Limits of Power (67 page)

Their meeting with the king lasted only two turns of the glass, as he approved moving supplies to the south and east, north of the river.

“We have the winter, at least, to prepare,” Dorrin said. “If Alured—Vaskronin—comes by land, he cannot get an army over the pass before winter closes it, magery or no.”

“Could he melt the snows with it?” the king asked.

“Not over such a space,” Dorrin said.

“And he will face resistance from the Aldonfulk gnomes,” Arcolin said.

“And by sea?”

“If the northern gales have begun, they would never make it around the Eastbight.”

“Then, Duke Verrakai, you and Duke Arcolin organize supplies in those locations; I will give orders for the Royal Guard to assist as needed.”

T
his year, unlike the last, Arcolin felt perfectly at ease meeting women he might want to marry. None awoke the fire he remembered from his youth and Aesil M'dierra, but Aesil was past childbearing now, even if his passion had not finally worn out. He could not expect to feel the same, he told himself. He must be sensible and look for the qualities his wife would need.

Some seemed too young, too inexperienced, to leave as mistress of a remote domain full of soldiers. Duke Gerstad Elorran's niece, though clearly a strong-minded woman who could manage a kingdom, made it clear she preferred a city life and was happy running her former husband's business. “I grew up in a duke's household,” she said. “My mother was Uncle Gerstad's sister and ran his household as he never married. And I mean no insult to you, my lord, but it is not the life I would lead.”

Kieri's banker in Vérella, a man he had known for years, brought up marriage as well. “I'm sure you've considered breeding an heir,” Ser Onagan said. “And I'm sure some prestigious doors are open.”

“So they are,” Arcolin said. “But beyond an heir I need a woman of sufficient maturity and strength of character—”

“Not likely among the dukes,” Onagan said. “With all respect, my lord, you were not born a duke—have you considered a lady not of the peerage? A woman of good family and character, of substance, of course…”

“Indeed I have, but I know scarcely any,” Arcolin said.

Onagan gave him a shrewd look. “You are a man of loyalty, my lord, and so your former commander said when he told me he trusted you with funds and missions of importance. Perhaps you loved unwisely in your youth?”

“Perhaps I did,” Arcolin said. “The lady returned no favor, and over the years I thought of no one else—until it seemed too late and I had no need of heirs, having no estate.”

Onagan nodded. “And now you do. So … I am senior in my guild; I know every guild's master in the city save the Thieves' Guild—they have some ruffian again in place of that thief the Marshal-General favored. I knew
that
wouldn't last long. Anyway—with your permission, I might let it be known that you plan to wed.”

“My time is limited here,” Arcolin said. “I need to see to my domain, and sooner rather than later.”

“Haste today makes tears tomorrow,” Onagan said. “True in marriages as in trade. Take enough time, my lord; I don't doubt your seed still sprouts.”

Arcolin laughed. “You are ever wise, Master Onagan. Of your courtesy, inquire if you will, and meanwhile I will continue to meet the ladies the gentlemen at court wish introduced.”

Over the next two hands of days, Arcolin met still more women recommended to him. Besides the young and inexperienced, this one was a vicious gossip, that one presented a list of her luxurious requirements, yet another—though smiling with him—he overheard sneer at his age behind his back. Rahel, from near Marrakai's domain, had a pleasant voice and sweet temperament but proved to have no head at all for numbers, and he wanted a wife who could at least keep simple accounts. Liris was simply too stupid; Marda was afraid of gnomes and shuddered at the thought of meeting them; tiny Virian, scarcely sixteen winters, could surely not bear a child safely any time soon. Calla, a wealthy merchant's daughter and a widow with a young child, appealed more: she also had a pleasant voice and keen intelligence, but she seemed quietly content as she was, living with her parents in their large house. Would she really be willing to leave that comfort for the north? Would any of them?

Finally, one crisp autumn day, the king invited a crowd to picnic on Mahieran lands, including the women Arcolin mentioned as still under consideration. Arcolin rode beside Dorrin, behind the other dukes, as they left the city.

“How's the wife hunt going?” she asked.

“Not well. Either I am too critical or they are.”

“Mmm. Well, I can make no suggestion. Though as I told Beclan, Lyonya has many pretty girls.”

“I don't want a girl,” Arcolin said. “But surely there's some woman in this realm who is mature enough to be a true helpmate and young enough to bear.”

“You could adopt an heir, if you found a widow with a likely child.”

“How do you feel about Beclan as
your
heir?”

“He's going to make a good duke someday,” Dorrin said. “But of course, he grew up in a ducal household far healthier than mine was.”

“I would still rather sire one,” Arcolin said. “But if I don't live to see one grown—”

“You're not that old,” Dorrin said.

“Old enough to feel it on cold mornings,” Arcolin said. “And your idea of adoption may be sensible. If I can find the right woman.”

“Jandelir … are you truly over M'dierra?”

He felt heat rise to his face. “You knew?”

“Of course,” she said. She did not say what he could see in her gaze, that Kieri and the other captains had known as well.

And probably, he thought gloomily, half the Company. Too late now to be embarrassed. “Then yes, I am. I am not comparing these women to her, if that's what you were thinking.”

“Not that—you're too fair a man for that—but just the existence of someone else might keep you from seeing what's before you. The real difficulty, as you say, is finding someone with the skills you feel your wife needs and someone young and healthy enough to bear you children. Have you then considered—instead of adoption of a widow's child—hiring a more experienced steward? Who's your second up there now?”

He told her about Captain Arneson. “But he's recruit captain; he can't spend all his time on the domain.”

“So you need a proper seneschal, not just a steward. It's changed since Kieri began it. Ask your banker or man of business. Then if your joy lands on a younger, less experienced wife, your land will not suffer for it. Look for your joy, Jandelir, not merely your business—and for hers, as well.”

His heart lifted, and he looked at the women that day differently, less analytically. He still wanted nothing to do with the gossipy, the coldhearted, or the greedy, but both Rahel, with her numerical confusion, and Calla, with her child and comfortable home here, slid into his mind. Both were warmhearted young women slightly beyond first youth. Both had lost a first love—Rahel's betrothed and Calla's young husband, both to fever. Both seemed comfortable not only with him but with other men. Both had brothers who were soldiers. Rahel's older brother had once squired Duke Phelan, and Calla's older brother was in the Royal Guard.

His helpful sponsors, the other dukes, made it possible for him to have some time alone with each of those.

“Are you truly courting me?” Rahel asked, when he sat down near her. She was turning the heel of a small sock; she'd told him before she was knitting for her older sister's coming child.

The bold question startled him; she had seemed shy before. “I am seeking a wife, yes. Are you seeking a husband?”

She blushed. “I still wish to marry and have children, lord Duke, but … I am not pursuing you.”

“You are not?” He was surprised to find himself disappointed.

“You must know,” she said, “that I find you comfortable and not as … as frightening as I thought you would be when my father spoke of you and … and the possibility. But he said it must be your choice, and I should not … do … anything.” She put down her knitting and plucked at a leaf that had fallen on her skirt, tearing off small pieces.

“Rahel, I am seeking a wife, but a wife who wants to be
my
wife, not just
a
wife. It is not about what your father wants, but what you want. If you have another in mind—”

The red on her cheeks deepened.

“You do, don't you?”

“It is impossible,” she said, more softly yet. “And I would be a good wife to you, lord Duke, truly. I keep my promises.”

“You must keep them to yourself, as well,” Arcolin said, thinking of Aesil, but without pain. “Rahel, your happiness is in your hands. I do not ask—”

“It has been three years and more since Davor died,” she said. “And I did love him. But last spring—my lord, he is not suitable; my father will never consent—and I know I can forget him, if you…”

“Did you ask your father?”

She nodded, fingers pleating her skirt. “He said he had better in mind for me.”

“In the law, you cannot be forced to marry,” Arcolin said. “Gird protects you from that.” He sighed and arched his back, easing it. “Rahel, you are beautiful, and all your conversation has been pleasant; you seem kind and gentle as well as capable.”

“Except with accounts.” Her voice sounded choked; he realized she was near tears.

Arcolin shook his head. “Dealing well with numbers is one thing, but that skill can be hired. Dealing well with people counts more in a family, and that cannot be hired. Do not cry; people will talk. We had a trick in the Company: pinch your lip beneath your nose, hard.”

She stared at him, eyes swimming with tears. “Pinch?”

“Do it.”

She did.

“Now listen carefully. You are a young woman of quality. Unless you chose out of grief some rogue who will mistreat you, your father will eventually agree that an honest man who cares for you and you for him is a better match than a noble—even a duke—who chooses you as he might choose a horse, on the basis of marketable qualities.” He let his voice carry humor into the last of that. She gave him a trembling smile. “I will tell your father, Rahel, that although you are a remarkable young woman, I am just not able to envision you as my wife. And that I have told you so, and that you are naturally sad … but only one or two tears, my dear, or he will wonder too much. How about your lady mother?”

“She—she said Tamis was good enough.”

“Then surely your father will come to the same opinion when ambition fades. For him, it is all my decision—and think, Rahel—he told you not to do anything. He knew I might not choose you, and then you would be free.”

Her eyes widened as she thought about that. “Then—”

“Then wait here until I have spoken to your father, and go to him. You will make your Tamis a good wife.” Arcolin stood up, gave her a formal bow, and went to find her father.

The man was not far off, of course, trying to pretend he had not been watching. “I come with less than joyous tidings, my lord,” Arcolin said to him. “Your daughter is remarkable—a good heart, graciousness, gentle in every way—but for all that, as she is young and in many ways innocent, I find myself … well, to be frank, I cannot wed her. It was no lack in her but in myself—my years as a mercenary, in fact. She deserves a gentler man.”

“I see.” A keen look out of the man's dark eyes. “She did not beg you not to choose her?”

“No. She told me frankly she found me less frightening than she'd expected. I realized then that to gently bred young women, a man my age, with my experience,
would
be frightening. Yes, I have been at court; I am not the swaggering lout that some people think soldiers are, but the fact is, I spent four hands of years and more as a hired killer. And that is still my occupation; I am just back from another season of it. My stronghold in the north is full of similar men; my vills are populated largely with retired soldiers, men and women both. A better wife for me—a better duke's wife for my people—will be someone less sheltered than your daughter or others like her.”

The man nodded. “I understand, my lord Duke. But I had understood you did not plan to marry a soldier, as Duke Phelan did.”

“No—his and Tammarion's was a rare match; I cannot wait, at my age, for such a thing to happen to me.” He sighed and looked Rahel's father in the eye. “I hope you will believe me, my lord, that this is not an insult to your daughter or your house, but—I truly believe—the course of wisdom.”

“I am not insulted,” the man said. “Will you then propose to the widow?”

“I will talk again with her, make plain the situation she would have with all those soldiers around her, and if she declares herself confident, then yes: I will. She is older; she worked in trade with her husband—”