Oath of Fealty

29

Dawn revealed familiar country, thickets and brush to the east along the line of the stream, and rising ground, rough pasture, to the west. Arcolin allowed the cooks to make a hot breakfast; he drank his sib in the saddle, watchful. The five guards had caused no trouble so far, making no attempt to escape when taken to the jacks; they ate their porridge without comment. The surgeon had advised against dosing them, so Arcolin had their hands bound again for the day’s march.

On the firmer ground, and after a rainless day, the road withstood the wagons’ passage reasonably well; they passed the old night shelter by midmorning, and came to the village outside which they’d first camped. Suddenly a figure appeared, running for the woods; Arcolin waved his mounted scout on and sent Burek to follow. Shortly they came back with a bound captive, blood running down his face from a clout on the head.

“You criminals!” the man said. “You can’t do this!”

“Evidently, we can,” Arcolin said. Up close, he recognized the village headman. “You know who we are; you had no business to run from us—except to signal the brigands in those woods over there.”

“I wasn’t—I just saw a—a loose cow.”

The scout—Arñe, today—sniggered audibly. “Didn’t see a cow, Captain.”

“You scared it into the bushes with that horse,” the man said.

Arcolin dismounted, walked up to the man and leaned into him; the man flinched. “You are a liar,” he said. “I have authority from Cortes Vonja to depose any village official I find in league with brigands. You lied to me before; I let it go, out of mercy, but this time—no. To Cortes Vonja you go for trial, and I do not think you will return.”

“My—my wife—my children.”

“You should have thought of them before,” Arcolin said. “You have put your whole village in peril.”

“They gave us half a ham once,” the man said, hanging his head.

“I just gave sacks of grain and six hams to a village that stayed true,” Arcolin said. The village hadn’t been true, exactly, but at least they hadn’t lied to him.

The villagers, creeping to the doors of their huts, hissed in wonder; the man groaned. Arcolin looked around; the whole village was probably complicit, but hearing of reward for good behavior, maybe they could find one honest man or woman.

“Truss him well and put him in the wagon,” he said to Burek, then remounted. They were moving again shortly, and in another two days had reached the outskirts of Cortes Vonja without incident. Arcolin left Burek in command of the camp outside the city, and with a small escort rode in to deliver the news to the Council.

When he came back, he found a troop of Cortes Vonja militia drawn up outside the camp, their commander arguing with Captain Burek.

“What’s this?” Arcolin said.

“We’re here to take charge of the merchants’ wagons and any prisoners,” their captain said. “Your junior officer is refusing to hand them over, on threat of force.”

“Quite right,” Arcolin said. “Captain Burek has done what he ought. It is for the Council to decide who takes charge—”

“It’s our duty,” said the Cortes Vonja captain.

“Not this time,” Arcolin said. “I’ve just been to the Council; their orders are that we escort the wagons into the city, to the Merchants’ Guild Hall, for the legitimate cargo to be recorded and readied for delivery or transshipment.”

“You don’t trust us?” The captain bristled, turning red and gripping the hilt of his sword.

“I have no opinion of your trustworthiness,” Arcolin said. “I but transmit the orders of the Council, as given to me but a half-glass since. Would you argue with your own Council?”

“I—no, but any levy on illegal cargo is ours, by right.”

“That is a matter between you and the Council,” Arcolin said. “As the contents of my contract with the Council is between the Council and me. Here—see the Council’s seal on this?” He nudged his horse up to the other captain’s mount and pulled out the freshly written and signed orders. The man scanned the page, scowling.

“It is most irregular!”

Arcolin shrugged. “I would not know. What I do know is that my orders came from the Council, as did my contract, and I am bound to follow them.” He looked at Burek. “Burek, I want two tensquads for escort into the city, all veterans, and Stammel for sergeant. You will command the camp. I will send the escort back as soon as the wagons have been unloaded at the Merchants’ Guild Hall—none of our men have leave to carouse. I should be back by nightfall, after reporting to the Council again.”

“Yes, sir,” Burek said. Stammel, close behind him, was already choosing his people.

Arcolin turned back to the Cortes Vonja captain. “We will not need your help,” he said. “But I thank you for the offer.”

“It is no matter of mine,” the man said, “if the Council chooses to use foreign rabble instead of its own loyal troops.” He turned his horse rudely, rump toward Arcolin.

“At least they can count on us not to run away,” Arcolin murmured, remembering a particular battle that spawned at least two songs popular with mercenary companies.

“That was the Vonja militia, not Cortes Vonja,” the man said over his shoulder.

“My pardon,” Arcolin said, bowing slightly. “I misheard the story.”

“You—!” But he legged his horse into motion, forcing his way through his own troops and calling “Follow me!” One near Arcolin rolled his eyes and shrugged. Arcolin grinned at him.

“They appeared as soon as you were through the city gates,” Burek said. “Demanded the cargo, demanded the prisoners. I didn’t know for sure—they were in the city uniform—”

“Cortes Vonja is not overfond of paying its debts,” Arcolin said. “Duke Phelan had trouble with them a few times. I learned a lot about writing contracts as he revised his with them. Pler Vonja’s as bad; Sorellin’s actually reasonable, for a city run by merchants. Anyway—if their militia take charge of the merchandise and contraband, the count would be … different, let’s say.”

“They’d steal it?”

“They or the Council proper. Say that half those swords didn’t appear … the Council has the use of them, either for their troops or as raw steel to be reforged into the pikes they prefer. They’re not likely to short the count of the actual merchandise, as our merchant is a Guild member, and at any rate it is not due us.”

“What is due us?”

Arcolin grinned. “After much argument and complaint, I followed Kieri’s lead and had the contract specify that all contraband weapons are ours, and five eighths of any other contraband … but everything taken from brigands is ours, without limit.”

“Ready, sir,” Stammel said. The merchant’s wagons were hitched and loaded; Stammel had placed two on the driver’s seat of each, two at the rear, with the rest surrounding the wagons on foot. The merchant, the five guards, and the headman from the village, all with hands bound, were on foot between the two wagons.

“Excellent, Stammel,” Arcolin said. “We’ll be off, then.”

At the city gates, the guards were reluctant to let so many armed men in, until Arcolin showed his orders from the Council. As he’d expected, the appearance of that many uniforms in the city street opened a wide lane for them; though people stopped and stared, no one tried to come near the wagons on their way to the central square.

The Merchants’ Guild Hall, on the main square and across from the Council Hall, had an inner court large enough for a dozen wagons—three were there already, unloading. Several of the Council were waiting when they arrived, and the Cortes Vonja Guildmaster came out of the Hall in his formal robes a moment later. Arcolin told Stammel to unbind the merchant and have him stand forth.

The Guildmaster examined the seals of the bales, boxes, and barrels, and called Guild servants to unload them. “Your record,” he said to the merchant, who pulled it from under his robe and handed it over. The Guildmaster thumbed down the pages.

Arcolin turned to the senior Councilor present. “By your leave, I would send my soldiers out of the city, but for my personal escort.”

“Indeed,” the Councilor said. “They will need a pass at the gate—” He pulled out a tally and bound it with an orange ribbon. “There. You could go with them, and we could send you a report.”

“No, thank you,” Arcolin said. “I prefer to wait and be sure the captives tell the truth of our dealings with them.” Though true, that was not his only reason: he wanted to be certain the cohort received its fair share of the bounty.

“Oh—of course.”

Arcolin went over to Stammel, who had the tensquads waiting in formation. “Here’s a token to pass the gate,” he said. “Tell Burek to find an excuse to come looking for me in about two glasses, with an escort of five—that’s the most they won’t question. I have plans for those swords the Council may not like.”

“Should he bring a wagon?”

“No. I intend to find a weaponsmith to turn them into spares for us, if the metal’s good enough. I can hire a cart, but I want a guard.”

“Yes, Captain.” Stammel took the token, turned and barked an order at the troops, and they marched, boot heels ringing on the stone.

Arcolin sent one of his escort with his horse, to find a farrier.

“Is something wrong?” one of the Councilors asked.

“Loose shoe,” Arcolin said. “It might hold another few days, but best get it done while I’m not on the road.”

“Prudent,” the man said, nodding his approval.

The tally of the merchant’s goods took a full glass. At the end, the Guildmaster spoke to the Councilors. “This merchant has discharged his duty to those who entrusted goods to him; he has delivered all bales, all boxes, all barrels on his record, and by the testimony of this man—” he looked at Arcolin, “this is the same record the merchant had when he was accosted. Of clandestine cargo I have no knowledge.”

“Then let us see,” the Councilors said.

Arcolin climbed into first wagon. “If you come close, you can smell the meat,” he said. They came, sniffed, and nodded. “As I told you, I gave some of the food to the village where this was found.”

“How can you be sure they won’t just give it to the brigands?”

“They were hungry themselves,” Arcolin said, without mentioning the tax collector. “I expect they ate it all that night, or most of it. Send someone up and I will show them the latch to the false floor.”

“Let the merchant show it,” the Councilor said, sending a dour look to the merchant, who complied. Sacks of grain … sides of salt pork … piles of salted dried fish …

“This was not on your book,” the Guildmaster said, scowling at the merchant. “You know the Guild’s rules.”

“Yes … but my family …”

“We are not here to hear excuses; we are here to determine the truth. You know it is forbidden to carry wares you have not recorded.”

“And false-bottomed wagons?” Arcolin murmured.

“Oh, no,” the Guildmaster said, aside. “That’s not a problem. A merchant may be carrying treasure that must be concealed under another load, even as that load is delivered and another picked up. But it must be recorded and available to any Guildmaster along the way.”

The mercenaries’ share of the food came out remarkably evenly—five of eight bags of grain, ten of sixteen packets of dried fish, five of the eight remaining hams. Arcolin smiled to himself; he had gifted the villagers with an amount that made division later easier. The next wagon, packed with bundles of the curved swords, was another matter.

“Five-eighths,” the Guildmaster said. And to the servants, “Unwrap those and start tallying.”

“No,” Arcolin said. The servants paused, confused. “By contract, all captured weapons belong to the Duke’s Company.”

“But you already have weapons.”

“Yes,” Arcolin said. “But by contract, those weapons, in that wagon, belong to me. And so do two of the mules and half one wagon, but I’m willing to trade that for four mules.” The Councilors sputtered. Arcolin waited a precise moment and said, “Or their value, as of today, in the horse market. We can take them down and sell them, if you like.”

“But—but—”

“It’s in the contract,” Arcolin said, sticking his thumbs through his belt and leaning back, the very picture of confidence. He had learned that pose from Kieri Phelan, and suspected Kieri had learned it from Aliam.

“You are as bad as Kieri Phelan,” the senior Councilor said.

“I take that as a compliment,” Arcolin said.

“And you have a copy of the contract and we have already certified that it is correct. Do you want half a wagon or the two extra mules?”

“Mules,” Arcolin said. “We must get off the roads to catch these brigands—and that means pack animals.”

“You killed twenty-three of them—how many do you think there are?”

“One for every one of those swords,” Arcolin said. “And your merchant said he came through twice a year, not always with the same cargo. He avoided Andressat, took what he calls the war road. You might want to consider a permanent guardpost on these lesser roads.”

“That will cost a lot,” the Councilor said. “We could hire you for that, I suppose …”

“Not all year, and that’s what you need. You can’t stop a trickle of individuals coming in—not with the forest land you’ve got—but you could stop serious supply, by blocking the roads. That will force them to come to the villages for food, and when they do that, it’ll be easier to catch them.”

“What are you going to do with all those swords? They’re not the style your people use.”

“Depends on the cost to remake them to our pattern. If that’s too expensive, I’ll sell or trade them to one of the mercenary companies that uses a similar design, or have our armorer beat the steel into lumps and sell that. The steel’s good enough; it’s not the best, but serviceable for blades or tools. What I won’t do is let them get into the hands of the brigands.”

“Our troops couldn’t use them?”

“Your troops use polearms. Their blades are daggers—daggers could be cut from these swords, I suppose, but the cost, unless you were credited with the value of the metal removed, would be high. As well, for close formation fighters—as your militia is, and as we are—the curved style of blade is not as effective. For brigands, it’s ideal, if the quality’s good enough.”

“I’m sure any of our smiths would be pleased to work with you,” the Councilor said.

“And if we have metal to sell, or need their assistance, I will certainly come here and not somewhere else,” Arcolin said, answering the unspoken intent.

Burek rode into the Merchants’ Guild court. “There you are, sir! I’m sorry to intrude, but I need your authorization—”

“If you’ll excuse me—” Arcolin bowed to the Councilor, who nodded.

“Stammel said you’d need me,” Burek said. “But I do have something for you. A packet all the way from the north.” He pulled out a leather purse and handed it over.

Arcolin untied the cord that held it closed, broke the seal and unfolded it. Inside was Kieri Phelan’s familiar handwriting. Arcolin scanned the first paragraphs, realized the letter was so densely packed with information he could not absorb it hurriedly. He glanced at the Councilors, who were obviously watching for something they could interpret, folded the letter back into its leather case, and nodded to Burek.

“You did right to bring me this. I will deal with it later; the immediate need is to secure our share of the goods seized. We have four pack mules; we will need a couple of carts just for the rest of the day.”

“Right away, sir,” Burek said. He looked at the mules, still harnessed to the wagons. “Which mules are ours?”

“The team hitched to the second wagon,” Arcolin said. He had noticed that this team worked better together than the other and seemed less skittish. They were not matched in color—two were dark, one an odd pale cream color, and the last a flea-bitten gray—but their stride length was the same. The other team, matched seal browns, were not as efficient. To the Councilors, he said, “Those four—all right?” They nodded.

Burek turned to his escort. “Those mules—we’ll be taking them.”

“But not the harness,” the Councilor said. “The animals only.”

“All accouterments attached to their bodies,” Arcolin said. “That includes harness.”

“Sir! You—” began one Councilor.

Arcolin shook his head and the man stopped. “Be glad I don’t consider the wagons accouterments attached to their bodies. The clause was written for just this situation: an animal without its saddle or harness is merely another expense.”

The senior Councilor gave a harsh bark of laughter. “He has us there—I was thinking it meant halter and lead, but the way it’s written, he’s right.”

“Go ahead,” Arcolin said to the men who had paused, watching this exchange.

“Very good sir.” The men began unhitching the mules.

“I’ll go find us carts,” Burek said.

“The far end of the market,” Arcolin said, pointing. “When I was here before, I saw a row of carters down there.”

“We use our own mules?”

“Yes. Pay the full rate, but explain we want to try out new teams. And if you find a couple of extra pack saddles at a good price, pick those up too.”

In the time it took Burek to return with word that he’d arranged carts and pack saddles, the Guildmaster had called upon two other Guild merchants to form a jury to pass judgment on the guilty merchant. They had agreed with the Guildmaster—Arcolin wondered if they ever disagreed—that the merchant had broken the code in more than one way, and deserved to be stripped of his membership. They brought out a fat book—a list of Guild members—and literally cut his name out, with a small sharp knife. Then they ripped the badge off his robe.

“Your name will be removed from every list in every Guild League city,” the Guildmaster said. “The penalty for falsely claiming Guild membership is public whipping and a brand. Do not think you can pass yourself off as a Guild merchant any longer. You are nothing to us, a mere peddler.”

The man wept; Arcolin felt pity for him, but not much.

The Guildmaster turned away and went back into the Guild Hall; the Councilors told the city guardsmen to take all the men into custody.

Arcolin sent two of the men now holding mules to fetch the carts; Burek went with them. The others took the packsaddles, and, stripping off the harness, saddled them. The senior Councilor looked at Arcolin. “I thought they were soldiers—but they know the ways of teamsters and grooms?”

“Soldiering requires many skills other than sticking someone with a blade,” Arcolin said.

“Our militia commander claims he needs grooms and teamsters as well as troops to move his forces about.”

“I’m sure he does,” Arcolin said, buffing his nails on his shirt. “After all, your militia are tradesmen and craftsmen who serve but two years unless there’s a war, isn’t that right?”

“Yes—but what has that to do with it?” The senior Councilor frowned.

“There’s scarce time in two years to learn to handle a pike in formation, maneuver, and fight. We train recruits for a full year before they see battle, and they are with us, many of them, for the rest of their lives. All these can groom, saddle, and harness horses or mules; they all ride; they all dig ditches and build barricades.”

“But that takes time away from weapons practice, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t they be better if they did that only?”

“No,” Arcolin said. “They need all the skills I mentioned, and more, to do the work you hired us to do. A tailor does not merely sew cloth pieces together, like a housewife patching a shirt.”

“True. So … how long will you stay in the city?”

“I expect to march again tomorrow morning,” Arcolin said. “Unless more of the horses need shoes reset. If you have more questions for me, Burek can take them on, and I can catch up.”

“What can you tell us specifically about these men?” the Councilor asked.

Arcolin shrugged. “The village headman knew about the brigands and lied—tried to tell us they had no problems and knew nothing.” He told the rest of what had happened that day and night, and then why he had captured the headman.

“And you saw him—”

“We saw him run from the village as we marched back through, and captured him. He gave some tale about a stray cow; his excuse the first time was a stray bull.”

“No doubt our city guard will hear about a stray calf,” the Councilor said. “But the others? You said they were the merchant’s hire; would they be complicit in his crimes?”

“They could be,” Arcolin said. “They offered no resistance when we told them to stand aside, but few men, criminal or not, will oppose their single sword to a hundred. One I am fairly sure has a criminal past, the tall black-haired man with the scarred forehead—”

“Ugly brute,” the Councilor said. “But I suppose that scar proves he’s really a soldier, at least.”

“Not if it’s a brand that’s been cut over to obscure the design,” Arcolin said. “I never saw the man myself, but my senior sergeant, when he was on recruit training one year, saw a recruit branded for multiple crimes. My sergeant thinks this is the same fellow. If it is, he will not have changed his ways.”

“How can we tell?”

“Have your guards strip him. If he has well-marked stripes on his back, not just white scars, that’s a strong suggestion, with the scar on his forehead. It was a fox-head brand once.”

“What about the others?”

“The merchant said he hired one, and that one hired the others. I didn’t talk with them on the way here; as long as they didn’t give trouble, that was enough for me. They were under guard the whole way. I’d talk to the merchant.”

“Oh, we will. Now the Guild has withdrawn protection, we will have out of him whatever he knows.”

“Indeed.” Arcolin heard the noise of cart wheels and hooves. Burek came in, leading his horse and the men with the carts and the carter.

The men loaded sacks of grain and hams into the carts, and when the carts were full lashed the last bundles of swords to the packsaddles. “If you do not need me presently, I should get back to the camp,” Arcolin said. I am at your service, should you call.”

“Go on, then,” the Councilor said. “We must examine the merchant and the others; we may send for you later today, and perhaps you would care to dine with the Council this evening?”

Arcolin rode back to camp well pleased with the day’s business. The matter of the mules’ harness had been an afterthought when he was working out contract details in Tsaia; he had not thought of harness, but of saddles and bridles. Still, “all accouterments, tack and the like, attached to the bodies of said animals” certainly did include harness.

His quartermaster examined the supplies with the suspicion of one who had found pebbles in the bottom of a grain sack before. “Mixed grain, sir. This here is wheat, right enough, but this other is spelt, and this is some grain I don’t know. Not bread-quality grain, but should make mush of some kind.”

“Not poisonous, though?”

“No. I think I saw that red grain in the far south, when we was here before, but I never tried it.”

The salt meat and fish went to the cooks. The Duke’s Company had never developed a taste for salt fish, so that, Arcolin decreed, would be used first. “Start it soaking,” he said. “We have a river of water here, and it’s a market day. Fish stew.” There were groans, but only for effect.

To Burek, he said, “We need a good solid arms practice today. Basic drills, then file against file, then pairs of files. We’re about one-third novices, and they tend to sloppy shield-work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If they call me back to talk to the Council, I’ll need a few for escort, but otherwise, make sure everyone cycles through. Those not drilling can work on camp chores. I’m going to be looking at those swords with our armorer.”

When they’d opened all the bundles, they found a mix of blades, some new-forged and some obviously hard-used. Most were heavy blades with a slight curve, the type Arcolin knew as falchion.

“Good for cutting a way through undergrowth,” the armorer said. “If we’re going into the forest, these might be useful, though I don’t like the lack of a guard.”

“Can you put crosshilts on them?”

“Yes, but not as fast as a city smith with a full-size forge and some boys. If we cut up some of the worst and sell the metal, it’d pay for the new guards, if they’re simple.”

“How long, do you think?”

“Half-glass to a glass for each—another day or two here, for all of them.”

“We can’t stay here that long—we’d need a trustworthy sword-smith and I’m not sure I trust any of them in Cortes Vonja unless we were here to supervise.”

The armorer grinned. “That’s a captain’s problem, that is. What about their militia armorer?”

“They’ll charge enough to get the cost of the swords out of us. I need someone honest and reasonable. Well, let’s look at the rest.”

“This one’s Halveric Company,” the armorer said. “Same design as ours, just about, with that extra little curl to the guard and the H stamp on the pommel. Haven’t found any of ours yet, and I’d better not. If Halverics were down this year, they’d pay us to get this back. They usually clean up a field better than that.”

“Then it came out of someone’s pay. Let’s see … these are longswords … someone’s officers? Do you know this mark, Captain?”

“Sofi Ganarrion’s … he won’t be happy about this. Well, unless it’s to do with the marriage. Officers’ swords, not the dress ones. Someone sold them to pay for something—gambling debts, like as not.” Arcolin picked one up, tapped it with his fingernail. “Not bad steel at all, but Burek and I both have better. Might do for a spare.”

“We don’t want these, do we?” The armorer’s face was drawn into a scowl of disgust, as he pointed to five jagged-edged curved blades with hooks at the tip.

“Gods, no! Hammer them into a lump and we’ll sell the lump.”

“Might want a Marshal or Captain to say a prayer over them first,” the armorer said.

“That bad?” Arcolin leaned closer; a wave of malice made him stagger; the armorer caught his arm to steady him. “You’re right. I’ll send someone. We should get that taken care of tonight.”

The rest of the weapons were daggers and some simple knives of various lengths, useful more as camp tools than weapons. “Knives to the cook tent,” Arcolin said. “We’ll let them decide which they want. That one”—he pointed—“is stout enough to cut leather; that could go in the tack kit. I’ll see about getting us a Marshal.”

He sent Burek on that errand, and went to his tent to read the letter from Kieri.