The Merchant Adventurer (19 page)

Weeveston Prestidigitous RampartLion Toroble the 15th stumbled out onto the stone terrace and flung himself down on a divan. Down the terraced hill, he could see the slow-moving remnants of the river Swift. Here in the Southron lands, the name and character of the river had changed completely. Weeveston smiled to himself without knowing why. But he didn’t need a reason. He was still pleasantly drunk from a night of revelry that had not yet ended.

On the other side of the river, the pure, clean, hopeful light of a new day had made its way through the twisted streets and high towers of the fabled Scented City of Shatnapur. By the time these rays of dawn had reached Weeveston, they had fewer illusions and far less purity. Still, the miasma of incense and highly cultivated vice rising from the city towers tinged the light a pleasant shade of red.

There was the pad of a sandaled foot on the flagstones behind him. He turned and smiled at his wife Tryphaenae, who was a vision of beauty in the corrupted light of dawn.

“I have ordered the servants to bring us breakfast,” said Tryphaenae as she sat next to him with flounce of bangles and jewelry.

“Ah, my darling, you shouldn’t strain yourself so, making breakfast for me.”

Tryphaenae smiled. “Ordering breakfast is the least I can do for your return, my loving husband.”

“And what is the most you might do?” Weeveston said lewdly. Tryphaenae turned to avoid his grope so he could not see the look of distaste on her face.

She removed herself to another couch and said, “Save your strength, Weeveston.”

Then a train of servants emerged with the first course of breakfast. As Weeveston lay back and let himself be waited on, he thought, this is what I was born to be.

There was a tremendous pounding at the door. Weeveston finished sucking the contents of a poached sparrow egg and said, “My dear, are you conducting renovations?”

Tryphaenae shook her head. “No, Weeveston.”

The pounding continued, this time even louder.

“I say, is that your, I mean
our
, front door?”

“I believe it might be. But why the pounding? It is unlocked.” The pounding was replaced with a commotion inside the house. Weeveston saw the glint of highly polished armor before he recognized who it was walking out onto the terrace.

“Uncle Torvalds,” said Weeveston, “Why, you are just in time for breakfast.”

“My breakfast was three hours ago,” barked Torvalds.

Weeveston continued, “And a good morning to you too, Uncle. Are you sure you wouldn’t care for some toast? Or whatever passes for toast here in the south–you do have toast here, my darling? You remember my wife Tryphaenae, Uncle?”

“I arranged the marriage,” growled Torvalds. He turned to the nearest servant and commanded, “Have a horse saddled for my nephew.” Torvalds tone was such that the servant didn’t even look to the mistress of the house before he ran off.

Torvalds turned his attention to his niece-by-marriage. “Ah, my dear Tryphaenae, you are as lovely as the day you were married.”

From her divan, Tryphaenae smiled. “Torvalds, you old rogue.”

He bowed. “Guilty as charged. I am sorry that I must take him away from you so soon after you have been reunited, but the affairs of state…”

Tryphaenae smiled invitingly and said, “I have always been
very
understanding when it comes to affairs. Do what you will.”

Torvalds kissed her hand and said, “Our time together is always so brief, my dear.” Then the smile dropped away from his face and he turned back to his nephew.

“You have lost a Kingdom–”

“Duchy?” offered Weeveston.

”–and we take our army to win it back.”

“Army?” asked Weeveston. “What army? I thought all of our forces were far, far to the north?”

“I have hired the Free Companions. All of them. At present they are marching north. We ride to join them and retake your throne.”

Weeveston did not get up.

“Time is of the essence,” Torvalds said through clenched teeth.

“That’s it? Hired an army and off we go? No ‘hello,’ no ‘how are you’? No ‘glad to see you’? No niceties at all, Uncle? No concern for your poor nephew, driven from his seat by an army of creatures most foul. Horks, as they are called in the benighted regions of my former Kingdom.”

“Duchy,” corrected Torvalds “Let’s go.”

Weeveston, with uncharacteristic courage, sat his ground.

Torvalds sighed. “Nephew. I am not glad to see you. Your debacle has torn me from pressing business in the west. I should think it enough that I am here to help you fix your problem and restore you to the function and station to which your family has so graciously appointed you. However, if you require a reminder of the warm embrace of family which is denied to you due to your own obvious shortcomings, then I will tell you that your Aunt sends her best.”

Weeveston jumped and checked behind him for a highly skilled assassin. Finding himself not murdered, he rose and said, “Yes, yes. Posthaste, Uncle, as you say.”

Within two days, they joined the main body of the Free Companions, an army-for-hire 20,000 strong. The men were open and easy with each other and their commanders. Their laughter and song on the march provided a fine counterpoint to grim Uncle Torvalds and the detachment of Mercian BattleMages with him.

Even on a good day, a BattleMage was an odd sort of duck. Weeveston couldn’t remember a Wizard who wasn’t, in one way or another, but the four that his uncle had brought seemed particularly humorless. Still, they did their job. The threat of their sinister Magic kept the Free Companions civil. Really, thought Weeveston, mercenaries? Not a very good idea. How could one trust a mercenary? How could one trust anyone, for that matter, thought Weeveston.

As he considered this, the leader of the Free Companions–a swarthy, long-haired man known as Laughlin–turned in his saddle and looked at him. Weeveston found it disconcerting and gave the man a nervous little grin. Laughlin smiled broadly revealing several gold teeth. Then he turned forward again and laughed a booming laugh. His long black hair was bound with a red scarf–the mark of the Free Companions—and Weeveston could see it shaking with laughter long after he could no longer hear the sound.

Weeveston shivered. He did not like these
Companions
. They showed no rank or discipline. They had no uniforms. All that was required of them was that they display some red piece of armor or apparel. Laughlin had boasted it was so they would be easier to find. And these crass braggarts were feared fighters? Weeveston was not a warlike man, but he could not understand it. These were men you could only trust while winning. His uncle always won. But against Horks?

The column continued the northward march for a week and a half. When the river Swift was not lost in deep gorges and defiles, they traveled the road beside it. And in its rapids and falls, Weeveston often thought he could hear mocking laughter.

When he left Robrecht the last time, he had really believed he’d gotten out from under. But it seemed the world did not work that way. No, a man couldn’t change his station just because he wanted to. So Weeveston was being dragged to a reunion with his destiny already in progress. A damn damp destiny in a dank castle at the center of a dull town. Weeveston blinked back a few tears as he thought about it.

His self-pity was interrupted by a commotion from further up the road. He heard the cries of “Scout! Scout!” and spurred his horse to reach his uncle in the vanguard. From a distance he could see his dour uncle perk up. Weeveston got there the same time as a rider on a lathered horse. Torvalds demanded, “Have you sighted them? How many are there? How are they armed? What is their disposition?”

“One, my Lord.”

“One?” snorted Torvalds, “One what?”

“One carriage approaches my Lord, flying a banner of truce.”

“Oh. Oh, well, let them through. This may be easier than I thought.” The word went up the ranks and, with some grumbling, the Free Companions parted so a white carriage could reach them. Torvalds and Weeveston dismounted and prepared to receive the parley.

“I say,” said Weeveston, “I think that’s my carriage.”

The young blonde lad who drove the carriage handled the reins smartly. As he wheeled the coach to a stop, all eyes were on the carriage door. For a moment, nothing happened. From inside the carriage, a muffled voice commanded, “Say it!”

“Oh, right,” said the driver. “Sorry.” He looked at Weeveston and Torvalds and said, “Sorry, I’m new at this. We both are.”

“Don’t apologize, just say it already!” said the voice from inside the carriage.

The driver sat up straighter and said, “Boltac the Shrewd, King of Robrecht, first of his name.”

The door swung open and Boltac waddled out.

“Hello,” said Boltac, “You must be the guy in charge,” he said to Torvalds, “‘cause you look pissed.”

“You have stolen our Duchy,” said Torvalds.

“Stolen? I haven’t stolen anything. He”–Boltac pointed at Weeveston–“ran away. Besides,” he said with a smile, “it ain’t a Duchy. It’s a Kingdom. And I’m the King.”

“You are no King. You are not even of a royal line,”

“Whattaya mean I’m not the King of Robrecht? I rode here in the King’s carriage!”

“That’s my ducal carriage!” Weeveston protested.

“No. It used to be. Look, the seal is changed and everything.” Boltac looked directly at Torvalds and said, “I drove your idiot nephew out and took his carriage and his castle and his town back for the people of Robrecht. You’re not welcome anymore.”

Weeveston peered at the new sigil. “What is that? A fish?”

Boltac said, “It’s an Eelpout. It’s like a fish’s ugly cousin. And you see those words?”

Weeveston read as if it was difficult for him, “‘Everybody pays their way’? What kind of motto is that?”

“This foolishness changes nothing,” said Torvalds. “It is our Duchy and we have the army with which prove it.” With a wave of his hand he indicated Laughlin on his tall horse, grinning through his beard at the proceedings. Torvalds pointed to a few of the Companions and said, “You! Seize him!”

None of the Companions moved.

“En-henh, about that,” said Boltac.

“Seize him!” Torvalds said, stamping his foot at the Companions’ impudence.

“I don’t know
why
they call them the
Free
Companions. ‘Cause we both know they don’t come cheap,” said Boltac with a smile.

“You are using the gold from our own treasury to hire an army to fight us! SUCH IMPUDENCE! I will drag your body through the streets behind my own horse!”

“En-henh,” said Boltac, “So, funny thing about
that
. There was no gold in the treasury. It was all gone. Robrecht was broke. I can’t say I was surprised, seeing how your boy here saw fit to loot our fair city six ways from Sunday. So I refilled the treasury on my own.”

“What? How?”

“Yeah, see, this is why the call me the Hero of Robrecht. This is why they made me King. I bought it. Just like I bought your army.”

“They would never turn against us. Then they would never be safe against the Feared BattleMages of Mercia.” Torvalds gave the phrase all of the ominous gravity he could manage. A low, nervous murmur rippled through the crowd of mercenaries that surrounded them. It was true, they were frightened of Magic. Boltac had told Laughlin that he could take care of the BattleMages–that was part of the deal–but these hard men could not understand how one fat Merchant could handle the powerful Mages when they could not.

Boltac didn’t miss a beat. “Okay, so funny thing about
BattleMages
. Well, hang on. You got one of them fancy BattleMages lying around? I’ll just show you.”

Within moments, the four sinister, tattooed men came to the center of the circle. The tallest of them looked down at Boltac and sneered, “What do you think, brothers? Should I transmogrify this one into a pig, or is he already pig enough?” The BattleMages laughed humorlessly at their leader’s joke-like object.

Boltac chuckled along with them and then grew serious, “I don’t think you could mans-trog-mify your ass with both hands.”

“YOU DARE TO–” But before the Chief BattleMage could vent his full fury, Boltac walked over and slapped him across the face. The slap made a sharp noise that carried well. Everyone gasped in amazement. Even Torvalds.

“Yeah, I dare plenty. Now strike me down. Or pull a rabbit out of a hat. I don’t care. Just work some Magic already.”

The Mage raised his hands in the air and began a guttural chant that rose in volume and intensity. His eyes rolled back into his head. Even as the crowd parted behind Boltac, the Merchant stood his ground. As the Mage reached a full-throated yell, he whipped his entire body and threw his hands at Boltac.

The BattleMage held this pose for a moment, but nothing happened. Then shook his hands in frustration. Then looked at the tips of his fingers. A blush covered his face and overwhelmed the red handprint where Boltac had slapped him.

“En-henh. Nuttin.” Boltac turned to the crowd and said, “See? They’re frauds. FRAUDS! Their Magic doesn’t work anymore.”

Torvalds, with fear in his voice, turned to the Mages and said, “But you told me it was just that the portents were bad. That it was an ‘ill-omened time for the working of great Magicks’!”

With that the crowd burst into laughter. There were hoots and howls of derision. One of the men even threw a clod of earth and hit the BattleMage in the face.

“All right! All right!” yelled Boltac, waving his arms for quiet. None of the men listened, but their commander, Laughlin, dismounted and strode to the center of the gathering. He did not even have to speak. He raised his large, gloved hand and the men fell silent. He looked to Boltac and asked, “Are we through?”

“A few more words,” said Boltac.

“Traitor,” Torvalds hissed at Laughlin. “You have lost any chance you had to become a full citizen of the Mercian Empire.”

Laughlin smiled and stepped out from between Boltac and Torvalds.

“So, Torvalds. There’s no reason this has to get ugly. Mostly because I didn’t hire these exorbitantly priced Companions to fight you.” Boltac nodded at Laughlin who now stood in the circle behind Torvalds. “That’s a compliment, you’re a hell of a negotiator.”