“Captain!” That was Burek. “There’s a messenger from the Council; they bid you to the city.”
The Marshal laughed. “So much for supper,” he said. “No, do not apologize. Shall we ride up together?”
In the long summer evening, they rode back to the city, Arcolin’s escort behind them. The guards at the gate passed them through without question. “Where is the Field of Falk?” Arcolin asked. “Or is there more than one?”
“Only one; we outnumber them, with three granges. In the northeast quadrant, a little north of the east gates. My grange, should you wish to visit another time, is in the smiths’ street, near the main market.”
“I will do so,” Arcolin said, “though I planned to march south in the morning; I will be back later. And here—I must make offering—” He reached into his belt pouch.
The Marshal held up a hand. “No, Captain. Not now. We worked together to defeat an evil; we did not exchange blows. Your contribution will be gratefully received another time, but not now.”
“You certainly gave enough blows,” Arcolin said. “That work—”
“Is well repaid by seeing good metal lose its evil taint. No, I know what Gird requires, and this day Gird requires no offering from you. Another time, I am sure he will.” The Marshal grinned, touched his riding whip to his head and reined his horse down a side street before Arcolin could say more.
The Council had gathered in the Council chamber; Arcolin recognized most of them from years past. Another boon he owed Kieri, for Kieri had ensured that his captains—especially the senior captains—met senior officials wherever they had a contract.
“My pardon, sirs, for appearing in such disarray,” Arcolin said. “We had a situation that demanded my attention all afternoon.”
“And a Marshal’s attendance, we understand,” one of them said.
“Indeed so. Some of those swords we captured were spelled, with evil intent. Fortunately, my armorer noticed before putting them to the flame. Marshal Harak said that had he done so, a magical fire would have burned up the forge and killed many.”
“Now?”
“Now, thanks to Marshal Harak, that evil is gone; those blades have been destroyed, and the metal is safe to trade, he says. But it took us some turns of the glass. I am in no fit state to dine with you gentlemen, so if that was the reason for your summons—”
“In part,” another Councilor said. “And I for one will excuse you from that, if the others will.” He wrinkled his nose slightly.
“I would as soon dine with a mercenary fresh from battle as with someone too dainty to stand the smell of honest sweat,” said another Councilor angrily. He was a big burly man, probably, Arcolin thought, from one of the construction guilds.
“Gentlesirs,” the chairman said, tapping a crystal bell with a little rod. “You will not quarrel here, surely. Captain, my pardon for our behavior. If you wish to dine here, and would prefer more formal attire, I am sure that among us we have both bathing facilities and suitable clothes. If on the other hand you prefer to return to your company, that is both understandable and acceptable to me—and I assume to all.” He glared around the table; no one spoke. “Now, Captain, there are a few other matters of which we must speak. One is that fellow Kory. You say that you personally had not seen the man who received the Duke’s punishment, but that one of your company had—by any chance, is that person one of your escort?”
“Yes,” Arcolin said.
“The man insists he was never north of the Dwarfmounts. He does bear marked scars on his back, however, and it’s clear the scars on his face come from multiple injuries. Yet we would not condemn him unless it can be proved. We would speak with that person who might have another way to recognize him.”
Arcolin stepped to the door of the chamber. “Sergeant Stammel—”
Stammel came into the room, calm as ever.
“The Council wants to know what you know of the guard we captured, Kory … you think he’s really someone who was our recruit years ago.”
“Yes, sir. Korryn, he called himself then. I signed him up myself, and wish I hadn’t. Good swordsman, already an expert, tall and strong, a bit arrogant as young men are who learn early to handle a sword. Told me he was a duke’s son’s bastard and would’ve been acknowledged but that his mother angered the duke, who turned her away, with her son. That’s how he got his first training, he said. Had been earning his keep as a door ward but wanted a real career.”
“Did he say which duke?” Arcolin asked.
“No, Captain. He wouldn’t say; said he’d promised not to. I liked that. Seemed to show a sense of honor. I was wrong about that. He was a complainer and quarrelsome. Sometimes we can train that out of them, as you know, sir, but this time we didn’t. He was always bothering the women, wanting to bed them.”
“Are you sure you recognize him? What makes you think it’s the same man?”
“It’s not just his size and hair—not even just the scar. He had a distinctive way of moving—especially when fighting, but even just walking or running. He gestured with his hand, something like this—” Stammel demonstrated. “—when he talked, especially when he joked about something. He had a way of sweeping his hair back with his left hand—” Stammel demonstrated again. “Aside from that, when we shaved him—for Captain Sejek had decreed he be tinisi turin, I remember a birthmark on his groin, left side I think. Small, dark. But what about whip scars—were they found?”
“Indeed,” the chief Councilor said. “But he claimed he always scarred dark, and we do not know what the dye you used would look like after so many years.”
“I gave him the last five lashes myself,” Stammel said. “And I know exactly where I placed them.”
Some of the Councilors shifted back in their chairs, Arcolin noticed. Stammel was not a large man, but every fingerbreadth a veteran soldier: hard-bodied, steady, with strength beyond the obvious muscles.
“Do you whip soldiers often in your company?” one of the Councilors asked.
“No, sir,” Stammel said, answering before Arcolin could. “Recruits we mostly clout if they need it. Soldiers get their pay cut, and maybe a few lashes if they do something really bad. But what this Korryn did—plotting to get another recruit in trouble, putting some kind of poison in a corporal’s drink, beating a fellow-recruit who’d refused to sleep with him and then lying about her—saying she’d attacked the corporal—that was bad enough for a whipping. Then he fought, tried to kill one of the village council. Bad enough to kill him outright, if he’d been a regular, but as he was a recruit he got off light.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” murmured one of them.
“Don’t it, sir?” Stammel asked, head cocked a little. “He nearly ruined one of the best recruits we ever had—nearly got her condemned to the same punishment—and then Stephi, a corporal—got him in trouble, too. Stephi was so ashamed of what he’d done that he got careless, thinking of it, and was killed next campaign year. If it’d been my choice, I’d have killed him then and there. But Captain Sejek, he wanted an example made.”
Arcolin didn’t interrupt, but when Stammel finished, he said, “The recruit the sergeant speaks of is now a paladin of Gird. She fought three campaign seasons with us, including the last of Siniava’s War. If she had been killed, I myself would have died in the north, along with the Duke who is now king—she, as a paladin, saved us, and she is the reason Kieri is now a king.”
“That may be, but we must be certain.”
“Of course,” Arcolin said, with difficulty keeping the edge of scorn from his voice. He was convinced now, by Stammel’s explanations, but some people were never satisfied by facts they had not themselves discovered.
In the end, Stammel and Arcolin followed two Councilors and several clerks to the city’s prison. There, in the lamplit governor’s office, Kory was brought before them. He looked the worse for wear, with fresh scrapes and bruises and one sleeve ripped to the shoulder; his hair had been tied back close to his head, so his scar was clearly visible. In daylight it had been just a mass of pale scar tissue, shiny. But in the lamplight, as he ducked his head, the shadows suddenly showed the shape of the brand under it all, the fox head.