Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [141]
“But we were always in your cohort,” Voln said.
Selfer, when she spoke to him, agreed that the eight could stay without argument from him. “The Company’s still over strength. The Duke—the king—would not want his veterans forced into service, even if there were a legal way to do it, and there’s not. They’re veterans; they’ve the right to leave. In fact, I should probably ask them all openly—especially if you’re willing to take those who want to stay with you. You know them; you can trust them.”
“I’m worried about Natzlin,” Dorrin said. “I know she’s physically recovered from her wounds, but she’s been so quiet … I don’t know if she can recover from Barra.”
“Better here with you than anywhere else,” Selfer said. “And you wouldn’t know this, but I’ve heard rumors about her and someone in a village near—not Kindle, but Oakmotte. Best thing for her, if it works out.”
“You’re right,” Dorrin said. “And I could use as many as want to leave. They—and you—have accomplished a lot with the Verrakaien militia, but it takes more than a half-year or so to change a lifetime’s habit.”
Selfer’s talk to the cohort resulted in seven more choosing to stay. He and Dorrin went over the accounts that afternoon as the cohort prepared to march—he insisting that the cohort had eaten enough at her table to wipe out the debts for which she’d signed and Dorrin determined not to take advantage. They shook hands on it at last. The next day a stiff north wind blew the rain clouds south, and the following morning Selfer mounted and led the cohort away, with Andressat, bundled to the nose, riding beside him. Dorrin watched her former cohort go with a lump in her throat. She’d thought she was past mourning for her old life, but that last glimpse of the fox-head pennant disappearing into the trees pierced her heart.
Enough. It was done, it was over, and she must waste no more time. She looked at the fifteen left behind, whose expressions showed what she felt, along with a determination to stick with the choice they’d made. “It’s time to put on Verrakai uniforms,” she said. “Change, and then come back and I’ll take your oaths.” They were back very shortly, bare legs now in gray wool trousers, blue tunics instead of maroon over them. Dorrin took their oaths using the same form she had used for the original Verrakai militia, with her squires as witnesses.
“You’ll be the nucleus, the training cadre, for the force I’m supposed to keep ready for the Crown,” Dorrin said. After what she’d heard from Andressat, she had no doubt the king would need it. “What I’m proposing now is that you’ll be split into three hands, each hand having a sergeant and two corporals—though I expect you’ll all be promoted within two years. You’ll be paired with two or more hands of the existing militia, and I’m going to give each of the squires a chance to command one of these groups. I’ll expect you to work with the new Girdish bartons and granges, to recruit suitable young people to the militia, and keep improving the skills and fitness of those already in.”
“How much fighting do you think we’ll see?”
“I don’t know,” Dorrin said. “I still don’t know where all my relatives are, or when trouble might erupt elsewhere. But with you for a core, and the squires as trainee commanders, I can disperse the militia to cover more of the domain—and as you help the militia grow, that will improve even more. I’m thinking now of ten-day patrols, village to village with an overnight or two-night stay in each. One group will stay here, while the other two go out, and then rotate. You can model the proper way to move troops and treat civilians.”
Next morning, Gwenno Marrakai headed east with her fifteen, under orders to patrol as far as the Lyonyan border, if possible, and then return. On the fifth day, Dorrin sent Dar Serrostin west.