"That's how the bullies began, eh?"
"Bullies indeed! But they found out quickly enough that some bullies were stronger than others, and could beat them all one by one if they didn't do as they were told-bigger thugs who put together armies of bullies, each of whom had his own band of bruisers, and that's how the bosses came to be."
Gar nodded; folklore confirmed his guess. "And the merchants?"
Again the bark of laughter. "Mercenaries came first, but taxes came before any. I told you that the bullies took what they wanted instead of working to raise crops, weave cloth, or build houses. Well, the bosses made the bullies gather the food and cloth for them, and the bullies, not to be outdone, appointed their best bruisers to collect the goods, and not just enough for the bosses, of course, but for themselves, too..."
"And the bruisers decided to take a little extra for themselves."
"Most surely. The upshot of it was that they took everything but the bare necessities the common people needed to keep them alive. They took their jewelry, too, the necklaces and bracelets of amber and shells that the people had made for themselves-and when they brought them back to the boss, he recognized some of the beads as being of gold."
"And all the old tales told how much gold was worth," Gar interpreted.
Ralke nodded. "Children's tales, and stories from old books. The boss told the people of that village that they could keep half of their next year's crops, if they gave him more gold beads instead. He gave each of his bruisers a few gold beads as part of their pay, and they gave them to their boots. The boots took them back to the village and traded them for food and drink-and trade and money were both born."
Reborn, rather. Gar was more sure than ever that philosophy could never triumph over human nature. "And gold gave rise to mercenaries?"
"Well, it gave the bosses a way to pay soldiers without keeping them as part of their household forever. For that, there are some who say that mercenaries invented money, or were the cause of that invention, at least-and they may be right."
"Don't the old tales tell?" Gar asked.
Ralke shrugged. "The tales say that Langobard, the first captain, was one of the few left alive when two bosses fought over his people's village and chewed it up in the fighting. Langobard gathered the few others who lived and took to the greenwood. I don't know if they were the first bandits, but they've certainly become the most famous! In the next few years, others whose villages had been burned came to join him, as well as those who disobeyed the bosses, turning on their tax collectors and killing them. His band became the largest and richest in the forest, preying off the tax collectors and, later, the parties of bruisers sent to kill them. At last the Boss of Tungri, who claimed the forest, came himself with all his army to slay the bandits, and Langobard knew his day was done, unless he could invent a scheme to delay the boss."
"I take it he was very inventive."
"Oh, most surely! He sent a band to raid the borders of the boss's neighbor, the Bully of Staucheim, and the bully called on his master, the Boss of Dolgobran, who called up all his -bullies and their men and marched off against Tungri."
"But Tungri didn't know about it, being deep in the woods chasing Langobard."
"He found out quickly enough. The messenger reached him the next morning, as his army was breaking camp among the trees. Tungri cursed and turned his men to ride home-but as they came to a meadow, they found Langobard and his men drawn up awaiting them under a white flag. Langobard told the boss that he and his men were tired of living like wild animals and offered their services to him in exchange for new clothes and a year's food, so that they would no longer need to rob tax collectors. I'm sure the taste was sour in Tungri's mouth, but he needed to ride against Dolgobran without delay, and didn't dare lose men in a fight with Langobard."
"Plus, having Langobard's troops on his side couldn't hurt," Gar observed.
"Indeed not! He struck his deal with Langobard and marched against Dolgobran forthwith. They won the day, and Tungri paid Langobard out of Dolgobran's granaries. Thus were the mercenaries born."
"Did Tungri ever learn why Dolgobran marched against him?"
"Of course, but he never learned where the raiders had come from." Ralke chuckled. "The common folk did; but the bosses never heard the tale till Langobard, Dolgobran, and Tungri were long in their graves. By that time, there were so many bands of mercenaries, and the bosses needed their services so badly, that there was no taking revenge, and no point in it, either."
"A shrewd man, this Langobard," Gar observed. Ralke nodded. "He lived out his life till old age took him in his bed, and which of us can ask for more?"
Well, there were a great many people on a great many worlds in the galaxy who could ask for more, such as happiness, full bellies, and a few little luxuries. Gar took it as a measure of this land's desperation, that the people's highest dream was simply to survive. "You must be asking for more than being allowed to live until you die, Master Ralke, or you wouldn't risk your life carrying goods from one town to another."
"The hope of making a better life for his wife and children makes a man do foolish things." But Ralke grinned. "Besides, I like the. thrill of it, and the chance that I'll be paid better than a soldier in the end."
"I'm not sure many troopers think of their work as thrilling," Gar said dryly. "Still, you could have become some sort of craftsman-let's say a silversmith. Even the bosses must have to pay a man well if there aren't very many who can do the work."
"Ah, but for that, you have to have a talent for crafting things well." Ralke held up wide hands with short, thick fingers. "I have no gift in working with silver, or with wood or clay for that matterbut I do seem to have a knack for striking a good bargain."
"And for fighting?" Gar asked.
"That, too, yes. My father was a mercenary, though he never stayed in one place long enough to marry. I, at least, can come home to a wife at the end of each trading journey."
If you live, Gar thought, but didn't say so. Ralke was silent for a minute, too, and Gar had a notion the words ran through the other man's mind, as well. He didn't try to read his thoughts, thoughthere wasn't reason enough.
Cort's men began to grumble as they passed town after town in their march to liberty. Sergeant Otto finally said, "All the other platoons have already stopped, lieutenant, and it's almost sunset. Why are we still going?"
"For the same reason we kept marching last month, and the month before," Cort told him. "Why did only the Sky and Indigo platoons stop at the first village?"
"Why," said the master sergeant, "because there weren't enough inns and whores there for more than . . ." His voice ran out as his face turned thoughtful. "Well, it's true that Bozzeratle Town is fresher-the landlord at the inn gladder to see us, and the whores, too. They aren't as jaded, either."
"The farther away the village, the more welcome we are," Cort told him. "Still, there are limits to that welcome. Remind the men to watch their manners."
"Be sure that I will," Sergeant Otto said grimly, then called back to his staff sergeants, "Bozzeratle Town! Tell 'em not to go throwing their weight around! We want to be welcome next month, too!"
The men answered with a shout of joy. An hour later, they marched into Bozzeratle and burst into the inn.
Cort stayed long enough to drink a flagon, and to make sure his sergeants were staying vigilant and not drinking too much. The soldiers were drinking too much, of course-that was half the reason why they'd come. But they were jovial and, if not actually polite, at least not offering harm to anyone, particularly the serving wenches, though they joked with them and praised their charms. Drunk or sober, they all knew the captain's rule: If the wench offered herself, all well and good to accept, but if she didn't, no soldier of the Blue Company could even ask. That didn't mean that none of them would, of.course, but it did mean that the sergeant would be there to stop him before he frightened anyone. The better companies were very strict as to how their soldiers treated civili
ans--you never knew which town, or even village, might scrape up the money to hire you next month.
Satisfied that all was as much under control as it could be, Cort went out the door, walking quickly in, the gathering darkness, back to the town's central street, then left into a lane that was just as broad, and boasted tall houses with wide lawns. Lamps on top of poles burned here and there, giving the street a dim light, far more than the rest of the village had. Every house had a lamp burning by the door, too. This was where the more prosperous citizens lived, the ones who had become vital to the bosses' security or comfort in one way or another-retired officers, a merchant or two, and the local doctor.
Cort hurried up the flagstone walk of the third house on the right and thumped the knocker. After a few moments, a face appeared at the door, stared in surprise, then opened it. "Lieutenant Cort!" said the aging man with the candelabra in his hand. "What a surprise!"
He didn't look pleased-nervous, in fact-but Cort didn't notice that in his hurry. "The captain never tells us ahead of time when we'll have liberty," he said, by way of apology. "Good to see you again, Barley. Are your master and mistress inand Miss Violet?"
"The master and mistress, of course! This way, if you will, lieutenant. They're in the sitting room." Barley turned away, and Cort followed him eagerly. He had been dreaming of Violet every night, and whenever there was a free moment during the day. It had been a month since he had seen her. Her raven ringlets, her warm brown eyes, her full red lips curved in a coquettish smile-his heart skipped a beat at the mere thought of her, and soon he would see her!
CHAPTER 3
"Madam, master-Lieutenant Cort has come to call." Cort pushed past the butler, pulse thumping, smile wide with anticipation. Bruiser Ellsworth and his wife were rising to greet him, he alert, watchful, ready for anything-=but she looked troubled, even, perhaps, afraid.
Alarm vibrated through Cort. "Is Violet well?"
"Oh, yes, quite well, young man," Mistress Ellsworth said, "but she isn't at home."
"Well, that's a relief. I was afraid-I mean-"
"A young man is always afraid for the young woman who has caught his eye," Bruiser Ellsworth said, "and rightly so, in a world like ours. Violet is well, but she isn't with us just now. Will you sit, lieutenant?"
"Yes, thank you, sir." Cort took the chair the older man indicated.
"Port, I think, Barley," Ellsworth said. The butler nodded, turning away to leave the room.
An awkward silence fell, but Curt didn't mind it, really; he reveled in the warmth and home-feeling of the house and of Violet's parents. All were solid and stable, reassuring in the way the two older people clasped hands still, even at their age. Mistress Ellsworth's figure was matronly, but scarcely portly, and she was still handsome, with hints of the beauty she had been in her youth. She wore a long, dark blue gown with a broad white collar, her gold-and-silver hair in a coil that seemed more like a coronet. As for her husband, the title "bruiser" seemed very ill-fitting-he was still muscular and sharp-eyed, of course, but his hair had streaks of silver now, his beard and mustache were almost completely gray, and he seemed so prosperous and contented that it was hard to imagine him as a man of war.
As to the room, it was pleasant, somehow combining luxury and thrift, letting the visitor know that the owners had more than enough money, but were careful how they spent it. A fire burned in a small fireplace, only waist high, but tiled and with a mantelpiece elaborately carved. The walls were painted butter-yellow, reflecting the fire's glow with warmth, and the walnut flooring was polished to a similar glow. A brightly patterned carpet covered most of it. Furniture consisted of only a chest against one wall and a settee on one side of the fireplace facing the two chairs on the other, all of dark, carved wood, all padded, all solid and comfortable. It was more than spartan, less than extravagant, and very much a home.
The bruiser stirred and broke the silence. "So you've won your battle, then?"
"Aye, and only two small wounds to show for it," Cort confirmed. "How did you know, sir?"
"Well, the lack of serious wounds spoke somewhat, but the energy and eagerness in you spoke more. A mercenary is downcast when he's lost a battle, lieutenant, and not only because he's lost the second half of his pay."
"I don't think the boss was any too happy about having to pay that," Cort said with a grin.
"They never are," the bruiser assured him. "Fifteen years as a mercenary, though, and only twice did I see a boss or a bully try to renege on that second payment when we'd won his war for him." His smile was hard. "We took it from them both, of course."
Cort remembered the clash of arms and a boss crying, "Enough, enough!"
"They don't try it often."
Ellsworth nodded. "Bruisers and boots only fight once a year or so, and a quarter of our force is always straight from the plow. Mercenaries fight every month. There are few bosses indeed who can stand against even one free company."
Cort frowned. "Then why..." He caught himself in time, realizing his rudeness. "Excuse me, sir."
"Why did I take service with a boss and become a bruiser instead of trying to build my own free company?" Ellsworth smiled. "Well asked, young man, and the more so because you'll have to make the choice yourself, some day. Well, a bruiser's life is more certain-when you only fight once a year, there're twelve more chances you'll come home to your wife and children alive. And the pay is just as good as a lieutenant's. True, a captain has greater income, but greater expenses, too, and a greater risk of losing all. Even if my boss were beaten and he had to yield some of his land, I'd still be his man, and still have the income of the farms he bids me supervise for him."
"And if yours were the lands he yielded to the victor, the new boss would probably still have you watch over his new farmers for him." Cort nodded.
"Oh, he might have a mercenary officer who wanted to become his bruiser," Ellsworth said, with a grin that as much as said that was how he'd come by his own land and title. "Even then, though, I'd still be my boss's man, and though my family would have to yield this house to the new bruiser, we'd still have housing within the boss's castle."
"It is a more certain life," Cort agreed. "In fact, it's enough to make me wonder why any man would become a captain."
"Wealth," Ellsworth said simply. "If a captain manages to hold a winning company together for even ten years, he can retire as rich as any boss. But the price is heavy, young man. I've seen very few who married before they retired, and fifty is late to begin a family."
Cort thought about that-then suddenly thought about nothing, because there, through the great window facing the front of the house, he saw his Violet coming down the walk, laughing, brighteyed, vivacious, beautiful, thoroughly desirable ...
And on the arm of a young civilian, gazing up into his face, and there was no mistaking the light in her eyes-it was love.
Cort hadn't been aware he'd come to his feet, but Ellsworth was saying, "Sit down, now, lieutenant, sit down. It's not as though you'd been betrothed, after all, and a maiden does have the right to change her mind as her heart tells her-a right, and even a duty."
"You could have told me."
"We were warming to it," Dame Ellsworth said, voice trembling.
It was true, Cort realized-the bruiser had led the conversation to marrying, and not marrying. Ten minutes more, and he probably would have broken the news to Cort as gently as he could.
"Thank you for trying to be kind," he said in a brittle voice that he scarcely recognized as his own. "I'd better go."
"Surely not!" Dame Ellsworth protested, and there was definitely fear in her voice now. Cort would have told her not to worry, he wouldn't beat up his rival right there on her doorstep, but his anger choked him to silence. He strode to the door, yanked it open, and went out and down the path, walking quickly, but managing a stiff "Good evening" to Violet and her swain as he passed by. She stared at him in shock that turned quickly to fear, and the young man looked up with a scowl that turned
to wariness as he recognized a mercenary officer. He was soft as a slug, Cort thought with disgust, but he had to admit the man was handsome, and jealousy gnawed at his vitals. He walked even faster, through the gateposts and out into the street, Violet's wail of distress fading behind him.
His stride ate up the ground, even though he was stiff with hurt and rage. Blind misery choked him, choked his mind; it was ten minutes before his thoughts cleared enough to realize where his feet were taking him: not to the inn, but down a side street to the row of cheap taverns, where his rowdiest men would be carousing, taverns that served brandy, not ale, taverns where they didn't mind a bit of brawling, and the wenches were outright whores.
Cort wasn't sure which he needed most: the whore, the brandy, or the brawl. Then he decided there was no need to choose, and strode on down a street that rapidly narrowed to an alley and left the broad ways, and the lights, behind.
By sunset, the merchant caravan, had come out of the woods and was plodding across a wide, flat land with low grass and, here and there, cattle grazing. Too little water for good farming, Gar thought. A hill bulged up in the middle of the flatness, seeming very much out of place, its sides sweeping up in a slope gentle enough for cattle to graze on, its top a perfect dome. Gar had a notion a gas bubble had been trapped in molten rock there, in the early days of the planet when everything was in flux.
Master Ralke looked about him anxiously. "I don't like this, don't like it at all. We're too much of a danger to those mercenaries-they don't dare have us bear word to their captain."
"Wouldn't they be more afraid to attack you again?" Gar asked. "After all, if their captain would flog them for stealing, what will he do to them for murder?"
Ralke cast him a peculiar look. "What womb did you just crawl out of? If we hadn't fought them off, they'd have killed us all!"
Gar stared. "Killed us? Just for a few mule-loads of goods?"
"They're mercenaries," Ralke said. "Killing means nothing to them. They do it for money every time they go into battle. Why not do it for loot?"
A Wizard In Chaos Page 3
