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It didn’t take long for Timothy to remember how much he hated campaigning. The weather was getting colder now, and sleeping in a tent was miserable. One night, Halvor managed to halt near a town and took rooms at the inn, but all Timothy got was a tiny cot in the hall, which was almost as cold as being outside.
Still, he took pride in his work. Halvor and his officers were concentrating on finding the enemy, foraging for supplies, and doing something or other to support Duke Lukas’s winter assault on Keneburg. Timothy’s goals and victories were rather more modest. But no less satisfying, at least for him. When some of Halvor’s stupider knights torched an old manor house on the Montgomery road, Timothy sifted through the ashes until he found some unbroken bottles of fifty year-old Cheruscian wine. Halvor drank it like cheap ale, probably unaware of its value, but Timothy was pleased with himself for finding it, anyway. He prided himself, too, on the silk cushions he’d bought from a peddler in camp. And the new pots and pans he’d found for Halvor’s cook. Everything was cheap, since most of it had been obtained illegally. But you still had to know where to look and who to ask. And you had to be ready to jump quick when you heard about an irresistible deal. If you weren’t fast enough, someone else would buy it first.
After a few days, the roads they were traveling on began to look familiar, and Timothy saw inns and taverns and mills that he remembered from his childhood. His very first job had been running deliveries for his parents’ store, back when they still had a store. Halvor and his lieutenants were being very secretive about their route, but Timothy was pretty sure he knew where they were now.
Sure enough, on the morning of the 13th, they came over the ridge and through Almoner’s Woods, and there was the old abbey church and Timothy’s hometown of Basington. It felt odd to see the place again, after he’d been away for years. He had left home when he was 17, and he’d only been back once in the five years since. He wasn’t especially keen on going back now, which was fine, as he assumed the column would march on by, after perhaps taking a few sheep and cows and relieving the inns and taverns of their best ale.
To his surprise, though, the officers called a halt, even though it was only ten o’clock by the abbey chimes. And to his even greater surprise, Halvor came looking for him at the cooking tent. “There you are,” the big knight said, grinning. “I might be wrong, but I recall you saying that you’re from this area.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Odd that Halvor would remember that. Timothy had never imagined his employer had any interest in his private life.
“Well, I’d like a tour of the place. And I imagine you’d like to go see your people. Why don’t we pay them a visit together and have a look around?”
This was extremely unusual—even more unusual than being asked to sit down and have a drink together at a tavern. Halvor had never invited Timothy to go pay social calls with him. What else could he do but say, “Yes,” though?
They rode over the River Basing at the stone bridge, and Halvor spent a minute or two studying the abbey and convent. But then he turned north, toward Basington, saying under his breath, “Perhaps tomorrow.”
He had a little hand-drawn map and a pencil, and as they rode, he would periodically stop and ask Timothy for the name of some inn or distant hamlet, or ask who owned a certain mill or farm. The answer to that last question was nearly always the same: the abbey.
“And what is it that your people do here?” Halvor asked, as they turned up the lane into the High Street of Basington.
“My mother and aunt have a farm east of town, sir. We had a shop when I was little, but we lost it.”
“Lost it?” Halvor looked intrigued. “How did that happen?”
It was a long story, and Timothy didn’t particularly like telling it. “My father was very bad at business, so my parents had to give up the lease to someone else.”
“A lease? Ah, because the store was owned by the abbey, I assume.”
“Yes, sir.” He pointed at the familiar old façade, with its brass door knocker and green shutters and narrow windows facing the street. Exactly as he remembered it; a lasting monument to his family’s disgrace. “It’s that one there. The abbey owns most of this street.”
“I suspected as much,” said Halvor thoughtfully. “I note that you didn’t mention your father living at this farm with your mother and aunt.”
“No, sir. He’s dead. He died when I was 8.” Partly from the shame of his business failures, but mostly from drink.
Halvor gave him an unusually warm grin. “We are both self-made men. I like that about you.”
Timothy wasn’t quite sure that a valet could be considered a “self-made man,” but he saw Halvor’s point. He had worked his way up from the stables, and he had gotten out of this boring old town.
“Now, let’s go see this home of yours,” said Halvor.
Timothy had assumed that was a joke. But no, Halvor really did want to see the grubby little farm where his valet’s mother lived. Timothy reined in on the lane at the top of the hill, hoping he could point out the main features and then turn around. But Halvor went straight up the lane, past the raspberry bushes and the old lilac tree. He looked the cottage over, no doubt taking in the crumbling, moldy walls, the broken shingles, and the missing windows covered with old hides.
Timothy’s cousin, Olivia, was the first to spot them. She looked more confused than excited. “Did you get lost somewhere?” she asked.
“It’s me, Timothy. And this is Sir Halvor Ingridsson, my employer.”
Olivia gave Halvor a skeptical look. “Well, you can come inside, but take your boots off first.”
Halvor was greatly amused by this, and when they got into the front parlor, he seemed to enjoy playing the generous nobleman. When he saw Timothy’s mother and aunt, he took off two ruby broaches from his cloak and insisted they were gifts.
Timothy’s mother looked at the broach, and then at him. “You haven’t been fired, have you?”
“Not in the least, my good woman,” said Halvor. “Timothy is here with my army. He’s a very important part of my military endeavors.”
Aunt Rachel scowled. “Soldiering is no life for a young man.”
Timothy hastened to explain. “Uncle Gareth died at Yusipova’s Fields, sir, during the Loshadnarodski War.”
Halvor smiled. “Ah, now that was a battle! Thousands of men and six hillichmagnars on the same field, like some story of ancient days come to life. I was but a lowly pikeman—I hadn’t earned my knighthood yet—but I remember it well. Blood and mud and magysk fire. What a glorious day.”
“What a stupid waste,” Aunt Rachel said stubbornly. She turned to Timothy. “And I hope you’re not getting mixed up with hillichmagnars. No good ever comes of that.”
Halvor laughed merrily, as if Rachel were joking, and assured her that he and Timothy were doing their very best to avoid magy whenever possible.
They sat down to cups of weak coffee and small kettle cakes—they probably didn’t have a lot of food stored for the winter, and Timothy would have felt bad if they’d made more of an effort. Halvor told more stories about the Loshadnarodski War, but he eventually conceded that Rachel was right: soldiering was no life for a young man.
“The important thing,” he said, “is to settle down and find a home somewhere. It’s important to have your own land, isn’t it?”
“Our own land?” snorted Timothy’s mother. “Where do you think you are, sir? All the land around here belongs to the abbey, and good luck getting half an acre away from them.”
“They’re the ones who stole your store,” Rachel put in.
Timothy rolled his eyes. He couldn’t let that ancient falsehood pass. “The abbey didn’t steal anything, Aunt Rachel. Under the terms of the lease that—”
“Terms of the lease, my foot,” said his mother. “Who wrote the lease, h’m?”
“That’s always how it is,” Sir Halvor agreed. “The people who own the land make their own rules, and the rest of us have to make our way the best we can.”
This didn’t sound like anything Timothy had ever heard from his employer before, but he let the matter drop when Olivia cut in to change the subject and talk about the weather. He had a distinct feeling there was more to this visit than Halvor had previously let on, and he worried what part he would be asked to play in whatever new scheme Halvor had devised.
When the visit was over, the two of them rode back to the army camp together. “The abbey seems quite unpopular among its tenants,” said Halvor. “At least if your family’s attitude is typical.”
Timothy gave that some thought. He had lived and worked on a couple large estates before going to work for Halvor. “I’d say they’re about as popular as big landowners usually are, sir.”
“Do you know why the abbey has so much land?”
“Gifts from nobles, usually,” said Timothy with a slight shrug.
“Gifts from the Earls of Montgomery and Hyrne. Gifts from the Barons Urcard. Gifts, above all, from the Dukes and Duchesses of Keneburg.” He looked around, smiling at the valley. “When my father and I crush the Byrne family, there are going to be some changes in Keneshire. Yes, indeed. Some serious changes.” A nod at Timothy. “You might think of it as some measure of revenge for what your family suffered.”
That was as much as he would say on the subject, and Timothy feared to pry too much. Halvor had very limited reserves of good humor, and he had used up nearly all of them on their tour of town. If Timothy knew him at all, the big knight’s mood would be souring pretty soon, and Timothy didn’t want to be on the receiving end when it did.
Sure enough, not half an hour after their return to the camp, Halvor was shouting at some of his officers about a lack of forage for the horses, and he was throwing maps and furniture around his tent for emphasis. Timothy did his best to stay out of the way, picking up the camp tables here and there and mopping up the drinks.
“Fuck that,” snapped Halvor. “Leave it. Just go get us another bottle.”
Timothy slipped out the back of the tent and went around to Halvor’s luggage wagon, where he thought there might still be at least one bottle of the good Cheruscian wine left. As he rounded the back of the wagon, he almost collided with a young woman with dark blonde hair. She was dressed in a man’s loose tunic and baggy trousers, like the Loshadnarodski wore. But she was definitely a girl. The tunic wasn’t baggy enough to hide that.
“Can I help you?” he asked. She didn’t look like the usual sort of camp follower, and he wondered if she might be someone from the neighborhood. He didn’t remember any girls who looked like her, but then again, he had never paid much attention to the local girls.
“Having a look around,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t mind me. Just passing through.”
He decided she must be some sort of peddler, trying to sell things to the knights and officers. At another time, he might ask what she was selling, but he needed to get the wine before Halvor got even angrier. So he wished her good day, found the bottle in the cart, and went back to the tent.
A few minutes later, when he’d poured the wine and Halvor had said they didn’t need anything else, Timothy thought about the girl again. She was very pretty, and even if that wasn’t the sort of thing that personally appealed to him, it would appeal to a lot of the men. Whether she was a peddler or not, she probably shouldn’t be walking around an army camp alone and unarmed. He went back out to the cart, looking for her, hoping to give her a warning and maybe take her to the cooks’ tent, where she would be around other women who could look out for her.
But he couldn’t find her anywhere. He walked down to one end of the camp, turned around, and came all the way back, and there was no sign of her. He went to the sentry whose post was nearest to Halvor’s tent. “Did you see a blonde come through here? She was wearing trousers.”
The sentry thought this was a joke and told Timothy that if he’d gotten to the point where he was hallucinating beautiful girls, it had been far too long since he had gotten laid.
“It probably has been,” thought Timothy, looking around at the tents and wagons. “But I could have sworn she was here.”