Sheepfarmer's Dauther

wounded. Once they were in place, it was quiet but for the rustling leaves overhead. Paks looked at the broad back of the Halveric nearest her. He looked strong, but she still wanted her own sword.

Her first sight of Alured the Black came as the Duke and the other captains escorted him along the column, introducing him to the troops. He looked nothing like the pirate or brigand she had pictured in her mind. He had long black hair in a braid, and a black beard; his face was darkly tanned. Strong bones, strong arched eyebrows, snapping black eyes. He sat his black horse easily, his broad shoulders square and erect, his hands quiet on the reins. As he and the others rode on down the column, she saw that his glossy black braid was bound with green leather and decorated with several bright-colored feathers. Paks thought this looked a little silly, but his longbow and sword were workmanlike enough.

They spent almost four days crossing the forest, camping each night in clearings Alured designated, and closely watched by his men. These wore mottled, drab clothing well-suited for forest work, with a badge on the left breast: a gray tower on a green field. Paks wondered what it meant. Alured’s men provided fresh meat each night: rabbits and other small game, for they would not hunt the red deer in spring.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, they reached the forest edge. On their left, the land dropped steeply to a river they could see but not hear—the eastern branch of the Chaloquay. Ahead were the pastures and fields of Cilwan—three days ahead was Cortes Cilwan, the city. Scattered groves and patches of forest extended some distance from Alured’s domain; they marched to one of these before camping for the night. Paks thought of the band of men she had seen watching the column as it left the forest. She wished she knew what they were thinking.

By this time Jenits’s arm was out of splints; he carried a shield as he marched to strengthen it. Paks had been cleared to return to her cohort. The lump on her head was much smaller, and her hand healed with little scarring. She had to rub and stretch the scars with oil every day, and wear a glove all the time, but she had a sword at her side again.

Cilwan was much lusher country than Andressat or the South Marches. Never a stone showed in the dark soil; flowers edged the garden plots on the farms they passed. Most buildings were well-kept, shutters and doors brightly painted. But the people shunned them, hiding in the fields until the column had passed.

Near noon a day or so later, they passed through a small village. Paks was shocked to see the Pliuni troops in front of her slip from the column to enter houses, emerging with arms full of food and clothing. Hooves pounded up from behind. Arcolin yelled at the Pliunis. They shambled to a halt. Paks could see the resentment in their hunched shoulders as Arcolin argued with their captain. A loose shutter creaked in the breeze.

“No raiding!” Arcolin was still shouting. “These aren’t enemies—we aren’t robbers; we’re soldiers. You have enough food. You don’t need to do this.”

The Pliuni captain had pale red hair; his skin flushed to the same color. “This is silly. Siniava robbed us often enough—these are only peasants—”

“They aren’t even Siniava’s peasants! No. No raiding. You wanted to come with the Duke, and you agreed to obey him—”

“The Duke, yes,” growled the Pliuni captain. “Not a bunch of damned nursemaids!” Paks heard a mutter of agreement from the Pliuni troops near her. Her hand slipped toward her sword; she saw Arcolin’s hand move toward his. The Pliunis seemed to draw together. Paks looked for the sergeants. They both nodded slightly as they moved, one on either side of the column, to the head of the cohort. From the rear came another clatter of hooves. Pont and Dorrin rode up beside Arcolin.

“Problems?” asked Dorrin.

“They were raiding,” said Arcolin, with a nod toward the Pliunis.

The Pliuni captain’s face was now beet-red. “And we will raid, Duke’s man, when I say so. Your Duke isn’t paying us anything for our help, after all.” Again a mutter of agreement from the Pliuni troops. Dorrin frowned.

“If you march with us, you follow our rules,” said Arcolin.

“Not yours,” sneered the Pliuni. “Your Duke’s maybe—if it suits us.”

Arcolin was white with rage. Dorrin spoke before he could say anything. “Are you not aware of the Duke’s policy on raiding?”

The captain glowered at her. “Oh, he says there’s to be none—and that keeps the peasants quiet—but of course he knows we must do some.”

“Perhaps you’d like to hear the Duke’s opinion in person?” Arcolin’s voice was cold.

“Perhaps I’d like you to mind your own business!” The Pliuni captain glanced back at his men. “You think you’re so special, Captain—just because you mercenaries fight for money instead of honor—” At the word, Arcolin’s hand signal passed to the sergeants. Every blade in the cohort slipped from its sheath. Paks saw the Pliuni captain’s eyes slide sideways to see what had happened. Arcolin’s eyes never moved.

“Captain Pont, ask the Duke to attend us, please,” said Arcolin. Pont nodded, and legged his horse to a hard gallop toward the front of the column. Paks grinned as she saw the Pliuni captain’s shoulders twitch. Men in the rear Pliuni ranks glanced back at Arcolin’s cohort, paling as they saw the naked blades. Their own hands twitched; those who had taken bundles from the houses dropped them.

“You can’t attack us,” began the Pliuni captain. “We’re your allies. You shouldn’t draw sword against us —”

“Against you?” asked Dorrin. “The captain has not moved his troops an inch—are you afraid to see swords inspected?”

“Inspected! It’s not—he was—”

“You,” said Arcolin firmly, “were insulting us. I saw a dozen hands on sword among your troops. So I thought we’d best be sure ours were clean—ready for any—difficulty.” He looked at Stammel. “They are, aren’t they?”

Stammel grinned broadly. “Certainly, Captain. Any time.”

The Pliuni captain turned even paler. “It’s—it’s treason—a trap—you’re looking for some excuse to kill us all.” His men shifted in their ranks, murmuring.

“Tir’s gut, Captain, if we’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now. Don’t be ridiculous.” Dorrin’s scornful voice caught all their attention. “We—and you, I hope—want to kill the Honeycat. That’s why we’re here. That’s why you asked to march with us. Isn’t that right—that you hate Siniava?”

“Yes.” Most of the Pliuni troops were looking at her now.

“Then concentrate on that, and not on making trouble. Plunder Siniava’s camp, not some poor peasants who hardly have a spare tunic.”

The Pliuni captain was still disgruntled, and looked ready to argue, but they heard the beat of many galloping hooves. Duke Phelan, Aliam Halveric, Captain Pont, and the senior Halveric captain halted beside Arcolin and Dorrin.

“Do I understand, Captain, that you have a problem?” Duke Phelan was angry, his voice icy. The Pliuni captain looked around but found no support.

“My lord Duke, we—we were but—”

“Plundering,” said the Duke. “Stealing. And from peasants we hope are still loyal to their count, who is our ally.”

“No one’s paying us,” said the Pliuni, unwisely. “We have to have something —”

“No one’s paying me, either,” said the Duke. “I have no contract to defeat Siniava, only the vow I made to our dead. If you want plunder, Captain, you can wait until you take it from Siniava—or you can march alone. I won’t have thieves under my protection.” The captain flushed again, but the Duke went on before he could speak. “Either you control your men, and obey my commands as given through my captains, or you march away, right now, and stay clear. And if you leave, you’d best not use my name, or that of my allies: we’ll consider you as any other band of brigands. Is that clear?”

The man turned to the Halverics, but both of them gave him a tight-lipped stare that promised no softening of the Duke’s position. His shoulders sagged.

“Yes—it’s clear.”

“Well, then?”

“Well—” He looked around at his men. “We’ll march with you.”

“And obey? That means at once, without question.”

“Yes—my lord.”