“This one came with me into the city, tried to bribe me, and pulled a knife when I refused his bribe. Tried to tell me the others were dishonest.”
Jens snorted. “That doesn’t surprise me. Short weight, scant measure, stone-dust in the meal, and it’s been said for three years that it’s his bribes to the council chair that preserved his license to trade here. They’re not all bad.”
“I didn’t think so. But it’s this sort of thing I’m going to get rid of.” Gird looked around the faces again, seeing varied expressions from glee to worry. “An honest man doing honest work should be able to survive that way—one reason he can’t is cheats like this. If you want my help, that’s what the cost is to each of you—I won’t tolerate bribes, cheats, lies. One rule, the same for all, and fair enough to let a man live if he’s willing to work honestly.”
“And women?” asked one of the two women there. He nodded.
“And women. Same rule—no more being cheated because only a man can hold a cottage or craftcot. Earn the pay, get the pay.”
“I’m for that,” she said. Gird wondered who she was, she looked smaller than any of his women, but her face had the same resolute expression.
“What about him?” asked Jens. “Are you going to kill him?”
Gird was startled; it had never occurred to him, but from Jens’ voice and the reactions of the townsfolk, no one would think it odd if he sliced the man’s throat on the moment. “No,” he said. “We’ve proclaimed no laws—he could claim he didn’t know—”
“Not if he was dead,” someone muttered. Gird ignored that.
“It’s got to be fair,” he insisted. “The lords kill for whim; we don’t.” That we included those around; he saw by their faces that they realized it, and were surprised. “No, this’n goes back to his own wagon, out there, with his money, all of it, and the other traders must know.” As he said it, he realized that he would have to do part of it himself. They were still not accepting Jens or even one of his own marshals. He wished he could have a mug of ale; his belly needed it. He pushed that thought away, and pointed to two of his men. “Simi and Bakri—you carry him. I’ll come along and explain. Jens, you come too: I can’t stay here forever, and they’re going to have to learn to respect you. The rest of you—back to your posts, and call out replacements if you need them.”
Fires were still flickering in the traders’ field; Gird could see a cluster of dark forms around the one where he had eaten. He hailed them, as his yeomen carried the trader toward the fire. By the time they laid him down, he was beginning to stir and groan.
“This man,” Gird said, “told me some of you were dishonest, and then he tried to bribe me. I dropped his gold on the street—he got it back, threatened me, and then drew a knife.” He pulled up his sleeve, and showed the fresh gash still dripping blood. “So I knocked him down, and here’s his purse. Anyone here know much he had, so they can verify it?”
The other man who had seemed upset at Gird’s original comments on fair trading scuttled forward. “I’m his partner—I know—” and then his voice trailed away. Gird could imagine what he was thinking. Supposing he did know how much his partner had had, should he give that amount, or something higher—and claim Gird had stolen it—or something lower, and let Gird keep the bribe he would be sure Gird had taken. Gird looked past him to the trader he had already picked as the most trustworthy. He had asked Jens about him, on the way out, and Jens said he had a reputation for fair dealing.
Gird carried the purse to the trader. “He gave me five coins, gold I think, but he picked them up when I dropped them. Would you hold his purse?”
Reluctantly, it seemed, the trader reached for it, and then upended it into one of the wooden bowls they’d eaten from. “Five gold crowns,” he said. “Three silver crowns, and two copper crabs.” He stirred the coins, picked up one of the golds, and bit it, then examined it closely. “And this one is false—poor Rini, he couldn’t even bribe honestly.” Several of the others chuckled. The trader looked hard at Gird. “I presume you have a reason for bringing him back here rather than slitting his throat for him?”
“I don’t do that,” Gird said. The gash on his arm was beginning to sting, and he felt suddenly foolish and countrified, standing there with his sleeve torn and blood dripping down his hand. He did not like the feeling, or those who made him feel so. It should have been obvious why he came; it had been obvious to him.
“Well.” The trader cleared his throat. “He won’t trouble you again, I daresay, and if you intended to be sure none of the rest of us offered you bribes, I may say that some of us would not, anyway.”
He sounded almost angry; Gird realized that from the trader’s point of view they might resent being lumped with the dishonest one. “I didn’t think all of you would,” he said. “But it seemed fair to return him here, where he was known, and make sure you knew his purse was with him.”
“Oh.” The trader’s voice had changed. “You were not accusing us of being his accomplices? Of sharing the bribe?”
That had not even occurred to Gird; it opened new insights into the ways merchants thought—not reassuring. “No,” he said firmly. “I thought before that most of you were honest, but one or two—” he carefully did not look at the unconscious man’s partner, “—were less happy about what rules I might make. I spoke to you, sir, because you seemed honest before, and Jens said you were.”
“Jens? Oh—that—uh—”
“The yeoman-marshal of Brightwater barton,” Gird said.
“I thought he was a harness-maker’s—”
“I was a farmer,” Gird interrupted. “And now I’m the marshal-general.” It was the first time he had used the title Selamis had come up with; it felt strange in his mouth, and sounded strange on his ear. He went on before the traders could comment on it. “We consider all yeomen equal, whatever their skill. Yeoman-marshals guide each barton; marshals train yeoman-marshals and command cohorts.”
The traders looked a little dazed; the one who had been speaking before said, “Is it like a guild, then? More like that than an army, it seems—”
Gird knew nothing of guilds, and did not want to admit it right then. “It’s enough of an army to fight a war with,” he said. “But we think beyond war, to the way people should live in peace.” Their faces were still blank, carefully hiding what they thought. Gird felt the day’s work heavy on his shoulders, and wanted a quiet place to sleep before anything else. “You take charge of him,” he said to the traders, waving at the one who had opened his eyes, but still lay flat. Then he turned and headed back for the town.
He would have fallen into bed without even cleaning the knife-gash if one of his men hadn’t insisted on washing it out. They had saved him a bed—a real bed—in the barracks. He was asleep as soon as his head went down. He woke in full day, with sunlight spearing through the high, narrow windows and all the other beds empty. Someone had pulled his boots off, and laid a blanket over him. He felt stiff and dirty; somehow it was worse to sleep clothed in a bed, inside.
Outside he could hear what sounded like normal town noises. No screams, no clash of weapons. He stretched, shoved his feet into his boots, folded the blanket, and looked around. Weapon racks on the walls, but no weapons: the soldiers had used them the day before, and his men had them now. He could smell cooked food. He followed the smell and came to a wide-hearthed kitchen. Someone at the hearth looked up and saw him.
“There he is. Bread? Cheese?”
“Both.” Gird looked around. “Where’s the jacks? And a well?” He followed gestures and found the jacks, then a long stone trough fed by a pipe in the wall of the barracks court. A thin trickle leaked under the wooden plug; when he pulled it out, a stream of cold clean water raced along and out the open drain at the far end of the trough.