David Weber - Oath of Swords

“In the meantime, however, I can see why you’ve come west. And you, young Brandarkson,” those disconcerting, yellow eyes cut back to Brandark, “were quite right. Hradani who wander about without obvious employ don’t fare well in other lands.” He inhaled deeply, then slapped his hands on his desk.

“So! That being the case, I might just take a chance on the two of you. Mind you, you won’t be lords or princes to my men, and some of them won’t be any too happy to see you.” His face turned much sterner. “We’ve our own rules, and Rianthus will tell you what they are, but one applies to everyone: no drawn steel! I doubt you two would have made it across Esgan if you were given to, ah, hastiness, but you know as well as I that someone’s going to press you sooner or later, just for being what you are. Do I have your word you’ll settle it without blades?”

“Well, now,” Bahzell rumbled, “I’m thinking you do, so long as they’re not after spilling blood. It’s grateful I’ll be for honest work, but not so grateful I’ll let someone slice a piece or two from my hide without slicing a little back in trade.”

“That’s fair enough,” Rianthus put in. Kilthan looked at him, and the captain shrugged. “If any of our lads are stupid enough to break the rules and draw against these two, we’re better off without them, anyway, Kilthan.”

“Hmmmm. There probably is something in that,” Kilthan agreed after a moment, then shrugged. “Very well, do I have your words that you won’t draw steel first? ” Both hradani nodded, and Kilthan nodded back with a curiously formal air. “Done, then! Two gold kormaks a month to start with, more if you work out well. And it’s a good thing you found me when you did, for I’m bound back to Manhome before the month’s end.” He looked back at Rianthus and jabbed a finger at Bahzell with a grin. “Get them sworn in, Rianthus-and see if we’ve a tent long enough for this one!”

The next few weeks were very different, not least because Bahzell had to see much less of the locals. That would have been a vast enough relief, but Kilthandahknarthas dihna’ Harkanath was far too important for anyone in Esgfalas to irritate, and Bahzell and Brandark now wore the black and orange colors of his house. The change their livery wrought in the Esganians they were forced to encounter was intensely satisfying, even after they discovered they owed Kilthan over a month’s wages each for the bond he’d posted in their names with the Merchants Guild and Guild of Freeswords.

Not that everything went smoothly. As Kilthan had warned, some of their new fellows were unhappy at having hradani among them. The majority chose not to complain, particularly after they’d watched the two of them demonstrate their competence against Rianthus’ arms master. Yet a few muttered balefully, especially Shergahn, the chunky ex-corporal from the army of Daranfel whom Rianthus had called to hold their horses that first day, and Bahzell and Brandark both knew it was only a matter of time until more than words were exchanged.

That much they were prepared to take as it came, for it was only to be expected. They were strangers, after all, and strangers would have been tested-probably more harshly than anyone was likely to attempt here-before being accepted by any hradani unit. Neither looked forward to it, but other problems were more immediate . . . and irritating.

There was, for example, their plunder from Churnazh’s guardsmen. Two hradani, one a Horse Stealer, had no need of six horses. Rianthus bought two of them, but the others were too heavy for his taste and too well bred for draft animals, so Brandark took them and the weapons to the Square of Gianthus, Esgfalas’ main market, and sold them . . . for far less than their value. They were no Sothōii coursers, but they were worth far more than anyone chose to offer a hradani-even one in Kilthan’s service. In the end, he had either to take what was offered or bring them home again, and he swallowed his pride and closed the deal.

Bahzell wasn’t with him (which might have been as well, given how the local merchants “explained” Brandark’s bargaining position to him), but he took the news more philosophically than Brandark had feared. Money, as money, had never meant much to Bahzell, and he had enough left from his father’s purse for both of them to meet such needs as Kilthan left unfilled.

It was as well he did, for Brandark had acquired, at ruinous expense, a chain haubergeon of Axeman manufacture. Kilthan’s guardsmen were required to supply their own equipment, but it was his custom to sell them arms and armor at cost, and though Brandark had left home well supplied with coin, he never could have afforded such armor without the merchant’s canny generosity. It was dwarvish work, superior to the best hradani workmanship, and the Bloody Sword wore it with the same panache as the embroidered jerkins and lace-cuffed shirts he’d commissioned to restore his depleted wardrobe. For himself, Bahzell was content with plainer, more practical garments, and not even a merchant with Kilthan’s inventory could fit him with armor off the rack.

Once their immediate needs had been seen to, Rianthus was at some pains to consider how best to integrate them into his command. Kilthan’s caravans were rich enough to tempt any brigand, and it was Rianthus’ job to see to it no one felt anything more than temptation. He commanded over two hundred men, divided into five companies, but he laughed sharply when Bahzell suggested that he seemed well supplied with troops.

“You’ve never seen one of old Kilthan’s menageries on the move!” Kilthan maintained a sizable compound outside the city wall, and Rianthus and Bahzell watched a squad of horse archers practicing against man-sized targets from the gallop. The sun was bright in a sky already shading into a cooler, breezier blue, and the trees surrounding the compound glowed with the first, bright brush strokes of fall. “It’s not just his own wagons,” the captain went on sourly, “though that’d be bad enough, when all’s said, but the others.”

“Others?” Bahzell repeated.

“Aye.” Rianthus hawked and spat into the dust. “This’ll be our last caravan of the year. Kilthan never spends more than a month or two in Esgan-he leaves operations here to his factors, for the most part-but he always comes out for the final trip, because it’s the richest one, and the brigands know that. They also know there won’t be many more merchant trains of anyone’s this year, so they’re ready to take bigger risks for a prize fat enough to see them through the winter. That means every rag and tag merchant who can’t afford enough guards of his own wants to attach himself to Kilthan’s coattails, and, since the roads are open to all, we can’t be shut of them. We can’t force them to stay clear of us without breaking a few heads, and that would upset the Merchants Guild, so Kilthan lets them join us. He charges ’em for it, since they’re riding under our house’s protection, but the fee’s a joke. Just enough to make the agreement formal and require them to go by our rules.” The captain shrugged. “I suppose it’s worth it in the long run. They’d draw brigands like a midden draws flies anyway-and not just down on themselves, either-and at least this way we can stop their doing anything too stupid.”

He paused to snort in exasperation as two of his galloping archers narrowly avoided collision and completely missed their targets in the process, then shrugged again.

“Just our own wagons’ll take up a mile and more of road. Add the other odds and sods, and we’ll have over a league to cover, and precious little help from the pox-ridden incompetents the others call guardsmen.”