“Good dealing almost makes the hazards worth it, eh? But if you have to deal with translators like that all the time, it’s a wonder you ever make a profit at all!”
Ralke’s smile turned to a frown on the instant. “A wonder indeed, and most men who go trading come home in beggary, if they come home at all! No, friend, I did well indeed when I hired you.”
“Thank you,” Gar said, trying to sound flattered. “So there aren’t very many merchants, then?”
“So few that we all know each other, even those we’ve never met. Oscar of Drellan deals far to the west, selling the silks made along that coast; he wishes to, buy the sort of plates and cups these Loutrens make, and Holger of Alberg buys them from me to trade with Oscar for his silks, then brings the silks to sell to me. Lotar of Silace carries cloves and pomegranates up from the south with many more spices as well; he trades them to Albert of Rehem, who barters them to me for the ivory I buy from Krenel of Grelholm with the stout woolen cloth woven in Wurm. Krenel brings the walrus tusks and narwhal horns down from Marl of Rohr, whom I’ve never seen but who trades his ivories for the cloth I buy from the Wurmers. I could go on for half an hour, but not much more; we are all known to one another, and have each built up a band of drivers who are as strong a set of fighters as any mercenary squadron. We are the ones who’ve survived.”
Gar shuddered. “A risky trade indeed!”
“But a profitable one. If I live to retire, I’ll have as much wealth as any boss, though I’ll be careful to hide it well and be sure few people know about it. My house is already a virtual fortress, and I’ll make it even more so as I grow older. There are peasants aplenty who are glad to move their families into my compound, train with weapons, and do an honest day’s labor in the warehouses. They’ll have new tunics of stout cloth every year for their pains, real cottages that keep the drafts out instead of the tumbledown huts most live in, and three pounds of bread and one of vegetables every day for each family, with meat once a week and fish twice. That’s fat living indeed, for most poor folk.”
“So even in your retirement, you’ll be working hard managing all those people and warehousing goods for other merchants,” Gar deduced.
“Yes, but I won’t have to go out on the road again. Five more years of good trading, and I’ll manage it! What say you to five years of steady employment, friend Gar?”
Gar noticed how quickly he’d been promoted from stranger to friend. “It’s an attractive offer, Master Ralke, and I’ll think very seriously about it. Before I can settle into one job that way, though, I’ve some personal affairs I must set straight.”
“Ah!” Ralke nodded. “A woman, an inheritance, or a revenge—no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know! But when your score is settled, friend, remember where you’ll find a safe berth, with Ralke of the town of Firith, and glad I’ll be of your company!” He frowned suddenly. “You won’t bring another war down on us, will you?”
“Just the opposite, if I can manage it,” Gar told him. “I hope to prevent a war, not fight one.” Ralke raised a palm, turning his face away. “I won’t ask how. But I’m glad to hear it.” He turned back to Gar. “The bosses let a few of us trade, for without us, they’d never have the luxuries they want so badly. After all, what’s the point in being a boss if you can’t live better than a peasant?” Gar could have said that for some men, power was enough in itself, but he had the good sense to hold his tongue.
“In war, though, all such unspoken agreements go by the board,” Ralke continued. “When bosses send their bullies before them to fight one another, any luckless merchant who gets caught between is ground into the dirt and his goods destroyed. We survive by learning ahead of time who’s fighting whom and where, then going far away from their battleground. But there’s always the fear that someone will start a war too fast for us to learn of it, and we’ll have to leave our goods and flee for our lives.” He nodded. “Done that more than once myself, I have. No, war’s bad for business. It boosts our losses and reduces our markets.” He grinned suddenly. “If I were a smith or an armorer, I own I’d welcome war, for all the business it would bring me.” He frowned again. “But I’m not a smith, I’m a merchant, and I’ll support any man who works for peace!”
“I’ll remember that,” Gar assured him. Then he stiffened, as though hearing something.
“What is it?” Ralke demanded.
“Boots, a score of them to our dozen by the sound, heavily armed and running down a hidden trail ahead and to our right!”
“You’ve keen ears, friend,” Ralke said, “but I don’t doubt you.” He turned away to bawl battle orders to his drivers.
CHAPTER 6
The boots burst out of the underbrush, bellowing like bulls spotting a trespasser. They must have been watching the caravan, because they didn’t seem at all surprised to see the mules drawn up in a circle and the drivers spaced around them evenly, bucklers on their arms and arrows on their bowstrings. The first flight took out eight boots. The other twelve roared even louder and kept on coming.
They were too close for a second flight of arrows. The drivers dropped their bows and pulled out short swords, axes, or iron-banded quarterstaves.
“Treachery!” Ralke shouted. “They wear the livery of the Boss of Loutre! We’re betrayed!”
“Don’t be too quick to blame the boss,” Gar snapped, then thrust at a boot. The man twisted aside, but so did Gar’s sword, slicing through the cloth just below his breastplate and leaving a line of blood. The man howled in shock and swung with his battleaxe..
Gar sidestepped, bringing up his buckler to turn the axe’s edge, but three boots had converged on him, and he had to duck to avoid the spearpoint aimed at his head. The edge seared fire across the back of his neck. He bellowed with the pain and dropped down to a crouch. The boots, thinking he had fallen, all jammed in with a cry of victory. Gar stabbed upward, catching one man in the shoulder, then yanked the sword out as he shot to his feet, catching a second attacker on the side of the head with his shield.
But the third drove in from the front, howling in anger. His spearpoint jammed on Gar’s chain mail, but a stab of pain told him the tip had scored a rib. He thrust at the man’s face. The boot leaped back with a scream, an inch away from the sword’s tip—and fell, his feet tangled with his fallen mate’s legs. Gar kicked him on the helmet and stepped over the dazed man to meet two more boots running toward him.
One spear stabbed low, the other stabbed high. Gar caught the one on his sword blade and the other on his buckler. The high-stabber reversed his spear like a quarterstaff and drove the butt into Gar’s belly. Gar fell to his knees, gagging but managing to lift his buckler to fend off another stab. The other man gave a shout of victory as he thrust, a shout that turned to a gurgle as an arrow pierced his throat. His eyes bulged; he fell.
Three drivers came running up to dispatch the other spearman, one of the first attackers who was struggling to his feet. But Gar was scuttling forward on his knees, managing to wheeze, “Save who you can!” and breaking off the tip of the arrow, then yanking the shaft out of the fallen man’s neck. Blood spurted—the honed edge of the arrowhead had severed the carotid artery—but Gar pressed his thumb and forefinger over entrance and exit wounds, choking out, “He’s lucky—it only struck muscle!” as he reached with his mind frantically to knit cell to cell, holding back the rush of blood while the artery wall healed and grew firm again.