by Aldus Baker
Trader Grom’s tone seems both conciliatory and frank. Darla’s displeasure is overcome by her curiosity.
“Of what activities do you speak? Surely, you refer to something more than his proposal to me?”
“Assuredly I do, lady. Lord Shrift has built a sizable force of lancers over the last two years, at least double the forces you command.”
“He has offered to send a large contingent of his lancers to aid us in our fight,” says Darla.
“As part of his marriage proposal, no doubt?” says Grom
“True. It is contingent on my agreement to marry him,” says Darla.
The trader nods thoughtfully and says, “I imagine that would make it easier for him.”
“What are you implying?” says Darla.
“I will explain, but allow me to ask a question first. How is it that Lord Shrift can afford to keep so large a force of lancers?”
“I imagine the yields from his lands are sufficient.”
“I ask you to accept my word that they are not and assure you that I can prove it so.”
Grom’s assertion puzzles Darla. How could Lord Merk have all those lancers if he cannot afford the cost? “That does not make sense. He has all those lancers. Surely, he must be paying for them. Even if he defers the men’s pay, there are still uniforms, weapons, housing and a number of other expenses that must be paid.”
“As best as I am able to determine, the Lord is covering the cost, yet his income is insufficient, he has sold no personal goods or holdings and he has not borrowed the funds,” says Trader Grom.
“Wealth is not magic. It does not flow from nothing. You ask me how Lord Shrift pays for his lancers, but you tell me at every turn he cannot be paying for his lancers. Are you saying that he does not truly have those lancers or are you accusing him of purloining the funds?”
Grom’s eyes open wide and his posture stiffens, “I would never dream of accusing a lord of a crime. I am merely a master trader without standing from which to make such a charge. What I have said is offered under my role as adviser in order that my lady may come to her own conclusions.”
The sound of Grom’s voice and the way he poses himself as he speaks reminds Darla of a troupe of play actors that once performed at Yen Estate. It is as if his protest is rehearsed and being delivered in a way that strengthens her suspicion. Although Trader Grom denies it, Darla is certain he is accusing Lord Merk Shrift of stealing the money. But, from whom would he steal it?
Darla feels the warmth flood her cheeks as understanding and embarrassment arrive hand in hand. In a rush she sees the connections, the pattern Grom has been trying to show her. Merk’s lancers and the odd regularity of the accounts for the outposts are related. When she had spoken with Captain Niksus he explained that Major Jekler, the former commander of Southway who must have been killed in the first attack, reviewed and approved all the financial reports. Jeckler received the reports from Midland and Pass and compiled the official report for all three outposts. It was Jeckler’s report that was sent on to Yen Manor. Darla had never seen the original outpost reports until Captain Niksus showed her the records he had been ordered to bring back from Pass Outpost.
The Pass Outpost records show that tariffs had been increasing steadily for the past three years while the traffic through the outpost also grew. A far greater sum was collected and sent on to Southway than what Major Jeckler reported and sent on to Yen Manor. Based on Pass Outpost’s discrepancy between tariffs collected and the amount actually sent to Yen Manor, it is easy to imagine Midland and Southway having a similar difference. Darla initially believed Major Jeckler diverted the funds for his own use. Now it seems very possible that he was in league with Lord Merk Shrift and that House Yen is paying for Lord Shrift’s extra lancers.
The final realization of Lord Shrift’s duplicity in the matter rapidly converts Darla’s embarrassment to anger. “The dirty two-faced scoundrel,” is all Darla manages to stammer out as the enormity of the betrayal hits her. She is not even certain her insult is meant for Merk Shrift, Major Jeckler or both. “Our tariffs! He’s using our tariffs for his lancers.”
“My thinking exactly, my lady,” acknowledges Grom.
Darla feels her anger so strongly that for a moment she cannot summon any rational thought. She wishes only to lash out at Lord Shrift, to harm him, to make him pay. When she can speak again she starts a list of the actions she intends to take in order to hold Merk Shrift accountable. “I will submit a complaint with the other houses. I will take this before the court and king. I will not stand for this! I will...”
“Those are reasonable but lengthy steps, lady,” interjects Trader Grom. “You may not have time for them to work.”
Her anger is subsiding to reason. Grom is right. There is no time for politics. The threat to House Yen is imminent. She could go to the other families and the king with her story and the little proof she has, but even if they decide in her favor it will take months or maybe years. In the meantime, Merk Shrift will deny her aid. Most likely he would actively begin to work against her and deploy his ill-gotten lancers to harass House Yen in ways that would not draw the direct attention of the other houses or the monarch.
A new and equally unpleasant thought springs forth in Darla’s mind. Lord Shrift may already be doing exactly that. “This is horrible. What am I to do?” Misery and doubt make her question sound like a plea and Darla can feel how close she is to being overwhelmed by hopelessness.
Trader Grom smiles. “That is easy, my lady. Do that which your enemy least expects.”
Δ
“You want a trial? I’ll be happy to oblige you,” says Reest, his knuckles white upon the hilt of his saber and his entire bearing radiating anger like heat from a forge.
“Not you,” spits the captive with anger of his own. “Him! Your captain,” says the man with a thrust of his chin toward Jalan.
Reest’s jaw clenches and then he says, “Think you’ll have an easier time of it with the captain?”
“Don’t you? He’s a boy. No doubt a noble’s son trained by some adequate and unimaginative arms master. You’re just the warhorse he’s using to ride me down. Look at you, chomping at the bit and afraid to stand aside and let your captain face his own fight.”
Jalan steps forward and places a restraining hand on Reest’s shoulder before the Fist Leader can respond to the retort. “Hold. It’s his right to face any able bodied opponent on the field. Moreover, although his colors are false, he wears a captain’s rank. He may pretend to be of our house, but I doubt he pretends to his rank.”
“And you,” says Jalan turning to the captive. “You want to fight me as your trial? So be it. What will it be? Sabers, knives, clubs?”
“Your man’s nearly killed me already. What guarantee do I have that I will be free to leave if I win?” says the captive.
“You will have to trust in the adequate sense of honor instilled in my men by their unimaginative training.”
“I think I’ll trust in my own skill instead. I’ll face you man to man with no weapons. Then when I best you, you’ll still be alive, which gives your warhorse here no call to trample me. You’ll have to live with the shame of losing. But let’s be honest, I’m a veteran and you are a boy. That should be some consolation. No one expects you to win.”
The Yen lancers begin to voice their disapproval of the mercenary’s tone. Jalan hears sharp words and curses being muttered. He waits for the men to quite before he says, “Then your loss will be even more humiliating.” Jalan holds up his hand to silence the rough laughter and jeering remarks of some of his men. “But, besides your humiliation, what do I get if I win?”
“What do you mean? You’ve already taken me prisoner and you are likely to take my life. There is nothing more,” says the bound man.
“I know you are a mercenary, but even you have a code. If I win, I will trade your life for your loyalty to me.”
The mercenary tries to respond and Jalan gestures with his hand to
indicate he is not finished. “Your loyalty and the loyalty of your men. That is what I get for giving you your life.”
Jalan can see the gleam of speculation in the bound man’s eyes. “And your men will not interfere? When I win, I take a horse and go unhindered?”
He doesn’t believe he can lose. Jalan raises his voice so that everyone can hear him and says, “I will give the mercenary his trial. We will face each other hand to hand. The first one rendered unconscious loses. If the mercenary captain wins, give him a horse and let him go free. Those are my orders and anyone who disobeys them is a traitor to House Yen. Are we clear?”
Reest and a couple of nearby lancers say, “Aye, captain.”
“I said, 'Are we clear!”
“Aye, captain!” comes the unanimous reply.
“Satisfied?” says Jalan as he watches for the captive’s reaction.
The bound man gives him a small crooked smile and says, “Aye, captain,” in a mocking imitation of Jalan’s lancers.
“Get him up. Check him one more time for weapons. Cut his bonds and remove his armor.” As Jalan gives these orders he unbuckles his sword belt and lays the weapon aside. The he begins to undo the straps of his armor.
Reest puts his saber back into its scabbard and draws his belt knife. He steps around the tree and severs the laces that bind the man’s wrists together. Shrim, Reest and a third lancer form a rough triangle around the tree and the prisoner. They keep watch as the mercenary massages his wrists then slowly rises to his knees and stands up.
Reest says, “Remove your armor,” from behind the man, but the mercenary has already started to imitate Jalan by undoing the buckles of the few pieces of armor he still wears.
“I’m sure I’ll be faster as soon as the blood returns to my fingers,” quips the mercenary in response to Reest while keeping his eyes on Jalan.
Shrim and the third lancer, Imus, help the captive mercenary. In a short time the man stands unarmored and unarmed.
“Clear a space!” shouts Reest. Lancers step out of the largest patch of nearby open ground and move to stand beside their compatriots among the surrounding trees.
Jalan moves to one end of the cleared ground. The mercenary stands no more than 10 paces away at the other end. A wall of watching lancers and trees form a barrier around Captain Jalan and the captive. If the mercenary tries to run, he will never get past Jalan’s men. The mercenary ignores the surrounding men and keeps watching Jalan.
He keeps trying to anger me. Is he looking for a sign that it’s working? Jalan has been studying his opponent’s reactions; it only makes sense that the mercenary is doing the same by watching Jalan.
“Ready, boy?” says the mercenary.
Moving into a slight sideways crouch, Jalan takes up his position with his loosely open hands raised in front of him and his shoulders relaxed. He starts to say, “Ready,” as the mercenary springs forward, diving with outstretched arms.
His opponent wants to grab Jalan and take him to the ground. The mercenary’s greater size and strength gives him an advantage when grappling. But, his chosen tactic is the first thing Jalan expected.
Jalan leaps up and out of reach. The mercenary lands hard sliding across the uneven root covered ground with his empty outstretched arms before him. Both Jalan’s booted feet come down together and land even harder between the prone man’s shoulder blades. The man chokes off a cry of pain and surprise before he tries to use his right arm and leg to turn onto his left side and spill Jalan off his back. The young captain drops himself sideways in order to slip down behind his twisting adversary. He uses his right palm to deliver a blow just below the mercenary’s ribs on his exposed right side. The strike serves to distract the man and helps Jalan leverage himself into position as he snakes his left arm around the man’s neck and begins choking the mercenary.
Strong fingers dig for purchase on Jalan’s arm as his enemy tries to grasp it and break free. Ignoring his opponent’s flailing and the pain of the man’s grip, Jalan maintains a mental count. Time seems to pass slowly with his body in the full fever of combat. His count has to be accurate. The difference between unconscious and dead can be measured in heartbeats. Killing the man would destroy any chance of learning what he knows and lose any hope of gaining the support of the men he leads. It is a tragedy Jalan wishes deeply to avoid. He never killed a man before today. The faces of his victims still show clear in his memory. The count reaches 10 and Jalan immediately releases his hold.
The man’s head and shoulders weigh upon Jalan’s left arm. The fingers no longer dig painfully into his forearm and all the thrashing has ceased. Pulling away and rising to his knees, Jalan can see the mercenary’s motionless form lying on the clearing floor. Panic forms a stone in the pit of his stomach until he clearly sees the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest. Thank fortune.
Only now does Jalan hear the pandemonium surrounding him. He swivels his head about trying to look in every direction at once. The fear for his opponent’s life is replaced by the fear that his opponent’s friends have returned in force. Reest stands beside Jalan offering a hand to help him rise. As Jalan is pulled to his feet he realizes the lancers are cheering and calling out praise for his victory. It is not battle, but celebration that surrounds him and he can feel his own smile upon his face.
“They won’t be cheering when his old friends arrive,” says Reest as he prods the mercenary’s body with his foot. “What do you want to do now?”
“Master Enmar and Major Erida would never forgive me if I didn’t know that answer after all their lectures on tactics. When faced with a superior force, we retreat,” says Jalan.
“Did they happen to say where to?”
Jalan looks down and shakes his head, “I’m hoping our new friend can help with that. Have a couple of your men take charge of him. Give him water when he wakes. Then get him on a horse.” Jalan catches Reest’s eye. “And, no more rough handling unless he starts something. He might be a scoundrel and a mercenary, but he’s our scoundrel now.”
“Aye, captain,” says Reest with a quick nod of his head.
“Also, have the company prepare to move out. I’m worried we may have stayed here too long already.”
“Aye, captain,” repeats Reest as he acknowledges Jalan’s additional order and perhaps agrees with his worry. The Fist Leader calls out the names of two of his Fist and waves them over. Captain Jalan goes to collect his armor and weapons. His left arm is scratched and bruised. He is limping because of a kick to his right leg from the heel of the mercenary’s boot. While he walks along his body informs him of other more minor injuries. Donning his armor, he tries to brush off dirt and debris from his uniform and discovers at least two tears in the fabric that he will have to mend provided he lives long enough to have the opportunity.
In this one routine moment of strapping on his armor, the idea that he could die becomes real. Some men already have, both his and the enemies’. He is personally responsible for several deaths. Every one of them would have killed him if they could have. Jalan’s fingers tremble as he buckles a vambrace onto his left forearm. The trees loom above him like a dark shadow of doom and he senses the formless spectral presence of death drifting in the air around him. He closes his eyes and thinks of home. The images of family appear to him, mother, Darla, Tomac, Vee and, surprisingly, Jacey too. Then a memory of his father, Hallis Yen, returns to him. The Lord stands before him and looms over Jalan’s little boy self like the trees that loom above him now. Lord Yen says, “Death rides with a man all his days. It is not something to be feared, but a companion worthy of respect and careful consideration. Death rides with us always, until the last, when we ride with it.” The love and comforting presence of his father enfolds Jalan.
He opens his eyes and says to the shadows, “Ride beside me as you must, but I will not carry your fear in my heart, for that is where my family dwells.”
Chapter XVIII
“I don’t know what else to do,” says Lady Darla as
she sits late at night in Lady Shara’s private salon. Darla feels a little odd about being in the room. In some ways it is a copy of the parlor before it became the waiting area for her office. And, along with the garden, it is her mother’s personal sanctuary where she took refuge while grieving over the death of Darla’s father.
The two women sit comfortably before the hearth. An orange red glow casts its light and diminished warmth upon them. They wear blankets over their legs to ward off the encroaching night’s chill. The conversation had been so pleasant and a very welcome respite from running the estate. Darla feels worse for bringing up a topic that she fears will only distress Lady Shara.
“And this is the advice of this trader, this spy sent by King Tamaron?” says Lady Shara.
“Grom advises doing the unexpected. I’ve already reached out to the other houses and all that got me was a few more lancers and a marriage proposal designed to weaken us. The king sent us Grom who brings supplies at a discount and fresh information about our enemies. There are no more friends to which we may turn.” Darla stares at the hearth hoping to see some new solution rise up from the ashes.
After some time Lady Shara speaks. “The king is subtle. His enemies might say shrewd. He helps us quietly and in a way no one can easily follow back to him. This devious mind is something he inherited from his father it seems. He has made a loan of it to us in the form of your trader. We are in a desperate way. What choice do we have that is not a desperate action?”
Darla barely speaks the word aloud, “None.”
“Daughter, look at me,” says Lady Shara. Darla stops staring into the coals of the fire and turns her gaze to her mother’s face. “You and I have held each other up after your father’s death. You have been very brave and strong as well. I laid such a heavy burden on you. But, you took it and grew stronger. Watching you, helping as I could, gave me strength too. It was the only thing that kept me connected to life. Without it, I fear what I might have done.”