He jerked his head to the north. 'As it happens, Polter wound up moving out here too. Things in the east are… not good, anymore.' For a moment, his face darkened. 'A free farmer doesn't stand a chance there, these days.'
The young woman-not much more than a girl, really-gave Demansk a timid smile. He returned it quite cheerfully.
Better and better, he thought, giving her lush figure a quick and discreet inspection. Helga will need a wet nurse anyway, and if the First Spear's willing…
He cleared his throat. 'As I said, I didn't really come here on a simple visit, First Spear. I need to ask you if you'd be willing to come back into my service again.' Hastily: 'Not as a troop leader, mind. Not exactly, anyway. I wouldn't expect you to do any actual fighting.'
The First Spear winced and rubbed the scar on his scalp. ' 'Fraid I can't. Fight, I mean. I can do most anything else-didn't even seem to lose any of my wits. But the chirurgeon told me that my skull's not up to any more blows. Kill me straight up, he said.'
His dark eyes studied Demansk for a moment. Then, he turned his head again and looked at his new wife. 'I dunno, sir,' he mumbled. 'I wouldn't mind, myself. Been kind of bored, to tell you the truth. But Ilset's not really old enough to run the farm on her own, and…' He swallowed. 'Truth is, I'd miss her something terrible.'
The last remarked warmed Demansk-and, perhaps oddly, reassured him. The one uncertainty he'd had in coming here was the First Spear's temperament. As a troop leader, the man had been superb. It was no accident that he'd risen to the highest slot a ranker could be promoted to. But the inevitable social distance between someone like him and a noble Justiciar in the modern Confederacy had made his actual personality an unknown factor to Demansk.
What pleased him was not so much that the man obviously doted on his wife. That was not really uncommon, for all the officially patriarchal nature of Confederate society. It was the fact that he was so readily able and willing to admit it. That spoke both to the First Spear's deep self-confidence as well as his lack of concern for long-standing custom.
Both of which he's going to need, thought Demansk, if he agrees to my assignment.
'That's not a problem,' he said. 'As it happens, I'd prefer it if your wife accompanied you anyway.' He rushed ahead, forestalling the next objection. 'And you needn't worry about the farm. I'll buy it back from you for twice what you paid for it-including extra for improvements-and I'll set aside a large retirement bonus for when the assignment's done.'
Honesty forced him to add: 'Though I can't tell you how soon that would be. Several years, most likely.'
Again, the First Spear's dark eyes studied Demansk. Then, without taking his eyes from the Justiciar, he turned his head a bit and growled: 'Go back into the house, Ilset. And close the door.'
She obeyed promptly. Clearly enough, however much the First Spear doted on his wife, he retained the usual authority of a Confederate husband in his own family.
After he heard the door close, he took a long, slow breath. 'Begging your pardon, sir-I realize it's not really my place to ask-but… how dangerous is this assignment really going to be, if I take it? Not for me, but for my kinfolk.'
Demansk was impressed by the man's intelligence. All high-ranking troopers, of course, were adept in the skills of war. But most of them gave little thought, if any, to the complexities of political maneuver.
Demansk didn't answer immediately. He examined the house, for a moment. A typical yeoman farmer's dwelling, thatch roof over mudbrick construction. A bit larger and better made than most. There were panes in the two small windows in addition to the shutters, even if they were made of the cloudy glass which was all anyone except noblemen could afford.
His eyes ranged to the north, as if trying to study the unseen village where the First Spear's kinfolk lived. He was fairly certain he'd see much the same thing. A small settlement of freemen, who had managed to carve out a decent life for themselves amidst the steady decay of the Confederacy of Vanbert.
'It's possible they could all be impaled,' he stated curtly, 'if the worst happens. Not likely, but I can't rule it out. They'd certainly be stripped of their lands and sold into slavery.'
Having gotten it out, he added a bit hastily: 'But that's if the very worst happens. Which, to be honest, is not all that likely. If for no other reason, simply because things will be such a ratfuck mess that nobody will really know any longer who did what to whom. Your kinfolk would be more or less invisible in the fog.'
The First Spear chuckled. 'Like that, huh? 'Interesting times,' as they say.' He gave the house his own quick examination. 'And what if things turn out well?'
'They'll all be sitting pretty,' said Demansk. 'Good glass in the windows-and houses a lot bigger than this.' He almost added: with slaves to keep them clean, but didn't. If Demansk's plans worked out, there wouldn't be any slaves left in the first place.
Whatever happened, Demansk had already decided, he would remain honest with this man. Partly because it would be foolish not to, but mostly because stubbornness did not allow it. His grandfather, full of the virtues of the Vanbert of old, would not have lied to his First Spear. Demansk, even as he destroyed that old regime, would retain at least that much.
The First Spear was silent, for a moment. He worked his jaws slightly, as his eyes moved slowly across his farmland. The crops were filling out well, now. It would be a good season.
'And who knows about the next?' he murmured. His thick chest swelled with another deep breath. Then: 'What the hell. 'Interesting times' it is. No way around it, so far as I can see. May as well try to ride a wave as duck from it, since there's nowhere to hide anyway.'
He gave Demansk a shrewd look. 'Is there, sir?'
The Justiciar shrugged. 'Not that I can see.'
The First Spear nodded. 'You'd make a better new Marcomann than anyone else, that I know of. That is what we're talking about.'
The last sentence came as a flat statement, not a question. Demansk was reassured. He found himself also reassessing his plans for the man. He hadn't expected such political acumen from a former First Spear. After this initial assignment was done…
'Can you read?' he asked abruptly. 'Well, I mean.'
The First Spear shrugged. 'Enough to get by, sir. I wouldn't call it 'well.' I'm no scholar, that's for sure.'
'I'll have you taught. By Helga herself, at first. She'll have plenty of time on your voyage.'
The First Spear's eyed widened. Demansk chuckled.
'Yes, that's your first assignment. I'll have others for you when it's done, First Spear. But, first, you've got to see to it that my daughter gets to Marange safely.' His own jaws tightened. 'I'll not see her fall into the hands of pirates again, and I've got no way to get her there except by sea.'
The First Spear's jaws were working again. Demansk remembered the habit, from old campaigns. The man was chewing on a problem.
'I'm no seaman myself, sir. But you can hire such, easily enough. The trick is having the right escort.'
His head swiveled, looking north. Demansk's gaze followed, and he felt his own eyes widen.
I hadn't considered The First Spear verbalized the notion. 'Why not use my kinfolk, sir? All of them. It'd cost you some, sure, buying out all the farms. But you'd have to pay loose mercenaries near as much, if you wanted to have good men you can trust. And you still couldn't be sure there weren't any traitors in the bunch. My clansmen, now, them I can vouch for.'
Demansk was already captivated by the idea. 'How many fighting men, First Spear? And how many people, in total?'
The First Spear rasped a little laugh. 'They're all soldiers, sir. Or, if they're too young, training for it already. Nothing else for a freeman to do, in the east. Can't make a go of farming without a retirement bonus to get you started.' The heavy jaws worked some more, as he did his calculations. 'Thirty-two men with experience, another dozen or so good lads ready to learn. Two first spears and seven file closers amongst 'em. Eight of the men are too old or crippled to fight in the ranks-me being one of them. But there's always other jobs need to be done, anyway. Quarter-mastering and such.'
The jaws worked back and forth. 'Say, give me a few weeks to organize 'em, and you've got a third of a hundred from my own kin. All fighters, I'm counting, complete with gear and kit. They can make the core, if you need a full hundred. We can get the rest, easily enough. There's plenty of retired and out-of-regiment men
