As Stammel predicted, the Czardian forces gave way once the Duke’s archers opened on them. Paks, watching the enemy ranks melt away, was glad the Czardians could not counterattack in kind. The Duke ordered a pursuit, and they began several weeks of constant movement and fighting. Although they never fought the Czardians to a finish, each time they met it was on ground of the Duke’s choosing, and each time the Czardians slipped away, losing ground, back toward their city. When its walls came in sight, the Duke sent two cohorts around to the south, to stop traffic on the southern caravan route, while the other cohort and the Foss Council militia harried the Czardians. A few days after that, the campaign was over. Incoming caravans paid their tolls directly to the Foss Council commander, and he had a treaty to take back to their Table of Councilors.
“You had a good campaign for your first one,” Stammel told the new privates in his cohort. “Some set battles—good moving engagements—enough fighting, but nothing really hard. And we’ll be doing garrison work or caravan work the rest of the season, so you’ll have a chance to learn that.”
“What?” Arñe sounded as surprised as Paks felt.
“Yes. Any year a campaign doesn’t last the season—which is most years—we’re hired as caravan guards or garrison troops for the rest of it. Foss Council wants us to garrison the border forts between them and Czardas, for instance—”
“But—when do we get to go to a city—?”
“He means, when do we get paid?” Vik interrupted Malek.
Stammel laughed. “Ah—thinking like real mercenaries! I expect when Foss Council pays the Duke—which shouldn’t be long—it’ll trickle down to you. And if we’re close enough to a city or town, you might have a little time to waste your pay.”
The Duke’s scribe sat behind a table as the captains and sergeants set out stacks of coins. The Company lined up in order of seniority, which meant that the new privates, in the back, caught only glimpses of the glinting piles before veterans blocked their view. Paks wondered if any of them had dared ask how much they would be paid. She had no idea what to expect. For that matter, she wasn’t sure how many coppers made a silver, or what a silver would buy. She had agreed, with the others, to pay into the Company’s death fund. Stammel explained that this paid for having the personal effects and any salary owed sent to the heirs of those killed. But she did not know what that would leave.
The line snaked forward, slowly. When Paks could see the table again, the piles were much smaller. Suddenly she thought of her “expensive healing”—did that come out of her pay? The scribe called her name at last, and she stepped forward.
“Hmm.” Captain Arcolin picked up the roll and glanced at it, then looked at Paks. “You were promoted on the first day of the campaign. You’ve got a small bonus for your actions when the sick train was attacked. Less the contribution to the fund—did Stammel explain the currency?” Paks nodded. He’d explained, but she didn’t really understand. The Guild League cities coined under their own marks at agreed weights, with the gold nata, or father, being the coin of greatest value, followed by the gold nas, or son, silver niti (mother), silver nis (daughter), and two sizes of coppers, the page and serf. “Well, then,” said Arcolin, “it will be thirty-six nitis for you.” He pushed a pile forward.
“I’d advise you not to draw it all,” said Stammel. “As long as we’re in town, you can draw your pay once a day; you’re less likely to lose it to thieves and such.”
Paks had never seen so much money; it was hard not to take it all. “How much, then, sir?”
“Take ten, why don’t you? That should be enough to make you feel rich. Take two of it in mixed coppers.” Paks nodded to the scribe, and he marked the sum she drew beside her name. Stammel counted the coins into her hand. They were heavy; when she dropped them in her belt pouch, it dragged at her belt. She thought of all she could buy, and how soon she could save up the amount of her dowry to repay her father.
“I’ve never had so much money,” said Saben, coming up beside her.
“Nor I,” said Paks. “And to think we’ll get more next month, and the next—”
“What are you going to buy?”
Paks thought through her list. She didn’t know what they had, yet. “I was wondering if there was a place to buy spicebread—”
Saben laughed. “You and I are truly countryborn. I was thinking about clotted cream—that’s what they had at fairs near home. I never had but a bit of it, and I could eat it by the bucket. And something for my sisters—ribbons, or something like that. Stammel said it could go north with the Duke’s next courier, if it was small and light.”
Paks had not thought about presents; she felt guilty. “I’m—saving to send my dowry to my father,” she said.
“Dowry?” Saben looked surprised. “I thought you didn’t want—”
“To repay it,” she corrected. “He’d already given it, when I ran away.” She had never told anyone but Stammel the circumstances of her leaving home.
“Oh. I see. But you hadn’t agreed, had you?”
“No. I told him I wouldn’t wed Fersin, but he thought he could make me, so he gave dower.”
“But if you didn’t agree, it’s not your fault.” Barra pushed in beside her.
Paks wished she’d never mentioned it. “No—I suppose not. But I’d feel better if I paid it back. There’s my brothers and sisters to think of.”
Barra snorted, and Saben asked quickly, “Do you know how much it is?”
“Not exactly.” In fact she didn’t know anything but rumor: her oldest brother had said it was as much as Amboi dowered his eldest to the wool merchant’s son in Rocky Ford, and she thought she remembered what the baker’s wife in Three Firs had said about that. Saben looked impressed, and asked no more questions.
When they asked Stammel for permission to leave camp and go into the city, he told them to wait. Shortly before midday, he gathered some of his novices.
“All right,” he said. “You’ve got your pay—come along and let me show you how not to spend it.”
Vik shook his pouch, listening to the jingle of the coins. “But, sir—I already know how not to spend it. And I have plans—”
“Sure you do. And I can’t stop you from losing your last copper, if you’re taken that way. But I can show you the safer places to drink, and maybe keep you from being robbed and beaten in some alley.”
“Is Foss so dangerous?” asked Saben.
“And who’d attack us? We’re armed,” said Paks.
“It’s exactly that attitude,” said Stammel severely, “that loses good fighters every year. With the Company, you’re good. But alone, in an alley with thieves—no. If you’re lucky you wake up in the morning with a lump on your head and no money. Unlucky, you find yourself in a slaver’s wagon with a sack over your head and a brand—or maybe just dead. You youngsters don’t know the first thing about cities—well, maybe Vik and Jorti do—and that’s why you’ll come with me this time.”
A half hour later, Stammel led a dozen of them into the wide public room of The Dancing Cockerel. A tall, powerful-looking man in a green apron came forward to greet them.
“Hai! Matthis, old friend—I thought we’d see you this summer. Bringing the new ones in, eh?” The man looked at them keenly. “Duke Phelan’s soldiers are welcome here—what will you have?”
“Bring us your good ale, Bolner, and plenty of it. We’re in time for lunch, I trust.”
“Certainly. Be seated here—unless you wish a private room?”