by Robert Adams
Seated again in the crowded little chamber off the smithy, Bralos gratefully savored the tart bite of Master Haigh's strong winter cider for a few moments before broaching his reason for coming this day.
"Master Haigh, that fine mailshirt I bought from you, away back when first we two met, saved my life on this last campaign, making it to my mind worth every last thrahkmeh of that steepish price."
The master smith did not appear at all surprised at the news, only inquiring, "Would my lord care to tell what happened?"
Bralos shrugged. "Not much to tell. We were chasing after bandits in the northern foothills, up on the border. That particular day, the unit I was leading was following a very winding and extremely narrow trail through heavily wooded terrain. I had just ridden past an old tree when one of the bandits leaped down from a place of concealment on a thick limb and hacked at my back with a heavy saber.
"Now it was a shrewd blow, delivered with full strength, and had I been without that mailshirt, I'd've been down dead or dying with a severed spine and some hacked-through ribs and that bandit would've been up in my saddle and spurring away, leading the rest of my unit into the maw of an ambush at the gallop. As it was, the edge did no more than cut through the straps of my breastplate and ruin a shirt, though the force of the blow drove the air clean out of my lungs and sent me up into the withers of my mount.
"Not having expected to have to strike a second blow, my attacker paused for a split-second, then, when he drew back to hack again, the back of his blade struck a tree limb, and by that time I'd regained at least my balance if not my breath, gotten my own saber uncased and come close to taking off his sword-arm between wrist and elbow.
"It is a well-known fact that lancers are armored only on the fronts of their bodies, you see; indeed, two of my men were slain in just that same way during this campaign just past, and I mean to do my best to put a stop to it ... at least within my squadron, Master Haigh. But I'll need your services in order to do it."
The smith shook his head. "My lord, I cannot go any lower on my price for those double mailshirts . . . well, not enough lower to matter, at least. Much as I respect and admire your solicitude for the welfare of your warriors, wealthy as I know you to be, still must I say that I entertain doubts that you could or should pay the two or three hundred thousand thrahkmehee that so many shirts would cost, and besides, it would take me over a year to get so many down here to you. A great deal of time and painstaking labor needs must go into each and every one of them are they to be perfect and of dependable quality. In addition, did my lord not tell me upon the occasion when first we met that the somewhat silly traditions of his army forbade additional armor for lancers?"
Bralos grinned. "Quite true, as regards that last, my good Master Haigh, but there have been some significant changes for me and mine since that day, too. The old, callous traditions still apply to most of the rest of the army, but the Grand Strahteegos, in a fit of pique, declared me and my squadron to be mercenaries, not any longer true Ehleen soldiers, which means that the strict interpretations of army traditions need no longer be applied to Wolf Squadron, you see.
"Insofar as your first statements are concerned, you're quite correct; to buy shirts like mine for the entire squadron would be much beyond my means at the present time. But on the march back down here to Mehseepolis, I've reasoned out another idea. What would you quote me tentatively on five hundred single-thickness mailshirts, to be assembled of larger rings?"
"It would be far quicker and cheaper, my lord," replied the smith, "to just order up as many backplates. I could probably fulfill part of that order myself, here in this shop, and for the rest, I could job them out to some other good smithies I know of . . .?"
But the officer shook his head. "No, I dare not be so blatant . . . not yet. No, I was thinking of having one of the locals, hereabout, enclose these shirts I envision between two layers of thin leather or linen-canvas. They'd be or at least look like jerkins, in the squadron colors, and thus not be an affront to the Grand Strahteegos each time he saw one of us."
"I understand." The smith nodded, grinning. "But look you, my lord, there is a better, cheaper way to give just as much or even more protection to the backs of your horsemen. I'll show you, but please excuse me while I fetch some things out of the shop."
The man returned with a basketful of what looked at first glance to be bits and pieces of scrap iron and steel, but when he had laid a handful upon the table, Bralos saw them to be thin squares of steel, not yet polished and still discolored from the tempering, each of them pierced with a small hole at two corners on one edge. After laying the squares out in staggered lines, the smith looked back up at his guest.
"These, my lord, are a part of special order we're doing up for a customer who wants a jazeran, a scaleshirt, which while bulky and heavy is the best protection from both edge and point short of a breast-and-back of Pitzburk plate. And they're cheaper than either plate or mail, too. For him, these plates will be riveted in overlapping rows onto a double-thick jack of saddle-skirting leather. But there are other ways to use such plates, too, my lord.
"The innermost layer of your canvas jerkin could have a thin layer of cotton batting stitched on, then squares or lozenges of good steel atop that, each sewn or riveted as you'd wish, and another thinness of batting, then another of canvas sewn in a quilted pattern. Add brass or iron guides for the straps of the breast-plate, eyelets to the armholes to affix the mail-lined half-sleeves you've already bought, and you'd have an arming-jerkin with a well-hidden difference."
Bralos studied the arrangement on the tabletop, frowning in deep thought, considering this new, fresh suggestion. Then he looked up and demanded, "But what of the collars to protect the throat, Master Haigh?"
The smith waved his hand. "Simple, my lord, very simple. Long, curved plates that will overlap a bit in the front. Sew enough thick braid onto the collar that it would be stiff anyway and conceal the thong used to join the overlapping plate ends."
Still frowning, Bralos asked, "But what of the weight, the bulk?"
The smith sighed. "The bones must come with the mutton, my lord. But, look you, this will be replacing the ordinary arming-shirt. The weight of the steel in back will, if anything, help the man's body to balance the weight of the breastplate and spauldrons, and even with the weights of everything—steel, rivets, canvas, thread and batting—added together, I'd be so bold as to say that it will weigh a bit less than a double mailshirt."
Bralos chewed at his thumb for a moment, then inquired, "Can you have one of these padded shirts made up so that I can examine it? Also, that way we'll know for certain about how much of everything will be needed."
"What are the colors of your Wolf Squadron, my lord?" asked the smith by way of a reply. "Crimson and silver . . .?"
After he had arranged with Master Keemohsahbis to have two pipes of a middling wine he knew to be favored by his troopers carted out to his camp, along with a half-pipe of a far better example of the vintner's art and some small casks of brandy to go to the squadron officers' mess, Bralos collected his slightly tiddly guards and rode back to camp.
There he strolled about to see that everything needful was being done, called for a fresh horse to be saddled, visited his own quarters long enough to doff his armor and change to clean clothing, then rode over to Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos' headquarters. Had anyone with the authority stopped him and asked him why, he was quite prepared to lie, to say that he was searching for Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos to render his report on the campaign in the foothills and deliver up the receipts for the banditslaves and the chains in which they had been delivered to the noisome slave pens.
But when he saw the crowd and hubbub around the plain building housing Gonsalos' offices, he almost reined about and rode back to truly report to the overall commander of cavalry. He did ride on, however, as far as he was allowed to ride. The Council Guardsmen who halted him and courteously requested that he dismount then just as courteously dema
nded to know his reason for approaching the area of the sub-strahteegos' headquarters.
Bralos swallowed the testy, impatient answer that had been upon the tip of his tongue; for all their show of courtesy and good manners, Council Guardsmen had a well-earned reputation of blooding their steel first and determining if such had been necessary well after the fact, and aside from his gauntlets, he now wore nothing that would resist the honed edges of their weapons any better than his flesh.
"Lieutenant," he lied glibly, "I have but just led my squadron in from a campaign in one of the northern thoheekseeahnee. I found that word had been left for me to report to the Lord Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos immediately upon my return. I am responding to that order; I cannot do less, Lieutenant."
"Of course not, of course not, my lord Captain Vahrohnos," the guards officer agreed readily, "but let it please my lord to understand, far more important men than the Sub-strahteegos himself just now are visiting him, so perhaps later today or tomorrow might be a better time to report."
Bralos shook his head. "Lieutenant, the message said 'immediately upon my return,' and it has been my experience that the officer always chooses his words carefully and means just what he says. I will report today, now, and that's that."
The guards officer nodded once. "Very well, my lord Captain Vahrohnos, but my lord must then surrender his sidearms to me and he must allow himself to be searched. My lord has his functions, I have mine. One of my men will take care of your horse and weapons."
The adjutant would have stopped Bralos, shooed him away back to his camp, had not Tomos caught sight of him through the partially opened door of the larger room where he and several other men sat around the largest table. Excusing himself, he strode out to greet Bralos warmly.
"You're back far earlier than anyone expected you to be, Bralos. What happened, did Chief Pawl despair of ever catching that pack of marauders? If so, old Pahvlos will've been proved right; nevertheless, you can bet a month's pay he won't be at all pleased."
Bralos shrugged. "Not at all, my lord. Oh, yes, we had trouble for the first week or so, but then Captain Chief Pawl devised strategy that gave us an inexpensive victory and above a hundred fresh slaves for the state."
"Slaves?" came a contrabasso rumble of a voice from within the large room. "Did someone out there mention slaves? I'm here to tell any man that my road crews need every one they can get, are the repair and replacement schedules to be kept up to date."
This was followed by the grating sound of a chair being pushed back, then a few heavy steps, and the door was shoved farther open by the thick, hairy arm of a big, muscular man of middle years. "Tomos," he rumbled, "who is this officer and what's this of slaves?"
Gonsalos stepped back and said in formal tones, "My lord Thoheeks, please allow me to present to you Captain-of-squadron Vahrohnos Bralos of Yohyültönpolis. He and his squadron have this very day returned from a short but very successful campaign against bandits in one of the border thoheekseeahnee, and he was telling me of the numbers of prisoners they had taken and brought back for state-slaves.
"Captain, this nobleman is a Thoheeks Bahos, a member of Council."
Not sure just what else to do, Bralos straightened and rendered the massive man a correct military salute.
The saluted man just grinned. "So you're the young man who so twisted the tail of our revered Grand Strahteegos, hey? Do you know that a few days after the first Council debate on whether or not you should be allowed to pay Council hard, honest gold for the right to be completely responsible for your squadron, I wound up back in armor, fighting a formal duel with that hotheaded young whippersnapper Thoheeks Vikos? Did you know that, young sir? Of course you didn't. And you didn't know that I showed him his folly in trying to fight me, old man or not, either. True, he's now faster than me, but I'm still lots stronger, so I just let him wear himself out, slow down a bit, then I finished the thing quickly, nearly sundered his helm, I did, they say. Hahahahah!"
It was then that Bralos was shocked to hear himself ask, "My lord Thoheeks Bahos, may Captain Vahrohnos Bralos inquire of the thoheeks?"
Still grinning broadly at memory of his victory over his younger peer, the big man nodded, saying, "Of course you may, young sir, and you need not be so militarily formal, either, for any man that our good Tomos pleases to call friend is also a friend of mine."
Bralos took a deep breath and spoke again. "My lord, Captain Chief Pawl of Vawn and I, we captured a hundred and twelve bandits and got back to Mehseepolis with a hundred and seven of them still living and in as good shape as could be expected after a march of that length by men accustomed to riding mostly."
"What of the weapons and the gear and mounts of these bandits?" interjected the thoheeks. "Was it brought back, too?"
Blankfaced, Bralos replied, "My lord, we lacked enough pack-mules to bring back much of anything, since we had been up there for so short a time and used so few supplies, though a few officers and men did pick out certain better-quality items."
Bahos nodded. "Well, it's of no real importance; likely it's better that the stuff was left up there, anyway. Most of it was probably lifted from there and now the noblemen will have it back. But what of the bandits' mounts?"
"Most of them were mountain ponies, my lord Thoheeks," Bralos answered. "The few full-size horses were in generally poor shape, some dozen or so that looked good we did bring back, two thirds of the beasts going to my squadron, one third selected by Pawl of Vawn for the use of his Horseclansmen."
"Good, good," nodded the massive nobleman, "horses cost money. But you wished to ask a question of me, I believe . . . ?"
Bralos took another deep breath and launched into it, saying, "My lord Thoheeks, what is the point of squandering supplies and horses and trained men to bring back captive warriors who never give Council even one day's work because they die of the black rot in the slave pen after being gelded by an elderly pig farmer who works at the abattoir?"
The big man's smile evaporated in a trice, and his face became as dark as a lowering thundercloud. But when he spoke, his voice was a tightly controlled, soft rumble. "Who told you these things, young man?"
"Why, the keeper of the slave pen, my lord, one Kahsos, told me of his hiring of the old man to do the gelding, while one of his men told one of my bodyguards about the high rate of loss from the black rot after the man, Pehlzos, had done his bloody work," said Bralos.
Turning on his heel, the big man opened both doors wide agape and stepped back, saying, "My good young sir, please humor me by coming in, seating yourself, having a stoup to drink and telling my companions of these sorry things."
As Thoheeks Bahos himself seated the somewhat bemused Bralos and filled a cup for him from one of the ewers, then introduced him to those men seated around the table, he finally understood why so many fully armed and alert Council Guardsmen were surrounding the building. No less than five of the most powerful members of the Council of the Thirty-three sat about that table, including his own commander, Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos.
Portos said, "Well, you and Pawl Vawn must have worked some sort of miracle to be back this fast. So well done a job should rightly earn Wolf Squadron a bit of rest ... but it probably won't. I don't know, it's just as I was telling all these gentlemen prior to your arrival, Bralos, something has gotten into Pahvlos; he seems intent anymore to run the whole army ragged to little real purpose."
"Portos, Portos, we'll get back to all that," said Bahos, "but for now I'd like you all to hear some information that this fine young officer has stumbled across. My good Bralos, tell again just what you told me out in the foyer."
Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos purposely chose the longest and most circuitous route from the headquarters of Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos back to the headquarters of the cavalry brigade, he and Bralos riding knee to knee ahead of and out of easy earshot of his bodyguards, conversing in low, hushed tones.
"You made yourself some very good friends on
Council, this day, my good Bralos," said Portos. "Those four, back there, along with a brace of their faction and leanings who were unable to make it for this day's clandestine meeting out here, are capable—by ways of the multiple duchies and voting proxies systems—to pass or defeat most varieties of business that come before Council without so much as letting any other members of Council know that voting is taking place. And that, my boy, is power—raw, unquestionable and so never questioned power. Poor grace as you're in with Pahvlos, you may need such friends, too, one day soon or late."
"What of Lord Kahsos, Portos, what will be done to him?" asked Bralos.
Portos shrugged, shaking his head, so that the plumes of his dress helmet swished and the loose cheekplates rattled. "With a bit of luck, he'll be censured, striped publicly and exiled back to his civil holdings to be further punished by his overlord, probably. But lacking that bit of luck . . . ? Thoheeks Bahos, jovial as he can be, is still a very hard man who can be most vindictive when he feels himself to have been wronged or hoodwinked—and you know he feels just so in this particular instance—and he also nurtures a deep, wide streak of bloodthirstiness in his character, which means that the larcenous Kahsos may well find himself adorning one of those crosses outside the walls, that or minus his balls and working on a road gang, out in the thoheekseeahnee somewhere."
Looking and sounding as troubled as he had felt all day, ever since he had turned the war captives over to the unsavory Lord Kahsos, Bralos asked, "Portos, why are . . . why must state-slaves be castrated?"
The tall, darker man shrugged again. "They just always have been. It's tradition that they be deballed, is all.
"Now, wait a minute, dammit!" he ordered, seeing the look of distaste on the other officer's face. "Yes, I fully agree, our Grand Strahteegos has indeed run the word and term 'traditional' into the ground, very deep indeed into the ground, used it to mask or to try to justify all sorts of flagrant nepotism and personal likes or dislikes of one kind or another, but in this instance, we are not in the least concerned with his misuse of 'tradition,' mind you.