The Price Of Command

She sat down on her bed, pulled off her boots, and looked out of her window as a cool breeze stirred her hair. The fortress was quiet—the recruits and veterans alike were kept too busy by training and the fair to carouse much in the barracks after the sun went down. Besides, why carry on at home, when there were both the old familiar haunts of the town and the new amusements of the fair to tempt you out of the gates each night?

Lights burned out beyond the walls and the sounds of music and voices drifted toward the barracks on the breeze; both the town and the fair kept late hours. She found herself wondering where on the road those Valdemar men were tonight. They had been in such a hurry that they hadn’t even looked at the fair.

And that made her think, think ahead. Tarma had taught her to think in terms of the greater picture as well as her own little part of it. You never knew when something happening hundreds of leagues away would affect you. If I were a Queen looking to strengthen my forces, what would I do? Assuming that I have a stupid prejudice against hiring mercs.

For a moment, as she stared out at the lights of the fair, and the colored shapes of the tents lit up from within, like fire-flowers, she thought she heard Eldan’s voice, faint and far off, protesting, “That’s not fair!”

She ignored that imagined voice. You’re not real, and you aren’t here, and anyway, you aren’t interested in me anymore, she thought sternly, to exorcise the persistent ghost.

There were no more outbursts from her overheated imagination.

Well, as far as she, a strategist, was concerned, it was a stupid prejudice. Merc Companies had, more than once, won wars. People who refused to hire them had, more than once, lost those wars.

The young and idealistic fight for medals and honor, she thought cynically. The experienced and worldly-wise fight for money. You see a lot more retired mercs than old farmers with a chest full of medals. That was, after all, the goal of a successful merc; to live long enough and collect enough to retire, usually on one’s own land. Many mercs came out of multichild families without a chance for land of their own, and this was their only way to earn it.

But that was a digression. If Kero were this Queen, what would she do?

Conscript those private troops the Guardsman talked about. Get them equipped with the best. While they’re in place, start calling up volunteers, and if you can’t get enough volunteers, start conscription. Rush those troops through training. And start calling in any debts my allies owe me.

She had a mental map of everything as far north as the mountains above Valdemar, and as far south as the Bitter Sea; west to the Pelagirs and the Plains, east to the High Kingdom of Brendan. And the only allies she could think of that Valdemar might possibly have in this conflict would be Iftel and Rethwellan.

Iftel would be logical, but—dear gods, they are strange there. The Shin’a‘in Warrior doesn’t intervene half as often as the Wind Lords. I can’t see Iftel mixing up in this unless they’re threatened. Which leaves Rethwellan. Now, Karse is between Rethwellan and Hardorn, but they might be able to persuade King Faramentha that Hardorn could threaten Rethwellan if they overran southern Valdemar. Which means the next logical step will be for the Queen to send an envoy to the Rethwellan Court.

The fair really interested her very little, these days. Most of her entertainment came from acting as her cousins’ agent. She used to help train the new recruits, but that was back in the days when they were shorthanded. There were others that were better trainers, and she knew when to get the hell out of the way. Basically, all she did in winter quarters, was keep herself in training, study strategy, keep the books straight, get familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of the recruits, study the political situation with an eye to oifers in the spring, and carve her little gemstones. Of all of them, Scratcher could keep the books by himself, the new recruits wouldn’t be showing anything distinct for another couple of months, the gemstones could wait—and the rest could be done elsewhere.

Furthermore, right now, living here at the Fortress was—painful. She kept looking for faces that wouldn’t be here anymore. It happened every year, certainly, and it took her a couple of months to get over it—but they’d never made it home this early before, and she kept seeing the backs of head that looked familiar—until the owner turned, and it was a new recruit. It would be a relief to get away until the pain faded with time, the pain that always came when she sent someone out who didn’t come back again.

It will be a relief to sleep in a strange bed. Maybe the dreams won’t find me there.

And yet, part of her wanted them so badly—

No.

Before she realized it, she’d made up her mind to leave. And that trip to Rethwellan seemed a bit more important than it had before.

Lord Baron Dudlyn had plainly just begun his diatribe. Daren jabbed his heel into the side of his hunter, making the gelding jump and dance in surprise, and giving him an excuse to concentrate on the horse.