Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [60]
“Makes sense,” Stammel said. “Whatever the cohort needs, sir, you know I’ll go along.”
“Your needs count, too. You’ve already brought me valuable information. But now, I’ve kept you long enough. Suli can take you to find Devlin; you and Dev decide who to start training as Suli’s assistant.”
Arcolin stood under the tent flap, watching Suli and Stammel walk across to the tent where Devlin waited, talking to Arñe. Except for his hand on Suli’s shoulder, Stammel seemed the same as ever: his carriage upright, his steps firm and even. With a guide, he would be able to march with them; he would not need a horse or a seat in a wagon. His mind was as clear as ever … he would gain weight and muscle, Arcolin knew, with time. Stammel alive, sane, healthy—should he be grateful for that and consider sight a small price to pay? He closed his eyes, shutting out the sunlight, the familiar faces of his cohort, trying to imagine it, but he could not. Sight was not a small price, no matter what else was left.
By evening everyone had greeted Stammel, and the mood of the whole cohort seemed better. Devlin, in particular, had lost his worried expression; Arcolin had seen the two of them, Stammel’s hand on Devlin’s shoulder, doing a circuit of the camp.
“I did not think it would make so much difference, having him back,” Burek said.
“You hadn’t had time to know him,” Arcolin said. “Those here who hadn’t fought with him before trained with him in the north. He’s everyone’s favorite uncle or older brother.”
“M’dierra has a sergeant like that—the recruits are first terrified, then adoring.”
“Minicor?” Arcolin asked. When Burek nodded, he said “I met him years ago; you’re right; he is very like Stammel. The troops could stand to lose me better than Stammel.”
Burek looked horrified. “But sir—if you—then I—”
“Not ready for it yet?”
“Not if it means you—something happens—”
Arcolin shrugged. “These things do happen, you know. I believe you’ll do well if it does, but in the meantime, I do wear my helmet.”
Burek laughed. Arcolin’s adventure without his helmet had indeed spread through the cohort.
“So, now that things are more as they were—not that they will be, if he doesn’t regain his sight—let me tell you what I learned from Stammel and the others who returned today.” He gave Burek a précis of the information they’d brought. “So—together with what we’ve discussed before, do you see anything else, any pattern I’ve missed?”
“No,” Burek said. “I could wish they’d gone into the markets and noticed prices, especially the horse market, because that’s what I know most. If there’s bad money about—or more money than there should be—the price of horses goes up. Shoeing, too. I wonder if any of them noticed that.”
“They were staying in a grange in Smiths’ Street. Surely some of the yeomen were smiths. But then, the Girdish are set against false weights and measures, and in Fintha they control prices. I don’t know if Marshal Harak would approve if they raised their prices, unless the cost of iron and coal went up.”
“When we go back to the city, I can go to the horse market and talk to the smiths,” Burek said.
“In the meantime,” Arcolin said, “let’s make sure the camp isn’t so happy to have Stammel back they get careless with the watch.”
But Stammel himself took care of that; they heard his voice from across the camp, the familiar bellow. “And while you lot are sitting here like spinsters gossiping, who’s keeping watch? Less talk and more work!”
A startled silence, then camp noises resumed, this time with a different timbre.
Over the next few days, Arcolin grew used to seeing Stammel with a hand on someone’s shoulder, his head cocked a little sideways. Neat in appearance as always, attentive, alert, quick to silence idle chatter, ready to respond to any orders Arcolin or Burek gave. They moved every few days, marking the trails they found on the map; Stammel marched as fast as