Parno's Destiny: The Black Sheep of Soulan: Book Two (26 page)

Memmnon worked to calm himself, suddenly aware of how loud his voice had become. He looked around him carefully, ensuring that no one had heard him speak.

“Look at you,” Sherron hissed when she saw his actions. “Lurking and spying to see if anyone can hear us talk about the fact that Therron is the one who should be making these decisions and not you!”

“I'm not making any decisions, you ignorant twit!” Memmnon snapped back, no longer concerned with preventing a scene. “The
King
is giving the orders you ignorant child, not me. If not for his leadership we'd already be Nor slaves! If we lived at all, of course,” he added. “You'd make a
fine
prize for some Norlander's harem, would you not? 'Daughter of the last King of Soulan!'” Memmnon's voice rose as if introducing a dignitary entering a ball room. “Yes, that would be quite the fashion accessory in Norland, Sherron! Assuming he didn't just keep you locked away for his own use, or to share with others on special occasions!” Memmnon stopped again, working to calm himself.

“You are as deluded as Therron was,” he added quietly. “At least you aren't in a position to ruin the kingdom with your rabid ignorance. I tire of this fencing match, sister.” With that he wheeled on his heels and started for his own apartments, tired from more than just arguing with his ridiculous sister, or a day of labor.

“You'll
rue
the day you betrayed Therron!” he heard his sister almost screech behind him. Appropriate considering, he decided. She was as hateful as a banshee for certain.

“You'll see, Memmnon!” Sherron's voice was louder now as Memmnon drew away from her. “Therron is the heir we need for Soulan's future! He will be seated upon that throne and
not you
!”

He can have it
, Memmnon didn't bother saying aloud. At the moment, having his own small ranch of horses and a few fat cows looked very appealing to the Crown Prince of Soulan.

Very appealing.

*****

“I must say, I do find them women very appealing,” Ezekiel Watts murmured, almost as if afraid of being overheard speaking well of Rosa's 'girls'.

Aaron Bell gave a short chuckle, shaking his head at Watts reluctance. In the two weeks since the Tinker and his entourage had taken over the Hogshead Inn, business had been brisk to say the least, and Rosa's girls weren't the only reason, or even the main reason. Only a very few got to spend time with any of the women.

The majority of the customers were soldiers and townsfolk who came to drink and eat, both pursuits had to come by in a town beset by one army and threatened by another. Where the Tinker came by either was still a mystery to all by his most trusted associates. Of which Watts was not a member.

“What?” Watts looked at Bell.

“You're the only man in this town who'd look at them beauties and say they were 'very appealing' as if he were ashamed to be heard saying it,” Bell laughed softly. “Go ahead and admit it, Zeke, you like havin' 'em around.”

“Never said I didn't,” Watts sniffed loftily, adjusting his belt as he stood straighter. “Said I wasn't no flesh peddler, that's all. Don't mean I can't appreciate a fine lookin' woman as much as the next man.”

“It's not like we're a brothel, Zeke,” Bell rolled his eyes. If Watts knew what was really happening he'd likely be more approving, but that was something no one could be trusted with who wasn't a part of it. One slip was all it would take to ruin the entire operation.

“We're closin' fair to it,” Watts replied, though without heat. “It just don't set well, with me, that's all,” he continued after a moment. “Women ain't things, boy. They deserve better, that's all.” The older man was clearly bothered by the situation.

“They're treated better than most women anywhere,” Bell pointed out. “Safer than in their mother's arms, they are, and you know it for a fact, seein' as you're part o' that. And, if it makes you feel better, I agree with you. Thing is,” Bell leaned in, lowering his voice, “this is what they know, that's all. You see how some of the town folk look down on the women who just work here in the Inn. They're looked down on because of some kinda hate ag'in their blood. Those girls are as fine a bunch o' women as I've known, but they won't never get any real respect cause of who they are.”

“So, they choose to profit off that hate,” he shrugged, straightening out. “They make hypocritical bastards that wouldn't be seen with 'em in public for no 'mount o' money pay handsome like just to be in their company in private. Use that hate and hypocrisy against 'em. That's all.”

Watts eyes shown with new understanding as Bell finished speaking, nodding slightly more to himself than Bell.

“Hadn't thought along them lines,” he admitted. “I ain't never been one to hate on folks cause o' who they are. Guess since I don't do it, didn't think on others doin' it neither.”

“It's hard to stomach,” Bell nodded. “Makes me want to punch some of these sons flat, it does, but . . . ain't mine to do or to make decisions for them, either. They live their life by their rules, that's all.”

“Can't blame no one for that,” Watts agreed. “I appreciate the education, youngster,” he said with a slight grin. “Reckon I can learn a bit now and again, provided you use a big enough hammer on me head.”

“You're not so bad,” Bell replied. “And it speaks right well of you that you don't think along them lines yourself, you know? It ain't no bad thing not to be familiar with that kind of thinking, so far as I'm concerned.”

“I appreciate that too,” Watts chuckled. “Well, reckon I better get out there and check on the brew. We'll be getting busy soon.”

“Imagine we will,” Bell noted the sun sinking. “Guess I better get busy myself. Tinker ain't prone to look kindly on slackers.”

“That's a hard man right there, too,” Watts nodded. “Good one, I'd wager, though I ain't known him long. But there's a hardness to him a man would be smart not to go testin'.”

“You said a mouthful there, brother,” Bell agreed completely.

*****

“Your license is in order it appears,” the Provost officer said, returning the Tinker's paper with a seeming reluctance. “Mind you stay on your manners. Never have cared for your kind,” he added darkly.

“My kind?” Tinker raised an elegant eyebrow in reply. “By that I assume you mean a man who is willing to work for a living? Do manual labor or trade his services to others as a means of supporting himself and his family? That kind?”

“You watch your mouth, vagabond,” the officer almost snarled. “I won't have none of your back talk, you hear?”

“Oh, I hear you, officer,” Tinker replied in kind. “And by the end of the day every soldier I've helped with any problems will know it as well,” he smiled thinly. “As will the officers who use my services or visit my Inn. One of whom I believe is your immediate superior? No, I think he is actually your superior's superior.” He paused, allowing the threat to hang between them. The officer tried to maintain his stance, but the threat of his commander, let alone the General, was a bit too much to ignore.

“Now you're threatening a member of the Provost?” he blustered.

“I've made no threat of any kind,” Tinker was instantly back to the affable vendor he normally portrayed. “Merely pointed out that I heard you, and well enough to repeat it. You asked a question and I answered.”

“Is there a problem here?” a new voice entered the conversation. The provost officer turned rather quickly to see a man behind him in officer livery.

“Just doing my inspections, Brigadier,” the provost informed the cavalry officer. The man was dirty faced, carrying a saddle that was trailing a broken cinch strap.

“Are they finished?” the man said testily, shifting the obviously heavy saddle in his grip. “Some of us have need of this man's services. Rather urgently,” he added pointedly.

“All finished, sir,” the inspector nodded hastily. “I'll just be on my way.” With a last glance at the Tinker, the inspector scuttled away.

“Revolting creature,” the young officer said darkly.

“I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” Tinker smiled, taking the saddle himself and placing in a wooden horse. “I was trying to assure him that his threats were understood.”

“Threats?” an elegant though dirty eyebrow rose. “What bloody threats?”

“I'm afraid that my ancestry is an offense to the inspector, sir,” Tinker replied calmly.

“What kind of rubbish is that?” The man demanded. “This isn't Norland! See here, Tinker. Can you repair that strap for me?”

“Of course, sir,” Tinker nodded at once. “Perhaps an hour? Maybe a little more.”

“Perfect,” the young commander nodded. “Meanwhile we'll just see about this ancestry business,” he growled darkly. “And if that creature bothers you again, I want to know it at once, you hear?”

“I do sir,” Tinker bowed slightly. “I will do as you say.”

“I'm not giving orders to you, Tinker,” the man's tone softened. “But by the Crown, I'll not see that kind of talk in this camp so long as it comes from below my rank. There's no place in Soulan for that kind of silliness in peace time, let alone with an enemy at the bloody door!”

“I did not take it that way, General, I assure you,” Tinker soothed the ruffled young man. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“Well, you work on that saddle while I work on this other matter,” the man ordered. “I'll be back.”

“Of course, General,” Tinker smiled brightly. “I'll get right on it.”

Tinker whistled slightly to himself as the brigade commander stomped off to 'deal' with something that had offended him almost personally.

*****

Buford Beaumont sat his horse just inside the tree line atop a ridge far to the north of where the Soulan Army now sat blocking the Imperial invaders. His glass in hand, he surveyed the area below with a patient eye, taking in details that would be important later on.

“What's doing, Buford?” Horace Whipple asked as he rode up, reining his horse in beside the other man.

“Just havin' a look,” Beaumont replied, lowering his glass. “There's a station of some kind down there,” he pointed, passing his glass to Whipple. “Have a look. There's at least four dozen horses there, probably more I can't see, and a good company of men. I see smoke that's likely from a forge, too. I think this is a way station of sorts for the Nor supply line. Replace lame horses, repairs to wagons and shoe draft animals and what have you.”

“Agreed,” Whipple nodded after a moment, returning the glass. “Many of them are in uniform and appear to be standing post, too.”

“Where?” Beaumont asked, having overlooked that. He followed Whipple's point and raised the glass once more. Sure enough he spotted a picket post. Then another. Having an idea of where to look now, Beaumont soon had nearly two dozen pickets spotted and a squad of videttes patrolling around the site between the picket posts.

“Not enough to stop us if we attack,” Beaumont declared. “Things is, do we strike now, or try to wait a day or so and see if we can catch a supply train here first?”

“We've no idea of their movements,” Whipple mused, considering the question. “We could leave a squad here to monitor the post, keep a record of trains through here which would give us an idea of how often they send them, how large they are and how well guarded.”

“And we do what in the meantime?” Beaumont asked, frowning.

“Well, we can loop well around to the north and watch the trail,” Whipple offered. “We might catch a supply train on the trail and take it.”

“Wouldn't that make leaving an observation post here nil?” Beaumont asked, considering the suggestion. “Once we strike, they're like as not going to change the route or add more security.”

“I've considered that and have an idea. It's a bit risky I suppose, but everything we do is a risk at the moment, wouldn't you agree?” Beaumont nodded.

“We would do well not to advertise our strength at first,” Whipple continued. “I suggest we use company and regimental attacks, always just large enough to get the job done and then leave survivors to tell the tale. That might make their leaders suspect that we're nothing more than a guerrilla band roaming the backwoods.”

“Survivors are apt to just increase the numbers to make themselves look better,” Beaumont shrugged.

“We leave civilian survivors,” Whipple countered. “Drivers, drovers, things of that nature. Kill any soldiers we find, but tell the civilian 'survivors' that we don't make war on civilians. Let them get a good look at the company or battalion that attacked so they know how many there are. Some of them will be able to tell it factual. And be more inclined to do so if we show them mercy.”

“We're committed to the Black Flag,” Beaumont reminded him.

“I didn't say we make it a policy,” Whipple's grin was cold. “Just for a while. Just to spread the word. They won't stop driving if they think all they have to do is surrender and we'll spare them. We can probably take a lot of the wagons intact. Make use of whatever we can, then hide or destroy the rest. If we can find a safe place to stash them, we can take them with us when we head back for refit and to leave our injured.”

Beaumont considered that for a minute. It was a good plan and he liked the idea of taking plunder back to their own lines. Anything they could manage to get to their own lines would likely be a help somewhere along the line.