sure the city was in no immediate danger.
"Company meeting," Lieutenant Trubacik told Ragnarson one morning. "The rumors were right. We're moving out."
Sanguinet was sour. "The Citadel is sending us to the Lesser Kingdoms. Nassef isn't interested in Hellin Daimiel right now. Meanwhile, Itaskia and the other northern states are raising an army. We're supposed to keep Nassef from clearing his eastern flank, to threaten him into staying south of the Scarlotti till the northern army arrives. It'll be tough, especially if the Kaveliners don't hold in the Savernake Gap.
"We're going to Altea. I guess it's mainly a moral gesture. One company can't do much. My opinion is that we'll be wasting ourselves. The Citadel should assemble the whole brotherhood and take the initiative. But High Crag didn't ask me what I thought.
"We'll board ships in the morning. They'll ferry us to Dunno Scuttari. We'll transfer to river boats there. We'll off-load somewhere in eastern Altea and play hit-and-run.
"Gentlemen, we're the best warriors in the world. But this time I think somebody is a little too sure of us. Break it to your men gently."
Sanguinet entertained only a few questions. He did not have any answers.
Reskird had ended his sulk in the taverns and whorehouses of the city. He was his old self. "You look like death on a stick," he told Bragi. "What's up?"
"They're shipping us to the Lesser Kingdoms."
"Huh?"
"Altea, specifically. On our own. You'd better hope that Sanguinet is as good a captain as he was a sergeant."
Haaken had no comment. He just shook his head gloomily.
Chapter Six:
THE WANDERER
T
he fat youth's arms and legs pistoned wildly. He had done it again. The boys behind him had never heard of the concept mercy.
His donkey, for once, was cooperative. She trotted beside him, eyes rolling forlornly, as if to ask if he would ever learn his lesson. He was headed for an early bout with cut-throat-itis, an often fatal disease.
He was on a downhill slide, this Mocker. The town he was leaving was called Lieneke. It was hardly more than a village. A chance aggregation of bumpkins. And even they had caught on to his cheating.
A fragment of the message had begun to penetrate his brain. He was going to have to do things differently from now on. Assuming he got away this time.
The boys of Lieneke were a determined, persistent lot, but they did not have enough at stake. Fat and lazy though he was, Mocker had stamina. He kept windmilling till they gave up the chase.
He did not go on any farther than it took to get out of sight. Then he collapsed by the roadside and did not move for two days.
He did some hard thinking during that time, and finally convinced himself that he did not have what it took to cheat his way through life.
But what else could he do? His only skills were those he had learned from Sajac and his ilk.
He ought to find a patron, he thought. Somebody stupid but buried in inherited wealth. He smiled wryly, then steeled himself for a serious effort to avoid games of chance and outright thefts.
His visible profession was socially acceptable. Sure, he obtained money under false pretenses, but his customers were fooling themselves. The popular attitude was a tolerant
caveat emptor.
People gullible enough to buy his crazy advice and noxious beauty aids deserved whatever they got.
He finally moved on when a combination of hunger and fear caught up with him. The passage of a party of knights caused the fear.
He had encountered a similar band near Vorgreberg several weeks earlier. The men-at-arms had beaten him simply because he was a foreigner. He had not accepted his beating graciously, and that had not helped. He was a wicked little fighter when cornered. He had hurt several of them badly. They might have killed him had a knight not interceded.
Kavelin was a state typical of the Lesser Kingdoms. Those minor principalities were a crazy hodge-podge where social chaos was the norm. They were lands of
"Company meeting," Lieutenant Trubacik told Ragnarson one morning. "The rumors were right. We're moving out."
Sanguinet was sour. "The Citadel is sending us to the Lesser Kingdoms. Nassef isn't interested in Hellin Daimiel right now. Meanwhile, Itaskia and the other northern states are raising an army. We're supposed to keep Nassef from clearing his eastern flank, to threaten him into staying south of the Scarlotti till the northern army arrives. It'll be tough, especially if the Kaveliners don't hold in the Savernake Gap.
"We're going to Altea. I guess it's mainly a moral gesture. One company can't do much. My opinion is that we'll be wasting ourselves. The Citadel should assemble the whole brotherhood and take the initiative. But High Crag didn't ask me what I thought.
"We'll board ships in the morning. They'll ferry us to Dunno Scuttari. We'll transfer to river boats there. We'll off-load somewhere in eastern Altea and play hit-and-run.
"Gentlemen, we're the best warriors in the world. But this time I think somebody is a little too sure of us. Break it to your men gently."
Sanguinet entertained only a few questions. He did not have any answers.
Reskird had ended his sulk in the taverns and whorehouses of the city. He was his old self. "You look like death on a stick," he told Bragi. "What's up?"
"They're shipping us to the Lesser Kingdoms."
"Huh?"
"Altea, specifically. On our own. You'd better hope that Sanguinet is as good a captain as he was a sergeant."
Haaken had no comment. He just shook his head gloomily.
Chapter Six:
THE WANDERER
T
he fat youth's arms and legs pistoned wildly. He had done it again. The boys behind him had never heard of the concept mercy.
His donkey, for once, was cooperative. She trotted beside him, eyes rolling forlornly, as if to ask if he would ever learn his lesson. He was headed for an early bout with cut-throat-itis, an often fatal disease.
He was on a downhill slide, this Mocker. The town he was leaving was called Lieneke. It was hardly more than a village. A chance aggregation of bumpkins. And even they had caught on to his cheating.
A fragment of the message had begun to penetrate his brain. He was going to have to do things differently from now on. Assuming he got away this time.
The boys of Lieneke were a determined, persistent lot, but they did not have enough at stake. Fat and lazy though he was, Mocker had stamina. He kept windmilling till they gave up the chase.
He did not go on any farther than it took to get out of sight. Then he collapsed by the roadside and did not move for two days.
He did some hard thinking during that time, and finally convinced himself that he did not have what it took to cheat his way through life.
But what else could he do? His only skills were those he had learned from Sajac and his ilk.
He ought to find a patron, he thought. Somebody stupid but buried in inherited wealth. He smiled wryly, then steeled himself for a serious effort to avoid games of chance and outright thefts.
His visible profession was socially acceptable. Sure, he obtained money under false pretenses, but his customers were fooling themselves. The popular attitude was a tolerant
caveat emptor.
People gullible enough to buy his crazy advice and noxious beauty aids deserved whatever they got.
He finally moved on when a combination of hunger and fear caught up with him. The passage of a party of knights caused the fear.
He had encountered a similar band near Vorgreberg several weeks earlier. The men-at-arms had beaten him simply because he was a foreigner. He had not accepted his beating graciously, and that had not helped. He was a wicked little fighter when cornered. He had hurt several of them badly. They might have killed him had a knight not interceded.
Kavelin was a state typical of the Lesser Kingdoms. Those minor principalities were a crazy hodge-podge where social chaos was the norm. They were lands of
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