“Fairly good,” Gar agreed, “though coincidences do happen…”
“But not very often. Look at it this way—their ancestors got what they wanted: no government. They just didn’t expect it to result in open season for robbers.”
“Oh, come now. Isn’t that going at it a bit strong, calling the local aristocracy robbers?”
“How do you suppose they got those castles? And how can they be aristocracy if there’s no king or queen to grant them their titles?”
“Why, they appointed themselves, of course,” Gar said mildly. “That’s what my ancestors did.”
“But forgot to appoint a king,” Dirk reminded him, “so there’s no one to keep them from chewing each other up every year or three, and the common people with them.” He shook his head. “No matter how you slice it, there’s too much trouble for the two of us to ferret out together—it’d take six months! If we’re apart, we can cover twice as much territory and find twice as many problems—or twice as many solutions. Who knows? Maybe we just came down during a dynastic quarrel, and all we have to do is help the right side win.”
“Assuming we can define ‘right,’ under these circumstances,” Gar said dryly.
“Whichever candidate will be best for the people.”
“Easy to say, not so easy to see. Besides, you don’t really believe the situation is that simple:”
“No, I don’t,” Dirk sighed. “The peasants are in too much misery to have been oppressed by war for only a year or two. But it could be we’re near the end of the local version of the Hundred Years’ War.”
“Even five could do it,” Gar said grimly. “My friend, if I say it’s too dangerous to split up, and I’m the one with the psi powers, then it’s really dangerous.”
“It was pretty dangerous where I grew up,” Dirk pointed out, “especially since, if I’d been caught, I wouldn’t have been only a runaway churl—I’d also have been guilty of treason. But I survived, and I hadn’t even met you.”
Gar rode in silence, his face stony.
Dirk recognized the reaction to a telling point. “Besides, I’m the one who doesn’t have a virtual ESP arsenal, so if I’m suggesting we split up, I’ve got to be fairly sure I’ll be safe.”
“Not necessarily; I know your dedication,” Gar countered. “Still, I’m your friend, not your master. If you want to go, I have no business trying to stop you.”
Dirk looked up sharply, wondering if he detected hurt, especially since his big friend’s face was still stony. “Don’t worry, old son,” he said gently. “We can stay in touch with these new toys Herkimer made us.” He touched the thick iron brooch that held his cloak. Underneath the enamel, it was an integrated circuit with a minuscule audio pickup; the whole surface acted as a loudspeaker. “Of course, we don’t want the peasants getting frightened by talking brooches, so if I need you, I’ll chirp like a cricket.”
“Yes, well, I hope I won’t be in the middle of a battle when you call,” Gar said with irony. “Let’s plan on comparing notes every evening, shall we? That’s a good time to go off by one’s self for a few minutes.”
“Or to shut the door,” Dirk agreed. “Let’s state the question we’re trying to answer clearly and briefly, then—that always helps when you’re trying to find clues to the solution.”
“A good idea.” Gar was coming out of his melancholy. “We need to resolve whether or not this constant warfare is good for the people as a whole.”
“It can’t possibly be,” Dirk grunted, “but I suppose there’s a chance that there’s a government under it that would be good for the people, if we could ever get rid of whoever’s causing the fighting.”
“Or stop the governments themselves from fighting,” Gar agreed. “After all, it’s not the first planet we’ve seen that had constant warfare.”
“No, but there’s a certain vividness to this one that suggests a high degree of dedication,” Dirk said with a shudder.
“Try to keep an open mind,” Gar urged. “The fighting might be a ritualized political process, with an equally ritualized way of avoiding killing or maiming people, like the Terran Native Americans’ custom of counting coup.”
“I’ll try to keep it in mind,” Dirk sighed, “but I doubt it highly.”
“I know what you mean. We’ve never seen a planet where there was so much fighting going on at one time.”
“Could be their busy season,” Dirk suggested without much hope. “What if we decide this constant warfare isn’t just a freak outbreak, though, and can’t possibly be good for the people?”
“Then we have to seriously consider the possibility that it must be stopped, and that the governments that cause it, or the lack of governments, need replacing.”
“And if they do,” said Dirk, “how do we go about replacing them?”
“One question at a time, my friend,” Gar said, smiling. “We’ll deal with that one if we come to it.” His concentration on the plight of the people had let him ignore the mare; she tossed her head and reared. Gar turned to her, pulling down on the bridle, sending a soothing thought. She came back to all fours, calming considerably.
“Gentling does go faster with your special gifts,” Dirk admitted. “You don’t suppose they could work on the local lords, do you?”
“Probably,” Gar said, “but it would be totally unethical—unless they were so cruel that virtually any method of stopping them, and saving their peasants, would be morally acceptable.”
“And if things got that bad, we might as well just lob in a small bomb.” Dirk sighed. “Would have been nice if we could have done it the quick way.”
“Imposed attitudes seldom last, anyway,” Gar told him.
The Boss of Zutaine didn’t want to pay off the Blue Company once the battle was done, of course, but he knew he might need them again, and what was worse, he knew he could look down from his battlements to see them camped all around the foot of the hill on which his castle stood, hungover and staggering with headaches, but nonetheless in a perfect position to besiege him. If they did, he knew the siege wouldn’t last long. He wasn’t fool enough to think that his twenty-three armored bruisers and their ragtag collections of plowboys would stand a chance against a thousand hardened professionals. So he paid—eight times eight times eight gold marks, and an extra eight into the bargain as a token of the boss’s goodwill. Two lieutenants counted the pieces out on a checkerboard, stacking the coins four high on each square, then sweeping them into a sack and stacking the next set.
Cort watched, feeling only awe, not greed. There was a certain beauty to the metal as it flashed in the sunlight. He didn’t believe the alchemists who claimed it was the purest metal in the universe—too much blood was spilled for it—but it was pretty. Five hundred twelve pieces of gold, each worth twenty silver coins! Eight pieces of silver for each trooper, ten for each lieutenant, one hundred forty for the captain, and two thousand plus eight extra for the Company treasury! But they had fought long and hard for that money, and the pay of those who had died wouldn’t be shared out among the living—it would go to the families they had left behind, though it wouldn’t last long and couldn’t possibly make up for the loss.
So the boss and the captain parted with mutual expressions of gratitude and respect, both knowing that the Blue Company might be hired to fight against Zutaine within the year, and Captain Devers turned his troops to march away.
“Two thousand for the company!” grumbled a soldier who had just survived his first battle. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘for the captain!’ ”
“Don’t let your tongue wag to make a fool of you,” Cort told him. “That treasury makes sure we won’t starve if there’s no work.”