"Yes, well, I hope I won't be in the middle of a battle when you call," Gar said with irony. "Let's plan on comparing notes every evening, shall we? That's a good time to go off by one's self for a few minutes."
"Or to shut the door," Dirk agreed. "Let's state the question we're trying to answer clearly and briefly, then-that always helps when you're trying to find clues to the solution."
"A good idea." Gar was coming out of his melancholy. "We need to resolve whether or not this constant warfare is good for the people as a whole."
"It can't possibly be," Dirk grunted, "but I suppose there's a chance that there's a government under it that would be good for the people, if we could ever get rid of whoever's causing the fighting."
"Or stop the governments themselves from fighting," Gar agreed. "After all, it's not the first planet we've seen that had constant warfare."
"No, but there's a certain vividness to this one that suggests a high degree of dedication," Dirk said with a shudder.
"Try to keep an open mind," Gar urged. "The fighting might be a ritualized political process, with an equally ritualized way of avoiding killing or maiming people, like the Terran Native Americans' custom of counting coup."
"I'll try to keep it in mind," Dirk sighed, "but I doubt it highly."
"I know what you mean. We've never seen a planet where there was so much fighting going on at one time."
"Could be their busy season," Dirk suggested without much hope. "What if we decide this constant warfare isn't just a freak outbreak, though, and can't possibly be good for the people?".
"Then we have to seriously consider the possibility that it must be stopped, and that the governments that cause it, or the lack of governments, need replacing."
"And if they do," said Dirk, "how do we go about replacing them?"
"One question at a time, my friend," Gar said, smiling. "We'll deal with that one if we come to it." His concentration on the plight of the people had let him ignore the mare; she tossed her head and reared. Gar turned to her, pulling down on the bridle, sending a soothing thought. She came back to all fours, calming considerably.
"Gentling does go faster with your special gifts," Dirk admitted. "You don't suppose they could work on the local lords, do you?"
"Probably," Gar said, "but it would be totally unethical-unless they were so cruel that virtually any method of stopping them, and saving their peasants, would be morally acceptable."
"And if things got that bad, we might as well just lob in a small bomb." Dirk sighed. "Would have been nice if we could have done it the quick way."
"Imposed attitudes seldom last, anyway," Gar told him.
The Boss of Zutaine didn't want to pay off the Blue Company once the battle was done, of course, but he knew he might need them again, and what was worse, he knew he could look down from his battlements to see them camped all around the foot of the hill on which his castle stood, hungover and staggering with headaches, but nonetheless in a perfect position to besiege him. If they did, he knew the siege wouldn't last long. He wasn't fool enough to think that his twenty-three armored bruisers and their ragtag collections of plowboys would stand a chance against a thousand hardened professionals. So he paid-eight times eight times eight gold marks, and an extra eight into the bargain as a token of the boss's goodwill. Two lieutenants counted the pieces out on a checkerboard, stacking the coins four high on each square, then sweeping them into a sack and stacking the next set.
Cort watched, feeling only awe, not greed. There was a certain beauty to the metal as it flashed in the sunlight. He didn't believe the alchemists who claimed it was the purest metal in the universetoo much blood was spilled for it-but it was pretty. Five hundred twelve pieces of gold, each worth twenty silver coins! Eight pieces of silver for each trooper, ten for each lieutenant, one hundred forty for the captain, and two thousand plus eight extra for the Company treasury! But they had fought long and hard for that money, and the pay of those who had died wouldn't be shared out among the living-it would go to the families they had left behind, though it wouldn't last long and couldn't possibly make up for the loss.
So the boss and the captain parted with mutual expressions of gratitude and respect, both knowing that the Blue Company might be hired to fight against Zutaine within the year, and Captain Devers turned his troops to march away.
"Two thousand for the company!" grumbled a soldier who had just survived his first battle. "That's a funny way of saying `for the captain!"'
"Don't let your tongue wag to make a fool of you," Cort told him. "That treasury makes sure we won't starve if there's no work."
"Aye," said the sergeant, "and it's out of that hoard that Captain Devers sends a silver coin every other month, to each of the families of his troopers who have died."
The young fool stared. "I've never heard of a mercenary captain doing that!"
"They don't," the sergeant growled. "Devers does. That's why I stay with his Blue Company." The captain paid the lieutenants, and each of them paid their men. Then they marched off on leave, each platoon bent on visiting a different village-the whole company together would have destroyed any town-each roaring to begin celebrating, eager to infest the inns, make the brewers and harlots rich, pester the decent women, and pick fights with the civilian men.
Cort had other plans, though. He had dropped a hint in each sergeant's ear, and each sergeant had mentioned the town of Bozzeratle as his men were discussing possible destinations-so it wasn't quite by accident that Cort's platoon was marching toward the town in which his fiancee lived.
CHAPTER 2
Gar rode out of the forest onto the road, and the merchant shouted, "Bandits!" The spear he used for a staff snapped down, leveled at Gar's stomach. One of his drivers plucked an arrow from his quiver and nocked it in one smooth motion while the other drivers swung their bows around from their backs and strung them.
"Peace, peace!" Gar held up his hands. "I'm no bandit! My name is Gar Pike, and I'm a mercenary looking for honest work!"
"What did you say?" The merchant frowned. "Oh--'honest work.' I can scarcely understand you, your accent's so thick."
He wouldn't have understood Gar at all, a week before. The local dialect had drifted so far from Galactic Standard that Gar had taken quite a while puzzling out the vowel shifts, wandering through markets and sitting in taverns listening, then trying a halting imitation of their words. Now he could at least be understood.
The spear and bow held steady, and the rest of the drivers nocked arrows and drew.
"A soldier for hire?" The merchant frowned with suspicion. He was lean and tall, as these people went, looking hard enough to be a bandit himself, though his tunic and leggins were of broadcloth instead of homespun, with a sleeveless, knee-length robe over them. His colors were all brown and green, the better to blend into the forest around him. "How can we be sure you're honest, not some bandit sent to strike from inside while your mates attack? What proof can you give?"
"No proof at all," Gar said cheerfully, "except for this letter." He had tucked the rolled parchment into the collar of his tunic, where they could see it easily; now he drew it out slowly and tossed it to the merchant. The man caught it and unrolled it, frowning as he studied it.
Gar studied him in return. He'd been surprised to see anything resembling a merchant in such a war-torn country, but he couldn't think what else a commoner with a string of mules loaded with huge packs might be, especially since he was dressed a bit better than his helpers. A merchant had to look prosperous, after all, or no one would have confidence in the goods he sold. With the warlords constantly battling each other, trade should have been very risky indeed-a merchant could never know when a band of. soldiers would descend on him to confiscate his gods. He guessed that this man, and the few others like him, must have become very good at finding out where the battles were, and planning routes that kept them far from the skirmishes.
"I can scarcely make out these words," the merchant complained.
"It comes from very far away," Gar explained. It did-about fifty light-years. "They don't speak the language the way you do here."
"Hardly the same language at all," the merchant grumbled.
One more strike against the possibility of any sort of law or order on this planet. A strong government would have tried to keep things from changing too much, and words would take on new forms very slowly if at all. The fact that Galactic Standard had evolved into a local dialect whose speakers could scarcely understand its parent language meant there wasn't anything to put the brakes on the headlong rush into confusion.
"Never heard of this Paolo Braccalese,". the merchant grumbled.
"As I say, he's very far away," Gar told him. "But he speaks well of you." The merchant rolled up the parchment with sudden decision and thrust it back at Gar. "And we can surely use someone of your size. All right, you're hired. I'm Ralke, and I'm your master now-but if you betray as, you'll be looking for some new guts." So Gar joined the caravan-and that afternoon, the bandits attacked.
They burst from the roadside trees howling like banshees, pikes up to skewer the drivers. Mules bawled and balked, and Gar barely had time to draw his sword. The driver-archer shouted even as he drew and loosed; then the next arrow was on his bowstring, and the other drivers had strung their bows, but the bandits were in among them, stabbing and swinging. One driver screamed as he fell from his mule.
"At them, lads! They don't want your goods, they want your lives!" Ralke shouted as he parried a stabbing pike, then chopped off its head.
"Only goods!" one bandit shouted. "Throw down your weapons and we'll spare you! We only want the goods to sell!" Then he snarled and swung the headless spear shaft at the merchant's head.
Gar turned a pike with his shield and thrust into the bandit's shoulder, roaring. The man fell back, and Gar turned, spurring his horse, riding back along the line of mules, chopping pikeheads and slashing at soldiers, bellowing bloody murder. The bandits fell back from the terrible giant long enough for the drivers to launch a flight of arrows. Several of the bandits fell, howling and clutching at shafts. Their mates shouted in rage and charged the drivers again, screaming, "Die, scum!"
The drivers dropped their bows and yanked short swords from the scabbards on their saddles. Another driver fell howling, a pike gash pumping blood, but Gar turned and chopped through the shaft, then struck the bandit on his steel cap. The blow rang, the man fell-and suddenly, the bandits were turning, running, leaping, disappearing back into the trees.
"Nock arrows!" Ralke shouted. "They might come again!"
"We'd better see to the wounded." Gar started to dismount.
But Ralke shouted, "No! Let the drivers do the bandaging! You stay on guard! Johann!"
"Aye?" said one of the driver-archers.
"Tie up those soldiers. Karl! Watch the fallen ones and make sure none of them swings on Johann!"
Karl nodded and moved over to the prisoners, hard-faced.
Gar hesitated, then swung back into the saddle again, glancing at the trees, then at the half-dozen bandits who lay groaning and writhing on the ground-except for two who lay very still. He was amazed how well-equipped they were, each wearing a hardened leather breastplate and a steel cap.
Then he realized that they were all dressed alike.
"Master Ralke!" he cried. "They aren't common bandits-they're soldiers!"
"Yes, out of work and on furlough," Ralke said grimly. "But soldiers will be ashamed of being beaten off by a train of traders, so they're all the more likely to come back than common bandits would be. I was wise to invest in your services, Gar Pike. If it hadn't been for you roaring like an ogre and slashing like a windmill, they would have slain us all!"
"Would they really?" Gar turned to him with a troubled frown.
"I've seen it happen," Ralke answered, and two of his drivers nodded.
"I only escaped by pretending to be dead," one said.
"I ran," the other told him, "I was lucky. I looked back and saw the rest of my caravan being slaughtered."
"Haven't been guarding merchants long, have you?" Ralke asked, frowning up at him.
"Not in this land, no," Gar said carefully. "The bandits in Talipon weren't quite so thorough."
"Well, common bandits aren't, either," Ralke said. "They just want the goods, and if we gave them up without a fight, they might even leave us without a blow."
"But what would. we have to sell at the next town, then?" one of the drivers asked. "And with nothing to sell, what would we eat?"
"I didn't work and save for ten years until I could buy my first cargo, just to make some bandit richer," Ralke huffed.
The drivers all nodded, and Gar guessed they were hoping to do the same. "But soldiers are different?"
"Of course. They don't dare let us live, you see," Ralke told him. "If their captain found out about it, he'd flog them within an inch of their lives."
Gar stared. "You mean they weren't acting on their captain's orders?"
" 'Course not," Ralke huffed, and a driver explained, "We're too small for a captain to notice, but his soldiers might try to pick up some easy money."
"We just have to make sure it's not easy," another driver said grimly.
"There's truth in that," Ralke said. "We don't even have to be able to beat them, just wound them badly, be able to kill even one of them. They face death on the battlefield every few weekswhy take a chance on it with a merchant caravan?"
"So they only attacked us because they thought we were .weaker than they were," Gar inferred. "That they did, and I would have thought the mere sight of you would have turned them away," Ralke said.
Gar shook his head. "Professionals always know they can beat an amateur hands down. They just didn't know that I'd been in an army, too."
"They didn't know that we'd faced bandits five times before, either," one of the drivers said grimly.
"Unpleasant surprises all around," Gar agreed. "For your own merit, give us some healing!" one of the bandit soldiers cried.
Ralke glanced again at his own wounded men. "They're almost done bandaging their fellows. They'll get to you in a minute. There's none of you so badly hurt that you can't wait a little." Actually, one of them had been, but Gar had been doing a little telekinetic first aid, pinching off an artery until he could make its severed wall grow back together. "What will you do with them, Master Ralke?"
"Leave them tied up," Ralke said simply. "But we'll leave a note for their captain, too, explaining that they were trying to rob merchants."
"No!" a fallen soldier cried. "He'll flog us soggy, you know he will!"
"Be glad you'll live," Ralke said grimly.
"Will he really?" Gar asked. "Flog them, I mean."
"The captain? He will, and all their squadron with them-so as soon as we're gone, they'll come out of the trees to help their fellows and destroy the note." Ralke shrugged. "No matter. Sooner or later, one of them will grow angry with the others and tell the captain for revenge."
The fallen mercenary spat at him. It fell short. "I hope you cast a spear better than that," Ralke countered. Then he explained to Gar, "Most of the mercenary companies have very strict rules about looting the people who might hire them next time-and you never know what town a merchant's from, so most of the captains are careful to leave us alone. Their soldiers, though, think that's foolish."
"Done, Master Ralke." Johann came up to him, wiping blood off his hands. "That will hold them till their mates get them to the company surgeon. I'd love to hear the story they're going to tell him as to how they came by those wounds!"
"It'll be a champion fable for sure," Ralke agreed. "Too bad none of them can write well enough to copy it for us to read later. Enough time spent on them, lads. Lash our own men to their saddles and be off!"
They moved on, even the three wounded drivers riding. None of the wounds was terribly severe, though one would have been without Gar's invisible help. Two men wore slings, but only needed one hand
to ride and encourage the mules.
As soon as they were out of sight of the fallen mercenaries, Gar said, "You know that none of those soldiers will really tell the captain, of course."
"I know, but I have to let them think I believe they will, or they'll call in some of their comrades to track us down," Ralke said. "I recognized their colors, though. They're the Badger Company. Their captain is probably a good customer at the taverns at Therngee Town, just over those hills." He pointed at the range ahead. "When we stop there to trade, I'll leave him a note telling what his men have done and describing the one with the long scar on his cheek. That will probably be enough for him to recognize, and if he knows one, he'll know their whole squadron." He shook his head. "Few enough of us merchants survive, what with bandits and wild beasts and bosses who decide to take our goods without paying us. We don't need the hazards of the professional soldiers, too."
"I'm surprised to see so much greed here, Master Ralke," Gar said. "In my far-off land, no one uses money, or tries to take anyone else's goods."
"Oh, don't they, now! And how do they pay their taxes?"
"There aren't any." Gar tried to describe the original settlement on this planet. "There aren't any bosses to demand them. There aren't any cities, either, only villages, and the people get together in the evenings to discuss their problems, and work out any disputes."
Ralke barked laughter, short, sharp, and sarcastic. "That must be a golden land indeed! The old tales tell us that our ancestors lived like that, hundreds of years ago-but there are always greedy people being born, and people who are better at fighting than anyone else and see no reason why they should sweat digging and hoeing in the fields when they can just take what they want from people who're weaker."
A Wizard In Chaos Page 2
