“No, sir. What’s the Guild League he mentioned?”
“Guild League cities, that is. Those on the north caravan route, not the Immer route.” Paks felt that this explained nothing. Stammel noticed her blank look. “Don’t you know anything about the south, about Aarenis?”
“It’s where some spice comes from, and fancy embroidery,” said Paks.
“Umm. That’s not enough. We have time for better. Have you heard of the Immerhoft Sea, that lies south of the land?” Paks nodded. Jornoth had mentioned it. “Across the Immerhoft was Aare, the old kingdom. Those people settled islands in the Immerhoft, then sailed on to find a great land they called Aarenis, the daughter of Aare. They settled it, and spread, and the land was divided among great lords and their children. In time they spread to the Dwarfmounts, driving the elves ahead of them, and found passes to the north. That’s what we call the south— Aarenis is what it’s called when you’re in the south—from the Immerhoft to the Dwarfmounts. These same folk settled the western kingdoms of the north.”
Paks frowned. “I thought the Eight Kingdoms were settled by seafolk and nomads from the north. My grandfather—”
“Was probably a horse nomad. In part, they were. But all these groups met in the Honnorgat valley. The eastern kingdoms, those below the great falls, have more seafolk. Tsaia and Fintha have more nomads. And Lyonya and Prealith have elves. But most of the folk in Tsaia and Fintha came from Aarenis long ago.” Paks nodded, and Stammel went on. “There’s a great trade between Aarenis and the Eight Kingdoms and most of it comes through the pass we’ll use, up the Vale of Valdaire. Long ago it came by water, up the Immer and its tributaries. Southbound trade sailed from Immer ports to Aare itself. But Aare is a wasteland now, and the sea trade goes to other lands—I don’t know where myself, and the tales are strange enough. Anyhow, for one reason and another, a group of cities agreed to build a new trade route, a land route. Some say the river trade was taxed too heavily by the lords and cities along it, and some that river pirates made it too dangerous. I think myself that these cities traded more with the north, and for that a land route was needed anyway. So their merchant guilds joined in the Guild League, and they built the road and maintain it, and they send their caravans north each year, and we send ours south. The wars in Aarenis come partly from rivalry between the Guild League cities and the river cities and old lords.”
“Which side are we on?” Effa had come near to listen, with several others.
“Whoever hires us,” said Bosk, leaning on the wall nearby.
Stammel nodded. “He’s right. The Duke makes a contract with someone—a city or a lord, whoever will pay his price—and that’s who we fight for.”
Effa looked shocked. “But—surely the Duke wouldn’t make a contract with just anyone.”
“Well—no. We’re a northern company, after all: an honorable company. He has his standards. But we’ve fought for one city against another, and for a lord against a city, and the reverse. It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean, we’re an honorable company?” asked Barra. “Aren’t all companies much alike?”
“Tir, no! I wish they were. The good ones—mostly northern—agree on some things—we won’t harbor each other’s criminals or traitors, we won’t torture prisoners, we treat prisoners fairly, and so forth. We don’t steal supplies from peasants, or destroy crops if we can avoid it. We compete, but we know there’s wars enough to keep us all employed; we don’t try to kill each other off, except in battle. And that’s our business. But there are some others—” Stammel paused, and looked around the group; more recruits had come to listen to him, and Captain Pont lounged nearby. “Captain Pont will bear me out—”
Pont nodded, his long face splitting in a grin. “Surely. The south is full of so-called mercenaries. Most of ’em are robbers that blackmail some poor town into hiring them to keep order. Some are fairly honest hired blades in summer, and robbers in winter. A few are fairly well-organized and independent, but downright nasty—”
“The Wolf Prince—” muttered Stammel.
“Yes—the Wolf Prince. He’s definitely a bad one. Uses poison, assassins, and anything else he can think of. Tortures prisoners and sells ’em to the searovers. Takes ransom only in coins or hard jewels, and only within three days. We broke into his stockade one year—were you there, Stammel?”
“Yes, sir.” Stammel picked up the tale. “He’d captured a patrol of the Sier of Westland’s light cavalry, and chained them all in the open, without food or water. Three were alive when we broke in, and only one lived to make it back to Westland, with all we could do.”
“But didn’t you kill him?” Effa broke in.
“No. He’d gotten away a few days before; we never did know how he got through the lines.” Stammel paused, his face grim. “Then there’s the Honeycat. Calls himself Count of the South Marches, I think it is, and runs four companies or so along the coast and up the Immer valleys. There’s a bad one. We’ll probably come against him again this campaign. He’s not exactly a mercenary, in the usual sense. He stirs up wars; they say he has factions in every city, and has even bought out some of the guilds. He hates the northern companies, because he can’t scare us or bribe us.”
“Why is he called Honeycat?”
“It’s what he’s like, they say—sweet words, soft voice, and then claws in your belly.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Barra suddenly. “Isn’t he the one that hung the witwards of Pliuni upside down from the city gates?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t the witwards. It was the priests of Sertig’s Anvil and the Lord’s Hall. That’s why five priesthoods have banned him—not that he cares; he believes in none of them. Some say he worships the Tangler or the Master of Torments, and others say he follows the Thieves’ Creed. Whichever, he’s bad clear through. His captains are as bad as he is.”
“Is that why we’re going to fight him?” asked Effa. Stammel glared.
“Haven’t you been listening at all? We’re a mercenary company; we fight for pay. If we do fight the Honeycat, it’ll be because some enemy of his hires us. We have nothing to do with good and bad—not that way, I mean.”
Paks was still thinking about something Stammel had said earlier. “You said the honorable companies treat prisoners well—”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well—how do we—I mean, isn’t it dishonorable to surrender? And for the others? I thought we just fought until—”
“No, no,” Stammel interrupted. “We’re hired fighters, not fanatic hotheads. We fight hard when we’re fighting, but if our Duke or captains tell us to quit, we quit. Right then. You remember that, or you won’t make it back to wherever—Three Firs. There’s no sense in losing the whole Company out of pride.”
“But don’t we owe it to whoever hired us?” asked Saben.
“No. The Duke hired
“It—it doesn’t happen often, does it? Being surrendered, I mean, and captured?” Paks still could not imagine it.
“No. Not to us; the Duke’s careful. He won’t take a contract where we don’t have a chance. But it has, and it may again.” Paks sat frowning at her bare feet as the talk went on around her. It had never occurred to her that they might surrender; she did not like that idea at all. Effa was still arguing, talking about St. Gird and the honor of a warrior, and Arne, as usual, was trying to shut Effa up.
“Effa,” said Pont finally, “if you wanted to be that sort of warrior—a paladin or something like that—you should have talked to your Marshal about joining a fighting order—”
“He said I should get experience,” said Effa, red-faced.
“You’ll get that here,” said Pont. “And even Marshals and paladins, Effa, must follow orders—”
“But they don’t surrender! They fight to the death—”
“Not always,” said Bosk. “I’ve known them to retreat: any good warrior must learn when to withdraw.”
“You’ve seen that?”
“Yes. Think of the legends; Gird himself retreated once, at Blackhedge, remember? If you finish your service with us, and join a fighting order, you’ll see—fighting’s fighting, Effa—war doesn’t change. If Girdsmen never backed out of a fight, they’d all be dead.” Effa looked unconvinced, but subsided.
Late that afternoon the rain stopped. By next morning, the clouds had cleared. They were on the road early. When they fetched breakfast from the inn, well before dawn, they learned that another caravan had come in the night before, from the east.
