A Wizard in Chaos

CHAPTER 4

The swordsman reached for the hilt and shouted with pain. “Here, let me see.” Dirk went over to him and felt the civilian’s hand with his left. The man yelped, and Dirk growled, “I was being gentle, damn it! Don’t worry, it’ll heal. I just sprained your wrist for you, that’s all. You!” he called to one of the soldiers. “Stick his sword in his scabbard for him!”

The trooper glanced at Cort’ who nodded, realizing what a stroke of diplomacy it was. The trooper didn’t—he eyed both the civilian and Dirk’s staff with great wariness as he picked up the sword. The other civilians tensed as he did, but when he slid the blade into its scabbard and stepped back, they relaxed a little.

“That’s very nice,” the stranger said with sarcasm. “Back to your own lines, thank you.” Again, the soldier glanced at Cort; again, Cort nodded, and the soldier stepped back beside his comrades.

“Now!” Dirk slammed one end of his staff against the cobbles and leaned on it. Soldiers and civilians both tensed, leaning in, ready to jump, realizing that it would take the stranger time to lift that staff again, and if they were quick enough …

Dirk favored the soldiers with a wolfish grin, then flashed it at the civilians. Both sides leaned back with a grumble of disappointment—the stranger was ready for just such an attack, even inviting it.

“That’s better.” Dirk leaned on his staff so completely that it was a virtual insult. “Okay—somebody want to tell me what this was all about?”

The soldiers glanced at one another uncertainly, and Cort gave them the tiniest shake of his head—if any of them were to speak, it would be him.

The civilian’s leader said, “We heard a woman scream, so we came running. We saw one of our own men on the ground with his lady beside him, cowering before four soldiers. Oh, we knew what was happening, all right!”

“Meaning you assumed the worst,” Dirk corrected. He turned to the soldiers. “Were they right?”

“My men were drunk and a bit overeager,” Cort admitted, “but by the time these … gentlemen … came, I had heard the scream myself, come at the run, and already shouted my men back. I had the situation in hand.”

The civilians muttered at that, and their leader frowned, suddenly doubting his own righteousness.

“You were so eager to protect your own that you almost started a bloodbath when the crisis was over,” Dirk told them. He raised a palm to forestall the civilians’ protests. “Oh, you were right to worry, sure enough, but when you saw an officer, you should at least have asked before you started swinging. I’ll gladly admit that when soldiers are out on liberty, civilians should travel in packs, but you were a little too late this time, and a little too eager.” He turned back to Cort. “Though truth to tell, I’d say your men were spoiling for a fight, too.”

“They’ll be spoiled enough, you maybe sure,” Cort said, with a glare at his men. They paled a little, and stiffened to attention again.

“Not as much as they might have been,” Dirk reminded him. “The young couple are safe, after all, though the young man will have a few bruises.” The civilians all started talking at once.

“Of course, the soldiers have a few lumps, too,” Dirk told them, with a glare that shut them up, “and since both sides seem to have pounded each other equally…” (his voice shifted to a parody of politeness) “…might I ask that all of you back off ?”

The civilians jumped, and even Cort felt the impulse to hop at the whiplash of the words.

The civilians’ leader frowned. “Who’re you to go telling us what to do?”

“The man with the staff,” Dirk said with a grin, “who knows how to use it better than any of you.” Cort and the civilian leader eyed each other with suspicion, but Cort said, “No harm done, after all, or at least, nothing that will last.”

“And other civilians might be in danger, while you stand here chattering,” Dirk pointed out.

The civilians frowned at that, and their leader said, “Well … as long as all is under control here…”

“It is,” Cort said. “I assure you of that.”

“So do I,” Dirk told them.

“We’ll be about our rounds, then,” the civilian leader said. “Keep your men leashed, now!”

“I will.” Cort reined in his temper.

The civilians turned away, muttering to each other, and went out of the alley.

Cort relaxed with a sigh. “I could almost wish we’d taught those arrogant townsmen a lesson—but I have to thank you for making peace, stranger.”

The soldiers grumbled with disappointment. “Yes, I know, I wanted a brawl, too,” Cort sympathized. Then his voice hardened. “What the hell did you think you were doing, jumping a civilian and his girl? Were you so overcharged that you couldn’t wait your turn with the professionals? Or did you think you might nod off before you got to the head of the line? What’re you using for brains—porridge? Why, you fly-infested, drink-sodden, stumbling, stuffed bearskins! Put your heads together, and maybe you can realize how much trouble this town could make for you if you had so much as touched that woman! If the captain hears about this, he’ll flog you so raw that you’ll be wanting new backs even more than new brains!”

“He—he won’t, will he, sir?” one of the troopers asked in a shaky voice. “Hear about it, I mean.” Cort took a deep breath for another blast, then sank under a tidal wave of sympathy. He knew how the men felt tonight, knew exactly how they felt. “No, I won’t tell him—and you’d better hope for all you’re worth that the civilians don’t! But if I catch one of you lousy apes so much as looking cross-eyed at a townsman even one more time, I’ll turn you into dogmeat!”

The soldiers snapped to attention again.

“Get back to the inn, now,” Cort ordered, “and lock yourselves in your room! Dis-miss!”

The soldiers relaxed and turned away grumbling—but they moved quickly. When they were out of the alley, Cort turned to Dirk. “You took a bad chance there, stranger.”

“Not really,” Dirk told him. “The civilians were putting on a brave show, but they’d already had enough of fighting with professionals. You and your men might have been enjoying the brawl, but I knew you wanted to end it quickly, so all I had to do was give you both an excuse.”

In spite of himself, Cort grinned. “A face-saver, eh?”

“Call it a chance to retire with dignity,” Dirk temporized.

“But why take the chance?” Cort asked. “It was none of your affair, and you might have been beaten senseless.”

“Not much risk of that.” Dirk flashed him the toothy grin again. “Besides, I’ve been out of work a while, and I was getting rusty. I needed a little dust-up.”

“So did I,” Cort said grimly. “I was disappointed not to have it, but I’m glad the captain won’t have a major brawl to find out about.” Then he gave Dirk a keen glance. “Mercenary, eh? And your band lost so badly it was scattered?”

“Something of the sort,” Dirk agreed. “That, and being a free lance by nature. I don’t like to stay too long with any one band.”

“Don’t like to stay peaceful too long, either, by the look of you,” Cort said. Then a sudden, huge, soul-weariness engulfed him. “The hell with it all! Come on back to the inn, stranger, so I can thank you properly with a flagon of brandy.”

The stranger raised an eyebrow. “More to it than a run-in with a bunch of overgrown delinquents, eh? Sure, I’ll be glad to drink your brandy. Maybe you can give me a point or two about the locals. Seems to be a lot I don’t know about who, what, where, and why.”

“Yes, by your accent, you would be from far away, wouldn’t you?” Cort asked. “Still, brandy’s the same in any language, friend—or at least, the taste is.”

“True enough. Drink first, talk later.” Dirk fell in beside the lieutenant as they started walking. “Of course, if we’re going to the inn you sent your men back to, you can just happen to be keeping an eye on them.”

“I can keep an eye on those who are there,” Cort said grimly, “and count the rest as they come in.”

“Well, if you need to go out for the occasional patrol, I’ll come along.” Dirk grinned again. “Might be fun.”

Cort eyed him with misgiving. “I only know two kinds of soldiers who think fighting’s fun: the ones who have never been in a battle, and the ones who have seen so much war they’ve gone crazy with it.”

“You forgot the third kind,” Dirk told him.

He said it with such a nonchalant air that Cort couldn’t help smiling. “Third kind? What’s that?”

“Soldiers on leave,” Dirk said. “Sometimes they don’t even need to get drunk first.”

Gar surveyed the line in front of them with a frown. “I’m used to merchants and farmers lining up to wait for the gate to open, Master Ralke, but these men don’t look like either.”

The town wall was only about twelve feet high, but the dark gray stone of which it was made gave it a very forbidding appearance. The dozen or so wagons lined up in front of the great leaves of the gate were driven by hard-eyed men wearing the same livery as the guards who lined the roadway to either side, armed with pikes and halberds.

“You must come from a fat country indeed!” Ralke said. “There isn’t a merchant in the lot, nor a farmer, only soldiers.” He glanced at Gar. “Did you hide your sword and dagger, as I … Yes, I see you did.”

“I understand why, now—they don’t like the competition.” Gar shook his head sadly. “But why are soldiers driving the wagons?”

“Boots, lad, not soldiers. We call them boots when their boss is a bully. They’re driving because they’re tax collectors, and that’s why they’ve so many guards. As to lining up to wait for the panels to open, they could come in any time. There just happen to be more of them here in midmorning, because they all set out from last night’s camping at more or less the same time.”

“I take it very few of the villages pay in coin, then?”

“You take it rightly; few villagers have coin with which to pay. They never have extra crops to sell, since the boss takes them all. He’s the one who does the selling and has all the gold.”

“What does he buy with it?”

“Mercenaries for his next war, mostly, but he’ll have a few coins left over to buy some spices and fine cloths for himself and his family, and that’s where we come in.”

It didn’t take terribly long to reach the gates. The wagons being driven by boots rolled on in with scarcely a nod to the guards. But when Master Ralke stepped up with the first of his mules, the gate guards clashed their pikes together to bar his way. “Vairudingugoink?” one of them demanded.

“This is what takes the time,” Ralke told Gar. “I don’t speak the dialect of this city.”

Gar wondered if he himself could, if they would just speak enough of it.

Ralke pointed to himself, then cupped his hand and pantomimed dropping coins into it, then waved back at his caravan, saying, “Merchant.”

“Awmeshen!” The guard nodded, then held out a cupped palm and scratched it. “Bayeedcawminnaloutre!”

“Entry fee,” Ralke explained to Gar, and slipped two large silver coins from a slit-pocket behind his belt. He placed them in the guard’s hand; the man nodded with satisfaction, and the two halberds parted. The guard pointed at a stone building atop a low hill in the center of the town and said, “Zeedeebaasfirs!”

Ralke nodded, pointing from himself to the castle in one smooth movement, then called to his drivers and led them through the gate. Gar rode beside him on his horse. The guards eyed him suspiciously, and Gar felt as though they could see through his cloak to the sword hanging across his back, but they said nothing as the caravan rode on in. Gar loosed a pent-up breath. “What’s the name of this town, Master Ralke?”

“Loutre.” Ralke gave him a shrewd glance. “Heard of it, have you?”

“Only from that gate guard.”

Ralke’s eyes widened. “You speak their language?”

“No, but I know several others, and I can guess from the way the words seem alike.”

“Oh, you can, can you?” Ralke growled. “What did that guard say?”

“I was just beginning to be able to understand him at the end there, but I couldn’t figure out what ‘Loutre’ meant. Without that, I suspect the last two things he said were ‘Pay to come into Loutre’ and ‘See the boss first.’ ”

“Good guesses,” Ralke approved, “but you could have worked that out from his gestures. Still, keep trying to puzzle out the words—it would be handy to have someone on my side who could understand the language.”

“I’ll work on it,” Gar promised. He didn’t bother telling Master Ralke that he had really been matching the words to the guard’s thoughts. Why burden the poor merchant with more than he needed to know?

Down the broad boulevard they went, broad enough for ten soldiers to march side by side, then up the winding road to the castle. The guard at the drawbridge challenged them again, but didn’t demand any money, only insisted on looking under the wrappings of the mules’ loads as they came in. They went under the portcullis, through the entry-tunnel, and into the courtyard. There, Master Ralke directed them over against a wall, where the drivers unloaded the mules and opened the bundles. Gar pitched in and helped, but was careful to keep his sword hidden. When the goods were all laid out, the drivers led the mules away to feed and curry while Ralke strolled along the line of luxurious cloths and rare foods, seeming nonchalant but actually vigilant.

Gar kept him company. “What do we do now?”

“Wait,” Ralke told him, “for the boss’s convenience.”

“Oh. He has to inspect the goods before you’re allowed to take them down to the marketplace?”

“He has to inspect them, all right.” Ralke grinned, showing his teeth. “Inspect them and take what he likes. If he takes more than a few items, he’ll probably pay for them.”

“ ‘Probably?’ You mean you could lose your whole cargo right here?”

“Could, yes. Inside his own domain, and especially inside his own town and castle, a boss can do anything he damn well pleases.”

“His whim is the only law, eh?”

Ralke frowned up at him. “Law? What’s law? Another one of your foreign words?”

“Why … yes,” Gar stammered, completely taken aback that the merchant didn’t even have the concept. “But you don’t think he will take everything?”

“Why, no. He knows that if he leaves me nothing, I won’t be able to come back with more—and he values these little luxuries I bring from the great world outside. Him, or his wife.”

“Market forces.” Gar nodded.

Again, Ralke gave him a peculiar look. “What market ever had force?”

Gar just stared at him for a moment. Then he said, “Perhaps more than you know, Master Ralke, but this isn’t the place to speak of it. Remind me to discuss the subject when we’re back on the road.”

“Certainly no time now.” Ralke gave him a nudge instead of pointing. “Here comes the boss.” Gar turned and saw a tall, stocky man approaching with a woman almost as tall as himself, fingers lightly touching his arm. She was gray-haired, but didn’t have many lines in her face, and walked with the grace of a woman in her thirties. Gar remembered that, on a medieval world like this, she might well be in her thirties. Her gown: was blue velvet, her hair caught in a net whose threads were golden, and her husband wore brocade, with a scarlet cloak of fine red wool. He was gray-haired, too, his face lined and weathered from a life of campaigning. He walked with a slight limp, and his broadsword swung at his hip.

Behind them came a slender man in gray broadcloth, his black hair short in a bowl cut, his angular face impassive, but a gleam in his eye.

The boss stopped opposite Ralke and said something in an affable tone. The short, slight man said, with a heavy accent, “The boss greets you, merchant, and asks what you have to show him today,”

“Good! A translator!” Ralke muttered to Gar. “That will make dealings a good bit easier.”

It probably would, Gar thought—except that he was sure the boss had said, “Well, merchant! I trust you had an easy journey!” and nothing yet about Ralke’s stock in trade.

The merchant bowed to the boss, saying, “I am honored by the boss’s interest. For this trip, I have fine linen, purple dye, silk, satin, and many spices and dried fruits.”

The translator turned and repeated the words to the boss and his wife, listened to their replies, and turned back to Ralke. “The boss will look over your goods.”

“I am pleased he finds them worthy of regard,” Ralke said smoothly, and the translator delivered the message to the boss and his wife.

But Gar, listening not to a foreign language, but to a different dialect of his native tongue, and listening not just with his ears but also with his mind, knew the boss had said, “Ah, good! We have been wanting more purple dye for new liveries for our boot-men!” His wife had replied, “The cooks have almost used up all the cloves and orange rind, husband. Has he those?” The translator had told them that Ralke had answered, “Alas! It has been a bad year for southern crops, Your Honors. Such things are rare, and high in cost.”

Ralke frowned. “Why do the boss and his lady look disgruntled?”

“Because the boss has fought a war this year,” the translator said, “and has little money for luxuries.”

Now Gar knew what the gleam in the translator’s eye was—not interest, but mischief.

Ralke frowned. “That’s not welcome news! I had hoped for good profits this season.”

The boss said something, and the translator turned to listen. Gar leaned over and muttered quickly, “You may make a good profit after all. The translator isn’t telling you what the boss really said.”

Ralke turned to stare at him. “You’ve worked out the language already? You can understand him?”

Gar just had time to nod before the boss turned to say something to Ralke, frowning. The translator interpreted, “The boss will take all your purple dye. He offers you a silver mark for each pound.”

“A silver mark!” Ralke cried. “It cost me more than that! The southern folk make it from sea snails, and it takes thousands of them for a pound of dye! It’s very expensive!”

“It has been a bad year for the boss,” the translator replied.

“It will be a worse year for you, if he finds out you’re lying about what he said,” Gar informed the man. “He told Master Ralke that he wouldn’t pay more than three silver marks for each pound.”

The translator stared at him, thunderstruck, and Ralke stifled a grin.