Oath of Fealty (51 page)

D
awn 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.”