"Make enough money to buy passage on a merchant ship, then," Cort suggested.
"I'm working on it."
"You'll never make it one job at a time," Cort said, with certainty. "Sign on full-time with a mercenary company, stay with them a year or so and save your money behind your belt instead of spending it on easy women and watered brandy, and you'll have enough."
"I suppose I'll have to," Dirk sighed. "I don't like being tied down to one place that long, though."
"No other way," Cort pointed out, "and you're more likely to be killed hiring out battle by battle, than by joining with a company of men who depend on you as you depend on them. A free lance gets put in the front line every time."
"Don't I know it," Dirk said wryly.
"I could use another sergeant," Cort said slowly.
"My master sergeant has been talking retirement for some time, and the captain's been telling me he has too many recruits-he needs to set up another platoon. Why not try some steady work for, a change?"
"Why, thanks." Dirk straightened, looking surprised. "I really don't know enough about you to accept, though." He grinned suddenly. "But to tell you the truth, I'm inclined to accept."
"I hope you do." Cort smiled. "Learn more about me, then. Ask."
"Well, for starters, what's the name of your company, and who's your captain?"
"Yes, that might be handy to know, mightn't it?" Cort said with a laugh. "Well, we're Captain Devers's Blue Company, my lad, and proud of it. We've taken our share of losses, it's true, but we've had far more victories."
"That's a track record I can live with. What about you yourself, though, lieutenant? How did you get into this line of work? Not exactly the most secure future in the world."
"A grave is very secure." Cort sobered suddenly. He didn't like the feeling, so he took another drink. "As to the chances of staying out of that grave, well, they're better as a peasant hoeing crops, but it's a lousy life, with never enough to eat and a house that might blow down around your ears."
"I didn't think you had the look of a peasant," Dirk observed.
"Of course not," Cort said impatiently, "but I grew up playing with their children, then learning to rule them. I'm the third son of a bully. Do you have the Third Son rule where you come from?"
"First son to stay with the estate, second for the army, third for the navy?"
"You must have grown up near the sea. Close, but here the first son becomes his father's chief bruiser, then a bully when his father dies. The second joins the mercenaries, which gives the bully an `in' if he needs a troop. The third goes out into the hills to find a sage, so he can sit at a teacher's feet and learn how to save the souls of his whole family."
"At least you believe in souls," Dirk said. "I take it you didn't want to become a sage?"
Cort shook his head, mouth a grim line. "I still have hopes of marrying. Oh, I know the stories about the village girls visiting the male sages to learn the arts of love, just as the village boys go to the female sages, but I wanted a wife, home, children . . ." His gaze drifted away, Violet's sweet face coming into his mind's eye again, bringing with it a melancholy so sudden and powerful that he feared that he might weep.
"That the only reason you didn't go into philosophy?" Dirk asked. "Not the best reason for becoming a soldier, I'd say."
Suddenly, and rather oddly, Cort was very much aware that he was on trial here. He shrugged off the mood and turned back to Dirk, wondering why on earth he should care what the man thoughtbut he did. "My spirit was too active and restless, so I took service as a mercenary. Being a bully's son, I started as a sergeant and moved up to lieutenant two months later."
"And the life suits you?"
Cort shrugged. "Every life ends in death, but at least a soldier has a chance to fight. The risks are greater, but the pay is better, too. The work suits me-life becomes very vivid, very intense, in battle. Yes, the sight of a sword slicing at me sets fear burning through me, but it. sets me afire with the lust for.life, too, and there's no feeling like victory, when the battle's done and many' lie dead but you're still alive. It even makes the panic and horror of defeat worthwhile; just knowing that there will be another victory some day-and the camaraderie of men who have lived through a battle together, and know they can depend on one another no matter how much they hate one another's guts, is closer than anything else I've experienced. That's why my men obey me-not because I'm a bully's son, and not because I can beat any of them into the ground, but because I've done my best to keep them alive, and the battle's come and gone, but we're all still here."
He drew breath, amazed that he had talked for so long, but Dirk only nodded, looking very serious. "Yes. I think I'd like serving with an officer who feels that way about his men."
"Stout man!" Cort grinned as he clasped Dirk's hand. Then he fished a silver mark from his beltpurse and set it in Dirk's palm. "There's the coin of enlistment. Welcome to the Blue Company, Sergeant Dulaine."
"Thank you, lieutenant," Dirk said, grinning. "What's my first duty?"
"On liberty? To get drunk and make the whores rich. For an officer, though, it's a bit different. On leave, I spend most of my time watching out for my men, breaking up fights before they start and calming outraged burghers. I even patrol the streets." Cort set his hands on the edge of the table and shoved himself to his feet-but the table shoved back, and he half fell into his chair again, looking about him in stunned amazement.
"No patrolling tonight, I think." Dirk stood slowly and helped Cort to his feet. "Drank more than you knew, and faster, didn't you? Well, keeping the troops in line is sergeant's work, really; lieutenants just keep the sergeants honest. Introduce me to your men, lieutenant, and let me take the watch."
"But I always..."
"Not tonight." Dirk didn't mention that Cort was obviously in the mood to get drunk, dead drunk. "Let me earn that mark you just gave me."
"All right." Cort decided that it did sound like a good idea-and wondered why it was so hard to think, so hard to keep shoving Violet out of his mind. He took a badge from behind his belt, one with three chevrons on it, and waved it in the general direction of Dirk's chest. "Here's your rank, until we can get you livery"
Dirk intercepted the badge before sticking could turn into stabbing and pinned it on his tunic. "Handsome piece of jewelry, that. Okay, lieutenant, take me to meet the boys."
They rode out through the gates of Loutre with Master Ralke in high spirits. "A very profitable stop, Gar Pike, and a pleasant one, thanks to your knowledge of the language. Really, I'll have to give you a bonus when this is done!"
"I won't refuse it," Gar said with a grin.
"Worth it ten times over! We sold the whole cargo, and bought another worth half again what we paid for it! Off to Zangaret Town, now, where they value the kind of gauds these Loutre folk make!"
"Good dealing almost makes the hazards worth it, eh? But if you have to deal with translators like that all the time, it's a wonder you ever make a profit at all!"
Ralke's smile turned to a frown on the instant. "A wonder indeed, and most men who go trading come home in beggary, if they come home at all! No, friend, I did well indeed when I hired you."
"Thank you," Gar said, trying to sound flattered. "So there aren't very many merchants, then?"
"So few that we all know each other, even those we've never met. Oscar of Drellan deals far to the west, selling the silks made along that coast; he wishes to, buy the sort of plates and cups these Loutrens make, and Holger of Alberg buys them from me to trade with Oscar for his silks, then brings the silks to sell to me. Lotar of Silace carries cloves and pomegranates up from the south with many more spices as well; he trades them to Albert of Rehem, who barters them to me for the ivory I buy from Krenel of Grelholm with the stout woolen cloth woven in Wurm. Krenel brings the walrus tusks and narwhal horns down from Marl of Rohr, whom I've never seen but who trades his ivories for the cloth I buy from the Wurmers. I could go on for half an hour, but
not much more; we are all known to one another, and have each built up a band of drivers who are as strong a set of fighters as any mercenary squadron. We are the ones who've survived."
Gar shuddered. "A risky trade indeed!"
"But a profitable one. If I live to retire, I'll have as much wealth as any boss, though I'll be careful to hide it well and be sure few people know about it. My house is already a virtual fortress, and I'll make it even more so as I grow older. There are peasants aplenty who are glad to move their families into my compound, train with weapons, and do an honest day's labor in the warehouses. They'll have new tunics of stout cloth every year for their pains, real cottages that keep the drafts out instead of the tumbledown huts most live in, and three pounds of bread and one of vegetables every day for each family, with meat once a week and fish twice. That's fat living indeed, for most poor folk."
"So even in your retirement, you'll be working hard managing all those people and warehousing goods for other merchants," Gar deduced.
"Yes, but I won't have to go out on the road again. Five more years of good trading, and I'll manage it! What say you to five years of steady employment, friend Gar?"
Gar noticed how quickly he'd been promoted from stranger to friend. "It's an attractive offer, Master Ralke, and I'll think very seriously about it. Before I can settle into one job that way, though, I've some personal affairs I must set straight."
"Ah!" Ralke nodded. "A woman, an inheritance, or. a revenge-no, don't tell me. I don't want to know! But when your score is settled, friend, remember where you'll find a safe berth, with Ralke of the town of Firith, and glad I'll be of your company!" He frowned suddenly. "You won't bring another war down on us, will you?"
"Just the opposite, if I can manage it," Gar told him. "I hope to prevent a war, not fight one." Ralke raised a palm, turning his face away. "I won't ask how. But I'm glad to hear it." He turned back to Gar. "The bosses let a few of us trade, for without us, they'd never have the luxuries they want so badly. After all, what's the point in being a boss if you can't live better than a peasant?" , Gar could have said that for some men, power was enough in itself, but he had the good sense to hold his tongue.
"In war, though, all such unspoken agreements go by the board," Ralke continued. "When bosses send their bullies before them to fight one another, any luckless merchant who gets caught between is ground into the dirt and his goods destroyed. We survive by learning ahead of time who's fighting whom and where, then going far away from their battleground. But there's always the fear that someone will start a war too fast for us to learn of it, and we'll have to leave our goods and flee for our lives." He nodded. "Done that more than once myself, I have. No, war's bad for business. It boosts our losses and reduces our markets." He grinned suddenly. "If I were a smith or an armorer, I own I'd welcome war, for all the business it would bring me." He frowned again. "But I'm not a smith, I'm a merchant, and I'll support any man who works for peace!"
"I'll remember that," Gar assured him. Then he stiffened, as though hearing something.
"What is it?" Ralke demanded.
"Boots, a score of them to our dozen by the sound, heavily armed and running down a hidden trail ahead and to our right!"
"You've keen ears, friend," Ralke said, "but I don't doubt you." He turned away to bawl battle orders to his drivers.
CHAPTER 6
The boots burst out of the underbrush, bellowing like bulls spotting a trespasser. They must have been watching the caravan, because they didn't seem at all surprised to see the mules drawn up in a circle and the drivers spaced around them evenly, bucklers on their arms and arrows on their bowstrings. The first flight took out eight boots. The other twelve roared even louder and kept on coming.
They were too close for a second flight of arrows. The drivers dropped their bows and pulled out short swords, axes, or iron-banded quarterstaves.
"Treachery!" Ralke shouted. "They wear the livery of the Boss of Loutre! We're betrayed!"
"Don't be too quick to blame the boss," Gar snapped, then thrust at a boot. The man twisted aside, but so did Gar's sword, slicing through the cloth just below his breastplate and leaving a line of blood. The man howled in shock and swung with his battleaxe..
Gar sidestepped, bringing up his buckler to turn the axe's edge, but three boots had converged on him, and he had to duck to avoid the spearpoint aimed at his head. The edge seared fire across the back of his neck. He bellowed with the pain and dropped down to a crouch. The boots, thinking he had fallen, all jammed in with a cry of victory. Gar stabbed upward, catching one man in the shoulder, then yanked the sword out as he shot to his feet, catching a second attacker on the side of the head with his shield.
But the third drove in from the front, howling in anger. His spearpoint jammed on Gar's chain mail, but a stab of pain told him the tip had scored a rib. He thrust at the man's face. The boot leaped back with a scream, an inch away from the sword's tipand fell, his feet tangled with his fallen mate's legs. Gar kicked him on the helmet and stepped over the dazed man to meet two more boots running toward him.
One spear stabbed low, the other stabbed high. Gar caught the one on his sword blade and the other on his buckler. The high-stabber reversed his spear like a quarterstaff and drove the butt into Gar's belly. Gar fell to his knees, gagging but managing to lift his buckler to fend off another stab. The other man gave a shout of victory as he thrust, a shout that turned to a gurgle as an arrow pierced his throat. His eyes bulged; he fell.
Three drivers came running up to dispatch the other spearman, one of the first attackers who was struggling to his feet. But Gar was scuttling forward on his knees, managing to wheeze, "Save who you can!" and breaking off the tip of the arrow, then yanking the shaft out of the fallen man's neck. Blood spurted-the honed edge of the arrowhead had severed the'carotid artery-but Gar pressed his thumb and -forefinger over entrance and exit wounds, choking out, "He's lucky-it only struck muscle!" as he reached with his mind frantically to knit cell to cell, holding back the rush of blood while the artery wall healed and grew firm again.
The drivers stared at him, amazed by such mercy, then turned away to bandage the few enemies who still had a chance-and, of course, their own.
Satisfied that the man would live, Gar snatched the fellow's belt off, flipped its owner over, and bound his hands. Then he looked up to see Ralke staring down at him. "I have to have at least one of them alive," Gar said by way of explanation. "More if I can."
"Well, you've succeeded in that, and in saving us all," Ralke told him. "Three of them came for you, and that left two of my drivers free to help their mates. They knocked over two boots, and the four of them helped four more, and ... Well, you drew so much of their attack that my men finished them off easily. Only one of our drivers is down with a spearhead in his thigh. The others are bleeding, but they can walk."
"Let me see the man with the spear wound." Gar scrambled to his feet. "While I'm bandaging him, tie up the others and find me their sergeant, if he's still alive."
"The brute?" Ralke grinned. "Oh, he's alive, all right. He came for me, but he wasn't a trained swordsman. He'll live, worse luck."
"Then I need to talk with him. But first, the driver."
It took Gar ten minutes to make sure the driver was all right. By luck, the spearhead had missed both arteries and veins, and Gar was able to start the flesh healing as he poured on brandy and bandaged the wound. Then he turned to the sergeant. He knelt beside the man, whose teeth were gritted against the pain of the wound in his shoulder. Gar lifted his head and shoulders, none too gently, and listened with his mind as he demanded, "Why did your boss send you to steal our goods?"
"Because he wanted them," the man grunted, but the face that flashed through his mind wasn't the boss's.
Gar shook him, and the sergeant cried out in pain. "You're so used to lying that it's become a habit with you," Gar told him. "Think! You have nothing to gain by telling a falsehood, and I'll know if you do! It was Torgi the
Translator who sent you after us! Is he that spiteful a man?"
At last fear showed on the sergeant's face. "How did you know that?"
"It was there in your face for those who know how to read the eyes," Gar told him, "and I can guess his reason, but I want to hear it from you. Tell! Was it only spite, or did he want the money?" Superstition shadowed the man's eyes.
Gar decided to nudge him. "Your name is Hannok, and you haven't told me that. That, too, is clear to see for those who know how to read faces."
The sergeant who didn't shrink from a sword or a mace now paled with fear of unknown powers. "He wanted the other part-in-twenty."
"Was that his only reason, though? How much did he pay you?"
"Twelve silver marks," the sergeant admitted. "That was the other half of the amount Torgi's lie hid." Ralke, too, was eyeing Gar with something like fear.
"So it wasn't greed alone," Gar, inferred. "He has a little power, and doesn't want anyone infringing on it."
"He could also be afraid that we'd reveal his treachery to his boss," Ralke said heavily.
"A good guess. My advice, Master Ralke, is for us to quit this domain and do it quickly, for we have an enemy here who won't rest until he sees us dead. That was what you were supposed to do, wasn't it, Hannok?"
"It was," the sergeant admitted.
"Even leaving may not do," Ralke said, frowning. "Tell me, Brute Hannok, is Torgi's post only that of translator? Surely there isn't enough work for him in that function alone."
"He's the boss's steward," Hannok growled. "And every boss has a steward," Ralke said heavily. "If they take up Torgi's cause, we'll be lost."
"They don't dare," Gar told him, "for his cause is that of betraying his lord. Any steward caught aiding him will be dismissed from his post at the least, hanged at the worst. They'd do better condemning Torgi, and I don't doubt they will, if his perfidy becomes known."
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