker, he saw ahead of him a gaunt man in dirty, thread bare clothes with a rag tied around his head approaching the inn door. The door ward blocked him.
“Show me your money, or go your way.” The door ward sounded both bored and hostile.
“I need to see Captain Arcolin.”
“Not likely, beggar—he’s no time for the likes of you—” The door ward flourished his billet. The man’s shoulders drooped; he turned away from the door, and Arcolin could see that the rag on his head covered his left eye.
“Wait—” Arcolin came closer and signaled the door ward to move back. “Aren’t you Arneson, captain in the Blues? M’dierra told me you might come to see me.”
“Yes,” the man said. “I’m Arneson. No longer captain; they said after this—” He raised a hand to his face. “I was no use to them.” The wound that had taken his eye had pulled his face awry as well; Arcolin recognized the damage done most often by a curved blade.
“I’m hiring captains to go north,” Arcolin said. “Northern Tsaia, north of the Honnorgat—”
“Where Phelan came from—is he still Duke, or is the rumor true, that he’s gone to be king somewhere?”
“Lyonya; he’s king of Lyonya now. I’m taking over his domain and Company, with his blessing. I have a one-cohort contract with Cortes Vonja. But come in—it’s time for lunch. Eat with me; we’ll talk and see if you want the job.”
“I’ll take any job,” Arneson said, squaring his shoulders. “If you think I can be of use. And if you don’t—better we talk before we eat. I’m not taking a meal from you, if—”
“Well, then, if you insist—how many years were you with the Blues?”
“Nine fighting seasons. I was at Cha in Siniava’s War.”
“You were on our right flank, if I remember—”
“No, on your left.”
“So you were.” Arcolin realized he had already gone past the warped face, the missing eye, to liking the man, wanting him to qualify. “Your company was mostly swordsmen, like ours—did you ever command polearms?”