“Well, it gave the bosses a way to pay soldiers without keeping them as part of their household forever. For that, there are some who say that mercenaries invented money, or were the cause of that invention, at least—and they may be right.”
“Don’t the old tales tell?” Gar asked.
Ralke shrugged. “The tales say that Langobard, the first captain, was one of the few left alive when two bosses fought over his people’s village and chewed it up in the fighting. Langobard gathered the few others who lived and took to the greenwood. I don’t know if they were the first bandits, but they’ve certainly become the most famous! In the next few years, others whose villages had been burned came to join him, as well as those who disobeyed the bosses, turning on their tax collectors and killing them. His band became the largest and richest in the forest, preying off the tax collectors and, later, the parties of bruisers sent to kill them. At last the Boss of Tungri, who claimed the forest, came himself with all his army to slay the bandits, and Langobard knew his day was done, unless he could invent a scheme to delay the boss.”
“I take it he was very inventive.”
“Oh, most surely! He sent a band to raid the borders of the boss’s neighbor, the Bully of Staucheim, and the bully called on his master, the Boss of Dolgobran, who called up all his bullies and their men and marched off against Tungri.”
“But Tungri didn’t know about it, being deep in the woods chasing Langobard.”
“He found out quickly enough. The messenger reached him the next morning, as his army was breaking camp among the trees. Tungri cursed and turned his men to ride home—but as they came to a meadow, they found Langobard and his men drawn up awaiting them under a white flag. Langobard told the boss that he and his men were tired of living like wild animals and offered their services to him in exchange for new clothes and a year’s food, so that they would no longer need to rob tax collectors. I’m sure the taste was sour in Tungri’s mouth, but he needed to ride against Dolgobran without delay, and didn’t dare lose men in a fight with Langobard.”
“Plus, having Langobard’s troops on his side couldn’t hurt,” Gar observed.
“Indeed not! He struck his deal with Langobard and marched against Dolgobran forthwith. They won the day, and Tungri paid Langobard out of Dolgobran’s granaries. Thus were the mercenaries born.”
“Did Tungri ever learn why Dolgobran marched against him?”
“Of course, but he never learned where the raiders had come from.” Ralke chuckled. “The common folk did; but the bosses never heard the tale till Langobard, Dolgobran, and Tungri were long in their graves. By that time, there were so many bands of mercenaries, and the bosses needed their services so badly, that there was no taking revenge, and no point in it, either.”
“A shrewd man, this Langobard,” Gar observed. Ralke nodded. “He lived out his life till old age took him in his bed, and which of us can ask for more?”
Well, there were a great many people on a great many worlds in the galaxy who could ask for more, such as happiness, full bellies, and a few little luxuries. Gar took it as a measure of this land’s desperation, that the people’s highest dream was simply to survive. “You must be asking for more than being allowed to live until you die, Master Ralke, or you wouldn’t risk your life carrying goods from one town to another.”
“The hope of making a better life for his wife and children makes a man do foolish things.” But Ralke grinned. “Besides, I like the thrill of it, and the chance that I’ll be paid better than a soldier in the end.”
“I’m not sure many troopers think of their work as thrilling,” Gar said dryly. “Still, you could have become some sort of craftsman—let’s say a silversmith. Even the bosses must have to pay a man well if there aren’t very many who can do the work.”
“Ah, but for that, you have to have a talent for crafting things well.” Ralke held up wide hands with short, thick fingers. “I have no gift in working with silver, or with wood or clay for that matter—but I do seem to have a knack for striking a good bargain.”
“And for fighting?” Gar asked.
“That, too, yes. My father was a mercenary, though he never stayed in one place long enough to marry. I, at least, can come home to a wife at the end of each trading journey.”
If you live, Gar thought, but didn’t say so. Ralke was silent for a minute, too, and Gar had a notion the words ran through the other man’s mind, as well. He didn’t try to read his thoughts, though—there wasn’t reason enough.
Cort’s men began to grumble as they passed town after town in their march to liberty. Sergeant Otto finally said, “All the other platoons have already stopped, lieutenant, and it’s almost sunset. Why are we still going?”
“For the same reason we kept marching last month, and the month before,” Cort told him. “Why did only the Sky and Indigo platoons stop at the first village?”
“Why,” said the master sergeant, “because there weren’t enough inns and whores there for more than…” His voice ran out as his face turned thoughtful. “Well, it’s true that Bozzeratle Town is fresher—the landlord at the inn gladder to see us, and the whores, too. They aren’t as jaded, either.”
“The farther away the village, the more welcome we are,” Cort told him. “Still, there are limits to that welcome. Remind the men to watch their manners.”
“Be sure that I will,” Sergeant Otto said grimly, then called back to his staff sergeants, “Bozzeratle Town! Tell ‘em not to go throwing their weight around! We want to be welcome next month, too!”
The men answered with a shout of joy. An hour later, they marched into Bozzeratle and burst into the inn.
Cort stayed long enough to drink a flagon, and to make sure his sergeants were staying vigilant and not drinking too much. The soldiers were drinking too much, of course—that was half the reason why they’d come. But they were jovial and, if not actually polite, at least not offering harm to anyone, particularly the serving wenches, though they joked with them and praised their charms. Drunk or sober, they all knew the captain’s rule: If the wench offered herself, all well and good to accept, but if she didn’t, no soldier of the Blue Company could even ask. That didn’t mean that none of them would, of course, but it did mean that the sergeant would be there to stop him before he frightened anyone. The better companies were very strict as to how their soldiers treated civilians—you never knew which town, or even village, might scrape up the money to hire you next month.
Satisfied that all was as much under control as it could be, Cort went out the door, walking quickly in, the gathering darkness, back to the town’s central street, then left into a lane that was just as broad, and boasted tall houses with wide lawns. Lamps on top of poles burned here and there, giving the street a dim light, far more than the rest of the village had. Every house had a lamp burning by the door, too. This was where the more prosperous citizens lived, the ones who had become vital to the bosses’ security or comfort in one way or another—retired officers, a merchant or two, and the local doctor.
Cort hurried up the flagstone walk of the third house on the right and thumped the knocker. After a few moments, a face appeared at the door, stared in surprise, then opened it. “Lieutenant Cort!” said the aging man with the candelabra in his hand. “What a surprise!”
He didn’t look pleased—nervous, in fact—but Cort didn’t notice that in his hurry. “The captain never tells us ahead of time when we’ll have liberty,” he said, by way of apology. “Good to see you again, Barley. Are your master and mistress in—and Miss Violet?”