Tibion’s face fell slightly, still flaming red, from shame this time rather than anger. “Not exactly.”
The captains exchanged glances. Damicos was beginning to like the fellow, but he’d still have to hang if he was a willing part of the outlaws’ operation.
“I will tell you all, my lords, so that you hear it first from me—and to prove I have nothing to conceal. You know of the Baron Bax?”
“Heard the name, though we know little of him.”
The round eyes rolled quickly in a circle, then Tibion gushed out a tale without further pause.
“A terrible man. An awful man. Cruel, ignorant, rough in speech and in deed. Barbaric, even. No culture, no refinement. When he sits at table—a swine at his trough could be no fouler!
“Be it known to you, sirs, that I served his lordship for nigh on six years. Every day a torture. At length I determined to leave his service, to go somewhere else where I could find an employer of taste. But lo! The very week I planned to leave, the Baron fell ill.”
Tibion cleared his throat three times in rapid succession, a little habit he had, and quickly went on. “He claimed, falsely, that I had tried to poison him. A foul lie! I never would misuse my art in that fashion. But the gods had deserted me. Despite my innocence, my protestations, the Baron had me clapped in irons and cast into his dungeons.
“There I languished for some time. The conditions were terrible, and the food! Ah! I cannot bear to speak of it. Vile! At length the marshals came, to collect prisoners for transport to Belsoria and trial. Only royal prisoners, you understand, ones guilty of breaking king’s law. But there was a mistake, and I was collected along with the others.
“I kept silent, of course, wishing only to leave Baxtown. Thinking I would be given a fair hearing by Governor Spatha once the mix-up was discovered, I sat in the prison wagon with the others—vile men, all!—and we traveled for two rough and bumpy days.
“On the third day the marshals were ambushed by Black Tur’s men. The guards were slain, and Black Tur offered freedom to those of the prisoners that wished to join his band. I of course objected, not wishing to associate myself in any way with such reprehensible types. But they brought me along to their stronghold anyway, and I found myself in dire straits once more. You see, the outlaws had no appreciation of my talents, none whatsoever. Neither did the baron, but at least he paid me.
The band of cutthroats wanted only mutton stew and biscuits the whole first week, and then it was plain venison with this and salt dumplings for that, really anything to go with their horrible grog. Not a bit of variety, nothing to work with, no one to appreciate my art, not even the chief in spite of his excellent wine stores. Wait, is Black Tur dead?”
The captains and those gathered around had been listening in growing amusement at the little man’s effusive manner. Loud guffaws rang out when he ended the tirade with a sudden pivot to a question about the dead bandit chief.
“Oh, he’s dead,” Pelekarr replied. “Crushed underneath a giant flaming tree, actually, as it happened. But back to you, my fine friend. You say you’re a cook?”
“The best! ‘Cook’ hardly describes my talents, Captain.”
The men laughed again, but Tibion raised a hand for silence. “Please, my lords, do not suspect me of needless braggadocio when I contend that you will never find a better.”
“Never?”
“That is my contention. Never.”
Pelekarr nodded judiciously. “Then, truly, the gods are merciful. For we have need of a cook for our company, sore need. And here you fall like a ripe pomegranate into our lap.”
The man stared at the captain. “Then you believe me?”
“I did not say so exactly.” Pelekarr summoned up his most solemn, judicial face. “We have no way of verifying your tale, you see. It may be true, but then it may also be true that you are a honey-tongued outlaw seeking only to save his skin.”
“But the woman,” the man spluttered. “You heard… she saw me mistreated, ordered about, beaten! Did you not hear?” His eyes darted desperately between the two captains and over to Meldus, who regarded him with serious eyes as he gave his leg wound a new wrapping.
“But we cannot know for certain,” Damicos replied. “You might have offended your chief somehow and been punished with cooking duty for a month.”
The man goggled at them, turning his horrified gaze first at one, then at another of the men. He looked so frustrated that Damicos had to bite his lip to keep from guffawing.
“That isn’t remotely… cooking duty? For a month? As if I were a common grunt peeling potatoes in the scullery, as if I hadn’t honed my art over the last twenty years of my life?”
Pelekarr broke through the spluttering defense. “Until we can verify your tale independently, my friend, you will have to accompany us. You will cook for our soldiers, who I trust you’ll find a better audience for your ‘talents’ than either of your two previous employers. And if you are truly what you say, your innocence will be proven in the pudding, as the saying goes. After we have established your innocence by means of a thorough trial period—say, a sixmonth, perhaps—then you would be free to go.”
“But if not,” Damicos reminded the little man, “if not, then…”
He made a jerking motion behind his head, reminiscent of a noose.
Tibion gulped loudly.
“This is horrendous. Most unexpected. Cooking for my very life! I could never have imagined.”
And yet, the man’s hands began to rub against each other, and an excited gleam came into his doughy eyes.
“We will pay you, of course,” Pelekarr added. “Right up until the moment we either hang you, or let you go. If you are a real cook, it would be unjust not to recompense you for your service—especially if your talent rises to the level of an art, as you keep insisting.”
The bald man gulped again, looked heavenward, let out a long sigh, and finally shrugged.
“Very well.”
The captains exchanged congratulatory grins. “Excellent. Tibion, consider yourself hired on to our merry—”
The bald man suddenly raised a finger. “Under certain conditions.”
“You’re hardly in a position—” Damicos began, but was interrupted again by a voice utterly uncompromising in its pomposity.
“Condition the first: I am in command of my kitchen. No one tells me what to do, nor what to cook. No one.”
The man was glaring directly at the captains as he said this.
“That seems reasonable, but—”
“Condition the second. I will require funds with which to purchase supplies. Generous funds, to be dispensed at my sole discretion whenever we can get to a market in civilized country. These funds are not to be considered part of my salary, which will be equal the regular pay of any soldier among you.”
Pelekarr coughed, probably to hold back his amusement. “Anything else?”
“Of course there is. I will require assistance one hour prior to each meal, and for one hour afterward to wash up. I do not scrub or wash platters and kettles, so as to avoid chapping my hands with undue labor. If these kitchen assistants prove unhelpful, they must be promptly replaced.
“You must provide a wagon or cart, drawn by a temperate beast. No one enters the wagon, no one touches the supplies in it. I may require a lock to keep your men at bay.”
Damicos spread his hands wide. “All of these shall be granted, your excellence. Will there be anything more?”
“I want my own tent, or my own room in whatever permanent quarters your company spends the night in. In times of danger or battle, I may need a small guard for the security of my wagon and my person. I am a man of courage and will not wilt easily in the face of danger, but nor will I allow myself to be cast off as an expendable resource whenever an enemy threatens.”
“That’s fair.”
“Very well. Then lastly, when I summon the men to table, I will have it understood that a delay of more than a few minutes disresp
ects the cook, and I will tolerate no disrespect. I will signal with the use of this bell—” he rummaged in his tunic, withdrew a small bronze bell with flared rim, and rang it once to demonstrate— “with one peal being the first call to dine, and two peals meaning ‘come now or forfeit’.
“If I have to ring a third time, I will begin to add ingredients to the food. You will not like the additional ingredients, and they may significantly affect your digestive systems. Thus far, I have only ever had to ring thrice once.”
The captains stared in disbelief. The man appeared to be utterly serious. “Was that the Baron Bax’s unfortunate meal, the one prior to your leaving his employ?” Pelekarr asked, biting his tongue. Men were a giggling uncontrollably all around, but Tibion was so focused on the details of his contract with the captains he wasn’t paying attention to them.
“No it was not, as I said before. I rather suspect I was framed on that occasion, or that the baron sought occasion against me for other reasons, personal reasons. It is of no import. What is of import are these conditions, which are non-negotiable. Do we have an understanding, Captains?”
Pelekarr offered a hand, and shook firmly. “We do, Master Tibion. Let your meal-making commence. I just hope my men prove worthy of this honor, and that we can devise suitable awards for your prodigies of culinary valor.”
Tibion beamed. “Excellent. I will work with your quartermaster to organize the supplies we have on hand, and we’ll go from there.”
Damicos pointed at Sergeant Trevaz. “There’s your man. Get to work.”
The gathering broke up, with men wandering away from the lunch tables to gleefully speculate about how things would turn out with the strange little cook. The two captains shook their heads at each other.
“What have we brought on ourselves, Pelekarr?”
“Another blessing from the gods, I’d say. His ridiculous overconfidence is irritating, but he seems unfazed by the number of mouths he has to feed. If he can really do this, it will be worth it.”
“Tibion. Ha! Crumbly Tib, I say. I can see it now.” Damicos hunched his back and screwed up his face, miming the crumbling of herbs from pinched fingers into an imaginary pot. Pelekarr laughed, and then bellowed when Damicos began to mutter in a high falsetto, “Just a bit more, just a bit more.”
“What a find. How was this the only man to survive a night of brutal fighting?”
“Unbelievable, I know. Next he’ll be demanding we bring along a few dairy cows on campaign, and a coop of chickens on top of his supply wagon.”
“Whatever he cooks up for the troops, it can’t be as good as what we had at the Tooth and Blade Inn. Let’s head out.”
CHAPTER 19: REST IS FOR CIVILIANS
In Dura, the company was received with shouts of praise and admiration. If the locals noticed how many of the soldiers were now missing from the ordered ranks that marched back toward the great inn, they did not mention it. The reuniting of the six hostage women with their kinfolk was a scene that brought tears to many surrounding them, and warm grins to the grizzled faces of many a soldier watching.
Haila welcomed the captains back into the Tooth and Blade, taking a moment to embrace Rafe and hang her head in sorrow at the loss of Ireth.
“Where is Brannon today?” Argaf asked. “He’ll be interested to hear the tale of how we outmaneuvered the scoundrel Black Tur and put an end to his machinations forever.”
“He ran downstairs the moment he saw your victory banners,” the woman replied. “He’s bringing up a new barrel of last year’s coppernut, and I think he means it to be poured out upon the lot of you in open celebration.”
“Praise be to Yaff and Pellia,” the man answered, eyes rolling in anticipation. “We are a thirsty mob.”
The men spent the next few hours relaxing and making merry with the townsfolk, who were eager to let go of all the tension built up during the past week. The ale flowed freely as promised, there was food and comfort at every turn. The Durans let go—for the moment, at least—of all inhibition and mistrust of the mercenary company.
As the happy afternoon wore on toward evening, the officers and senior members of the company sat around the inn’s central room, picking at the remains of the sweetmeat trays and refilling their cups at the third ale-barrel to be brought up from Brannon’s cellar. Every detail of the successful campaign had been relayed to enthralled audiences of villagers, and now the town’s children were out in the streets taking the parts of brave soldiers or of the evil outlaw and his men. Most families had left the main celebration to be together in their own homes with the women returned to them, or to see to the last chores of the day out in the fields.
Damicos stood to refill his cup along with two other men. He cocked an eyebrow at the innkeeper, seated by Meldus and the other elders. “We may run you dry, sir, but I offer my men in the labor of preparing more of your fine drink, if it is needed.”
Brannon smiled. “All that I have is free to you today, Captain. Tomorrow… well, tomorrow I expect to make a great deal of money from your company.”
Those around him laughed.
“This tasting has us all hooked, I think,” Damicos said, slurring his speech only slightly as he returned to his seat. “We’ll never drink another inn’s ale again.”
“You mean to take up here permanently, then? In the ruins outside town?” the innkeeper asked.
“Considering it very strongly indeed,” Pelekarr replied. “You’ve a fine town here. A fine inn, a fine town, a healthy region. We do not wish to overstay our welcome, but if this partnership continues to produce good fruits, then as the poets have said, ‘let it be unto them as a flowering tree intertwined with virtuous rewards’.”
Those who, like Damicos, had drunk too much for high poetry simply scratched their heads. Brannon sighed and leaned back against the hearth behind him.
“It’s a funny way to charter a company, with two commanders and a pledge to all Ostora, and yet to none in particular. Never been tried before.”
“I’ll pledge to your ale,” Damicos muttered quietly. Pelekarr listened more carefully to the old soldier’s words.
Brannon stood, stretching. His craggy features were silhouetted by the firelight behind him, the only remaining sunlight slanting through windows near the walls and penetrating no further into the room.
“I will say this. Never have I felt better about the future of Ostora. True, there’s danger in the legion’s departure, but there was always danger, and the legion never once arrived before they were needed. In my day, we were ever cleaning up messes and never moving ahead to prevent them. Never quite able to put to rest the threat entirely, only to keep it at bay for a season.” He looked up at the captains. “You slew the outlaws that troubled us. You returned our girls to us. And now you’ll have a place here whenever you need one, friends. That’s a promise.”
A cheer rose among the soldiers in the inn, and Damicos thumped a fist on the table in appreciation.
“You’ll need a name, though,” the retired soldier said. “Something to give your men an identity, a sense of pride and belonging. A challenge to enemies who hear the words.” He looked expectantly at Pelekarr and back at Damicos. “What’ll you call yourselves?”
Pelekarr nodded. “I have given it some thought. If it isn’t presumptuous of me to suggest it…”
“Out with it.”
“We could be The Tooth and Blade, if you’ll give us your blessing.”
Brannon tipped his head, cracking a rare smile.
“The Tooth and Blade. A company is born, sirs.”
The room shook with cheers as the men accepted their new title.
Damicos sat on a balcony on the third floor of the inn, his feet propped on the low wooden railing and a plate of bread and cheese near at hand. He sighed with satisfaction.
It was a beautiful morning. The sun warmed his face, and a flowered vine clinging to the railing gave off a subtle perfume. The air was still fresh and cool, and the view was superb
.
Due west of town lay the fields, stretching away green and laden with dew toward the hills that ringed the valley. Beyond them the far-off peaks of the Atacanthian range waited, still capped with the last vestiges of winter snow. He had never experienced snow personally, although he was familiar enough with its description. Kerath was too hot, and only the richest could afford ice to cool their drinks and preserve their delicacies.
From where he sat, he could hear the rush of the river as it ran through town, and up-valley to the north he could see its sun-bright course meandering away from town, disappearing through the cleft in the hills. The locals called it the Ochek, Meldus had told them, from a barbarian word meaning “clear water,” and it certainly was that.
Below him spread the plaza, its southwestern corner dominated by a gigantic boulder as large as a cottage. It rested there as cold and immovable as the day it had been deposited by a retreating glacier. The low-walled, spring-fed plaza pool was undisturbed by so much as a ripple, though a few goats and someone’s prized lamb nibbled at the grass near it.
Taking a piece of the hard, tangy Ostoran cheese and sinking his teeth into its firm, creamy texture, Damicos studied the shops bordering the plaza. The western side of the square was made of two buildings: a trading post half as large as the Tooth and Blade itself, and a tavern bearing the dubious name, hand-lettered on a swinging wooden sign, of The Panther’s Smile.
Damicos chased down his breakfast morsels with a gulp of cider. What Ostora lacked in finesse it made up for in heartiness; the drink wasn’t something Pelekarr would admit to enjoying, but it went fine with the bread and cheese. Damicos took another sip and tried to put his finger on why this town was his favorite among all he’d visited in the new land.
Most frontier towns he’d seen were ramshackle affairs, and though there was a certain vibrancy to such hamlets they were too early in their development to hold any attraction. The coastal cities were nearly as bad in their way, small copies of Kerath itself with all the downsides but little of the grandeur and scale.
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