Feel the bind, Yorrin reminded himself. There, that’s it. That’s got to be it.
He stood on the deck of the Iron Lance, squared off against Conrad. His left hand held his dagger close to his chest, ready to interpose defensively. His right arm was partially extended, the long steel blade oriented towards Conrad’s face.
Conrad held his own sword out in what Yorrin could now identify as a fairly standard guard position. The edge of Yorrin’s Cutter—Amante is Olivenco’s name for it, not mine—was just barely brushing against the edge of Conrad’s blade. Even with that minimal contact, Yorrin thought perhaps he could feel something. A slight tension, faint pressure against his sword. The bind Olivenco kept spouting on about.
Yorrin thought he had experienced it before. Certainly in any sort of sword-fight, including the ones he’d seen Aleksandr engaged in, there were often moments when the blades made substantial contact. Normally the man with greater skill or longer reach or more strength of arms—or all three, as is usually the case for Aleksandr—could simply lever his blade past the other and strike a blow.
With the limited experience Yorrin had, he had never sought out such situations. He was not adept at overpowering his foes, even with leverage. Better to hang back, avoid his enemy entirely, and strike when they overextended or left themselves open. The bind had always been something Yorrin avoided.
But Olivenco meant something different by the word. Or, if not wholly different, then something more. And so Yorrin made contact with Conrad’s blade—the lightest touch, no need to push and give him the chance to lever past me—and he simply held his position.
“What do I do now?” Conrad asked. “Isn’t he supposed to practice something?”
“You are asking me?” Olivenco said with a chuckle. “I am not the one fighting, Conrad. Duel! Defeat him!”
“But he’s just staring at me,” Conrad said uneasily, not breaking eye contact with Yorrin.
Yorrin let a smile come to his lips.
“So hit him, man!” said Nathan, who stood with Olivenco and a couple of others on the sideline.
Conrad frowned, and he suddenly swung his blade in a quick chop at Yorrin.
Or at least, Yorrin knew that had been his intent. But he felt the subtle movement as Conrad’s blade first started to leave the bind. Yorrin twisted his wrist to recapture it, then thrust his own weapon past Conrad’s, all in one fluid movement. The maneuver fouled Conrad’s blow, causing his sword to scrape along the outside flat of Yorrin’s blade. He came nowhere near Yorrin, even as Yorrin’s thrust caught in the outer links of Conrad’s mail.
Yorrin pulled short the strike—iron mail was sturdy, and would likely have stopped the hit anyway, but Olivenco’s sword was true Spatalian forged steel and tapered to a narrow point. Yorrin didn’t want to pierce the mail and accidentally kill one of Steelshod’s better swordsmen.
Not better than me, though, Yorrin thought with satisfaction.
Conrad just stared at him in surprise, eyes wide. “Damn!” he muttered.
Nathan laughed at Conrad’s shock, and he and Cam both stepped forward to clap their comrade on the back.
Olivenco, meanwhile, was also laughing uproariously. He strode out to Yorrin, and grabbed him by the shoulder. “You felt it, si? I know you did!”
Yorrin nodded. “I suppose,” he said. “I could tell he was making a move, and I reacted almost before I knew what I was doing.”
Olivenco grinned, and he nodded. “Si, good. This is how a true duelist fights, Yorrin! And on the moving deck of a ship, no less! You have come a long way, mi amigo.”
Yorrin felt a swell of pride, and for a moment he almost wished Aleksandr had been watching. He swallowed down the feelings before he made a fool of himself. Aleksandr was still doing poorly, his stomach unsettled by the motion of the Iron Lance and his mood clouded by dark thoughts. Yorrin gave Olivenco a cool nod, sheathed his blades, and strode towards a far edge of the ship. He wanted some privacy, to think, and to evade the accolades of the men.
Aleksandr doesn’t get so many surprised cheers when he wins a bout, Yorrin thought. They’re congratulating me because they don’t expect me to show so much competence. It was the only logical conclusion, and it annoyed him.
He cast the doubt aside. He was learning quickly, which was all he could do. He leaned on the rail of the ship and looked out at the open ocean.
They’d left the Ironblood behind the day before, sailing past the lowered chain of Salton Cross Ferry and out into the shallow waters of the coast. They’d seen many signs along the shore of Svardic attacks, many burnt out villages, but not a single northern longship.
Guess they’ve already moved further south, Yorrin decided.
The sea stretched out to the west as far as the horizon. The sight of it still seemed to stun the folk from the deep Midlands, but it did not give Yorrin pause, of course. Nasarat rested on the shore of the Encircled Sea, and Yorrin was more than used to the sight of an endless field of water. When he and Aleksandr had been deep at sea on the Crimson Serpent the water spread in all directions, seemingly forever. He knew that this sea was more vast and trackless than that one, but standing here they looked pretty much the same.
Yorrin watched as waves swelled and broke. The sun glimmered off the water. Birds circled the skies above. One dove beneath the sea, and emerged with a wriggling fish in its beak. There was something oddly calming about it all, in a way. He’d never felt this back home, looking out at the sea. Perhaps there was something different about the vast, endless ocean?
More likely there’s something different about you, he told himself. It was true, of course. He had changed, these past months. In ways he was not entirely sure he even understood. It didn’t matter. Aleksandr is a good man. A truly good man, down to the core, not just a man that does good because that’s what God or his King say to do. Aleksandr knows what’s right. Follow him, listen to him, and maybe you’ll know too, some day.
“Yorrin.” Cleaver’s voice cut through, dragging Yorrin’s wandering mind back to the present.
Yorrin glanced over, and saw as Lord Fortinbrass’s seneschal—and spymaster—joined him in leaning against the rail. Cleaver didn’t look at him, instead staring out into the same horizon Yorrin had lost himself in.
“Need something?” Yorrin asked.
“Just a few words. Your commander is… indisposed.”
“He doesn’t handle ships too well,” Yorrin said. “He’ll get his legs soon.”
“We’ll reach Arcadia soon,” Cleaver pointed out.
Yorrin shrugged. It’s not just sea-sickness that has him keeping to himself, Yorrin knew. Aleksandr was doubtless still wracked with worry for Alaina. Nothing we can do for her right now. Nothing but fight this war and keep our eyes out for the Svards’ bastard priest.
“Anyway, I thought I could speak with you in his stead. Besides, I think perhaps you understand me a little better than he does.”
Yorrin turned to face Cleaver, shaking his head. “Aleksandr understands you just fine,” he said. “And your lord, too. If anything, he had you all pegged closer than any of us, and sooner.”
Cleaver faced him in turn, and smiled. “Ah. Of course. He is no fool, I apologize if I implied otherwise. Still, I can speak with you, no?”
“Of course,” Yorrin said, shrugging again. “Why?”
“When we arrive, I understand that you will renegotiate your contract with the Marshal?”
“That’s the plan,” Yorrin said. “He didn’t like our rates, so Aleksandr offered him a discount. A trial. To prove our worth.”
“And then you did.”
“And then we did,” Yorrin agreed. “Took Northwatch on our own, with no help from the army meant to do so. Plus everything that happened at Torva. And all without losing a man. I think Lord Marshal will see the wisdom in keeping us on Caedia’s payroll.”
“As do I,” Cleaver said.
That’s good, Yorrin thought. Because I’m pretty sure you’ll have more say in that than you want to let on.
“Once you’ve re-upped your contract,” Cleaver continued. “I predict a considerable need for men such as you: a small team of competent, independent…” Cleaver hesitated, as if searching for the right word. “Operators, to assist Caedia’s enterprises.”
“Aleksandr’s not your pawn,” Yorrin said. “And Steelshod is a company of warriors, not spies.”
Me and Prudence notwithstanding. Prudence claimed Chauncey might be a good scout—or spy—as well, if given half a chance. But Yorrin was withholding judgment until he saw the stuttering man in action.
“I’m not looking for a pawn, nor a spy, Yorrin,” Cleaver said calmly, unperturbed by the prickly response. “Just intelligent soldiers able to solve complex problems. There are a few Caedian lords that would be able to put your company to good use, I think.”
Yorrin couldn’t decipher from Cleaver’s tone whether or not he considered Marshal one such lord. He considered approaching the question from an oblique angle, the way he’d learned to speak to fellow thieves on the streets of Nasarat. Nah, he decided. Cleaver owes us, he’s sincere about that. No need to treat him like a cagey adversary.
It was a strange feeling, still. Having friends, allies you could count on. Talking to someone from a position of strength, rather than as a squirrely thief always waiting for a double-cross. But Yorrin suppressed the instinct within him that told him to be cautious, and he spoke directly.
“Who?” He asked. “Marshal?”
“Not exactly. Well, yes, but not who I meant. I had a few of Lord Fortinbrass’s neighbors in mind. Cunning men, good strategic minds. They will be invaluable in this war. Wigglesworth, likely. And Volk.”
The name Volk meant nothing to Yorrin, but he recognized Wigglesworth readily enough. “Wigglesworth?” he asked. “Him?” That was the uptight prick we met when we Marshal gave us our orders to head to Northwatch.
Cleaver nodded. “You know of him, then?”
“He was there when Marshal sent us up here,” Yorrin said, frowning. “I wasn’t impressed.”
Cleaver shrugged, clearly unconcerned by Yorrin’s approval—or lack thereof. “I expect you’ll do the jobs given anyway.”
Well, he’s got us there. Yorrin had to give a grudging nod at that.
“Wigglesworth is Duke of the Loheim. Liege to all the lords north of the Ironblood, just as Lord Fortinbrass is liege to much of the lands south of it. He has fought Svardic raiders, and especially Kriegars, since before he earned his spurs. He should know how they think better than most.”
“Fair,” Yorrin said. “That sounds useful.”
“He was also trained by one of his vassals, Lord Volk. Another northern lord. Some years older than Wigglesworth. Volk, too, knows how Kriegars think. How they fight. And he is also a seasoned strategist.”
“Seems like you’re pretty fond of these northern lords,” Yorrin commented.
Cleaver smiled. “They are our neighbors,” he said. “And they serve as a bulwark against the savage north. But—yes, you’re right. Lord Volk and Lord Wigglesworth are heirs to the finest strategic mind in Caedia. I have a great deal of respect for them.”
“Great strategic mind? Was he another lord? Shame he’s not still around.”
“Ah,” Cleaver said. “No. Not a lord. And he does still live, last I’d heard, though at his age I doubt his expertise will be of much direct use. But he has lived at Volkung for some time, and both Volk and Wigglesworth have studied under him for years.”
Yorrin nodded. Uptight prick or not, sounds like Cleaver’s right to esteem Wigglesworth. And right to think we ought to keep working with him. If he’s a strategist, he’ll see our worth, and give us proper chances to shine.
He felt a pang of surprise somewhere deep within him. The ease with which he recognized his own worth, and Steelshod’s. The thoughts came naturally, instantly: we are worth what Aleksandr thinks we are, and we can do whatever task he sets for us.
“May I ask a question?” Cleaver said, asking a question.
Yorrin just looked at him. After a beat, Cleaver chuckled.
“Fair enough,” he said. “I was just wondering. The last time you came through Torva, you told a story of your run-in with the Svardic high priest.”
“Hakon,” Yorrin said. “Giancarlo told most of the story.”
“It was true, though?” At Yorrin’s nod, Cleaver continued. “This same man, Hakon, he’s captured the Torathi priestess that was building the church in Yerevan. It seemed to me that Aleksandr was…” Cleaver hesitated, seeming to search for the right phrasing. “Well, that he took it personally.”
“Alaina is very important to him,” Yorrin said. That’s his business, and hers. Not mine and damn sure not yours, Cleaver. Get to the point.
“This means that your little company has had more experience with, and more cause to despise, the Svardic high priest than any Caedian I know of.”
“Little company,” huh? Cleaver was burning Yorrin’s goodwill awfully fast. He crossed his arms below his chest. “We probably do,” he said. “Before this war is over, we’ll find him and kill him. One way or another.”
Cleaver grinned, unfazed by Yorrin’s hostile body language. “Excellent!” he said. “Just what I wanted to hear. Whatever tasks Marshal or even Wigglesworth charge you with, I do hope you mean that. If you manage it, you have my word that Caedia will owe you a considerable debt.”
Yorrin almost let the conversation lie at that, but his curiosity got the better of him. “You can promise that, can you?” he challenged. “The seneschal of one city?”
Cleaver smiled, but this one lacked the sincerity of his previous. It was hesitant, tinged with nervousness. “We both know that I am not just that,” he said quietly.
“Mmhmm,” Yorrin said. “But just the other day you were tripping over yourself to assure me that you don’t pull Fortinbrass’s strings. So which is it?”
“You indicated then that you understood. Did I misjudge you? Do you pull your captain’s strings?”
“I’ll follow Aleksandr anywhere,” Yorrin said instantly.
Cleaver nodded. “And I feel the same about Edmund,” he said. “He rules Torva. But yes, my work as his seneschal is only part of my duties. In truth, he has little need of me anyway. He is more than capable of running his own household and organizing his own intelligence. So… he allows some of the other lords to make use of my skills, on occasion. He has done, for years now.”
Yorrin blinked. He’s not just the spymaster for Torva, he realized. It had never quite made sense, that a single trading hub, powerful though it might be, would need someone like Cleaver. And not just him, Deadman too. A single lord with not just one but two men so savvy at intelligence? Cleaver is Caedia’s spymaster, Yorrin decided. Or damn near that. He must be.
Cleaver’s smile had turned bland again. Confident.
No wonder he’s comfortable making such an offer to us. Yorrin relaxed his arms, and extended a hand. Cleaver took it and gave him a firm shake.
“I suppose we understand each other after all,” Yorrin said. “I’ll let Aleksandr know.”
Aleksandr took the information in stride. He looked a little less green than he had early in the voyage, but he still sat uneasily and kept a bucket close at hand.
“I didn’t think you’d object,” Yorrin said. “To the notion that we’ll kill Hakon.”
“No,” Aleksandr agreed. “I do not.”
“I figured we plan to hunt him down and kill him one way or another anyway,” Yorrin continued. “Cleaver offering us some sort of bonus for it is just gravy.”
Aleksandr nodded. “Da,” he said. He smiled thinly, though Yorrin wasn’t sure what had amused him. The smile vanished quickly, at any rate. Aleksandr’s face crumpled into a silent grimace.
Yorrin waited to see if Aleksandr would reach for the bucket, but he didn’t. It isn’t sea sickness.
“Aleksandr…” Yorrin said. He spoke quietly, hesitating, but Aleksandr gave him an expectant look. “Don’t lose hope. God will keep her safe, and—and we’ll find her. One way or another.”
Aleksandr didn’t smile. His face didn’t light up, or show any great sign of comfort. But he nodded once, and said “Da. Thank you, Yorrin.” And that was enough. Yorrin nodded back, and took his leave.
They sailed on. The coast turned to rocky cliffs that climbed twenty, fifty, even a hundred feet up from the water. Yorrin recalled looking out at the water from the top of those cliffs, or ones very much like them, when they were riding northeast out of Arcadia. He thought that meant they were nearing the end of the voyage, and he was proven right when the Iron Lance entered the waters called King’s Bay soon after.
The bay was calmer than the open waters of the coast, and even with the Svards about Yorrin saw dozens of vessels in the water. Large trading cogs, small fishing skiffs, and many sizes in between. Cleaver pointed out one ship that seemed to belong to the Caedian navy, a large, lean galley bristling with oars and men. Patrolling the waters to ensure the Svards did not incur into the bay itself, presumably. They gave the Iron Lance plenty of room.
Arcadia looked different, approaching it from the water. The high walls were behind the city from this angle, the sea walls substantially less expansive. Yorrin saw a sprawling dock and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of buildings rising up all around. However much damage the northmen had done to the small villages along the coast, the crown jewel of Caedia was untouched and as wealthy as ever.
The sight made Yorrin uneasy. Gunnar said there were hundreds of ships in Taerbjornsen’s fleet, he recalled. A single galley can’t hold them back if they all descend upon this city.
Soon enough, they were docked at a private pier reserved for the realm’s peerage. Cleaver disembarked early, since he had less baggage to unload. Fortinbrass’s liegemen even unloaded his horse for him. But he was waiting for them as they came off the dock, already in the saddle.
“Aleksandr,” Cleaver said. “Yorrin.”
“Cleaver.” Yorrin nodded at him.
“I was hoping you would accompany me a bit further. I’d like to make for Marshal’s camp immediately, to debrief him. I thought you had a right to be present, and your input could be valuable.”
Aleksandr’s complexion still looked pallid, but he nodded. “Da,” he said. “Of course.”
“Whip!” Yorrin called out. He paused, letting Aleksandr and Cleaver continue on ahead.
Dylan popped up from the crowd of men still disembarking, and ambled over. “Yeah?”
“Link up with Anatoly and the steward we hired before we left. Giancarlo’s friend. Jaspar, was it?”
Dylan nodded. “Sounds right.”
“They should be staying at the same inn where we left them,” Yorrin said. “At least, they’d better be. We left enough money for them not to have any trouble. Collect them, then bring everyone to the war camps outside the city. Same campsite we had last time, or as close to that as you can find. We may not be leaving immediately, but we might as well be ready to move.”
“Makes sense,” said the Whip, nodding again. “Will do.”
With that, Yorrin swung himself into the saddle and rode after Aleksandr and Cleaver. He caught up with them easily, and Aleksandr gave him an approving nod. He’d overheard Yorrin’s instructions.
“Well then,” Yorrin said. “Let’s meet with the Marshal.”