Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (37 page)

“I see
you
look like a solid fighter.  And
that’s a fine sword across your back as well.  I’ll wager you know how to use
it, too.”

“I’m busy,” Marik replied.

“Everyone has their own business.  But have you
considered joining the army?  We have need for capable men like you, and it’s
steady wages.  You could make a great career, working your way up through the ranks.”

“I’m a bodyguard for the tournament.  My plate’s
already full for the next month.”

“But what about after that?  The army would be glad to
have you.  People have more respect for a soldier than a freelancer.”

“I’ll think about it,” Marik said, then looked away.

Thankfully, this army recruiter decided that would
probably be the best he would get from Marik and moved on after a final nod. 
This made seven that Marik had run into since the tournament began three days
ago.  With so many losses suffered and the prospect of fresh conflict on the
horizon, the army was making a serious effort to recruit as many new soldiers
as it could during the tournament.  Several merchants were putting on weapons
displays and demonstrations, but the army matched with presentations of their
own at about a three-to-one ratio.  Each show, merchant or military, was
populated by recruiters who spoke to every spectator present.

Few people were taking them up on the offer.  They all
seemed to think the duty of protecting their skins was someone else’s job.  As
annoying as Marik found the recruiters, he respected what they represented, and
usually felt like spitting when he saw fit men with alcohol-reddened noses
cursing the army men for intruding on their leisure.  Those same men would be
the first to condemn the army for not destroying itself before allowing hostile
forces within a hundred miles of their precious hides.

He had his duty to Hilliard as an excuse against army
life and the knowledge that he could hold his own against nearly any adversary
to justify feeling superior to the slugs.  Most recruiters abandoned the effort
after he revealed he was no idle wanderer, ripe for the picking.  Another
benefit to being an outsider, separated from the currents flowing in a hundred
directions below the festival’s gaiety.

Nearby, Kerwin rose from the debater’s table, smiling
as he shook the woman’s hand.  Marik walked over to talk to him but it seemed
he still had one last point to argue over.

The table beside hers was empty except for the man
sitting on one side.  While Marik waited, a new man stepped to his table from
the crowd.

“Good afternoon,” the debater greeted the newcomer. 
“Do you wish to discuss anything?”

“Yes,” the newcomer said, sitting in the empty chair
across from the debater.  “Fortunate timing, all this,” he observed and
gestured at the surrounding festival.  “I got an offer from a baker near where
I live.  His son wants to marry my daughter, and he’s not a bad sort.  Never
been afraid of a hard day’s honest work.  But I’m nearly certain Frommer’s son
is interested in my daughter, too.  That’s what I get from my talks with
Frommer.  He is a glassblower with a shop in the Third Ring.”

“And you are uncertain which would be the better
choice?  Well, there are many viewpoints you could take to make either look the
better candidate.  Tell me about both young men, then I will start with
supporting the baker’s son.  You will take an opposite position from me and
counter with any negatives you can think of.  Then we will switch.”

The concerned father nodded, dropped his coins into
the small wooden box sitting on the table, then the two settled into the
debate, helping the man work out his problem by attacking the two young suitors
from every possible angle.

Kerwin rejoined him.  They stood away from the tables,
though still under the broad awning supported by twenty different poles,
shielding them from the summer sun.  “Well?” asked Marik.  “You finally decide
about your inn?”

“I believe I have,” Kerwin admitted with a smile. 
“She made a few points I hadn’t thought of concerning the purchase of an
existing building and the hazards of different locations.”  He glanced back
toward her with an affectionate grin.  “She’s a sharp one.”

“I think this corner of the tournament is sponsored by
Urliel’s temple.”

“A much more effective fundraiser than preaching at
people from atop a soapbox.”

“Tell me about what you decided while we find lunch.”

The two braved the fierce sunlight while they waded
into the crowded streets between tents.  Kerwin practically shouted into his
ear.

“What’s two candlemarks away from Kingshome to the
west along the Southern Road?”

Marik frowned in thought.  “Nothing.”

“Exactly!  That point is almost four normal days of
travel away from the ford on the Spine, and there’s nothing there at all! 
People either need to camp out or stop in Ocado three marks before nightfall. 
That’s where I’ll build my inn.”

“So you gave up on buying an old inn?” Marik shouted
back.

“Yeah.  I think it’ll be cheaper to construct a brand
new building than to renovate someplace into exactly what I want.  Now I need
to decide on a name and find a good designer.”

“How about ‘Farewell to Alms’?”  Marik grinned when
Kerwin glanced sideways at him.

“You’ll never make an entrepreneur, Marik old friend. 
What’s this?”

They came to the largest tent Marik had ever seen.  It
was over fifty feet tall, coming to twin peeks from long, tree-like poles
supporting it from the interior.  A crier stood beside the entrance’s yawning
mouth, enticing the passing people.

“Yes, in only ten minutes, the contest begins!  Come
and listen to seventeen minstrels who will be competing, each singing histories
involving previous Arms of Galemar!  The one who tells the best tale will win
three magnificent rubies, donated from the king’s treasury!  Come escape this
terrible heat and enjoy the tales of times gone!  No entrance fees are
charged!”

Several food stalls were in a row beside the tent. 
They decided to stop and listen for awhile.  Each bought three sticks of beef
strips that had been roasting on an iron grill.  The sheer amount of smoke
curling up from the cook fire made Marik wonder how the man tending the
hundreds of similar sticks could see well enough to coat them with the black
sauce he brushed on.  It smelled wonderful.

They also bought a large tankard of ale each, having
to pay a deposit on the crude vessel.  With their purchases, they entered the
tent, finding the tiered-bench builders had been hard at work here as well. 
Only five rows of raised benches encircled most of the tent, but they could
easily hold hundreds, if not thousands.  On a row’s end they climbed rough
stairs and found an empty spot at the top that commanded a good view.

Kerwin talked as they gnawed on the meaty strips. 
Surprisingly, the outside noise had trouble penetrating the thick tent walls. 
He could speak at a normal level.  “My inn will be close enough to Kingshome
that I don’t think I’ll need to worry about profits, even if I get no other
travelers.”

“I always thought that was a given.”

“I toyed with other notions, but the Kings are a
guaranteed source of business.  I decided not to pass that up in favor of a
possible
profit elsewhere.  And this festival has given me a number of ideas for new
games to help keep the place interesting for the regulars.  I can rotate and
have a variety of games available on particular nights.  Men who favor specific
games can come on those nights while the others will come on the nights their
games are running.  It will keep the flow steady and thick, but also keep the
place from bursting at the seams.  I’ll need to juggle the gaming schedules
until I find a line-up that works smoothly.”

Marik shook his head in mocking contempt.  “You don’t
sound like any mercenary I’ve ever heard of.”

“The job’s lost the shine that attracted me to it.” 
Kerwin tossed a stick to the floor after ripping off the last meat shreds. 
“Right before you all came to find me in the chirurgeons’ warehouse at the
Sixth Depot, you know what they took away?”

Marik’s head shook a negative again.

“They’d been cutting off arms and legs all night.  All
those soldiers who were up on the earthworks when the Noliers hit us in the
dark.  Most only needed stitching, but others were past that point.  So many
others.”  Kerwin gazed at nothing as memories filled his vision.  “There was a
great pile of them in one corner.  A mountain of bleeding, mutilated flesh.  I
was sitting next to it most of the night while I waited for one of the sawbones
to have enough time to fix me up.  Every few minutes, a chirurgeon would wander
over long enough to toss a leg onto the pile.  I don’t know how many saw blades
they wore out that night.”

Unsure what to say, Marik stayed silent.  He had
chosen to become a fighter and therefore was involved with the first half of
combat.  The second half, the aftermath, was a part he had never wanted to
examine too closely.  Watching the effects on Galemar’s citizens during this
tournament so far had already been as much exposure as he’d ever wanted.

Kerwin became lost in self-examination.  “I’ve always
loved a good game of chance.  Dice, cards, coins; everything that balances the
outcome on a combination of skill and luck both.  It’s not all blind chance. 
Like the horses racing out there on the track right this moment.  You get
together a row of seven and send them off.  Go ahead and pick whichever you
like, and you’ve got a one-in-seven chance of winning, right?  But a skilled
player knows there’s more variables to it than that.  Endurance and power and
speed and the rider all alter the performance.  If you know what you’re doing,
you can pick out hundreds of small details that can tell you if the horse is
going to come on strong or be sent to the renderers.”

“If it were that easy,” Marik countered, “we’d all be
rich.  Just because the horse is usually a good runner doesn’t mean he’ll
outpace the wind today.”

“Of course not,” Kerwin smiled in response.  “But
being able to see that is part of the gambler’s skill.  Looking at the horse
and
feeling
the air of defeat or victory around it is all part of what
separates the master gambler from the fools going home without bread coin for
the next day.  Watching the race and seeing the first horses come out fast and
pull ahead exactly as you predicted is a thrill beyond any other. Seeing them
start to flag after the second corner, watching the comers gather their wind
precisely as you expected…that’s almost as exhilarating as seeing the mount you
put your coin down on cross the line a nose ahead of the others.”

“Winning is always nice.”

Kerwin laughed.  “It’s all about skill, Marik.  Not
simply in overcoming the odds, but in being
their
master.  That’s why I
liked the idea of becoming a mercenary in the first place.  The odds are
against you, since every contractor puts you into the lead charge against a
force five times your size.  You’re in a bad position, outmatched in man power,
no real reinforcement support, and no one is going to care if you win, though
there will be the hells to pay if you lose.  It’s all about raw skill in
overcoming the odds, with not merely a handful of coins against a loss, but
your very life on the scales.  Using all your skill and cunning to win through
so you emerge the victor is the ultimate game of chance, with the master
players numbering far fewer than the amateurs who lose it all.  It’s funny how
Sloan is the only other Ninth Squader I know who really appreciates that on as
deep a level as I do.”

Marik let Kerwin talk without interrupting.  Kerwin,
far from simply passing the time in idle reminiscing, sounded as though he were
voicing thoughts he had spent long nights in pondering.  He listened, wondering
how much of what Kerwin said might be matched by similar beliefs deep within
himself.

“I’ve been in a major war, and sixty-two battles,
ranging from simple skirmishing to that bloodbath at the Hollister.  Well,
sixty-three, I suppose, if you count running around the alleys with Hilliard. 
Over half of those battles were last year alone.  I’ve taken numerous minor
injuries and three serious ones.  I’ve long lost count of the close calls.” 
Kerwin sighed.  “Truth is, friend, I’m starting to feel an emptiness in my
pouch.  If I keep playing the combat game much longer, I think I’ll be the one
left without coins for tomorrow’s meals.”

“Except it’s not coins you’re wagering,” Marik replied
softly.

“Exactly.  I’ve heard vets say that they knew it was
time to get out when they started asking themselves it they thought it was time
to.”  He shrugged.  “It all adds up.  After the bastard Noliers tried to burn
down the camp while we slept I started wondering if maybe it really was time to
find a different career.  I’ve played the game well, beat the odds with my
skill, and now I’ll be taking my winnings and leaving the table.  I’m ready to
call it quits as a merc.”

“But not ready to abandon the Kings,” Marik piped in. 
“You seem reluctant to leave us behind.”

Kerwin grinned broadly.  “I suppose not.  I’ll tell
you, Marik, the Kings aren’t quite like any other band in the kingdom.  I’ve
been in others, so I know what I’m talking about.  They do things their own
way.  I’ve never actually thought of them as a mercenary band, to tell the
truth.”