“Ranatista has no boss, friend,” Ralke said. “Legend says that when the troubles started, we were far enough from the seacoast settlements that our ancestors had time to get ready for trouble. Their sage had already taught them to fight with their open hands, for it was a discipline that taught the mind control of the body, and taught the soul to compete without hatred or anger.” Gar frowned, though it sounded very familiar. “How do you know that?”
“Because that’s why our sages still teach it to us today. But the first squire, Sanahan, called our ancestors to defend themselves. He led them in learning how to use flails and scythes and staves in a kind of fighting that kept the spirit the sages taught, and quarterstaff-play turned very quickly to spear-play. They even had time to build this wall that you see glowing golden in the sunrise. When the bullies came marching to conquer us, our ancestors poured boiling water on them from the battlements, and wherever they broke through the wall or climbed over it, our ancestors made short work of their boots. One after another, the bullies advanced against us, then retired in consternation, for bullies won’t stay chewing at a target that costs them too much in men or weapons.”
“Most bullies pick victims they’re sure they can beat,” Gar said grimly.
“Indeed they do, so all our ancestors needed was to defend themselves well, and the bullies left, since none of them wished to sit down in a siege, easy meat for any other bully who came after them. Thus it is to this day, and all our young men take it in turns to serve in the home guard.”
“And Sanahan’s successor?”
“We choose a new squire when the old one is fifty, if he lives that long—and most of them do. Then he leads us till his turn comes to retire.”
“None of them want to stay squire?”
“Most of them, surely, but they can’t deny custom! Oh, they can still live in the castle with their families, and the new squires always value their council—but after fifty, they can’t be squire any more, though folk still call them that out of courtesy.”
“Squire, retired.” Gar nodded. “A good system. Do all the merchants come from such towns as yours?”
Ralke looked sharply at him, then smiled slowly. “You reason quickly, friend. Yes, merchants always come from free towns. Every now and again a young man from a boss’s town tries to break into the trade, and we give him what help we can, but the boss always takes all the profit when the youngster returns home, and he has nothing with which to begin another journey.”
“Odd that the bosses don’t realize they need to encourage the merchants, if they want the wealth they bring in.”
“Bosses can see no further than their own comfort, friend Gar.”
“Do any of the young men from bosses’ towns ever escape to the free towns?”
“It happens now and again,” Ralke said, amused. “I was one such.”
Gar nodded. “That makes sense. Otherwise, how would you have been a peasant in a boss’s domain?” He pointed at the cottages of a small village a few hundred yards from the road and the farmers who were mowing hay nearby. They wore tunics and cross-gartered hose with sandals, and though the garments weren’t new, they weren’t nearly worn through, either. “Your peasants seem to live a bit better than the ones who hid us.”
“Be sure they do! They’re citizens like the rest of us, after all, and share in the wealth of the domain as much as any other!”
“Except the squire.”
Ralke shrugged. “He leads us in battle, sees that we’re taught how to fight, and works far into the night overseeing the growing and storage of crops. No one begrudges him his home in the castle, nor the grand clothes he must wear when he greets the emissary of the next boss who threatens to attack us.”
The guards at the gate called out a cheerful greeting, welcoming Ralke home, glad to see him well, and were saddened at the news of the man who had died. Citizens came running to welcome the caravan, cheering them as though they were a victorious army—which in some measure they were, having fought off bandits and brought home the spoils, though they were the profits of commerce, not the loot of battle.
The cheering throng accompanied them to Ralke’s warehouse, and his wife came running down the outer stairs to throw herself into his arms. A teenaged boy and girl waited their turn, with two younger children dancing in impatience. “Poppa, Poppa! What did you bring us?”
Gar smiled, amused at the timeless chant, then smoothed his face into impassivity as his heart twisted, pained at the sight of the warmth he would never know.
When they had unpacked the mules and turned them over to the hostlers, Ralke called his drivers up one by one for their pay and their share of the profits. Whooping with delight, they ran out to indulge themselves in a bit of celebration—but Gar noticed that each of them stopped by the window in the big building next to the warehouse, each handing over his pay bag, keeping only a few coins for his purse. When Ralke had paid the last driver, Gar asked, “Why are they giving their money to the man in that building?”
“Why, to keep it safe, friend. They lay their money on the bank for him to count—”
“We’d call it a counter,” Gar said, “and the building a bank.”
Ralke shrugged, miffed that it wasn’t all news to Gar. “Then you probably also know that the banker keeps accounts of how much each man has deposited, but keeps all the coins in a huge vault.”
“Yes.” Gar smiled. “And I suspect that he lends some of it out to merchants who want to buy more goods for their next trip.”
“You know more of commerce than I’d thought,” Ralke said, giving him the keen look again. “Will you ride with us on our next venture?”
“It’s a very attractive offer,” Gar said slowly, “and I’d love to. How soon will it be?”
“Two weeks.”
Gar shook his head. “I’m too restless a man to wait that long, Master Ralke, but if I’m back this way at that time, I’ll be glad to join you.”
“I had thought as much,” Ralke said with a sigh. “Well, friend, here’s your pay. I’ll write a letter like the one you showed me from the Braccalese fellow, recommending you to anyone who wants to hire you. Off with you to your next employment—but try to pick one that ends in time to join us when we next go a-venturing.”
At least Cort had gotten over wishing he were going to die, and had risen to the level of being afraid that he would. Under the circumstances, it was a major improvement.
The road stretched out before him in the afternoon sunlight, filled with a double file of disgruntled and hungover soldiers. Their form was lousy, but Cort was in no condition to complain. The master sergeant was leading, being in better shape than Cort. The sergeants paced beside, careful to see that no one lagged. Cort was riding, and Dirk, being the only other soldier who had a horse, rode beside him. “You understand you’ll have to leave your mount in the company stables once we’re back at headquarters, don’t you?” Cort asked.
Dirk nodded. “Sure do. You hired me on as infantry, after all.”
“You’ve been cavalry, then?”
“Anything in soldiering, lieutenant—even an officer when they were desperate.”
So he’d had at least one battlefield promotion. In spite of the hangover, Cort was almost interested.
Almost. Not quite enough to think up another question. He let the conversation lapse, and turned back to watching his men straggle on before him. Dirk had given him some strange white pills that had killed the worst of his headache, but the nausea was still there, and the general feeling of sickness. It was hard to think about anything else, so he was only irritated when Dirk pointed at the huge grassy dome rising out of the fields and said, “Oddlooking hill, that. You don’t often see one that looks like half a melon.”