The Swordmaster grinned. ‘It did that.’ He gave them a shrug, and a look of total innocence. ‘And truth be told, I think it’s defensible, and I’m prepared to make my case for it to Earl Vandros - since Baron Mondegreen did, after all, send his lady to represent him, and since he was the obvious candidate.’ He sobered. ‘How well the rest of it will go, I can’t say - there’s much work to do, and the Earl will have to judge how well they set priorities and budgets.’ He shook his head. ‘My life is weapons and martial arts, but I’ve been around long enough to know that we could empty the Earl’s treasury with loans to the barons for repairs come spring, and still not fix all the damage done in the war.’ He stifled a yawn. I’ve no doubt that the presence of quick money and more work than workers will bring a flood of daubers, carpenters and stonemasons north from Krondor Province.‘
Pirojil almost smiled. Only an Easterner would call the Principality ‘Krondor Province’. After twelve years, the Swordmaster was still, ‘that ex-captain from Rillanon’. He had been right in removing himself from the head of the Council.
Argent shook his head wearily, as if issues of finance and governance were far more fatiguing than any combat. ‘That’s sure to drive up the prices of everything from the cost of a chicken in the market to the price of a yard of dry goods.’ He uncorked a bottle on the table at his elbow and poured himself a glass of wine. ‘But, thankfully, it’s not my problem, and I can get back to matters for which I’ve a better feel.’ He sipped his wine. ‘Which is why I’ve sent for you.’ He looked over at Kethol. ‘You told your companions about that unseemliness in the barracks - that fight between Morray’s and Verheyen’s men that you and I walked in on?’
‘Well, no.’ Kethol shook his head. ‘It seemed more of a scuffle than a fight, and it didn’t seem worth mentioning.’
Argent snorted.
Kethol shrugged. ‘There were no deaths, only a few broken bones, and not even a stab wound -’
‘We have hundreds of soldiers from a dozen rival baronies, trapped here in LaMut, all of them war-weary, irritable, bored and looking for something to keep themselves amused, and you think that a fight isn’t worth mentioning?’
The dozen rival baronies was a slight overstatement, but the scope of the problem was as the Swordmaster indicated, Kethol thought to himself, probably worse.
Still, save for the barons’ personal guards, the vast bulk of the baronial troops were billeted separately in nearby towns and villages, and whatever problems Baron Folson’s men might have with, say, Baron Benteen’s, were entirely academic; the storm had isolated the companies, one from the other.
But there were far more than enough of the feuding Verheyens and Morrays in the city to cause serious trouble - and they were hardly the only example.
The Swordmaster shook his head. ‘The captains tell me that they’ve already had to break up a few other scuffles, as well -’
That was to be expected. It was one of the reasons that Durine was pleased their own assignment kept them in the castle, rather than stuck in the barracks with the rest. In such squabbles, neutrality was difficult; people had a way of resenting a man who refused to take sides - or rather they resented a man who wouldn’t take their side.
‘- and Captain Kelly and a couple of sergeants had to carry a soldier to Father Riley - the private with a knife wound to his side. A curious kind of knife wound that nobody, apparently, if you believe the soldiers in the barracks, either gave or witnessed.’
‘I hadn’t heard that,’ Pirojil said.
Durine shook his head as well.
‘You will, one way or another,’ Argent said. ‘And you will, I trust, when you do, be careful to mention that the soldier in question - one of Verheyen’s - had a very small wound. He’ll recover fully, and have nothing but a scar, memories and a few days’ bed rest to show for it.’
The three of them nodded.
‘In the meantime, I’ve had the captains order their off-duty men out of the barracks and out into the city, to stretch their legs, if nothing else. It’s either that or put a captain on watch in each of the barracks rooms and hope that things hold together, and I’m -’ he stopped himself, then shrugged and went on ‘- and while I can trust my own captains, I’m not sure that some of the barons’ officers aren’t as much of a problem as their men. These baronial feuds often last generations and involve all manner of grudges, down to enlisted soldiers whose grandfather was insulted by some other common soldier’s grandfather.’
Steven Argent looked from face to face, as though challenging them either to agree or disagree, and Durine didn’t have to look at his companions to know that they were keeping their expressions utterly blank and noncommittal, just as he was.
Steven Argent shook his head and went on: ‘But there’s going to be some trouble, of that I’m sure, and I want somebody besides the City Watch taking a quick look around for me. The Constable seems to be far more eager to tell me that all is well than anything else - not to mention he’s ill equipped to take on a force of trained soldiers with his small company of men - and while I’ve already got a company of my regulars backing the Watch, and have as much faith in Captain Stirling as I do in Tom Garnett, should a full-scale conflict erupt, my men would as likely be overrun by one side as the other; most of my troops are up with the Earl in Yabon or still out on the line, dug in.’ For a moment it looked as if he wished those men were back in the city, for more reasons than just keeping things tranquil. He glanced from Durine to Kethol to Pirojil, and said, ‘I’d just as soon have another three sets of eyes and ears out in the city today. And not just eyes and ears - mouths, as well.’
Durine nodded, slowly, regretfully. ‘Which is where we come in, my lord?’
‘Enough of that “my lord” nonsense, please - and yes, that is where you come in.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d rather have Tom Garnett and some of his top sergeants, but they’re the ones most familiar with the nearby environs, and I need them on the patrol. I could have sent out a company of Verheyen’s men, which would have at least kept them away from Morray’s, but they’d probably try to push too far out, just to prove that they are the equal or better of anybody else, and get themselves lost.’ His mouth twitched. ‘I may live to regret that I didn’t send them.’ He sighed. ‘It would have been nice to have the Rangers as guides, but they, perhaps properly, seem to think that they’re needed for wider scouting.’ He scowled. ‘Not that they’d take my orders, anyway - that would be too easy, eh?’
‘So I’ve got to use most of the regulars left me in the city for patrol, and that means I need you three.’ He got up from his chair and rummaged around in his desk. ‘Draw some regulars’ LaMutian tabards from the quartermaster, and wear those under your cloaks, and if you run into any problem that needs sorting out, you show your tabard and soft it - with threats of any fights being seen as a rebellion against the Earl’s reign. But, mainly, I want you back at table with me tonight, able to give me some real feel for how things are going, eh?’
‘Understood, sir,’ Pirojil said with a nod.
‘Individually, that is.’ The Swordmaster scowled. ‘The three of you tend to clump together, and while that’s fine for a battle, that’s not what I have in mind here. Spread out, look around, help keep things quiet, and report back. Understood?’
‘I understand, sir,’ Pirojil said. ‘And as to the looking-around part, I see no problem. But in terms of stopping any trouble, I’m not sure that will work, my lord er, Swordmaster.’ He shook his head. ‘Regardless of what tabards we happen to be wearing, I don’t think that a bunch of baronial soldiers are going to pay much attention to orders from any of us, not unless. . .’
‘Unless they’re not privates, but sergeants, at least. And even that’s a dicey matter, at best, if they aren’t their own sergeants,’ finished the Swordmaster. Steven Argent nodded as if in agreement with himself, then reached into his desk drawer and produced a small packet of shoulder tabs. ‘Which is why, as of now, you’re brevetted
to captain, each of you; I’ve already informed the other captains, and the City Watch of that - draw some whistles from the quartermaster, too, and don’t be afraid to blow for the Watch. Don’t get over-eager, now; your rank reverts when this council is over, the roads are open, and we can clear some of these troops out of the city, and keep them out.’ He eyed them levelly. ‘If not before.’
Pirojil raised an eyebrow. ‘Again, meaning no offence, sir, is that a threat or a promise?’
Steven Argent’s laughter didn’t sound forced. ‘It’s some of both, eh?’
Pirojil looked over at Durine, and then at Kethol. ‘When the roads are open, we’ll be on our way south, in any case, with our pay warm in our pouches.’
‘Yes, yes, yes - well, what are you waiting for?’
Pirojil cleared his throat. ‘I’m sure that brevetted captains get full captains’ pay - and -’
‘Yes, yes, you can have captains’ pay, and I’ll inform the paymaster. Will that be all, or is there anything else you need to bother me with?’
The three of them rose, but Pirojil stopped at the door and turned back.
‘Well?’ the Swordmaster looked up in irritation. ‘What else?’
‘Well, there is the matter of Baron Morray.’
‘The three of you have been loafing on that duty long enough.’ The Swordmaster snorted. ‘I don’t think anything’s going to happen while he’s sitting at the council table, nor while everybody and his brother is trapped in the keep - but I’ll think about that. You can let me worry about the Baron for today; you just get out into the city and do what you can to keep the peace.’
Durine said. ‘We’ll do what we can.’
The Swordmaster nodded. ‘As will we all, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Durine said.
It seemed like the right thing to say.
Durine made his way through the narrow path down the middle of the street towards the smithy on what he had once been told was, officially, the Street Named in Honour of King Rodric, but which everybody always seemed to call Dog Street. Whether that was because that was its name before the change, or a manifestation of the hostility between West and East, he didn’t know.
LaMut was coming back from its storm-driven hibernation, if not quite digging out.
While only a few deep imprints of horses’ hooves - well, their whole legs, more than just their hooves - could be seen, paths made by boots crisscrossed the narrow street in great profusion, as though they were the imprint of a huge, vanished web that had, overnight, been woven by some huge, imaginary spider.
He sniffed the air. Maybe it was a trifle warmer, although not nearly warm enough to stop him from shivering, much less to melt the snow. Possibly it was just the stillness of the air that made it seem less bitter. Nothing short of the miraculous appearance of the hot summer winds that blew across the Jal-Pur desert could melt the snow quickly enough to open up the city of LaMut and stop things from falling apart.
A miracle would be nice.
Where was the goddess Killian when you needed her? Probably stretched out on a blanket spread on the warm sand at some beach outside of Durbin, sipping a tall, cold drink, and chuckling, from a great distance, at what she had done to LaMut. Tith-Onaka was probably on the next blanket along, and whether he was laughing with her or scowling at her was something that Durine wouldn’t have wanted to guess; the soldiers’ god had a mean sense of humour.
A commotion from the smithy down the street caused Durine to hurry his pace.
Flashes of easily half a dozen different tabards - including, he noticed with some relief, the grey tabards of LaMutian regulars - showed in the gaps between the cloaks of the soldiers gathered around the open door. There seemed to be a little pushing and shoving, but nothing violent, not yet.
Durine had some sympathy with the soldiers’ eagerness to get inside. If you absolutely had to be out in the city on such a cold day, and were trying to avoid a tavern out of a reluctance to be part of a throng of too many soldiers crowded together drinking too much beer, one of the obviously warm places to find yourself was a smithy. A soldier could always conjure up a reason to visit a smith; a belt to be mended, a dagger to be sharpened, a new binding needed on a sword hilt. Anything would do to keep a man warm before the forge’s fire for half an hour or so.
A fight inside a smithy, though, was likely to be rather worse than one in the Dangling Keshian Tavern next door. Tavernkeepers were used to such things, at least as far as not providing a plethora of heavy metal objects that could easily come to hand as improvised clubs. Blacksmiths had different expectations, and different priorities.
He pulled back his cloak to expose his rank tabs, and gently elbowed his way through the crowd of soldiers, and through the door.
Damn. Karris, the bristle-moustached captain belonging to barony Benteen, was facing off Captain Kelly, of Folson Company. Beyond the workbench that served as a sales counter for the smithy stood the smith, watching carefully, his ropy-muscled arms flexing slightly as he waited, his hair and loose shirt soaked with sweat, his hammer resting on a massive anvil. Both apprentices continued to work the bellows on the forge, kicking sparks out of the forge and onto the rough-hewn floor of the shop with each alternating down stroke, pausing only occasionally to feed another chunk of scrap iron into the stone vat half-buried in the coals. Work would go on - on whatever it was that the smith was about to cast in the boxy mould that waited next to the forge - while the captains argued. To Durine’s practised eye it looked as though the smith would pick up that hammer and return to work, as soon as the metal was ready. He might use it on whichever captain came across the workbench, but otherwise he wouldn’t intervene in the argument. Unlike your average inn or crockery shop, there weren’t a lot of breakables in a smithy. And, moreover, at this point the two captains were merely talking. It hadn’t passed Durine’s notice, the night before, that the two captains didn’t like each other much, and Durine didn’t know if the problem was personal, or a projection of the rivalry between their respective barons.
It could have been both, of course.
‘Please,’ Kelly said, an unnatural-looking smile threatening to strain little-used facial muscles to the point of spasm, ‘I’ll be more than happy see that my own needs are met after yours, my good friend, Captain Karris.’
His voice was too loud, but he wasn’t quite shouting.
‘Only if you insist, Captain Kelly,’ Karris said, every bit as loudly, ‘although I hope you don’t.’ He fingered his moustache. ‘My only need is to have my broken stirrup rebrazed, and while I’ll need it for the next patrol - and the saddler will need an hour, perhaps, to stitch it back into place - my next patrol will have to wait until the roads are open, and I think the need for a working poker for the hearth in Barracks One is greater, at the moment, than mine is for a stirrup.’
The poker in question lay, bent almost double, on the counter, next to the broken brass stirrup, but Durine was more interested in the way that the various soldiers in the shop were watching the two captains argue, though there was something more than a little strange about the argument.
For one thing, this discussion was taking place at this smithy down in the city, and not at the smithy in the castle courtyard, where the needs of both officers and enlisted men were typically seen to. Perhaps the castle smith was too busy with other things, although what they might be, Durine couldn’t imagine.
For another thing, this argument-that-sounded-more-like-foreplay was taking place in front of a crowd of soldiers. Durine could count on the thumbs of one hand the number of times he had heard officers willingly try to openly settle even minor differences in front of the rank and file. An officer might fight a duel at sunrise with other officers as seconds and witnesses, but most would rather be trampled by incontinent cattle before they’d break discipline in front of their men.
Kelly noticed Durine, and gave him a quick, chilly nod before turning back to Karris with his painfully-forced smile. ‘My friend,
if I don’t let you go first, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive myself.’
Karris gave a very theatrical shrug. ‘No, please. After you, my dear Ben.’
Kelly raised a finger. ‘You know, if I were to go first some people might think that you’d chosen to go second merely for the pleasure of lingering in the comfortable warmth of the smithy.’
Karris nodded at that. ‘Yes, some people might be so foolish as to think that.’ An idea seemed to occur to him. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘what you and I should do is to take ourselves to the Dangling Keshian, and talk about old times over a mug or two of good dwarven ale until both of our projects are complete.’ He turned to one of the nearby soldiers. ‘Silback, stay here, please, with, with. . .’
‘Haas,’ Kelly said, indicating one of the Folson soldiers. ‘Haas will wait with him.’
‘. . . stay here with Private Haas, until the stirrup and the poker are mended, and then the two of you can come and fetch us from the Keshian.’
‘Sir.’ Silback drew himself up straight, his face utterly expressionless.
Kelly turned to Durine. ‘Ah. Captain Durine. Congratulations on your much-deserved brevet,’ he said.
Karris joined him in the nod. They were all chums now. ‘Yes, yes, yes, congratulations, indeed. Would you care to join us?’
Durine nodded, and the crowd of soldiers parted as the three of them made their way out into the cold.
‘Well,’ Kelly murmured to Karris, his genial smile frozen in place, ‘I think the point has been made, you treacherous son of an unknown father.’
Karris nodded and clapped a hand - just a bit too hard to be really friendly - upon Kelly’s shoulder. ‘I can only hope it has,’ he replied softly, ‘you catamite. Let’s put an end to this charade; I know you’re eager to drop your trousers and bend over for anybody who can put the word “lord” in front of his name.’ Still smiling, he clapped his other hand on Durine’s shoulder. ‘And what do you think, you oversized pile of shit in an undersized bag?’
Murder In LaMut Page 18