A Wizard in Chaos

CHAPTER 8

The mules began to pace faster, heads bobbing, and the drivers began to talk to one another with excitement. Then the caravan rounded a curve. The trees opened out into a broad plain cut up into small fields surrounding the walls of a city with a castle dimly seen through the morning mist. The drivers cheered, and Ralke breathed, “Home!” His eyes sparkled, his gaze fastened to his city.

Gar studied the town. Something was different about it, contrasting with Loutre, but he couldn’t pin it down. “Who’s your boss?”

“Ranatista has no boss, friend,” Ralke said. “Legend says that when the troubles started, we were far enough from the seacoast settlements that our ancestors had time to get ready for trouble. Their sage had already taught them to fight with their open hands, for it was a discipline that taught the mind control of the body, and taught the soul to compete without hatred or anger.” Gar frowned, though it sounded very familiar. “How do you know that?”

“Because that’s why our sages still teach it to us today. But the first squire, Sanahan, called our ancestors to defend themselves. He led them in learning how to use flails and scythes and staves in a kind of fighting that kept the spirit the sages taught, and quarterstaff-play turned very quickly to spear-play. They even had time to build this wall that you see glowing golden in the sunrise. When the bullies came marching to conquer us, our ancestors poured boiling water on them from the battlements, and wherever they broke through the wall or climbed over it, our ancestors made short work of their boots. One after another, the bullies advanced against us, then retired in consternation, for bullies won’t stay chewing at a target that costs them too much in men or weapons.”

“Most bullies pick victims they’re sure they can beat,” Gar said grimly.

“Indeed they do, so all our ancestors needed was to defend themselves well, and the bullies left, since none of them wished to sit down in a siege, easy meat for any other bully who came after them. Thus it is to this day, and all our young men take it in turns to serve in the home guard.”

“And Sanahan’s successor?”

“We choose a new squire when the old one is fifty, if he lives that long—and most of them do. Then he leads us till his turn comes to retire.”

“None of them want to stay squire?”

“Most of them, surely, but they can’t deny custom! Oh, they can still live in the castle with their families, and the new squires always value their council—but after fifty, they can’t be squire any more, though folk still call them that out of courtesy.”

“Squire, retired.” Gar nodded. “A good system. Do all the merchants come from such towns as yours?”

Ralke looked sharply at him, then smiled slowly. “You reason quickly, friend. Yes, merchants always come from free towns. Every now and again a young man from a boss’s town tries to break into the trade, and we give him what help we can, but the boss always takes all the profit when the youngster returns home, and he has nothing with which to begin another journey.”

“Odd that the bosses don’t realize they need to encourage the merchants, if they want the wealth they bring in.”

“Bosses can see no further than their own comfort, friend Gar.”

“Do any of the young men from bosses’ towns ever escape to the free towns?”

“It happens now and again,” Ralke said, amused. “I was one such.”

Gar nodded. “That makes sense. Otherwise, how would you have been a peasant in a boss’s domain?” He pointed at the cottages of a small village a few hundred yards from the road and the farmers who were mowing hay nearby. They wore tunics and cross-gartered hose with sandals, and though the garments weren’t new, they weren’t nearly worn through, either. “Your peasants seem to live a bit better than the ones who hid us.”

“Be sure they do! They’re citizens like the rest of us, after all, and share in the wealth of the domain as much as any other!”

“Except the squire.”

Ralke shrugged. “He leads us in battle, sees that we’re taught how to fight, and works far into the night overseeing the growing and storage of crops. No one begrudges him his home in the castle, nor the grand clothes he must wear when he greets the emissary of the next boss who threatens to attack us.”

The guards at the gate called out a cheerful greeting, welcoming Ralke home, glad to see him well, and were saddened at the news of the man who had died. Citizens came running to welcome the caravan, cheering them as though they were a victorious army—which in some measure they were, having fought off bandits and brought home the spoils, though they were the profits of commerce, not the loot of battle.

The cheering throng accompanied them to Ralke’s warehouse, and his wife came running down the outer stairs to throw herself into his arms. A teenaged boy and girl waited their turn, with two younger children dancing in impatience. “Poppa, Poppa! What did you bring us?”

Gar smiled, amused at the timeless chant, then smoothed his face into impassivity as his heart twisted, pained at the sight of the warmth he would never know.

When they had unpacked the mules and turned them over to the hostlers, Ralke called his drivers up one by one for their pay and their share of the profits. Whooping with delight, they ran out to indulge themselves in a bit of celebration—but Gar noticed that each of them stopped by the window in the big building next to the warehouse, each handing over his pay bag, keeping only a few coins for his purse. When Ralke had paid the last driver, Gar asked, “Why are they giving their money to the man in that building?”

“Why, to keep it safe, friend. They lay their money on the bank for him to count—”

“We’d call it a counter,” Gar said, “and the building a bank.”

Ralke shrugged, miffed that it wasn’t all news to Gar. “Then you probably also know that the banker keeps accounts of how much each man has deposited, but keeps all the coins in a huge vault.”

“Yes.” Gar smiled. “And I suspect that he lends some of it out to merchants who want to buy more goods for their next trip.”

“You know more of commerce than I’d thought,” Ralke said, giving him the keen look again. “Will you ride with us on our next venture?”

“It’s a very attractive offer,” Gar said slowly, “and I’d love to. How soon will it be?”

“Two weeks.”

Gar shook his head. “I’m too restless a man to wait that long, Master Ralke, but if I’m back this way at that time, I’ll be glad to join you.”

“I had thought as much,” Ralke said with a sigh. “Well, friend, here’s your pay. I’ll write a letter like the one you showed me from the Braccalese fellow, recommending you to anyone who wants to hire you. Off with you to your next employment—but try to pick one that ends in time to join us when we next go a-venturing.”

At least Cort had gotten over wishing he were going to die, and had risen to the level of being afraid that he would. Under the circumstances, it was a major improvement.

The road stretched out before him in the afternoon sunlight, filled with a double file of disgruntled and hungover soldiers. Their form was lousy, but Cort was in no condition to complain. The master sergeant was leading, being in better shape than Cort. The sergeants paced beside, careful to see that no one lagged. Cort was riding, and Dirk, being the only other soldier who had a horse, rode beside him. “You understand you’ll have to leave your mount in the company stables once we’re back at headquarters, don’t you?” Cort asked.

Dirk nodded. “Sure do. You hired me on as infantry, after all.”

“You’ve been cavalry, then?”

“Anything in soldiering, lieutenant—even an officer when they were desperate.”

So he’d had at least one battlefield promotion. In spite of the hangover, Cort was almost interested.

Almost. Not quite enough to think up another question. He let the conversation lapse, and turned back to watching his men straggle on before him. Dirk had given him some strange white pills that had killed the worst of his headache, but the nausea was still there, and the general feeling of sickness. It was hard to think about anything else, so he was only irritated when Dirk pointed at the huge grassy dome rising out of the fields and said, “Oddlooking hill, that. You don’t often see one that looks like half a melon.”

“Unh?” Cort looked up, following Dirk’s pointing arm. “ ‘Course you do. They’re all over the land, at least one in every district. Haven’t you ever seen a Hollow Hill before?”

“Hollow Hill?” Dirk turned to him, interested. “Where the Little People live?”

“Little People?” Cort asked, puzzled. “Maybe they’re little where you come from, but in our country, the Fair Folk are anything but little! They’re taller than the biggest of us, and fair of hair and skin. Beautiful they are, men and women alike, and deadly with their magic! They may choose to help or choose to harm, and a man never knows which!”

“That last part sounds like the People of the Hollow Hills, back home,” Dirk mused. “I’ve heard of the tall kind, of course, but I’ve never been in their country before.”

“You are from far away,” Cort grunted.

“And Corporal Korgash? You think the Fair Folk left him in an ordinary person’s cradle?”

“He’s the right coloring and size,” Cort grunted, “blond and light-skinned, and more than six feet tall. Besides, he’s ugly enough for the Fair Folk to have wanted to be rid of him.” With that, he lapsed back into the misery of his hangover. Probably because of his stomach and his general malaise, he never thought twice about the conversation, and never remembered it, either.

It had taken the sergeants most of the morning to find all the troopers and gather them together to hear the captain’s order. Cort had been awfully glad of Dirk then; he had taken word to the master sergeant, letting Cort stay in bed. Then he had helped corral the Blue Company and feed each man his “hair of the dog”; he confided later that he had put the white pills in with the beer. By that time, Cort had managed to pull himself together enough to address the men, telling them that the captain wanted them back at headquarters right away, and had found the strength to stand against the wind of their massed groan and torrent of cursing. When the worst of it had passed, he had ordered them to form up into columns, then chivvied them into moving out of the town and onto the trail. From there, he had slumped and let the sergeants take over. It was pretty routine, and any sergeant would tell you that he could manage the men better than any officer—unless the order was one he didn’t want to take the blame for, of course. When Cort had needed to issue a command, he had muttered it to Dirk, who had ridden to the head of the column to relay the order to the master sergeant, letting Cort suffer through his hangover in relative peace.

But between the hangovers and a startling lack of eagerness to reach their destination, the troopers moved far more slowly than they had coming down to the town. Night caught them only halfway to the mountains and the captain, so Cort sent up the order to pitch camp.

The hangovers had worn off enough for the men to have worked up appetites, and for Cort to be able to stroll around the camp to keep up morale. Dirk stayed beside him, though, probably worried that Cort might collapse. Cort didn’t scold him—he wasn’t all that sure that Dirk might not be right.

“Why the plague is he calling us back?” one trooper grunted. “Only a single lousy night of liberty!”

“Just a bastard,” his mate griped. “All officers are.” Then he caught sight of Cort approaching and ducked his head, staring down into his cooking pot.

Cort managed a mirthless smile and walked on. “Don’t worry, I know it’s not true,” Dirk told him. “I also know that thinking all officers are heartless brutes helps keep soldiers in line.”

“Especially the ones who are heartless brutes,” Cort agreed. “There are always the ones who’d disobey every order and savage every civilian, if they didn’t think the captain was a tougher old dog than any of them.”

“What the clash could be so all-powered important to call us back so sudden?” another trooper grunted.

“Maybe the captain’s got a new girlfriend he wants to impress,” the other trooper guessed, “so he needs us all there to parade for her.”

“Maybe you’d better tell them the real reason,” Dirk said as they sauntered past the cookfire.

“Tomorrow,” Cort told him, “when I’m feeling fit again.”

“You can guess what it is, of course.”

“What else?” Cort said, with an impatient shrug. “The captain’s found another job for us, and it can’t wait. Probably paying us double to come protect some slob of a boss from his neighbor, when he’s too slack to keep his men in fighting trim. Oh, don’t look so shocked—that’s one of the good things about being a mercenary, being able to speak your mind about the bosses.”

“But if a bruiser tried that, his bully would hear about it and siring him up at dawn the next day, huh?”

“Why would he wait for dawn?” Cort asked. He reflected that this foreigner had a great many odd ideas.

“Ever wonder why the bosses are always fighting?” Dirk asked. “From what I see, most of their battles are about some small strip of land right on the border, which they both claim. A skirmish like that would be really easy to settle by making both men sit down and discuss it reasonably.”

“True, if the quarrel were really about that strip of land,” Cort agreed, “but it isn’t—it’s just an excuse to fight. The attacking boss actually wants the whole domain, and his rival boss as a prisoner into the bargain.”

“Too bad somebody can’t make ‘em stop,” Dirk grunted.

“What are you trying to do, ruin our business?” Dirk shrugged. “You’re telling me the bosses and their men don’t really want to resolve their disputes, just want an excuse to fight every few years. There’re so many of them, each lording it over a dozen square miles or so, that the warfare is constant—As soon as one battle stops, another begins a few miles away.”

Cort nodded. “Tragic, isn’t it? Sometimes I wish there really were some way to end it—but then I tell myself I’m a fool, that it makes good business for us.”

“There is that,” Dirk agreed. “So much for the only force that could make the bosses behave.”

“The only force?” Cort frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If the mercenaries banded together, they could tell the bosses to stay in their own domains, and make it stick.”

“Easily,” Cort said, with a snort that might have been a laugh if he’d been feeling better. “Any three mercenary companies could easily beat any one boss—but why bother? That’s how we make our money, after all—by fighting the bosses’ battles for them.”

“So the mercenaries could stop the fighting,” Dirk sighed, “but they won’t. They have a vested interest in warfare.”

“You could put it that way,” Cort agreed, “especially since every now and then, one of the captains manages to become a bully himself.”

“And never thinks of pushing for boss, and conquering all the others?”

“Are you joking?” Cort asked. “All the other bosses would ally against him on the instant, and all the mercenary captains, too. No one’s going to risk the rise of a boss of bosses who would be able to tell any one of them what he could and couldn’t do.”

“Right,” Dirk said sourly. “No bully wants to be bullied, eh? But he always is.”

“There’s always someone stronger than a bully—and they call him boss.” Cort nodded. “But there isn’t a bully of bosses, and they’re bound and determined that there never will be.”

They had come to the edge of the camp. Cort looked out over it with a sigh. “I take first watch. If ever I didn’t want it, this is the night.”

“Go to bed,” Dirk said. “I’ll take your shift. What is it, just walking the perimeter and making sure the sentries stay awake?”

“You have been an officer, haven’t you?” Cort asked. “Yes, you’ll be officer of the watch. Thank you deeply, Dirk.”

“My pleasure. Who do I wake up to take second watch, and when?”

“The master sergeant, at midnight.” Cort hesitated. “He might…”

“Resent me a bit, because I’ve been hired in as a sergeant and stayed pretty close to you? Don’t worry, lieutenant, I’ll reason with him.”

“Just make sure your reasoning doesn’t leave any bruises,” Cort cautioned.

Dirk grinned, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t dream of assaulting a senior noncom, lieutenant. Sleep tight.”

“That’s what sent me into this misery,” Cort groaned. “If you don’t mind, I’ll sleep sober.” True to his word, Dirk wandered through the camp while the men were bedding down, and even found a chance to exchange a few words with Sergeant Otto.

“Glad you joined up,” the older man told him. “Young officers need watchdogs now and then, and I’m just as glad to have someone share the job.”

Dirk grinned. “So you knew why I really signed up.”

“Took a liking to him right away, didn’t you? And you had nothing else going, at the moment. Well, it’s good for young men to make friends. You’ve been an officer, too, though, haven’t you?”

“An officer, and a sergeant major before that,” Dirk confirmed, “but I started as a private.”

Sergeant Otto nodded. “Then I’m glad to have someone else to help keep this crew of thugs in order. Just don’t let on when we rejoin the company.”

“I’ll revert to the lowliest infantry sergeant,” Dirk promised.

“I doubt that.” Otto grinned. “But I’ll settle for your taking orders.”

Then Dirk went out to pace the unseen picket line, visible only as-line-of-sight between sentries. They were easy enough to see, because they were on a flat meadow. He stopped by the first and said, “What of the night?”

“Quiet, sergeant.” The trooper tried to hide his disdain of this disguised civilian.

Dirk decided he needed a lesson. He pointed. “See that bush?”

“Of course, sergeant,” the soldier replied, with a trace of scorn.

“How far away is it?”

The soldier thought a moment, then said, “Twenty yards.”

Dirk nodded. “Keep an eye on it. When I come back, tell me if it’s even five yards nearer.”

“Closer?”The soldier stared at him as though he were crazy. “How could a bush move?”

“By somebody cutting it off at the roots and using it to hide behind as he crept closer to you,” Dirk explained.

The sentry’s gaze snapped back to the bush, staring.

“Keep the watch,” Dirk said, turning away. “Yes, sergeant!” The young man’s voice held a note of respect now.

Dirk made the rounds, chatting with each soldier and winning a little trust from each, if not yet respect. Then he stepped out past the picket line, strolling around it twenty yards out, ostensibly checking the ground. It wasn’t the best military tactic, but it did provide some privacy. He took the medallion out of his shirt front and managed to fake a rather believable sneeze. He waited a few minutes, then sneezed again.

The medallion spoke in Gar’s voice. “Receiving.”