‘I’m in need of six volunteers to haul some ale up to the keep,’ Pirojil said. ‘You’re them.’
‘Captain, we–’
‘Is the discipline in Baron Luke Verheyen’s troops so bad that they don’t understand how to obey a simple order?’ he roared.
He didn’t quite know how it would break–he was sure how it would have broken if he’d had only sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve rather than captain’s tabs on his shoulder–but if it broke the wrong way, he would kick the table towards three of them, knock down a fourth, and hope he would be able to make his own escape after triggering the very fight he was trying to prevent.
How he would explain that to the Swordmaster later, would have to be a problem he saved for later.
‘No, sir. We know how to obey orders, sir,’ one of the privates said, his eyes fixed on Pirojil, although the glowering expressions on the faces of the other men served as well as a mirror to reflect the smirks of Gardell and the other Morrays.
Some people, it seemed, didn’t know when to keep smiles off their faces.
‘Very well, then,’ Pirojil said, accepting the concession with a nod. ‘Innkeeper–Innkeeper! Get out here, now, if you please.’
The tavernkeeper was so quickly out of the door from the kitchen and into the room that Pirojil felt sure he must have been watching the whole scene through the beaded curtain.
‘Yes–Captain Pirojil,’ he said, with only a slight overemphasis on Pirojil’s new rank. ‘Is there something I can do?’
‘The Earl is requisitioning three hogsheads of ale. These men will carry them up to the castle, and this one–what’s your name, soldier?’
‘Garrick, sir.’
‘–and Private Garrick will carry your bill to his captain, Captain…?’
‘Captain Ben Everet, sir.’
‘Captain Ben Everet, who will present it to the paymaster. Captain Ben Everet will, I hope, meet me at Barracks One in an hour; please convey my request to him, Private Garrick.’
‘Yessir.’
The tavernkeeper simply nodded and successfully repressed a smile. The casks would probably contain the local human-brewed swill while the bill would be for the more expensive dwarven ale. A regular provisioning officer would have been specific, but Pirojil not only had no idea what a hogshead of either human or dwarven ale would normally cost the Earl and he had other far more pressing concerns at the moment than the Earl’s kitchen being overcharged by a few coppers.
Sullenly, pretending to ignore the chuckles of the Morrays, the Verheyens shuffled towards the kitchen and the access to the cellar beyond.
Pirojil reclaimed his cloak from the floor, and folded it carefully on the stool before sitting back down with Mackin and Milo.
‘Captain Pirojil, eh?’ Milo didn’t meet his eyes; rather, he seemed to focus on running the tip of his index finger through a small puddle of spilled beer.
Pirojil shrugged. ‘As you said, there are some advantages to my present billet, all in all.’ Not to mention the disadvantage of being held responsible for things that he couldn’t control, but there was no reason to go into that, not at the moment.
‘Giving orders seems to become you,’ Milo said.
Mackin snickered. ‘Yeah, it did, this time.’ He frowned. ‘And cost me some coppers: I bet Milo that the Verheyens were going to jump you, and not just go meekly down the stairs then out into the cold, just because you’d asked, er ordered them to do so.’ He carefully counted out six copper coins and slid them across the table to Milo, who looked for a moment as if he was going to say something, but instead just shrugged and pocketed them.
‘I take it that you and the others in the corner would just have found some other place to be,’ Pirojil said.
‘I would have.’ Milo nodded. ‘And as quickly as my dainty little feet could carry me, at that.’
‘Me, I would have stayed and watched,’ Mackin said, taking a thoughtful sip of his beer. ‘But, no, it wouldn’t have been my fight, Captain.’
Pirojil didn’t blame him, but it was the first time in a long time that it had occurred to him that making some sort of connection with anybody other than Kethol and Durine would have had its advantages, rather than just the obvious disadvantages. The trouble with people was that if you expected them to get involved in your problems, you had better be willing to get involved in theirs.
Pirojil probably could have got Mackin and Milo involved in the fight on his side, lessening the odds that Pirojil was beaten to death, but that still wouldn’t have done any good. Once a fight of any kind started, every baronial soldier in the tavern would be going at it. Even if the Watch arrived quickly enough, to put the fire out here, once any blood was drawn, those two baronies would be fighting on sight. And as everyone was happily snowed in together in a small part of town, they’d be seeing one another frequently.
Pirojil dug the Watch whistle out of his pouch, and held it in the palm of his hand. ‘Do you have a problem taking orders?’ he asked.
Milo’s face didn’t change expression. ‘Not usually. As I think you’ve seen, from time to time. Depends, I guess, on what the orders are.’
Pirojil slid the whistle across the table to Milo. ‘Consider this tavern as your post. Keep the peace here–blow for the Watch if there’s any problem.’
A quick look passed between Milo and Mackin, and Pirojil recalled how Milo tended to make himself absent when the Constable was around. Pirojil didn’t know what that was all about–it wasn’t any of his business–and now was definitely not a good time to bother asking for details.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor, and the three pairs of Verheyen men walked out in single file through the wooden-beaded curtain from the kitchen, each pair carrying a hogshead.
The snickers from the Morrays were cut off even as Pirojil turned towards Gardell, although the smiles remained, some of them hidden behind mugs of ale raised in a sarcastic salute to the departing Verheyens.
Shit. That wasn’t going to be enough.
In fact, Pirojil had just probably made things worse in the long run, even though he had been successful in preventing a fight breaking out right here and now. The Morray men might hold their derision in check now, but, later? Would they avoid snickering here, or in the barracks, or avoid moving to another tavern and bragging to anyone who’d listen that the newly-breveted, ugly captain had taken their side in the Verheyen-Morray feud and sent the cowardly Verheyens stumbling meekly out into the cold?
Not bloody likely. All Pirojil had done was to dump more wood on top of an already-smouldering pile. It might take some time for that fire to break into flame, but the fire would just burn brighter and hotter, later on.
‘Halt,’ he called out to the Verheyens, just as the first pair of men was just about to step out into the mud-room. ‘Just stand there for a moment.
‘Everybody,’ he said, addressing the whole room, unsurprised to find that all eyes were on him. ‘Listen up. It seems like I made a mistake–the Earl is going to need another three hogsheads of ale, and I know that everybody just heard the men from Barony Morray volunteer to move the next three hogsheads up to the castle, just as soon as the nice folks from Verheyen get back from their own labours.’
He walked over to the Verheyens, and spoke softly: ‘So I’m sure you men will want to take your time, set your burden down and rest every few feet, if you like, and be sure not to tire yourselves out speeding up to the castle, so that your friends from Morray will have plenty of time to rest and fortify themselves with food and drink before it’s their turn to stagger out into the cold. You can–’ he stopped himself. ‘No; just wait here for a moment. I’ve got one more thing to say, and it’s for all of you.’
He walked back to the centre of the room, halfway between the two parties.
‘Although I know the Swordmaster’s made his feelings clear to the captains, and that the captains have already made it all clear to anybody with two ears who is capable of listening, I’ll repeat
the message, just in case anybody here failed to get it,’ he said. ‘There are to be no problems. There are to be no fights. It doesn’t matter who starts it, or why. Any brawls will get people tossed into the city jail. Any bloodletting will get people sent to the labour-gangs in the mines. Any killings will get people hung. So, it’s just not going to happen. Understood?’
There was silence in the room. ‘Is that understood?’
Murmurs of yessir echoed through the room, and Pirojil gestured towards the Verheyen men that they could go.
The Verheyens moved through the mud-room and out of the front door of the Broken Tooth Tavern almost as quickly as they could have walked unburdened, and Pirojil returned to his seat next to Milo and the dwarf, ignoring the glares from Gardell and his companions.
Yes, it was unfair–from the Morray men’s point of view. It was the Verheyens who had set a trap for them here, after all, and the fight would have been the Verheyens’ fault, not theirs–even though they could have just walked out when the Verheyens walked in.
If Pirojil had let it lie as he had first intended to, he would have only earned the enmity of one side.
Now, he had both sides hating him. On the benefit side of the ledger, however, maybe it would distract some of them from the fact that they hated each other even more, at least for a few hours, maybe even a day, and the only cost would be that Pirojil had another dozen or so men that he would not want at his back on a dark night.
A captain’s pay was starting to look like awfully cheap coin for this.
‘Well, that was probably a better way to handle it,’ Mackin said, quietly. ‘I was thinking that, myself, even before you decided to speak up.’
‘Then why didn’t you say anything?’ Pirojil regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth.
‘Not my job.’ The dwarf shrugged. ‘As I said, Captain Pirojil, it’s none of my business how my betters conduct themselves. You may remember that feeling, from when you were a lowly soldier…what was it? Yesterday, eh?’
‘Be still, Mackin,’ Milo said, frowning. ‘The man’s doing the best he can.’
‘Still none of our concern.’
‘Maybe not. Maybe so.’ He turned back to Pirojil. ‘Okay, Pirojil–I’ll do what I can,’ Milo said. ‘No promises about how successful I’ll be.’
‘Be successful,’ Pirojil said, as though ordering something done would make it done, something he had always despised when officers had done it to him. No matter what the legend was, when an officer told you ‘jump,’ asking him ‘how high’ on the way up was utterly pointless.
Milo made a face. He was probably thinking the same thing.
‘Please,’ Pirojil added. It seemed to be the thing to say, officer or not.
Milo nodded. ‘I’ll do my best. Until when?’
Pirojil hadn’t thought about that, although if he had been on the other end of the order, he certainly would have done.
‘Until you’re relieved, that’s until when,’ he said at last, trying to work out who, exactly, he could get to relieve them. He jerked his head towards the other mercenaries off in the corner, who were watching the three of them far too intently for Pirojil’s taste. ‘Enlist some help, or your own replacement, if you need to. Find someone reliable, and I’ll see they’re paid, same as you.’
And how a group of mercenaries were supposed to keep the peace between the feuding factions, even in the cramped confines of the Broken Tooth Tavern, was another matter. They would have to improvise, just as Pirojil had.
‘Easier said than done,’ Milo said. ‘Maybe if I was a sergeant?’
Pirojil had to laugh. ‘You want me to bring that up with Steven Argent?’
‘Probably not.’ Milo shook his head, and smiled ruefully. ‘No, come to think of it, definitely not. Take a promotion and the next thing I know I’ll find myself an officer having to help keep the peace throughout LaMut, and having to conscript a bunch of others to help me hold back the sea with a fork.’
He slid the whistle over to Mackin, who nodded and tucked it into his tunic.
Mackin smiled up at Pirojil. ‘Shouldn’t you be making sure those Verheyens don’t get themselves lost on the way to the castle?’
Pirojil didn’t think that they would be taking their time, and he really didn’t much care if they went directly up to the castle or wandered around in the city, tiring themselves out while they carried heavy hogsheads–but he did have to go have a talk with the Verheyen captain. Not that Pirojil’s words would do any good if the Swordmaster’s had already failed. Pirojil knew that Steven Argent had already talked to the captains, and from what Pirojil knew of the Swordmaster he had no doubt that Argent had made his feelings crystal clear.
Which began to explain why the Swordmaster had gone to the extremity of brevetting the three of them–he wasn’t just, as he had admitted, unsure of the reliability of some of the baronial captains, he was sure of their unreliability, at least under the present circumstances of close confinement, and couldn’t count on the ones he could trust to keep the lid firmly on the pot.
He was right to worry, Pirojil decided. Even if all of the captains were utterly reliable, incredibly competent and on top of the situation around them, LaMut was both too large and increasingly too small.
It was, he decided, a lousy day.
A particularly lousy day when you were wearing a pair of fresh new captain’s tabs as heavy as lead weights that somebody had nailed to your shoulders.
A lousy day when you looked back at the more active periods of the war, when the castle’s barracks were almost empty instead of crowded from floor to rafters, and when even the baronial soldiers in the Earl’s service were far more concerned about where the nearest Blues and Bugs were than they were with how much they hated their traditional local enemies.
Pirojil pulled his cloak about him as he rose. Then he walked out of the Broken Tooth Tavern into the stark, frozen whiteness of the lousy day.
It really was a lousy day when a man actually found himself happy to be outside in the cold.
NINE
Plotting
Kethol stopped.
The only sound he could hear was his own breathing as stopped to look around the white-covered landscape. Old habits die hard, and he forced himself to listen to the sounds of the woods between breaths. He considered the absurdity of the moment, and reflected on the past as he listened to the breaking of ice in the distance and the faint sounds of a light breeze in the bare branches of birches and pines, oaks and elms.
Kethol had once, uncharacteristically, a long time ago, befriended a juggler.
The juggler had been a travelling performer who had been pressed into service in Lord Sutherland’s forces during one of the cycles of wars with Keshians and rebellions from the locals that seemed to never stop in the Vale of Dreams. Said cycles of wars and rebellions in the Vale of Dreams being one of the reasons that Kethol, Durine and Pirojil always had the Vale as a fallback destination; there was always employment in the Vale, though if Kethol never had to face a load of battle-crazed Keshian Dog Soldiers again, that would be more than fine with him.
The juggler had been brought into service by one of Lord Sutherland’s roving press gangs during a break of a few weeks between rebel attacks–the Kingdom had effectively outlawed slavery decades earlier, but labour gangs at the Keshian front were still a common thing; fortifications had to be rebuilt and men without convincing stories as to why they were trying to cross the border were considered renegades. Some were just unlucky, and a few of those might be cut loose when a company sergeant or captain was convinced the labourer was harmless. Kethol had always thought it a strange system; if he had been a Keshian spy, he would have been the most cheerful worker on the line, and been everyone’s best friend. Eventually, he’d have been turned loose to do whatever it was he was to do. Those who attempted to escape and were killed in the process were idiots, solid proof they couldn’t be Keshian agents. They were too stupid.
&nbs
p; This time, however, the press gang wasn’t bringing in labourers, but wall-fodder.
The juggler was obviously not a spy, but he hadn’t had a compelling reason as to why he was hiking along a dusty trail in the foothills of the Vale, rather than travelling with a caravan or, at least, a band of entertainers. So, into the work gang he went. After a month, the sergeant in charge had cut him loose and against any reasonable logic, the juggler had decided to hang around. Perhaps he had grown to love camp food.
Kethol’s company was manning a defence at the time, which meant guarding the work gang as much as looking for Dog Soldiers. He had come to know the juggler and when the young man had remained after being released from the work gang, Kethol had, for reasons he could never quite explain to himself, taken Kami under his wing. He had been enrolled in the ranks of the mercenary company Kethol was serving in, by a dubious sergeant who owed Kethol a favour.
Between sessions of Kethol trying to play swordmaster to the poor, manifestly doomed sod–you would think that a man so dexterous while juggling could not possibly be so clumsy with a sword–the man had explained his own personal philosophy, such as it was, which amounted to, ‘when you don’t know what to do, do what you do know what to do.’
Which sounded sensible, on the face of it.
Until he had discovered that, for Kami, that had meant that when he found himself frustrated with his inability to use a sword and shield he would take a few minutes and go off by himself or out into the night to juggle with whatever there was around–rocks and pebbles, if his juggling kit was not nearby–while he thought things out.
He had always come back relaxed, and ready to do his best during another lesson, and while he never did quite master even the most basic rudiments of sword work, he at least had good-naturedly put in a lot of hours working at it, and Kethol had found himself admiring the do-what-you-know philosophy, even if he wondered about its practicality.