"I can keep an eye on those who are there," Cort said grimly, "and count the rest as they come in."
"Well, if you need to go out for the occasional patrol, I'll come along." Dirk grinned again. "Might be fun."
Cort eyed him with misgiving. "I only know two kinds of soldiers who think fighting's fun: the ones who have never been in a battle, and the ones who have seen so much war they've gone crazy with it."
"You forgot the third kind," Dirk told him.
He said it with such a nonchalant air that Cort couldn't help smiling. "Third kind? What's that?"
"Soldiers on leave," Dirk said. "Sometimes they don't even need to get drunk first."
Gar surveyed the line in front of them with a frown. "I'm used to merchants and farmers lining up to wait for the gate to open, Master Ralke, but these men don't look like either."
The town wall was only about twelve feet high, but the dark gray stone of which it was made gave it a very forbidding appearance. The dozen or so wagons lined up in front of the great leaves of the gate were driven by hard-eyed men wearing the same livery as the guards who lined the roadway to either side, armed with pikes and halberds.
"You must come from a fat country indeed!" Ralke said. "There isn't a merchant in the lot, nor a farmer, only soldiers." He glanced at Gar. "Did you hide your sword and dagger, as I ... Yes, I see you did."
"I understand why, now-they don't like the competition." Gar shook his head sadly. "But why are soldiers driving the wagons?"
"Boots, lad, not soldiers. We call them boots when their boss is a bully. They're driving because they're tax collectors, and that's why they've so many guards. As to lining up to wait for the panels to open, they could come in any time. There just happen to be more of them here in midmorning, because they all set out from last night's camping at more or less the same time."
"I take it very few of the villages pay in coin, then?"
"You take it rightly; few villagers have coin with which to pay. They never have extra crops to sell, since the boss takes them all. He's the one who does the selling and has all the gold."
"What does he buy with it?"
"Mercenaries for his next war, mostly, but he'll have a few coins left over to buy some spices and fine cloths for himself and his family, and that'swhere we come in."
It didn't take terribly long to reach the gates. The wagons being driven by boots rolled on in with scarcely a nod to the guards. But when Master Ralke stepped up with the first of his mules, the gate guards clashed their pikes together to bar his way. "Vairudingugoink?" one of them demanded.
"This is what takes the time," Ralke told Gar. "I don't speak the dialect of this city."
Gar wondered if he himself could, if they would just speak enough of it.
Ralke pointed to himself, then cupped his hand and pantomimed dropping coins into it, then waved back at his caravan, saying, "Merchant."
"Awmeshen!" The guard nodded, then held out a cupped palm and scratched it. "Bayeedcawminnaloutre!"
"Entry fee," Ralke explained to Gar, and slipped two large silver coins from a slit-pocket behind his belt. He placed them in the guard's hand; the man nodded with satisfaction, and the two halberds parted. The guard pointed at a stone building atop a low hill in the center of the town and said, "Zeedeebaasfirs!"
Ralke nodded, pointing from himself to the castle in one smooth movement, then called to his drivers and led them through the gate. Gar rode beside him on his horse. The guards eyed him suspiciously, and Gar felt as though they could see through his cloak to the sword hanging across his back, but they said nothing as the caravan rode on in. Gar loosed a pent-up breath. "What's the name of this town, Master Ralke?"
"Loutre." Ralke gave him a shrewd glance. "Heard of it, have you?"
"Only from that gate guard."
Ralke's eyes widened. "You speak their language?"
"No, but I know several others, and I can guess from the way the words seem alike."
"Oh, you can, can you?" Ralke growled. "What did that guard say?"
"I was just beginning to be able to understand him at the end there, but I couldn't figure out what `Loutre' meant. Without that, I suspect the last two things he said were `Pay to come into Loutre' and `See the boss first.' "
"Good guesses," Ralke approved, "but you could have worked that out from his gestures. Still, keep trying to puzzle out the words-it would be handy to have someone on my side who could understand the language."
"I'll work on it," Gar promised. He didn't bother telling Master Ralke that he had really been matching the words to the guard's thoughts. Why burden the poor merchant with more than he needed to know?
Down the broad boulevard they went, broad enough for ten soldiers to march side by side, then up the winding road to the castle. The guard at the drawbridge challenged them again, but didn't demand any money, only insisted on looking under the wrappings of the mules' loads as they came in. They went under the portcullis, through the entrytunnel, and into the courtyard. There, Master Ralke directed them over against a wall, where the drivers unloaded the mules and opened the bundles. Gar pitched in and helped, but was careful to keep his sword hidden. When the goods were all laid out, the drivers led the mules away to feed and curry while Ralke strolled along the line of luxurious cloths and rare foods, seeming nonchalant but actually vigilant.
Gar kept him company. "What do we do now?"
"Wait," Ralke told him, "for the boss's convenience."
"Oh. He has to inspect the goods before you're allowed to take them down to the marketplace?"
"He has to inspect them, all right." Ralke grinned, showing his teeth. "Inspect them and take what he likes. If he takes more than a few items, he'll probably pay for them."
"'Probably?' You mean you could lose your whole cargo right here?"
"Could, yes. Inside his own domain, and especially inside his own town and castle, a boss can do anything he damn well pleases."
"His whim is the only law, eh?"
Ralke frowned up at him. "Law? What's law? Another one of your foreign words?"
"Why . . . yes," Gar stammered, completely taken aback that the merchant didn't even have the concept. "But you don't think he will take everything?"
"Why, no. He knows that if he leaves me nothing, I won't be able to come back with more-and he values these little luxuries I bring from the great world outside. Him, or his wife."
"Market forces." Gar nodded.
Again, Ralke gave him a peculiar look. "What market ever had force?"
Gar just stared at him for a moment. Then he said, "Perhaps more than you know, Master Ralke, but this isn't the place to speak of it. Remind me to discuss the subject when we're back on the road."
"Certainly no time now." Ralke gave him a nudge instead of pointing. "Here comes the boss." Gar turned and saw a tall, stocky man approaching with a woman almost as tall as himself, fingers lightly touching his arm. She was grayhaired, but didn't have many lines in her face, and walked with the grace of a woman in her thirties. Gar remembered that, on a medieval world like this, she might well be in her thirties. Her gown: was blue velvet, her hair caught in a net whose threads were golden, and her husband wore brocade, with a scarlet cloak of fine red wool. He was gray-haired, too, his face lined and weathered from a life of campaigning. He walked with a slight limp, and his broadsword swung at his hip.
Behind them came a slender man in gray broadcloth, his black hair short in a bowl cut, his angular face impassive, but a gleam in his eye.
The boss stopped opposite Ralke and said something in an affable tone. The short, slight man said, with a heavy accent, "The boss greets you, merchant, and asks what you have to show him today,"
"Good! A translator!" Ralke muttered to Gar. "That will make dealings a good bit easier."
It probably would, Gar thought-except that he was sure the boss had said, "Well, merchant! I trust you had an easy journey!" and nothing yet about Ralke's stock in trade.
The merchant
bowed to the boss, saying, "I am honored by the boss's interest. For this trip, I have fine linen, purple dye, silk, satin, and many spices and dried fruits."
The translator turned and repeated the words to the boss and his wife, listened to their replies, and turned back to Ralke. "The boss will look over your goods."
"I am pleased he finds them worthy of regard," Ralke said smoothly, and the translator delivered the message to the boss and his wife.
But Gar, listening not to a foreign language, but to a different dialect of his native tongue, and listening not just with his ears but also with his mind, knew the boss had said, "Ah, good! We have been wanting more purple dye for new liveries for our boot-men!" His wife had replied, "The cooks have almost used up all the cloves and orange rind, husband. Has he those?" The translator had told them that Ralke had answered, "Alas! It has been a bad year for southern crops, Your Honors. Such things are rare, and high in cost."
Ralke frowned. "Why do the boss and his lady look disgruntled?"
"Because the boss has fought a war this year," the translator said, "and has little money for luxuries."
Now Gar knew what the gleam in the translator's eye was-not interest, but mischief.
Ralke frowned. "That's not welcome news! I had hoped for good profits this season."
The boss said something, and the translator turned to listen. Gar leaned over and muttered quickly, "You may make a good profit after all. The translator isn't telling you what the boss really said."
Ralke turned to stare at him. "You've worked out the language already? You can understand him?"
Gar just had time to nod before the boss turned to say something to Ralke, frowning. The translator interpreted, "The boss will take all your purple dye. He offers you a silver mark for each pound."
"A silver mark!" Ralke cried. "It cost me more than that! The southern folk make it from sea snails, and it takes thousands of them for a pound of dye! It's very expensive!"
"It has been a bad year for the boss," the translator replied.
"It will be a worse year for you, if he finds out you're lying about what he said," Gar informed the man. "He told Master Ralke that he wouldn't pay more than three silver marks for each pound."
The translator stared at him, thunderstruck, and Ralke stifled a grin.
CHAPTER 5
"You did not tell me your man spoke my language," the translator said slowly, "but he is mistaken. Why would I lie?"
Gar started to answer, Because you enjoy making trouble, but Ralke forestalled him. "You would lie because the boss will leave it to you to draw the money from the treasury and bring it to me. You'll give me what I think the boss agreed upon and keep the rest for yourself."
The look the translator gave him was pure hatred.
The boss said something, and the translator turned to answer.
"The boss wants to know what you're talking about," Gar murmured, "and the translator is telling him he can't repeat it, because what you're saying is so insulting."
"None of that!" Ralke said sharply. He turned and bowed to the boss and his wife again. "Tell them I have only the highest respect for them, and was only discussing how many marks there are to a silver pound."
The translator flashed him a glare that should have shriveled him, but turned back to interpret. "He told the boss what you really said this time," Gar said.
"Fortune favored me when you joined our caravan, Gar Pike!" Ralke forced a smile for the translator. "It seems you and I shall do business of our own, interpreter. I'm Ralke; who are you?"
"My name is only for my friends," the interpreter snapped, but the boss cleared his throat with impatience, and the translator gave him a guilty glance as he added, "and for my business associates. I am Torgi." He turned to the boss and gave a brief explanation.
"He's just telling them that you're trying to be friendly by exchanging names with him," Gar muttered. "He's giving them your name, too."
"As though they didn't have it already," Ralke returned.
Torgi turned back to them. "What do you suggest?"
"That you interpret my prices accurately," Ralke told him, "but I'll raise them by one part in five. Then after the sale, you and I will split that one part, half each."
"One part in ten is better than nothing," Torgi grumbled.
"Much better than your boss learning how you were garbling his words," Gar reminded.
Torgi's glare would have seen him convicted for poisoning on a civilized world, but he could only say, "I agree to your terms. Now, how much do you want for the dye?"
"I had hoped for three silver marks and a copper mark," Ralke sighed, "but the boss's offer will give me some profit, at least."
Torgi turned and translated faithfully. The boss smiled and glanced at his wife, who beamed up at him and nodded. He turned back to speak in a lofty but kindly tone.
"He will give you the copper mark for each pound," Torgi translated, "but trusts you will be as moderate as you may in your other prices."
"The boss is very gracious," Ralke said, with a smile and a little bow at the couple.
The bargaining proceeded smoothly from that point, and when they were done, Ralke was looking quite satisfied, because the boss and his wife had bought half his stock and had paid him a fair price. The boss said something with a smile, and Torgi told Ralke, "His Honor has enjoyed dealing with you, and trusts you will visit his castle on your next journey."
"I will be honored by his hospitality," Ralke said, with yet another bow.
Torgi translated; the boss smiled benignly, satisfied, but told Torgi one more thing as he turned away. Torgi said a few words and bowed.
"He told Torgi to get the money and pay us," Gar muttered.
"I will fetch the money," Torgi told them. "Then you will be on your way quickly, yes?"
"We'll pack while you're gone," Ralke assured him.
"You will go, too." Torgi gave Gar a look that promised revenge. "We shall meet again, be sure."
"I'll look forward to it," Gar said, in a tone of great politeness.
"Brandy," Cort told the serving wench. "The whole bottle."
She smiled knowingly and turned away. "Rough day, huh?" Dirk said, with a sympathetic look.
"Oh, the day was fine," Cort told him. "It's the night that's been an ordeal."
"Girl trouble, eh?"
Cort looked up, amazed.
"It couldn't have been that little dust-up back in the alley," Dirk explained. "Compared to battle, that was a piece of cake. So if you're on leave, it had to be a woman."
"You're shrewd, stranger," Cort said slowly, "and you know the ways of soldiers. How long have you been a mercenary?"
"All totaled? Maybe a year." Dirk smiled at Cort's skeptical look and explained, "I'm a free lance. I sign up for bodyguard jobs as often as army, and the captains usually hire me for just one battle."
"Can't be signing on as an officer, then," Cort said, frowning. "A captain wouldn't want a stranger in his cadre."
"Right on the mark. I'm a sergeant."
"Only if you sign up with a mercenary company," Cort said with a smile. "Sign up with a boss around here and you're a brute."
"That your term for a noncom?"
"Their term," Cort corrected. "Mercenaries use the old words-old enough that we don't know where they came from. But we have to know the others. After all, any of us might want to join a boss someday." He saddened suddenly, thinking of Squire Ellsworth-and, therefore, of Violet.
"So a sergeant is a brute," Dirk said briskly. "Might be apt, at that. What's a lieutenant?"
"A bruiser," Cort explained, "and with the bosses, he rides a horse and wears heavy armor. Mercenaries have whole companies of cavalry, lightly armed, and they can dance circles around the bruisers while they cut them to shreds."
"I take it a bully is a captain?"
"Yes, and the boss is a general. Sometimes the boss will appoint one bully to command the others, but that's the only case where there's a rank in
between."
"Other countries, other ways." Dirk sighed. "At least it's no worse than trying to understand navy ranks and insignia."
The bottle landed on the table, then two mugs. It was a measure of Cort's state of mind that he didn't even glance at the wench, only pushed some coppers over as he told Dirk, "I've heard of navies-fighting sailors, aren't they?"
"Yes, and I only served with them once. Never again! I don't like having the ground move under me when I'm trying to thrust and parry. As soon as the ship docked, I signed off, and that's how I came to your country."
"The seacoast is far away," Cort commented. "You must have been quite a time, coming this far inland."
Dirk shrugged. "One job led to another, each farther away from salt water, which was just fine with me. I was captured in the last battle, and being a stranger just hired for the duration, the captain didn't think I was worth ransoming. So I went to work for the boss who had caught me."
Cort grinned slowly. "Why not? If the captain wasn't loyal enough to ransom you, then you had no loyalty to worry you. But didn't the boss realize you wouldn't be any more faithful to him?"
"I don't think bosses really worry about loyalty," Dirk said slowly, "just about belting you if they think you've betrayed them. Still, the issue didn't come up. I fought in one more of your little wars, somehow survived, and that was it. Didn't even stay long enough to figure out that boss, bully, bruiser, brute, and boot were like rank names."
"He paid you off?"
"Yeah, with my freedom. That's how I ransomed myself."
"Ah! Yes, that would make sense." Cort nodded, enjoying the talk-it kept his mind off Violet. "Especially since, once you were free, he would have had to pay you."
"Exactly. He didn't have another war brewing at the moment, so he dismissed me rather than give me silver. I signed on as a merchant's guard, took a short stint as a tax collector and hated it, and started riding the roads looking for work."
"You've been at liberty ever since, then?"
"Yes. Nice way of saying `out of work,' isn't it? But I'm a long way from home, and much though I'd like to go back, I don't know if I'm willing to sign on as a sailor again."
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