A Wizard In Chaos

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Which is all the more reason why he has to kill us." Ralke nodded. "Yes, I see. But we can't go back and tell the Boss of Loutre, for Torgi will have assassins waiting, and it won't do any good to swear secrecy, for Torgi won't believe us."

  Gar frowned. "How do you know that?"

  "Because anyone that close to a boss is too deeply enmeshed in intrigue to be able to believe anybody's oath."

  Gar saw a chance to apply a little more pressure. "But if none of the boots come back, Torgi might assume we've all killed each other."

  "Six of us got away!" Hannok blurted. "They were hidden on the hillside, and I didn't give them the signal to join in!"

  Ralke didn't need to be a telepath to see through that one. "Nonsense! When your first six fell, you would have called in the rest."

  "I'll pay you!" Hannok declared. "The whole twelve marks will be yours if you let us live! Come, you're a merchant-why're you doing this, if not for money?"

  "We'd like to keep our lives, too," Gar reminded him. "Money isn't much use to dead men."

  "On the other hand," Ralke said, "if you gave us the money and your oath to say we're dead, we could let you all go."

  "Done!"

  "Master Ralke!" Gar cried. "You're not thinking of..."

  "But I am," Ralke said. "As Brute Hannok has said, I do this for money, and I'm used to taking risks. If he swears we're dead, the chance of Torgi learning otherwise is small enough to be worth taking."

  "Well, you pay me to fight your enemies," Gar said, scowling, "and I've given you the best advice I can. If you choose to ignore it, I can't stop you."

  "You've a bargain, Brute Hannok." Ralke reached down.

  Hannok clasped his hand and used it to pull himself to his feet. "You won't be sorry for this, merchant." He reached inside his tunic. Gar swung up a hand, ready to strike, but Hannok only pulled out a purse. He set it in Ralke's hand. "Count itbut if you don't mind, I'll set my men to making litters while you do."

  It took the boots much longer to cut poles and stretch cloaks over them than it took Ralke to count the silver. The boots loaded their wounded mates, and the one dead one, onto the litters and turned away up the hillside.

  "I'll remember you for your mercy, sir," Hannok promised him.

  "Don't," Ralke requested. "Forget me, brute. Completely. Please."

  The brute grinned and raised a hand in salute. Then he turned away and led his men back along the road.

  "Mount!" Ralke cried, and the drivers who could still ride swung up onto their mules. Litters between them carried the two wounded.

  As they rode off, Gar asked, "You don't really think Hannok will tell Torgi we're dead, do you?"

  "Of course not," Ralke said. "We killed one of his men and wounded most of the others, including him. He'll want revenge, and will be back leading a larger force. But he won't find us."

  Gar frowned. "How will you stop him?"

  "Because I know the country almost as well as any of his boots," Ralke said, "and better, in terms of finding bolt-holes. There's a cave not far off where we can hide our goods and a few of the drivers to guard them."

  "Why not all of us?"

  "Because it's not that big, and because we could never keep that many mules quiet long enough for the boots to march by."

  "Then where will we hide?" Gar asked. "There's a peasant village not far from here," Ralke told him. "We can hide among them easily enough."

  "But they'll be risking their lives!"

  "Not really," Ralke told him, "and the poor folk will do anything for a few coppers. I should know-I was born one of them, and so were all my men. But there's the other reason, too."

  "Which is?"

  "A chance to strike back at the boots and the boss in some small way." Ralke flashed him a grin. "Oh, they'll help us, right enough."

  Gar could scarcely tell where the fields left off and the village began. The only clue was a large circle of bare, beaten earth with the smoldering remains of a communal fire in its center. Around it stood a ring of low, moldering haystacks-or at least, that was what Gar took them for at first. But when Ralke said, "Here's our hiding place,"-Gar looked more closely and saw holes in each haystack, pointing toward the central fire. These were actually shelters where people lived!

  Ralke held up a hand to halt the caravan-only twenty barebacked donkeys now, with ten riders and two wounded men on litters. Then he called out, "Headman Bilar! It's Ralke who calls!"

  A head popped out of one of the guts, almost as unkempt as the thatch above it. Then a body followed it, and Gar had to throttle back a gasp of dismay. The man was old, ancient, bald on top with a fringe of long hair stringy with dirt and snarled from never knowing a comb. It straggled into his beard and down his back, not that Gar could tell where beard left off and hair began, for both were light gray. All he wore was a sort of sack made of coarse brown cloth, faded to tan but darkened by dirt. His arms and legs were scrawny and scarred here and there from work accidents, and his feet were bare, the soles toughened almost to hornbut he was alive, Gar realized. He wondered how many of his generation could have said the same.

  The oldster came up to Ralke and said, "Greet ye, merchant!"

  "And I greet you." Ralke held up a palm. "How go the crops, gaffer?"

  "They'm still stand, sair, thank 'ee. No war this year yet."

  "And the rain has been good." Ralke nodded. "Where's Bilar?"

  "He'm in t' fields, sair. Will 'ee have us call 'im in?"

  "I think so," Ralke said slowly.

  The gaffer turned and gestured. Several other heads had poked out of doorways, now that the old man had shown them it was safe. One of them nodded and shot away running-a boy of six or seven, Gar decided, wearing only a loincloth.

  The women began to come out, with children clinging to their skirts. They wore their hair shoulder length or longer, tousled and snarled, mostly of varying shades of brown with here and there a blonde or redhead. A few were slender and had no wrinkles in their faces or arms-presumably young. Most of them had thickened with maturity and childbearing, though, and even those whose hair hadn't begun to gray already had nets of wrinkles on their faces. The gray-heads, many of whom were balding, also had wrinkled skin on arms and hands-and presumably legs, though there was little of them to be seen. They wore the same sacklike garment as the old man, except for the ones who had babes in arms, beginning to nurse again now that the alarm was past. These women wore the sacklike garment cut in two, so that they could lift the waist of the "blouse" to expose a nipple for the baby.

  Gar felt not the slightest stirring of desire. What repelled him most wasn't the lack of grooming nor the dowdiness of their clothes, but he air of resignation and defeat they all wore. The whole village seemed immersed in sadness.

  Several old men hobbled out on canes to sit by the doorways in the sunshine. Only the one Ralke had called "gaffer" was fit enough to walk unaided.

  Gar noticed that there were far fewer old men than old women.

  "Sit 'ee down, sair," the gaffer said to Ralke. The merchant complied, and Gar sat with him. "If 'ee has aught to sell, though," the gaffer said, "I'm afeard we have nowt to buy with."

  "It's always so, gaffer. We'll give you what little news we have for free."

  "Thank 'ee, sair, thank 'ee!" The gaffer beckoned, and all the people came crowding around. Even the old men hauled themselves to their feet and tottered over to hear Ralke begin the news.

  Gar quickly became lost. It seemed to be only a list of which boss was fighting which, and what bully had raided what other boss's bully's border. It was relieved by the occasional account of a bully who had been hanged for betraying his lord, and the odd boss who had been killed on the battlefield, losing his domain completely to his enemy. Ralke added in reports of good crops, and reports of droughts which were fortunately distant.

  The villagers hung on his every word, for even though all the stories were drily variations on a common theme, they were news of the world beyond the b
oundaries of their bully's fields.

  Finally there was a shout, and they looked up to see a middle-aged man wearing only a loincloth come trotting in behind the boy. The crowd pulled back, and the headman stepped up to Ralke, who stood to greet him. Breathing hard, the headman nodded and said, "Greet you, merchant."

  "Greet you, headman." Ralke grinned. "It has been a long year, but not a bad one, from what your villagers tell me."

  "Not bad at all," Bilar said, more with relief than with satisfaction. "The crops were good, and the bully left us enough flax to make new clothes. He even sent us meat once a month, and only took three girls for his bed."

  "A good year indeed," Ralke said, with a very forced smile.

  "That doesn't mean we have anything to buy with, though."

  "But we do," Ralke said.

  Murmurs of wonder went through the camp. "We ask a night's food and lodging of you," Ralke explained. "I'll pay two copper coins for each man."

  Bilar frowned. "How's this, merchant? Every other year you come, you and your men camp in the village common!"

  "Yes, but every other year, we haven't had boots chasing us."

  A whirlwind of hubbub and speculation caught up all the villagers, filled with fear and protest. Bilar's frown deepened. "The boss would hang us all for traitors!"

  "The boss doesn't know about it," Ralke told him. "His steward has sent the soldiers out to hunt us down. We beat them off once, but they'll come again."

  "The steward would be a bad enemy, too." But Bilar seemed relieved. He glanced up at Gar and said, "We could say you forced us."

  "You could," Ralke agreed.

  "How would we hide you? Where would another dozen men have come from?"

  "My men will strip down to loincloths and go out into the fields. They'll lash sticks together to form sleds, and harness the mules to draw them for haywains=you are haying, aren't you?"

  Bilar nodded, a gleam in his eye. "Then come nightfall, we bury 'em under the hay, yes?" He jabbed a thumb at Gar. "Take a heap o' hay to cover him!"

  "It Would," Ralke agreed. "He and I would both stay in your houses. I'll wear a tunic-you must have one or two waiting to be mended. Gar will lie against the wall, and you can cover him with straw and rags, to pretend he's a bed."

  "Might work," Bilar said, "and if they find him, we can always say we feared to anger him." He looked up and down Gar's great length and said, "Even boots'd believe that."

  "I'd believe it, too," Gar said. "Sometimes I even scare myself."

  Bilar threw back his head and laughed. Then he said, "I'll ask." He turned back to beckon his people around him. Excited, they came, crowding into a huddle, and a torrent of talk poured forth. The other grown men came running in from the field and joined the huddle. Furious argument erupted.

  Ralke leaned back, arms folded. "They'll come to it eventually," he said.

  "This isn't the first time you've left a few coppers among them, is it?" Gar asked.

  Ralke looked up, startled, then nodded slowly, his face a mask. "As I told you-I was born and grew up in a village like this."

  "How'd you get out?"

  "There's only one way for a man-as a boot or a soldier. I was lucky enough for a mercenary company to come along."

  Gar nodded. "And for a woman?"

  "A boss's bed," Ralke said, "then a bully's. After that, she can stay and go among his boots, if she wishes, and make a job of it. If she's lucky, she might get a chance to follow a mercenary company to a town."

  Gar began to realize that the mercenary companies were the bright hope of the young here-a bright hope that usually ended with death in combat, or with being worn out in prostitution. "Master Ralke, I was wondering ... the gaffer who greeted us, how old is he?"

  "Forty," Ralke said, watching Gar's face closely. "Bilar is thirty."

  Gar's face stayed imperturbable, no matter what he was feeling. "I was afraid of that."

  The huddle broke up, and Headman Bilar came back to them. "We'll do it. Where's your copper, merchant?"

  Gar found he could almost hope Ralke was broke.

  Cort led Dirk to the front of the room and turned to face the tables that had somehow become emptied of civilians and filled with soldiers. He took a deep breath, then bellowed, "Atten-shun!"

  The clatter of overturned benches was drowned out by the double stamping of fifty pairs of boots. Into the sudden silence Cort said, "Men, let me introduce you to Sergeant Dirk Dulaine." He paused, bracing his feet against the room's odd tendency to sway, then went on, finding he had to be very careful to speak clearly."He's joining the Blue Company. When we get back to headquarters, I expect the captain will want to give him a platoon of his own. Any one of you might be in it."

  The soldiers stood like statues, eyes straight to the front, but Cort could fairly hear their brains clicking as the point worked its way home. No soldier wanted to have a sergeant with a grudge against him; therefore, it behooved them all to be very hospitable to the new arrival.

  "At ease!" Cort barked, and the room resounded with another stamp as the men set their feet eighteen inches apart and slapped their hands together behind their backs. Cort turned to Dirk.

  "Care to have a word with the men, Sergeant Dulaine?"

  "Yeah." Dirk grinned like a shark and stepped forward into the tension generated by forty-three hostile gazes, most of the men wondering what the hell he was doing walking in as a sergeant when all of them had been working their way up from private for a year or more.

  The other three knew the answer. They'd been in the alley facing the citizen's committee.

  "I'll be taking the watch tonight, so your poor overworked lieutenant can get some shut-eye while the master sergeant's out trying to keep your mates from stepping into the mud too deep." Dirk grinned around at them. "Anyone got a problem with that?"

  "Yeah," a voice called. "I got a problem with that."

  Dirk turned to look-then looked up, and up and up, until he finally found the grinning face on top of all the muscle.

  CHAPTER 7

  Big wasn't the word for this soldier-he was huge, at least six foot five and more than two hundred thirty pounds of solid muscle: "Shut it, Korgash!" Cort rapped out. "This man has the right to command you because I say he has!"

  "True," Dirk agreed, "but if I have to go running to you to back up every order I give, lieutenant, I might as well not be here." After all, Korgash wasn't really all that impressive to a man who had Gar Pike for a friend. "I think I'd better prove to Private Korgash that I can enforce my own orders."

  "Corporal!" Korgash pointed to the two chevrons on his sleeve.

  "You were until now," Dirk told him.

  "You think you can take off one of my stripes?" Korgash grinned down at Dirk. "Come and get it!" Dirk strode across the room and reached up for Korgash's stripe. The big man's grin widened as he snatched Dirk's tunic at his throat and lifted him off the floor.

  Dirk kicked him in the belly.

  Korgash dropped him with a strangled shout of fury, doubling over. Dirk landed lightly and stepped in to throw a haymaker.

  The other soldiers shouted in outrage.

  Even doubled over in pain, Korgash managed to raise a fist to block, and Dirk stepped in to drive his left into the corporal's face. Korgash caught his hand, though, and squeezed. Dirk yelped, pulling his left back.

  The other soldiers cheered and started pushing the tables back to leave a nice, wide ring for the match.

  Korgash managed to draw a breath and was just starting to grin again when Dirk slammed his right into Korgash's face. This time, he followed through.

  The big man bellowed and stood upright, letting go of Dirk's left, and Dirk shot another right into Korgash's belly, where his foot had hit. Korgash blocked with a shout of anger, then slammed a punch at Dirk's head.

  Cort couldn't follow what happened next, because it was too fast, but somehow, Korgash was flying through the air. He landed with a jar that shook the room, with Dirk still hold
ing on to his wrist-so Korgash bellowed anger and yanked Dirk down on top of him, slamming a punch at the sergeant's head. Dirk rolled, though, and somehow the punch caught his left shoulder instead of hitting his chin. His face whitened with pain, but he clamped his jaw shut even as he rolled and came up to his feet.

  Korgash scrambled up, too, mouth open in a roar that Cort couldn't hear because the other soldiers were shouting so loudly, but the corporal hadn't quite straightened before Dirk's fist caught him on the chin. Korgash's head snapped up, and Dirk slammed into him full-body. What exactly he did, Cort couldn't see, but the corporal fell over backward and landed hard. He was slow to move, and his mates went crazy, shouting for him to get up.

  Dirk stepped back, breathing hard and massaging his left shoulder.

  Korgash finally pushed himself up to sit, shaking his head to clear it. He saw Dirk and shoved himself to his feet, snarling, and came after the sergeant, winding up a fist for a blow that would have flattened a bear.

  Dirk wasn't a bear. He leaped in close and drove his right straight up into Korgash's chin. The big man's head snapped back, but even as it did, he slammed a fist at Dirk's head. Dirk blocked it, but it landed anyway, and Dirk fell backward. But he kept hold of Korgash's wrist and pulled as he fell, both feet coming,up to catch the big man in the stomach and send him somersaulting into the wall.

  Dirk rolled and came up to his feet, panting and shaking his head to clear it. The crowd went wild, calling for Korgash to get up. He tried, rolling over, then pushing himself up, and stumbled to his feet.

  Dirk stepped in, drove his left into Korgash's belly. The corporal doubled over, raising a fist to block, but far too slowly now, and Dirk slammed a punch into the side of his head. Korgash fell, and lay still.

  The crowd shut up on the instant, staring. "Enough!" Cort stepped forward, and wondered why the floor seemed uneven. "I won't have my men killing each other!" He frowned down at Korgash, then jerked his head at a trooper. "Wake him up!" The trooper grabbed the nearest flagon and poured it over Korgash's face. The big man spluttered, shook his head, sat up-and found himself staring up at Dirk, who stood over him, breathing heavily. Korgash blinked and looked around him. "Was I out?"