The Price Of Command

These farmer-folk and tradesmen, crafters and herders, were ordinary people. They’d heard all the old tales, and nothing they heard gave them any confidence that they could do anything to protect themselves. The power of a mage seemed enormous and unstoppable, like a thunderstorm. To be told, by those who had faced them and won, that mages were just another kind of fighter, with weapons that determination could counter, gave the common people courage they hadn’t had before, and a new trust in these foreign soldiers.

All of which was all to the good, so far as Kero was concerned. A friendly civilian populace is the best ally a merc can have; that was one of Tarma’s maxims—and Ardana had certainly proved what kind of enemy an unfriendly civilian populace could become, down in Seejay. The Skybolts knew the maxim, and the drill, and even here, where half of them didn’t even know the language well enough to ask for the jakes, they were leaving allies on the road behind them.

This kind of behavior was so ingrained in Kero and her troops that when Heralds Talia and Dirk rode in, about a week out of Haven, Kero was more than a little surprised by the broad grin of approval the latter sported.

They arrived just after camp had been set up, and Kero was huddling over her brazier. The wind was particularly bitter, and seemed to find every weak point in the tent; the walls alternately flapped and belled, and Kero was hoping to get her cold bones into her bed where she at least had a chance of getting them warm. She’d been expecting the arrival of an escort at any point, so when a runner brought her word of the Heralds’ arrival, she grumbled a little, threw a little more charcoal on the brazier, kicked loose belongings under the cot, and went back to trying to soak up a bit more heat until her orderly brought them to the tent, both of them muffled up in thick white cloaks, like walking snowdrifts.

But when they entered and Kero invited them to join her in hot tea, Dirk’s open friendliness came as something of a shock. Back in Rethwellan both the Heralds had been close-mouthed, but Dirk had been practically mute, with an overtone of suspicion. Now he acted like she was a long-lost cousin, his homely face made handsome by his genuine smile.

Now what on earth caused that? she wondered. They made some small talk, and as soon as the tea arrived, Kero asked, cautiously, “So, now that we’re within a week of Haven, how do your Queen and her Lord Marshal feel about our arrival? Is there anything we should expect?”

Dirk laughed, and shook his head. “If you’re expecting a cool reception, you aren’t going to get it, Captain. You and your Skybolts have handled yourselves exceptionally well on the march up; she’s very pleased with your diplomacy and restraint and—”

“Diplomacy?” Kero said, too annoyed to be polite. “Restraint? What did she think we were going to do, ride down little children, rape the sheep, and wreck the taverns?”

“Well—” Dirk looked embarrassed.

That’s exactly what they expected. Which we knew, really. “Herald, we are professionals,” she said tiredly. “We fight for a living. This does not make us animals. In fact, on the whole, I think you’ll find that my troopers, male and female, are less likely to cause trouble in a town than your average lot of spoiled-rotten highborn brats.”

Dirk flushed, a deep crimson. “All we have to go on are stories—”

“Yes, well, you should hear some of the stories down south about Shin’a’in in warsteeds, or Heralds. The latter are demons and the former are basically ugly Companions,” she said, mustering up a frank smile. “Now, one man’s demon is another man’s angel, and since the lads calling you lot ‘demonic’ were thieves and scum that would rather do anything than work, I’ll withhold my judgment on that. But I ride a warsteed, and while she’s a very intelligent beast, specially bred for what she does, she’s nothing like a Companion. So—”

“So we shouldn’t have been so quick to give credence to stories,” Talia chuckled, bending a little closer to the fire. “A well-deserved rebuke. But I have to tell you, Captain, that I think we were rightfully surprised at the way you’ve made friends for yourselves coming up the road. We were expecting to have to do a lot of calming of nerves on your behalf; our people aren’t used to the concept of mercenaries, and what they know about them is mostly bad. But you’ve done all our work for us.”

Kero shrugged, secretly pleased, and put another scoop of charcoal on the fire. “Well, one of my Clanmother’s Shin’a’in sayings is, ‘A slighted friend is more dangerous than an enemy.’ We try to operate by that in friendly territory, and really, it isn’t that hard unless the people really have a bad attitude toward mercs in general. In fact, there was only one problem I had—and it seems to be in the family tradition—”

“Oh?” Dirk said, he and Talia both looking puzzled.

She sighed. “All their lives, my grandmother and her she’enedra were plagued by the songs of a particular minstrel. The things he told about them were half-true at best, and led to all kinds of problems about what people expected from them. Well, when I was young and foolish and very full of—myself— someone wrote a song about me. It’s called ‘Kerowyn’s Ride,’ and to my utter disgust, it seems to have penetrated language barriers.”

Dirk looked as if he was having a hard time keeping from laughing. So did Talia. “I know the song,” the woman said, her face full of mirth. “In fact, I’ve sung it.”

“I was afraid of that. Do I dare hope no one in your Court knows it’s about me?”