Parno's Destiny: The Black Sheep of Soulan: Book Two (18 page)

“I agree with that, milord,” Raines nodded. “I appreciate your confidence in me as well. I'm glad Memmnon-, the Crown Prince I mean, speaks well of me,” he added.

“He should, considering some of the hi-jinks the two of you pulled, if the stories are even partly accurate,” Parno grinned, and Raines laughed aloud at that.

“Long ago, milord, when we were much younger and did not have so much hanging over us,” he replied. “There is one minor noble among the 'rabble', as you named them. And it's not inaccurate. He is the son of a District Governor in Misi, the Duke of Leeford I believe. He rarely misses an opportunity to remind us of who he is, either.”

“Introduce me,” Parno ordered. “I might as well get this over with now.”

*****

Colonel Melton Fisk looked up from his reading to see a young man approaching his camp followed by a group of soldiers. He ignored the soldiers but frowned at this breach of camp etiquette. It was simply rude to walk into another man's command unannounced.

“You there!” he called out as he stood. “What are you doing in my camp?”

“Looking for the commander of this rabble,” the young man replied easily. “I've never seen a more disgusting example of soldiery. Who's responsible for this?”

“Who are you to question my command or denigrate my men?” Fisk was white-hot in an instant. “I'm a mind to have you flogged!”

“Be my guest,” the young man said easily. “Will you be taking me yourself, or have some of these rejects do it for you?”

“Seize him!” Fisk screeched. “And have someone send for Raines! I'll have someone's head for this!”

Before Fisk's men could react their camp was 'invaded' from all sides by armed men, all wearing the same black and green livery. And all wearing grim looks of combat soldiers, Fisk realized.

“My name,” the intruder said easily, “is Parno McLeod.” The silence to that statement was deafening.

“I'm told that you led your men here on horses that are barely able to carry your overfed ass,” Parno continued. “And that you consistently attempt to use your 'rank' to avoid tasks that you consider beneath you. That ends today, Mister Fisk. You and your men will be moving camp in one half-hour, relocating to the river front where you and your men will assist with maintaining the defenses. Your horses will be reassigned to real cavalry units, assuming they can be rehabilitated from your slovenly treatment.”

“You can't do that! Milord,” Fisk hastened to add. “We're cavalrymen!”

“No real cavalryman would allow his horses to get into the shape your mounts are in, Captain,” Parno shot back.

“It's Colonel!” Fisk almost shouted.

“Not as of this moment it's not,” Parno shook his head. “Your men will be assigned to the engineering commander for the duration or until General Raines, Commanding Second Field Army determines you're worthy of a combat assignment. If you refuse or object any more, Captain, I'll have you in the guardhouse until you can be tried for whatever I can come up with under the Military Code. I must warn you that I'm somewhat busy at the moment defending the kingdom
while you sit here on your pompous lazy ass ducking work
! No more!” He had reached Fisk by now and there was a dangerous light in his eyes that his own men recognized quite well.

“We're at war for our very survival and you're treating this like a camping expedition, Mister Fisk. I don't care who you are, or who your father is, you will work or you by God won't eat and you'll rot in prison until every Nor bastard is removed from Soulan soil. After which, if I haven't forgotten you, I'll probably have you executed as an enemy of the Crown, giving aid and comfort to the enemy, cowardice, whatever I can think of. Do you understand me, Mister Fisk?”

Fisk was gaping like a fish out of water at this dressing down. He'd never had anyone speak to him like this. When his father learned of what was happening. . . .

“I'll have your father replaced if I have to,” the Marshal said softly, almost as if reading the other man's mind. “Don't think for an instant that I care one whit about a minor governor in the middle of nowhere when good men are dying to protect your fat ass
and
his. Now I asked you a question, Mister Fisk,” his voice dropped again. “Do you understand me?”

It finally began to register on Fisk that he was on extremely shaky ground. His father would not look with favor on his son who had attracted Royal ire. Nor would he support that son, either. His gaze dropped to where the Marshal's hand was resting on his sword hilt. Would the Marshal actually attack him? Right here in front of everyone?

“I'm waiting,” that same Marshal said, his voice taking on a threatening timbre.

“I. . .I understand, milord,” Fisk managed to stammer. “But my rank, milord. . .I'm a Provincial! My rank was given me by the Provincial Governor himself! We fall under his command-”

“Except in time of war, which in case you've missed it, we are in at the moment,” Parno cut him off. “You belong to me now, Captain, and you'll follow the orders of those above you or you'll suffer the consequences and I assure you they will be severe. Now you have twenty-five minutes to strike this pig sty camp of yours and get your men ready to march to the river. Anyone who lags behind will regret it. Follow?”

“Milord,” Fisk started, then stopped. He turned to his second in command, a man who now outranked him by Royal Order.

“Major, prepare the men for movement. We have twenty minutes to be ready to march.”

“Our horses, Colo-” that Major was pointing to where the unit's mounts were being cut out by the wranglers of Raines regulars and herded for their own holding area.

“Aren't yours anymore,” Parno finished for him. “I said march, and that's exactly what I meant. Your time is running out, Lieutenant.” The 'Major' blanched at having the ire of the Marshal turned on him and immediately went to ushering the men to prepare to move. Quickly.

“If I hear your name mentioned in one dispatch that isn't a glowing review of your contribution to the war effort I'll have you beheaded,” Parno spoke to Fisk so softly that only he could hear. “There won't be any more warnings or chances. You'll simply be dead. Try me if you like. I've already killed so many that one more won't matter when I stand before Judgment.”

Fisk had no intention of 'trying' the new Marshal. He's always heard that the Marshal favored nobles of almost any rank and had played on that heavily to avoid any work assignments or danger. He had somehow missed the announcement that there was a new Marshal. One who apparently didn't share his predecessor's appreciation of rank.

“Now get moving,” Parno finished. “My men will remain to ensure that you're on the road on time. You may have heard of them,” he smiled nastily. “They're called the Black Sheep. Their most recent engagement was against a group of Wildmen that outnumbered them two-to-one. They suffered four injured while killing roughly three hundred Tribal warriors. Feel free to give them a go if you think you and your. . .
men
, are up to it.”

With that Parno turned on his heel, leaving a stunned Fisk staring after him.

“See to it that they get a move on,” he ordered Karls, who merely nodded as Parno stalked past on his way back to Raines' headquarters. His own guard followed, as did Enri Willard and Harrel Sprigs. Cho Feng fell in beside Parno, walking silently.

“What is it?” Parno demanded suddenly.

“What do you mean, my Prince?” Feng asked calmly.

“You only walk beside me in silence when you want to make a point,” Parno said flatly. “So make it and be done.”

“There is none to make,” Feng said evenly. “You did well.”

Parno just shook his head as Feng outmaneuvered him once more.

CHAPTER TEN

-

The Tinker led his small caravan into the rear of the camp, his 'pass' issued by the Inspector General of the Army enough to allow him to pass the guard posts. As he rode the last of the way toward the camp he reviewed his 'orders' once more.

He had not been surprised to receive the missive from Prince McLeod. The new Marshal had promised he would have work for the Tinker at some point and was not shy in financing his waiting. The orders themselves were another thing altogether.

Behind him were five wagons and two ambulances, the result of several days work and expenditure of not a little of the Prince's gold. Two of the wagons held sutler items and tools that the Tinker would use to ply his official trade for the Army of Soulan, the others held furnishings and personal luggage for the people in his caravan as well as certain other 'goods' that would help them establish themselves in camp.

He would sell, buy and trade with the soldiers of the Army while also mending and repairing items of import, much as he usually did. As he did so, he would listen to the chatter of the soldiers, investigating anything that appeared suspect. In the secret pocket of his soft calf-hide boots was another paper from the Inspector General, this one identifying him as an agent of the Crown. Not for the first time he stifled a laugh at the idea of him bearing such identification.

Akin to those orders were the contents of the two ambulances. He had 'collected' several women who made their way in the world with their looks and their bodies. Women who, though of ill-repute, were still educated and cultured enough to attract the attention of even the most fastidious officer in the Army. Women whose dark eyes, black hair and sultry appearances would be able to seduce all but the most reputable of men.

Men who would be likely to talk to such women in times of. . .moral weakness the Prince had called it. The Tinker shook his head at the delicate way the Prince has asked him to basically become a pimp. The women would be well cared for after the war, Parno promised, as would Tinker himself. The Prince needed to know who he could trust and, perhaps more importantly, who he couldn't.

The eleven sultry beauties in those two ambulances would almost certainly be able to gather such information for the Prince. The Tinker knew that such a request had not come easy to the young Prince, whose honor was evident for all to see. He had a respect for women that was unusual, considering his being raised with little female influence. This was another of the things that made the Tinker trust this nobleman when he normally trusted none, noble or otherwise.

What this prince said he would do, he
did
.

So yes, he knew a few women who could fit that description, and most all were willing to risk that the Prince would do as he said. They trusted the Tinker and the Tinker trusted the prince. For people like them, it was enough.

As the camp finally came into view the Tinker turned his thoughts away from that to focus on his new assignment. The first thing would be to find a good location for his. . .business. He shook his head slightly at that. Business indeed.

“What's wrong, sir?” the young man next to him asked. Tinker glanced at the young soldier beside him. Aaron Bell had delivered the message to him from the Prince and then remained to accompany him along the way home. Though Bell was one of the now famed Black Sheep, his regal uniform was stowed away inside one of the wagons, the young man wearing the more common rough dress of a working ranch hand or wagoner.

“Nothing is wrong, Aaron,” Tinker assured his young riding partner, pronouncing the name 'ah-rone' as he usually did. “I was just thinking of the work ahead. I must see to some kind of quarters.”

“What you need, Mister Tinker?” Bell asked.

“Ideally I need a house,” Tinker admitted. “Even better would be a hotel nearby the Army. It needs to be within easy horse ride of the main encampment however. And there must be a clear evacuation route in the event the army is forced to withdraw still further.”

“I'll be back in a bit,” Bell said after hearing those requirements. “You have to check in with the sutler manager anyway. I'll meet up with you near there in say. . .two hours?”

“Very well, Aaron,” Tinker nodded. “Remember,” he added with an index finger to his lips.

“Anything for the Prince, sir,” Bell nodded and spurred his horse away. Uniform or no, there was no disguising that horse as anything but a war mount. And anything more than a casual glance would assure a studying eye that Bell was no mere ranch hand.

“Mikhail, what are we doing?” a woman's voice called to him and he turned. The lead ambulance was almost to him, the driver a woman dressed in clothing very similar to Bell's, though even rough linen and cotton clothing could do nothing to hide the figure beneath them.

“Rosala, I have asked you not call me that,” Tinker said flatly and the woman made a visible effort not to shrink in on herself. “Tinker, Rosala. I am known to them only as Tinker. It will remain so.”

“As you wish,” Rosa nodded.

“Remain here and try to stay out of trouble,” Tinker's smile returned. “I must register with the camp manager. Mister Bell has gone to try and procure our domicile. We will meet him nearby in a few hours.”

“Girls are going to want to stretch and look around,” Rosa warned. “And there's nature to answer as well,” she added.

“Have a care then,” he nodded finally. “Circle the wagons out of the way and have Ramone stand guard while Raymond escorts the girls to and from their ablutions.”

“They won't like that,” she noted.

“I did not ask that they enjoy it,” Tinker's voice took an edge though his face was still genial. “I said it would be so, and it will.
Sava
?”

“
Meeta
,” Rosa nodded and turned the ambulance she was driving off the road into a small abandoned clearing. Tinker was a good man to have around, for many things. But he was also a hard man at times and she did not push. She would have to teach the others not to do so as well.

Tinker watched the wagons and ambulances pulling off the roadway and then spurred his own mount toward the center of the civilian camp.

*****

Aaron Bell had grown up in the flatlands of the West and was familiar with not only the area but the people. He assumed it was one of the reasons that Mister Parsons had given him this assignment. He admitted that there were worse jobs than escorting two wagons full of gorgeous women around, but he missed his place in the Regiment.

Still, orders were orders.

He rode easily into the small town that was just two miles from the main camp of Soulan Army Field Headquarters. As he had expected, much of the town was empty at the moment as civilians who could flee had done so. He didn't blame them. War was no place for those who couldn't fight. He'd learned that first hand.

He rode through slowly, eyeing the empty buildings. A few had signs left by owners while others showed slight signs of vandalism, also not unexpected. With things the way they were, people would be scavenging left and right to make ends meet. There would be little game left in the area and no row crops had yet had time to come to bloom. And the army would take priority in stores of food that were available.

He had been to Tate before, but it had been some time ago. Things were pretty much the same if a bit rundown, but again that wasn't a surprise. As he neared the edge of the town proper he smiled slightly, seeing what he'd wanted.

Perhaps two hundred paces from the town's edge sat a large house that had at one time been a tavern and inn. He had assumed it would still be open for business and had been thinking how he could approach the owner. From the look of things that might not be necessary.

The window shutters were closed up tight and there was no smoke from the chimney. He saw only one horse before the inn, though the barn nearby might have more. He spurred his horse slightly and made his way down the lane to the still place. A tall, wide shouldered man stepped out onto the porch as Bell rode up, shaking his head.

“Nothing for you here, youngster,” the man said flatly, though not unkind. “We got nothin' left.”

“Kinda figured,” Bell nodded sagely. “You the owner?”

“Lock and barrel,” the man nodded. “No stock left to speak of though. Ezekiel Watts,” he offered his hand. Bell took it.

“Aaron Bell. So what you aim to do, Mister Watts?” he asked, looking around at the building. Yes, this would do nicely.

“Don't know what I can do young fella,” Watts shrugged. “Can't get any supply with the Army on top of us. Don't begrudge 'em it mind, fightin' the heathen and all, but still puts a crimp in my wallet. Figure to close 'er up for now and head south, see what I can get into. Maybe I can come back happens this ends well.”

“Be interested in leasin' the place out?” Aaron asked. “Got a venture o' my own, but need a place to habitate and operate as my old man used ta say.” Bell leaned on his saddle pommel easily. Open, friendly, non-threatening.

“What kind o' operation?” Watts asked.

“Gonna open a bar and maybe a. . .place o' comfort let’s call it,” Bell grinned broadly. “Maybe serve food and what not. Boss man makes things, does repair work so we'd need a place for him to store his what-nots,” he nodded to the barn and the shed behind. “This place would work out pretty well from the look of it.”

“Where you aim to get the where-withal to do all this grand schemin' o' yours, youngster?” Watts asked suspiciously.

“Boss has got his ways,” Bell shrugged. “Happens you're interested in sellin' he might open to buyin' the place outright, too,” Bell added.

“Ain't thought on sellin' the place,” Watts shook his head at once.

“Well, we could use someone to run the place maybe,” Bell set the hook carefully so as not to spook his fish. “See the boss man he's got all kinds of work to see to. Runnin' a place like this might. . .might interfere, let’s say, in his business interests.” Bell was laying it on thick, attempting to convince the owner that he was trying to act important to his 'boss', to the point of not quite speaking out of turn. Bell's youth made that a bit easier.

“I might be amenable to such an agreement,” Watts said finally, attempting to speak more formally than he normally did. “Don't know that I would cotton to workin' for someone else, but. . .I can't make a go of the place as it is. If he can and is willin' to compensate me properly then. . .I'll listen to what he might have to say.”

“That's neighborly of ya,” Bell smiled broadly as if he'd just done the man a large favor. “I should be back with him well 'fore sundown. You be here, mind,” he added.

“Be waiting right here,” Watts nodded and took a seat on the porch.

Bell managed not to smile to himself in satisfaction until he was well away. Mister Tinker ought to be right well pleased.

*****

The camp manager gave Tinker little more than a cursory glance as he looked at his authorization to do business around the camp area, issued him the necessary paperwork and passes and then sent him on his way.

As he made his way back to the caravan the Tinker allowed his eyes to flow over the area, taking in things others might ignore. A place like this would attract all kinds of men and women. No one would bother the soldiers and risk the ire of the army, but other civilians would be considered fair game to any predator.

Tinker was not overly impressed with security, but he admitted there was little need of it this far behind the lines, at least not from the Nor as a rule. Any attack strong enough to reach here would not be stopped by a stronger provost. Still, there was a certain lawless air about the area that he found both slightly disturbing yet also full of potential.

Part of his 'cover' would depend upon the impression that he was somehow 'connected' enough to have the goods he'd secured with the Prince's authority, yet that connection to the Prince had to remain hidden to maintain that illusion of lawlessness. It was a fine line to walk, but Tinker had been walking such lines all of his life.

A smiling Bell was waiting for him as Tinker returned to the wagons. A glance to Rosala was rewarded with an 'all is well' nod and Tinker turned his attention to Bell.

“You look very pleased with yourself, Mister Bell,” the Tinker noted.

“Found us a place, maybe,” Bell nodded, going on to describe the situation. Tinker nodded thoughtfully.

“An established business,” he considered. “The man might make an excellent manager for the front operations.”

“That was my thinkin', though I admit that I made the offer just to keep him from turnin' me down outright. I figure your persuasion 'll be better'n mine.”

“We shall see,” Tinker shrugged casually. “We will move,” he raised his voice slightly as he called to Rosa. “We may have a place.”

“Very fast,” she observed as she slapped the side of the ambulance with her fist. An answering knock assured her that all were accounted for.

Without further orders the Tinker set out alongside Bell, the wagons following.

*****

“Reckon I ain't a flesh peddler,” Watts said quietly as Tinker completed his pitch.