“Haven’t been guarding merchants long, have you?” Ralke asked, frowning up at him.
“Not in this land, no,” Gar said carefully. “The bandits in Talipon weren’t quite so thorough.”
“Well, common bandits aren’t, either,” Ralke said. “They just want the goods, and if we gave them up without a fight, they might even leave us without a blow.”
“But what would we have to sell at the next town, then?” one of the drivers asked. “And with nothing to sell, what would we eat?”
“I didn’t work and save for ten years until I could buy my first cargo, just to make some bandit richer,” Ralke huffed.
The drivers all nodded, and Gar guessed they were hoping to do the same. “But soldiers are different?”
“Of course. They don’t dare let us live, you see,” Ralke told him. “If their captain found out about it, he’d flog them within an inch of their lives.”
Gar stared. “You mean they weren’t acting on their captain’s orders?”
“ ‘Course not,” Ralke huffed, and a driver explained, “We’re too small for a captain to notice, but his soldiers might try to pick up some easy money.”
“We just have to make sure it’s not easy,” another driver said grimly.
“There’s truth in that,” Ralke said. “We don’t even have to be able to beat them, just wound them badly, be able to kill even one of them. They face death on the battlefield every few weeks—why take a chance on it with a merchant caravan?”
“So they only attacked us because they thought we were weaker than they were,” Gar inferred. “That they did, and I would have thought the mere sight of you would have turned them away,” Ralke said.
Gar shook his head. “Professionals always know they can beat an amateur hands down. They just didn’t know that I’d been in an army, too.”
“They didn’t know that we’d faced bandits five times before, either,” one of the drivers said grimly.
“Unpleasant surprises all around,” Gar agreed. “For your own merit, give us some healing!” one of the bandit soldiers cried.
Ralke glanced again at his own wounded men. “They’re almost done bandaging their fellows. They’ll get to you in a minute. There’s none of you so badly hurt that you can’t wait a little.” Actually, one of them had been, but Gar had been doing a little telekinetic first aid, pinching off an artery until he could make its severed wall grow back together. “What will you do with them, Master Ralke?”
“Leave them tied up,” Ralke said simply. “But we’ll leave a note for their captain, too, explaining that they were trying to rob merchants.”
“No!” a fallen soldier cried. “He’ll flog us soggy, you know he will!”
“Be glad you’ll live,” Ralke said grimly.
“Will he really?” Gar asked. “Flog them, I mean.”
“The captain? He will, and all their squadron with them—so as soon as we’re gone, they’ll come out of the trees to help their fellows and destroy the note.” Ralke shrugged. “No matter. Sooner or later, one of them will grow angry with the others and tell the captain for revenge.”
The fallen mercenary spat at him. It fell short. “I hope you cast a spear better than that,” Ralke countered. Then he explained to Gar, “Most of the mercenary companies have very strict rules about looting the people who might hire them next time—and you never know what town a merchant’s from, so most of the captains are careful to leave us alone. Their soldiers, though, think that’s foolish.”
“Done, Master Ralke.” Johann came up to him, wiping blood off his hands. “That will hold them till their mates get them to the company surgeon. I’d love to hear the story they’re going to tell him as to how they came by those wounds!”
“It’ll be a champion fable for sure,” Ralke agreed. “Too bad none of them can write well enough to copy it for us to read later. Enough time spent on them, lads. Lash our own men to their saddles and be off!”
They moved on, even the three wounded drivers riding. None of the wounds was terribly severe, though one would have been without Gar’s invisible help. Two men wore slings, but only needed one hand to ride and encourage the mules.
As soon as they were out of sight of the fallen mercenaries, Gar said, “You know that none of those soldiers will really tell the captain, of course.”
“I know, but I have to let them think I believe they will, or they’ll call in some of their comrades to track us down,” Ralke said. “I recognized their colors, though. They’re the Badger Company. Their captain is probably a good customer at the taverns at Therngee Town, just over those hills.” He pointed at the range ahead. “When we stop there to trade, I’ll leave him a note telling what his men have done and describing the one with the long scar on his cheek. That will probably be enough for him to recognize, and if he knows one, he’ll know their whole squadron.” He shook his head. “Few enough of us merchants survive, what with bandits and wild beasts and bosses who decide to take our goods without paying us. We don’t need the hazards of the professional soldiers, too.”
“I’m surprised to see so much greed here, Master Ralke,” Gar said. “In my far-off land, no one uses money, or tries to take anyone else’s goods.”
“Oh, don’t they, now! And how do they pay their taxes?”
“There aren’t any.” Gar tried to describe the original settlement on this planet. “There aren’t any bosses to demand them. There aren’t any cities, either, only villages, and the people get together in the evenings to discuss their problems, and work out any disputes.”
Ralke barked laughter, short, sharp, and sarcastic. “That must be a golden land indeed! The old tales tell us that our ancestors lived like that, hundreds of years ago—but there are always greedy people being born, and people who are better at fighting than anyone else and see no reason why they should sweat digging and hoeing in the fields when they can just take what they want from people who’re weaker.”
“That’s how the bullies began, eh?”
“Bullies indeed! But they found out quickly enough that some bullies were stronger than others, and could beat them all one by one if they didn’t do as they were told—bigger thugs who put together armies of bullies, each of whom had his own band of bruisers, and that’s how the bosses came to be.”
Gar nodded; folklore confirmed his guess. “And the merchants?”
Again the bark of laughter. “Mercenaries came first, but taxes came before any. I told you that the bullies took what they wanted instead of working to raise crops, weave cloth, or build houses. Well, the bosses made the bullies gather the food and cloth for them, and the bullies, not to be outdone, appointed their best bruisers to collect the goods, and not just enough for the bosses, of course, but for themselves, too…”
“And the bruisers decided to take a little extra for themselves.”
“Most surely. The upshot of it was that they took everything but the bare necessities the common people needed to keep them alive. They took their jewelry, too, the necklaces and bracelets of amber and shells that the people had made for themselves—and when they brought them back to the boss, he recognized some of the beads as being of gold.”
“And all the old tales told how much gold was worth,” Gar interpreted.
Ralke nodded. “Children’s tales, and stories from old books. The boss told the people of that village that they could keep half of their next year’s crops, if they gave him more gold beads instead. He gave each of his bruisers a few gold beads as part of their pay, and they gave them to their boots. The boots took them back to the village and traded them for food and drink—and trade and money were both born.”
Reborn, rather. Gar was more sure than ever that philosophy could never triumph over human nature. “And gold gave rise to mercenaries?”