“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 holding 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?”
“Like a cobble,” one of his fellow soldiers informed him.
Korgash turned back to look up at Dirk. Slowly, he reached up to fumble at his sleeve.
“Keep it,” Dirk told him. “You just earned it back.”
Korgash stared at him. Then, slowly, he grinned. Dirk reached down. Korgash caught his arm, pulled himself to his feet, and came to attention as much as he could. “What’s your order, sergeant?”