The Merchant Adventurer

by Patrick E. McLean

  “One, my Lord.”

  “One?” snorted Torvalds, “One what?”

  “One carriage approaches my Lord, flying a banner of truce.”

  “Oh. Oh, well, let them through. This may be easier than I thought.” The word went up the ranks and, with some grumbling, the Free Companions parted so a white carriage could reach them. Torvalds and Weeveston dismounted and prepared to receive the parley.

  “I say,” said Weeveston, “I think that’s my carriage.”

  The young blonde lad who drove the carriage handled the reins smartly. As he wheeled the coach to a stop, all eyes were on the carriage door. For a moment, nothing happened. From inside the carriage, a muffled voice commanded, “Say it!”

  “Oh, right,” said the driver. “Sorry.” He looked at Weeveston and Torvalds and said, “Sorry, I’m new at this. We both are.”

  “Don’t apologize, just say it already!” said the voice from inside the carriage.

  The driver sat up straighter and said, “Boltac the Shrewd, King of Robrecht, first of his name.”

  The door swung open and Boltac waddled out.

  “Hello,” said Boltac, “You must be the guy in charge,” he said to Torvalds, “‘cause you look pissed.”

  “You have stolen our Duchy,” said Torvalds.

  “Stolen? I haven’t stolen anything. He”–Boltac pointed at Weeveston–“ran away. Besides,” he said with a smile, “it ain’t a Duchy. It’s a Kingdom. And I’m the King.”

  “You are no King. You are not even of a royal line,”

  “Whattaya mean I’m not the King of Robrecht? I rode here in the King’s carriage!”

  “That’s my ducal carriage!” Weeveston protested.

  “No. It used to be. Look, the seal is changed and everything.” Boltac looked directly at Torvalds and said, “I drove your idiot nephew out and took his carriage and his castle and his town back for the people of Robrecht. You’re not welcome anymore.”

  Weeveston peered at the new sigil. “What is that? A fish?”

  Boltac said, “It’s an Eelpout. It’s like a fish’s ugly cousin. And you see those words?”

  Weeveston read as if it was difficult for him, “‘Everybody pays their way’? What kind of motto is that?”

  “This foolishness changes nothing,” said Torvalds. “It is our Duchy and we have the army with which prove it.” With a wave of his hand he indicated Laughlin on his tall horse, grinning through his beard at the proceedings. Torvalds pointed to a few of the Companions and said, “You! Seize him!”

  None of the Companions moved.

  “En-henh, about that,” said Boltac.

  “Seize him!” Torvalds said, stamping his foot at the Companions’ impudence.

  “I don’t know why they call them the Free Companions. ‘Cause we both know they don’t come cheap,” said Boltac with a smile.

  “You are using the gold from our own treasury to hire an army to fight us! SUCH IMPUDENCE! I will drag your body through the streets behind my own horse!”

  “En-henh,” said Boltac, “So, funny thing about that. There was no gold in the treasury. It was all gone. Robrecht was broke. I can’t say I was surprised, seeing how your boy here saw fit to loot our fair city six ways from Sunday. So I refilled the treasury on my own.”

  “What? How?”

  “Yeah, see, this is why the call me the Hero of Robrecht. This is why they made me King. I bought it. Just like I bought your army.”

  “They would never turn against us. Then they would never be safe against the Feared BattleMages of Mercia.” Torvalds gave the phrase all of the ominous gravity he could manage. A low, nervous murmur rippled through the crowd of mercenaries that surrounded them. It was true, they were frightened of Magic. Boltac had told Laughlin that he could take care of the BattleMages–that was part of the deal–but these hard men could not understand how one fat Merchant could handle the powerful Mages when they could not.

  Boltac didn’t miss a beat. “Okay, so funny thing about BattleMages. Well, hang on. You got one of them fancy BattleMages lying around? I’ll just show you.”

  Within moments, the four sinister, tattooed men came to the center of the circle. The tallest of them looked down at Boltac and sneered, “What do you think, brothers? Should I transmogrify this one into a pig, or is he already pig enough?” The BattleMages laughed humorlessly at their leader’s joke-like object.

  Boltac chuckled along with them and then grew serious, “I don’t think you could mans-trog-mify your ass with both hands.”

  “YOU DARE TO–” But before the Chief BattleMage could vent his full fury, Boltac walked over and slapped him across the face. The slap made a sharp noise that carried well. Everyone gasped in amazement. Even Torvalds.

  “Yeah, I dare plenty. Now strike me down. Or pull a rabbit out of a hat. I don’t care. Just work some Magic already.”

  The Mage raised his hands in the air and began a guttural chant that rose in volume and intensity. His eyes rolled back into his head. Even as the crowd parted behind Boltac, the Merchant stood his ground. As the Mage reached a full-throated yell, he whipped his entire body and threw his hands at Boltac.

  The BattleMage held this pose for a moment, but nothing happened. Then shook his hands in frustration. Then looked at the tips of his fingers. A blush covered his face and overwhelmed the red handprint where Boltac had slapped him.

  “En-henh. Nuttin.” Boltac turned to the crowd and said, “See? They’re frauds. FRAUDS! Their Magic doesn’t work anymore.”

  Torvalds, with fear in his voice, turned to the Mages and said, “But you told me it was just that the portents were bad. That it was an ‘ill-omened time for the working of great Magicks’!”

  With that the crowd burst into laughter. There were hoots and howls of derision. One of the men even threw a clod of earth and hit the BattleMage in the face.

  “All right! All right!” yelled Boltac, waving his arms for quiet. None of the men listened, but their commander, Laughlin, dismounted and strode to the center of the gathering. He did not even have to speak. He raised his large, gloved hand and the men fell silent. He looked to Boltac and asked, “Are we through?”

  “A few more words,” said Boltac.

  “Traitor,” Torvalds hissed at Laughlin. “You have lost any chance you had to become a full citizen of the Mercian Empire.”

  Laughlin smiled and stepped out from between Boltac and Torvalds.

  “So, Torvalds. There’s no reason this has to get ugly. Mostly because I didn’t hire these exorbitantly priced Companions to fight you.” Boltac nodded at Laughlin who now stood in the circle behind Torvalds. “That’s a compliment, you’re a hell of a negotiator.”

  Boltac continued, “I hired them NOT to fight you. Less risk. Cheaper that way. In fact, I made them all citizens. Gave them each a nice plot of land, reclaiming an area that had been recently terrorized by an Evil Wizard and his creations.”

  Weeveston asked, “What happened to the Wizard? What have you done with Dimsbury?”

  “Ennh, Magic was a dangerous business while it lasted. But, here’s the thing. Just ‘cause I’m not paying these guys, doesn’t mean they can’t rip you limb from limb for their own enjoyment.”

  The men cheered.

  “So, I suggest you turn around and walk back the way you came as quickly as possible. You could even run.”

  Deeply affronted, Torvalds exclaimed, “You are stealing our horses?”

  “Oh, no, Kings don’t steal. Kings never steal. Your horses have either been commandeered. Or appropriated. But stolen, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You are a vile little man!” said Torvalds

  “Your Highness,” said Boltac.

  “What?” sputtered Torvalds.

  “‘You are a vile little man, your Highness.’ You forgot to add ‘your Highness’. Very bad to do this when addressing a King.”

  “Enough of this madness!” Torvalds drew his sword, lifting it for a swing that would surely h
ave cleaved Boltac in two. But before the sword could start forward, a foot of steel emerged from Torvalds’ belly. Behind him, Laughlin put his knee on Torvalds’ Shining™ Armor and recovered his dirk. Blood sputtered from Torvalds’ lips as he collapsed to his knees. He fell to the ground at Boltac’s feet. Weeveston looked on in wide-eyed horror.

  “What a waste,” said Boltac shaking his head. Then he put a sympathetic hand on Weeveston’s shoulder and walked him away, “You don’t need to look at that, trust me.”

  As they walked south Boltac said, “Look, Weeveston, if that’s even your real name, we’ve got easily defensible mountain passes. We’re on the trade road to everywhere. And now we’ve got our own Kingdom. We’d like to be friends with everybody, you understand. Friends and trading partners. ‘Cause it’s good for business. Anger, bad blood, ancient feuds–all of that garbage is bad for business, right? So, before I let you go, I gotta know. Do you want to be my friend?”

  Pale and shaking, Weeveston looked behind him. Laughlin was wiping Uncle Torvalds blood from his dirk. He smiled again.

  “I do. I do want to be friends,” Weeveston said, looking around nervously.

  “I do want to be friends, what?”

  “What?” asked Weeveston, truly not understanding.

  “No. Not what. What do you say?”

  “Oh, I do want to be friends, your H-h-h-highness?”

  “Okay then. Shake hands and run along.”

  “I’m not sure you are supposed to shake hands with a King.”

  “Don’t be silly, I’m not that kind of King.”

  Boltac shook Weeveston’s soft hand and watched him scurry south as fast as his expensive shoes would allow. From beside him, Boltac heard Laughlin chuckle. The big man made a clicking noise with his tongue as he shook his head.

  “You know they will come for you,” said Laughlin.

  “En-henh,” said Boltac. He looked at Laughlin and said, “And you know they’re gonna to come for you too.”

  Laughlin smiled again. A smile that had survived a countless fights and endless miles of contested ground. He shrugged and said, “It will be expensive for them, either way.”

  “En-henh,” said Boltac.

  45

  Rattick leered at the serving boy who writhed through the crowded, smoke filled-room. Then he threw him a coin and motioned for another bottle of wine. He raised his half-empty glass in a silent toast to the unlucky man whose stolen purse was funding his party. Fate might have reduced him to a simple cutpurse, but so far, his new station was treating him well.

  Rattick never saw it coming. He didn’t hear the thock of the leather-covered sap that hit him across the back of his head. He never felt the rough hands that deposited him in the back of the wagon. He was unaware of the hard gallop north.

  When he awoke, the first thing he was aware of was a tremendous headache. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in the back of a canvas-covered wagon. Rattick wondered where the serving boy had gone. Then he wondered where the inn had gone. When he saw fog blowing through the gaps in the canvas he wondered where the entire city of Shatnapur had gone. A chill came over him. The cold. The fog. That’s when he knew he was headed back to Robrecht.

  He attempted to roll over and discovered that he was bound hand and foot. He struggled and shouted, but nothing came of it, so he gave up and went back to sleep. The next time he awoke it was to the sound of horse hooves ringing on cobblestones. He was taken from the back of the wagon like a sack of grain and deposited in front of a stable. One of his captors, a swarthy man who flashed gold teeth at Rattick when he smiled, cut him free with a well-used dirk.

  The man said, “Wash yourself. You are to appear before the King.”

  “King?” ask Rattick. He surveyed the courtyard of Robrecht’s central keep. “This isn’t a Kingdom.”

  The man in the bandanna cuffed him across the mouth and said, “Don’t speak ill of your King. One might get the idea that you’re a traitor.” The he laughed, flashing his gold teeth again. Rattick licked the raw place the cuff left on his mouth. He estimated how much he would sell this man’s gold teeth for after he had killed him.

  But not yet. First he must figure out what was going on here. Then somehow win his freedom. Then insinuate himself into this soldier’s confidence. Then betray him. Slip the knife in when he least expected it. A few sharp jerks with a pair of pliers and then away.

  But what was going on here? He saw more fighters coming and going in the courtyard. That would suggest that Robrecht had been overrun. The place should have been raped and pillaged out of existence by now. But the city was strangely intact.

  “Clean yourself,” the man in the bandanna said again, prodding him towards the water in the horse trough.

  Rattick rubbed his jaw with the cold water in the basin to ease the sting of the rising bruise. Then he washed himself as best he could. Before he could finish, two soldiers had grabbed him by the arms and hauled him into the castle. Doors, rooms, hallways, all passed in a blur until finally Rattick was thrown onto the floor of a large room. Behind him, he heard a man say, “Rattick, a man not to be trusted.” Rattick turned and saw a man in formal dress holding himself perfectly erect. The man did not return Rattick’s gaze, but instead looked unwaveringly toward the front of the room.

  When Rattick followed the Chamberlain’s gaze, he saw Boltac standing before the throne, wearing something that looked like a crown. “Ha,” Rattick said.

  “You should have more respect when addressing the King,” someone said from off to the side. He turned his head to the left and there was Relan, dressed in fine clothing and wearing a polished breastplate that featured a rampant… eelpout? What in the hell was going on here?

  “I thought I killed you. I’m sure I killed you,” said Rattick.

  “En-henh, maybe you’re slipping in your old age Rattick. Maybe it’s time you considered a new line of work.”

  “While the loss would wound me deeply, how is it that you are not dead? Why has the Empire seen fit to let a Merchant play Kinglet with its property.”

  “Because I’m cunning and I know how to buy things cheap. Any more questions?”

  “And how is it I am not dead?”

  Boltac rolled his head to one side and squinted. “From the look of it, I’d say you’re not dead because you’ve got a very thick skull. That and I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition,” Rattick said, getting to his feet.

  “Well, Rattick, it’s like this,” Boltac said. “Turns out, I’m a King after all.”

  “Ha,” said Rattick.

  “I know, no one is more surprised than I am. But here we are and the only thing to do is make the best of it. So, I’d like to make you my first Minister.”

  “What! This snake? He would not be a Good and Loyal Minister,” protested Relan.

  “Exactly. Precisely. Just when I think you are hopeless, kid, you show a glimmer of real intelligence.”

  “You could never trust him,” said Relan.

  “You could trust your loyal and humble servant,” said Rattick, bowing low and glaring at Relan.

  “See, that’s just it. I’m not going to trust him. That’s where everybody goes wrong in this King game. They start trusting their advisors and then bango, they are betrayed. And they wind up with their heads on pikes and confused looks on their faces as the crows peck out their eyeballs.

  “I don’t want to trust him. I want him to try everything he possibly can. If I’m safe against my ‘friends’, I will certainly be safe against my enemies.”

  “My Lord, I am at your service,” said Rattick as he bowed even lower this time.

  “Skip the sarcasm, Rattick. I’m a King now, so it’s not Lord. It’s Your Highness.”

  “King Boltac?” Rattick asked.

  “What did I just tell you about the sarcasm? See Relan? Do you see what a wonderful Disloyal Minister he makes? Now come here, Rattick; kneel so you can receive your badge of office.”<
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  “You mean you are not going to have me killed? You really mean to do this? Appoint me as Minister to your court?”

  “Disloyal Minister. Minister of Disloyalty and Sedition. We can work out the title later, but yes, yeah, you slippery bastard. I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Rattick knelt and said, “This is going to be a very different sort of Kingdom, my liege.” This time there was not the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Yes, it is. There’s no Magic anymore, Rattick. So who knows where the progress will stop.” Then Boltac draped a robe of office around Rattick’s shoulders.

  Rattick said, “Progress is Magic, my liege.”

  “Well spoken, Rattick. Although I distrust your flattery.”

  “You are right to do so, my liege.”

  “Now, arise, my Disloyal Minister. You have the run of the keep. But if you try to leave and get caught, you’ll be killed. So either stick around or be really sneaky. Preferably both.”

  “Sire, my first advice as Minister is to be rid of this peasant. This ox is more useful to you as a martyr than as a, a, a, what is he? Errand boy? Valet?””

  “Why just look at him Rattick. He’s the Hero, anybody can see that.”

  “Hero? How can he be the Hero? He’s not even a Knight.”

  “Excellent point, Rattick!” Boltac turned to Relan, “See how useful this guy is?”

  “He is a bad man,” said Relan.

  “You think you rule a Kingdom by being Mr. Nice Guy all the time? Now get over here and take a knee, so I can Knight you.”

  “A Knight? How can I be a Knight? Don’t I have to be a squire first?”

  Boltac smiled at the Farm Boy, still so innocent in the ways of the world, and oblivious to what had happened, “I’m a King, and I didn’t have to be a Prince first.

  “But I don’t know anything about being a Knight!”

  “I don’t know anything about being a King, so we’ll both figure it out as we go along.”