Read Online The Exotic Enchanter by L. Sprague de Camp, Lyon Sprague de Camp, Christopher Stasheff - Free Book Online Page A
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party."
"The party" was crippling the Polovtsi by getting most of them incapably drunk. That was Shea's job, with Mikhail Sergeivich to lead the mopping-up operations. Another column was to drive through to round up the unprotected slave train before it reached neutral territory, and a third was a reserve.
Thanks to their care in not mentioning Igor's name, no one had yet connected them with Seversk's ruler. Some merchants thought the mercenaries might be the last of Sviatoslav Borisovich's household, fleeing an appointment with the headsman.
"Better hope the weather holds," Mikhail concluded. "The autumn rains have been known to come this early."
"I told you, I have no weather magic," Shea said irritably. "We'll just have to hope that the water doesn't come until the wine is gone."
At dawn the next day they raised the trade-truce banner. At noon a party of eighty to a hundred Polovtsi rode in. The smell was as overpowering as ever, even though this time it was only the men, not the campsite as well. Shea briefly imagined conjuring up a gigantic bathhouse, large enough to clean the whole Polovtsi nation—or deal with them permanently, as Olga had done with her husband's murderers.
Mikhail Sergeivich left the negotiations with the Polovtsi to a senior member of the vintners' guild. They came to terms with a minimum of insults, and half the Polovtsi rode away. The merchants started setting up booths and stands, but kept looking nervously over their shoulders at the Polovtsi wandering about.
"These sons-of-bitches," Mikhail told Shea, "are bad enough when sober. How do you plan to control them when they're drunk?"
"That's the point, to get them drunk," Shea replied. "I've been meaning to ask: what does trade law require them to do?"
"To pay for anything they want or break, and to observe the three-day limit. And even then one band once claimed they'd spent a whole day drunk before they looted a border household, so they'd forgotten where they were.
"That only involved maybe fifty Polovtsi. By the time all our friends' friends get wind of the party and come, we'll have half the steppe on our hands!"
"What happens when they have something to sell?" Shea asked.
"They stay sober then, and haggle like everyone else. They generally insist on selling first. Then, as often as not, they've been known to claim that the coin was bad, or the trade-goods worthless, so they can steal instead of buying in turn."
"If this works, they'll actually be falling down. Tell the soldiers to stick to water tomorrow. There's nothing we can do about the merchants."
"True," said Mikhail, and went off to give the orders.
Shea was up before dawn the next morning. Sure enough, one of the Polovtsi had made a nuisance of himself last night, insisting on having his cup filled again and again and never offering to pay. The merchant involved seemed more resigned than angry, and Mikhail told Shea (after saying "I told you so") that the guild would cover his losses out of total profits, if any.
The rider had thrown the cup away after emptying it the seventh time, and Shea had retrieved the leather vessel. The Polovets had been satisfyingly drunk, too, but in this matter of life or death Shea intended to hedge his bets.
Concealed among the wagons, and as close to the sleeping Polovtsi as he could stand, Shea held the cup in one hand and gestured with the other. He didn't quite sing, but a melody lurked under his intonation.
"They're Polovets riders who've lost their way,
Da! Da! Da!
Smelly steppe goats who have gone astray,
Da! Da! Da!
Lousy barbarians out on a spree,
Doomed to get drunk until they can't see,
And the Rus will make prey out of all they see,
Da! Da! Da!"
Then he crept back to the trade area proper, and unstoppered a leather flask. It was filled with a mixture of ale, kvass, mead, and wine, and the thought of drinking the concoction was enough to make Shea turn Prohibitionist. Again holding the flask in one hand, and
"The party" was crippling the Polovtsi by getting most of them incapably drunk. That was Shea's job, with Mikhail Sergeivich to lead the mopping-up operations. Another column was to drive through to round up the unprotected slave train before it reached neutral territory, and a third was a reserve.
Thanks to their care in not mentioning Igor's name, no one had yet connected them with Seversk's ruler. Some merchants thought the mercenaries might be the last of Sviatoslav Borisovich's household, fleeing an appointment with the headsman.
"Better hope the weather holds," Mikhail concluded. "The autumn rains have been known to come this early."
"I told you, I have no weather magic," Shea said irritably. "We'll just have to hope that the water doesn't come until the wine is gone."
At dawn the next day they raised the trade-truce banner. At noon a party of eighty to a hundred Polovtsi rode in. The smell was as overpowering as ever, even though this time it was only the men, not the campsite as well. Shea briefly imagined conjuring up a gigantic bathhouse, large enough to clean the whole Polovtsi nation—or deal with them permanently, as Olga had done with her husband's murderers.
Mikhail Sergeivich left the negotiations with the Polovtsi to a senior member of the vintners' guild. They came to terms with a minimum of insults, and half the Polovtsi rode away. The merchants started setting up booths and stands, but kept looking nervously over their shoulders at the Polovtsi wandering about.
"These sons-of-bitches," Mikhail told Shea, "are bad enough when sober. How do you plan to control them when they're drunk?"
"That's the point, to get them drunk," Shea replied. "I've been meaning to ask: what does trade law require them to do?"
"To pay for anything they want or break, and to observe the three-day limit. And even then one band once claimed they'd spent a whole day drunk before they looted a border household, so they'd forgotten where they were.
"That only involved maybe fifty Polovtsi. By the time all our friends' friends get wind of the party and come, we'll have half the steppe on our hands!"
"What happens when they have something to sell?" Shea asked.
"They stay sober then, and haggle like everyone else. They generally insist on selling first. Then, as often as not, they've been known to claim that the coin was bad, or the trade-goods worthless, so they can steal instead of buying in turn."
"If this works, they'll actually be falling down. Tell the soldiers to stick to water tomorrow. There's nothing we can do about the merchants."
"True," said Mikhail, and went off to give the orders.
Shea was up before dawn the next morning. Sure enough, one of the Polovtsi had made a nuisance of himself last night, insisting on having his cup filled again and again and never offering to pay. The merchant involved seemed more resigned than angry, and Mikhail told Shea (after saying "I told you so") that the guild would cover his losses out of total profits, if any.
The rider had thrown the cup away after emptying it the seventh time, and Shea had retrieved the leather vessel. The Polovets had been satisfyingly drunk, too, but in this matter of life or death Shea intended to hedge his bets.
Concealed among the wagons, and as close to the sleeping Polovtsi as he could stand, Shea held the cup in one hand and gestured with the other. He didn't quite sing, but a melody lurked under his intonation.
"They're Polovets riders who've lost their way,
Da! Da! Da!
Smelly steppe goats who have gone astray,
Da! Da! Da!
Lousy barbarians out on a spree,
Doomed to get drunk until they can't see,
And the Rus will make prey out of all they see,
Da! Da! Da!"
Then he crept back to the trade area proper, and unstoppered a leather flask. It was filled with a mixture of ale, kvass, mead, and wine, and the thought of drinking the concoction was enough to make Shea turn Prohibitionist. Again holding the flask in one hand, and
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