Conrad Starguard-The Radiant Warrior

by Leo Frankowski

  The wood-carver, Ivor Korenkov, found himself instructing his new employers, and the days wound on.

  Krystyana made the right commercial connection. She found a cloth merchant eager to deal. It was already arranged that he would buy some two thousand square yards—Cieszyn measure—of raw wool cloth for seven-eighths of the current price, twenty-three pence per square yard. We swore the agreement before a notary, who produced three copies: one for each of us and one for himself. We left one thousand pence each with a Templar as surety, and the deal was closed.

  Days later, I was still busy at the foundry, but Krystyana had nothing else to do. The story of her rebuffs at the castle had already spread, and she was embarrassed by it.

  "Pretty girl, I have one more job for you. Take Angelo and the servant woman—whatever her name is—"

  "Zelda."

  "Zelda, then. The three of you should go and buy one thousand pence worth of dye or whatever Angelo needs. Then I want you and Angelo to go back toward Okoitz."

  "But just he and I alone?"

  "I'll be with you as far as Sir Miesko's manor, and that's as far as you're going. We can send Angelo alone to Okoitz."

  "Why send him alone, Sir Conrad?"

  "Because I'm not sure if I trust him. If I've hired a thief, I'd rather find out sooner than later."

  "Why trust him at all? I mean, why take a chance with thousands of pence worth of dye and mules?"

  "I have to be able to trust him because he knows things that I don't. He could pull the wool over my eyes, and I wouldn't know it."

  "Pull the wool . . ." She couldn't sort that one out. "Then why are we going to Sir Miesko's?"

  "Because I want you to stay with Richeza for a few weeks. Remember what I said about her being a truly fine woman? Remember her grace and charm and the way everyone feels comfortable around her? Now, compare her with those 'ladies' at Cieszyn Castle and ask yourself what you want to be like when you grow up." She thought a bit and was suddenly in tears. Her arms went around my neck. "It's okay, pretty girl."

  Two days later, we set out at dawn. I was fully armed and on Anna, of course. Krystyana was sidesaddle on her palfrey. Angelo followed on a mule, leading a second mule loaded with roots, bark, herbs, and sea shells.

  We arrived at noon. Richeza was charming as always, and if she was offended by my intention to leave in a few hours, she didn't show it. Gossip about our adventures at Cieszyn Castle had already reached her, and she had the insight to invite Krystyana to stay with her before I had a chance to broach the subject.

  Still, courtesy forbade my immediate departure, and it was midafternoon before I was on the road again for Cieszyn. "Well, Anna, do you think we can make it before dark?"

  Anna nodded her head. She'd always had the disconcerting habit of nodding or shaking her head to questions, as if she actually understood what was said. She probably picked up some clue from my body language, like the famous Clever Hans, but it was still interesting to talk to her.

  "Then let's see how fast you can go, but don't strain yourself."

  She took off at a full gallop and kept it up for the better part of an hour. Finally, I starting worrying; a good horse will run itself to death if you ask it. I reined her back to a walk. "Easy, girl! You'll hurt yourself."

  She shook her head no, took the bit in her teeth, and galloped the rest of the way back to Cieszyn. I dismounted at the city gates to check Anna over. She wasn't even sweating! An amazing horse.

  A week later, I got word that Angelo Muskarini had arrived safely at Okoitz with his charge. I was vindicated.

  More remained to be done at the brass foundry than I had thought. This business of working in a pit and baking the molds with an open fire was obviously inefficient and wasteful of fuel. We built an oven of clay bricks for drying and baking the clay molds. Eventually we were to build five more.

  The lathe had to be huge, and it needed bearings that had to be built before the bushings could be turned. We had to build a small lathe in order to build a big one. The big lathe was too large to be hand-powered, so we built a big barrel cage at the headstock. A man got in this cage and climbed continuously uphill, turning the cage and the part on the lathe.

  I was enjoying myself, but it was five weeks before I felt confident enough of the Krakowski brothers to return to Okoitz.

  During that time, though I had done the right thing by sending Krystyana to Richeza's "finishing school," I began to suffer for it. When one has had a continuous supply of sex, abstention becomes difficult. I soon discovered that my knightly right to the use of young women did not apply within city limits, and one more visit to Cieszyn Castle convinced me that I wanted nothing there.

  Look. I was quite willing to tolerate honest ignorance. Most of the people I had met in the thirteenth century had been brutally poor; they'd had no chance to improve themselves. But those women of the castle had absolutely nothing to do and expended an incredible amount of effort in doing it. They were wrapped up in stupid mind games, courts of love, and "he said that she said that they said . . ." nonsense. They placed an absurdly high value on the virginity of unmarried women and none at all on the chastity of those who were married.

  In short, they offended my moral code and were not worth the bother.

  There were prostitutes in town, and I tried one. She spent the first half of the evening wheedling me for more money and the second half on the streets after I threw her out.

  Mostly, in the evenings I drank a lot. The innkeeper, Tadeusz Wrolawski, became my regular drinking partner. The Krakowski brothers were fine people, you understand, but it is not a good idea to socialize too much with one's subordinates. The role change from drinking buddy to willing worker becomes difficult if one must do it too often. Also, they had their wives to keep content.

  "Socialism, Tadeusz!" I explained drunkenly. "This country and this century are in horrible shape because of the lack of socialism!"

  "You are absolutely right, Sir Conrad! What is socialism?"

  "I am glad that you agree with me, my good friend Tadeusz. All of this business of no work in Cieszyn and too much work in Okoitz and not enough to eat and no sewers and little babies dying can all be cured with a little technology and some organization."

  "This sounds marvelous! What is a sewer?"

  "All we have to do is to get things organized and apply a little appropriate technology. We have everything else. We have the manpower, and we have the materials. Give us nine years and we'll have things running right and beat the Mongols, besides. Have her bring us some more wine."

  "Outstanding! What is a Mongol?"

  "Eh? Mongols are little greasy yellow bastards that are going to ride in out of the east and try to kill everybody. They won't do it, though, if we get organized. Blow hell out of them with cannons. Brass cannons, maybe."

  "These Mongols are like Tartars?"

  "Same bastards. Change their name a lot."

  "I have heard some horrible tales from traders from the east. They speak of whole cities put to the sword! Every man, every child, every animal! Not even the women spared for ravishing!"

  "Yeah. Those are the bastards. But it's not going to happen here. We'll stop them. It's just a matter of organization. Caring about people. Technology. Socialism."

  "You say 'technology.' What is this technology?"

  "Why, technology is what I have going at the brass works across the street. New lathes, new ovens, better production processes."

  "They certainly are prosperous, Sir Conrad! A month ago they were nothing but three starving men and their families with nothing to do. Now they work from dawn to dusk. Their wives have bought pigs and chickens and new clothes. They have hired a dozen new men!"

  "See? Technology triumphant and socialism in action! Another mug of wine?"

  "And this technology, it can be applied anywhere? Say, to an inn?"

  "Well, of a sort. Technology is mostly sensible thinking about the problems you face. Now, your inn here. You've got
a good building. Your rooms are clean. Your food is good, and you make good beer. All you seem to lack are the customers."

  "What you say, at least the last part, is true."

  "Okay. We agree that the physical plant is adequate. Now, what is the purpose of an inn?"

  "Why, to provide food and drink and—"

  "Wrong. Your customers could buy wine from a wine seller much cheaper than you sell it. You must buy from the same wine seller and pay your overhead besides. The same goes for food. The markets must be cheaper."

  "But for travelers—"

  "Transient business is fine, but you are not on a main street. Local business is more important. You must serve the people. There are what? A thousand men of drinking age in town. Maybe another thousand in nearby villages. If you could get a tenth of them to come here regularly, your success would be assured. Once the town's people came here regularly, the travelers would come, too."

  "Yes, yes! But how do we do that?"

  "Let me think." I didn't know much about managing taverns, but I had been in a great number of them in Poland and America. Some were bad and empty. Some were good and empty. Some were crowded whether they were good or bad. The biggest single factor seemed to be that people went to a given place because people were already there. Getting the first ones there was a matter of advertising—which was impossible in a world without newspapers or radios—and providing something interesting. Something different. I thought of the two or three best places I had found in Massachusetts. A combination of those.

  A controls designer lives in a four-dimensional world. When things finally come to me, they come as a working, moving, solid whole. Only later do I string them out in serial fashion.

  A vision crystallized in my sodden mind.

  "Tadeusz, I know how to do it. You know my arrangement with the Krakowski brothers? Would you like to be socialized as well?"

  "That I should be paid thousands of pence and a regular salary besides? Oh, yes my lord!"

  "OK. Same deal, but I think your building is worth more than theirs. Say, 3,000p.?"

  "Agreed, my lord!"

  "Six hundred pence for yourself, yearly, and a twelfth of the surplus, with two hundred pence to your wife?"

  "With honor, my lord!"

  "Good. We'll swear you in right now."

  "But the sun is not up."

  "True . . . But there is a full moon and that is more appropriate for an innkeeper. Agreed?"

  So, under the moon, with a sleepy chamber maid and the night guard as witnesses, I swore in Tadeusz and his wife. I picked up another pot of wine and we went back to the table. The first order of business was to settle up my present bill, which I did. Then I gave Tadeusz 3,400p.

  "Our first rule is that since I own the place, I shall lodge here free. Keep one room open for my own use.

  "The second change is the name of the inn. 'The Battle Axe' is entirely too stern. People go to inns because they need to enjoy themselves. We need a light, amusing name. We'll call it the 'Pink Dragon.' I have a wood carver across the street; he'll make a new sign.

  "Then, this room is too empty and cavernous. People like crowds. I want some curtains to divide the room in half, another set to divide the front half in half, and a third set so that only the front eighth is exposed. You are to open a set of curtains only when the space before it is so crowded that people are bumping into each other. Understood?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "All your present people are to be retained. No firing except for dishonesty."

  "Ah. There is the matter of certain salaries being in arrears."

  "None of that under socialism. They must be paid. Figure up the amount tomorrow. Oh, yes. We'll need an accounting system. I'll send somebody to keep the books for here and the foundry. You'll think it's a nuisance, but I insist on it. What else? Your pricing! This business of having to haggle over everything has to go. We'll have to work out a reasonable set of prices for everything. Then we post those prices, and they are the same for everybody. No exceptions."

  "But what if one is conspicuously wealthy and—"

  "No exceptions, not up or down. Then, entertainment. From supper until late, I want some music in here. A single musician at a time will do, and hire them for only a week at a time. See what people like. And waitresses; we'll need half a dozen of them. They must be well paid, since we want the best. Say, four pence a week with another eight pence set aside for their dowries. We'll have a turnover problem. We want the six best-looking maidens available. They must be pretty."

  "What! You would turn my inn into a brothel?"

  "To the contrary. They must all be virgins and stay that way. See to it yourself."

  "My wife would object."

  "Then have your wife see to it. Part of her job will be to see to their morality. They must live here at the inn, in some of your back rooms. Customers may look but not touch. See that they are properly barricaded."

  "Look?"

  "Yes. They'll need some special costumes." With a fingertip and wine, I sketched out what I had in mind on the worn wooden table. "We'll have to get the wood-carver and a leather worker to do the high-heeled shoes. I can show somebody local how to do the stockings, but later they can come from Okoitz."

  "You want them dressed as rabbits?"

  "The people will like it. Then there is the matter of advertising. It seems that I have considerable notoriety in Cieszyn, or at least my name does. I've been busy at the brass works, and I haven't met very many people here. But in a week or two, once we get this set up, I want you to hire some old women. They are to wander around and tell about how Sir Conrad Stargard, the killer of the Black Eagle, left the ladies of the castle to move into a notorious inn where beautiful women are scantily clothed. That should get some action going."

  "It will get good Christians at my door with pikes and torches!"

  "Good. Let them in. Sell them some beer. If they are really organized, let the leaders verify the virginity of the waitresses. No problem."

  "Uh . . . all this is going to cost money, my lord."

  "Right. Here is two thousand pence to cover it. Keep a careful reckoning. Well, it grows late. I bid you good night." I took the half pot of wine to my room. The full moon was halfway to setting. God, it was late.

  The next day I overslept dinner and caught a late, cold breakfast in the kitchen. My head hurt, and I had these horrible thoughts about what I had done.

  People were cold, people were hungry, the Mongols were coming, and I was wasting valuable resources starting a thirteenth-century bunny club. Oh God, my head hurt.

  Thinking drunkenly with my gonads instead of my frontal lobes, I had screwed up again. I tried to leave the inn quietly, hoping to avoid the innkeeper, but no such luck.

  "Sir Conrad! At last you are up; I was growing worried! I have followed your orders; already the word is out that I search for the six most beautiful maidens in Cieszyn! I have explained our need to the wood carver, and he will be available tomorrow. But he wishes, of course, to discuss the matter with you."

  "Uh . . . Yes . . . I'll talk with him. You realize that for various reasons—our advertising and my relationship with my liege lord—it would be best if my name is not connected with all of this."

  "But we must say, in rumors, that you stay here, my lord." Tadeusz really liked having a lord protector.

  "Of course. But don't tell anyone that I have any ownership in the place. Swear the witnesses to secrecy."

  "As you wish, my lord."

  "Hey, the rumor campaign won't work if they know that I own the Pink Dragon."

  "As you wish. I have talked with a seamstress. She will have no difficulties with most of the costumes—think; it will be like a continual carnival!—but she wants help with the stockings."

  I didn't accomplish much at the foundry that afternoon, and when I got back for supper, the inn was packed. Word had gotten out that the most beautiful maidens in the city would be there. Fully a hundred young males sho
wed up to see what was happening, along with some thirty young hopefuls. I was embarrassed, and the innkeeper expected me to do the choosing.

  Stalling for time, I said, "Are you sure that all of them are virgins? Have your wife check it." I ate a meal and drank a pot of wine at the small table that had been reserved for me. I had in mind that his wife should simply ask them, but she felt obligated to actually check for an intact hymen. She passed fourteen of them. How many left because they were embarrassed, I don't know. Apparently, room and board was good wages for a maid. Twelve pence a week on top of that was fabulous.

  "And now will you choose the six, my lord?"

  Well, one of them was attractive, up to Krystyana's standards. The rest of them were hopeless ducklings, and I felt sorry for them. "No. Let the crowd choose one of them. You talk to them. Have them choose the best five, then the best two, and then a final vote." It seemed the fairest way, and it didn't get me involved.

  "But only one?"

  "Just do it all again for five more days. Remember what I said about entertainment? Well, this is entertainment."

  They took in four hundred pence that night, and afterwards the crowds got bigger.

  A week later, as I ate dinner, I got a visit from a local priest, a Father Thomas. I offered him wine, but he refused and immediately got down to business.

  "I am worried about your actions, my son, and about your soul."

  "But why, Father?"

  "You have been responsible for the hiring of young women—virtuous, Christian women from good families—and parading them half naked in a brothel."

  "A brothel? By no means, Father! They are waitresses at a good inn, which is the farthest thing from a brothel. They live most virtuous lives, on threat of dismissal! There is no convent that protects its nuns better than we protect our waitresses.

  "Aside from the morality of it—and both the innkeeper and I are moral men—aside from it, I say, running a common stews would be bad for business. There are a lot of them in your parish, and they aren't very profitable."

  "That others sin is well known. They are not the subject of this conversation."