you’re good. But alone, in an alley with thieves—no. If you’re lucky you wake up in the morning with a lump on your head and no money. Unlucky, you find yourself in a slaver’s wagon with a sack over your head and a brand—or maybe just dead. You youngsters don’t know the first thing about cities—well, maybe Vik and Jorti do—and that’s why you’ll come with me this time.”
A half hour later, Stammel led a dozen of them into the wide public room
“Hai! Matthis, old friend—I thought we’d see you this summer. Bringing the new ones in, eh?” The man looked at them keenly. “Duke Phelan’s soldiers are welcome here—what will you have?”
“Bring us your good ale, Bolner, and plenty of it. We’re in time for lunch, I trust.”
“Certainly. Be seated here—unless you wish a private room?”
Stammel laughed. “Not for lunch—are you thinking the Duke’s raised our pay?”
“I’d trust you for it, after these years. Besides, what I heard about the Duke’s contract, you’re getting paid in gold for copper.”
“So? You can hear anything, if you listen to all. Besides, what have contracts to do with us—poor soldiers that we are, and dying of thirst in the middle of your floor.” A roar of laughter from a table near the wall greeted this, and the tall landlord turned away. “Have a seat here,” said Stammel more quietly, and Paks and the others sat down to a long table near the center of the room.
“How much is the ale?” asked Saben, fingering his belt pouch.
“Last time I was here, it was three pages a mug, and a niti a jug. Local coinage. Dearer than some, cheaper than others, but Bolner doesn’t water his ale, and he won’t take a bribe to drug it, as some taverners will. This is a good tavern, as taverns go. Just remember that any landlord loves gossip, and can no more keep a secret than a pig can weave. Anyone who talks about the Company’s business will be explaining it to the captain.”
“Hey—Sergeant Stammel!” They turned to see a fat redhead at the table by the wall. “Still taking your recruits about in leading strings?” His companions laughed again.
Paks looked quickly at Stammel. He was smiling, but his eyes were grim. “My dear Lochlinn, if they were recruits I might, but these are all seasoned fighters—merely friends. And how is the Baroness these days?”
The fat man jogged one of his companions with an elbow. “Seasoned? Half seasoned, I should think, close as they cling to you like chicks to a hen. Haw! They’re big enough, especially that yellow-headed wench, but—”
Paks flushed and took a quick breath. Stammel’s hand beneath the table dug into her elbow. “Now, Lochlinn, we realize it’s been so long since you fought you can’t tell the fighters from the spectators. But come to our next, and let us show you. And mind you keep civil—this ’wench’ as you would say—” Stammel released Paks’s elbow and thumped her shoulder lightly with his fist, “—could part you from crown to cod with one stroke. I trained her.”
Paks gazed across the room at the fat man’s pink face, now a shade paler than it had been. He looked from Stammel to her and made a face, lifting his brows.
“Well, pardon me for plain speaking to an old comrade.” Stammel snorted. “What a fierce look she has, too. I had no wish, wolf-maiden, to anger you and risk a blow from that strong arm your sergeant boasts of.” He rose from his table and made an elaborate bow. “There—will that content you, or must I attempt some other satisfaction?”
Paks looked down at the table, scarred by many diners. She would gladly have leaped on the man, and killed him then and there. Saben, sitting on her other side, nudged her with his knee.
“We would be content,” said Stammel mildly, “to take our ale in peace—and silence.”
“You can’t order me off!” cried the fat man. Paks suddenly realized that he was both drunk and frightened. “You don’t have any right to order me around now, Sergeant—I’ve got soldiers of my own!”
“Tsst! Lochlinn!” said one of his companions. “Let it be, man. Don’t start—”
Paks jumped as a tall pitcher and several mugs were dumped in front of her. Two serving wenches, as well as Bolner, were at the table, distributing the ale. Stammel turned away from the fat man to grin at Bolner. “What’s the menu today, eh?”
“The usual. Common lunch is slices off the joint, bread, redroots, cheese—we’ve the kind you like from Sterry, no extra charge to this party. Or special—roast fowl, and we’ve three in the oven. Pastries. Cella’s tarts, plum, peach, and strawberry, but not enough of the last for everyone. Fish—but I don’t recommend it; it’s river trash this time of year. Leg of mutton—it won’t be done for several hours. Soup—there’s always soup; comes with the common lunch or the special, or a mug of soup with bread is five pages.”
“How much for the common lunch?”
“For this group—if you all take it—well, I’ll take off a bit. Say a niti each, ale included.”
Stammel looked around at them. “It’s good food here. What about it?”
They nodded, and Stammel gave a thumb’s up sign to the host, who left the table, calling orders to the kitchen. Paks looked for the fat man, but he had gone, and his friends with him.
“Who was that?” she asked Stammel.
“Who? Oh, him—the fat one?” She nodded. “His name’s Lochlinn. Used to be one of ours, years back; he left the Company. Now he’s in some local baron’s guard. And bed, they say, when the baron’s traveling.”
“I’d like to—” began Paks, but Stammel interrupted.
“No, you wouldn’t.” She looked at him, surprised. “Don’t get into fights. Remember that. The rule is the same as inside the Company—there’s no good reason short of being assaulted. You get us a reputation for brawling, and we’ll all lose by it.”
“But what he said about Paks!” Saben scowled. “Why should we let him get away with that?”
“Because we want to come here and eat—or shop in the market—and not be prey to every cutpurse and ruffian, and have the citizens cheering them on when you and you and you—” he pointed around the table, “—are bleeding in the street. Or being hauled off to the lockup by militia. We don’t want trouble. We aren’t paid to fight over nothing. Tir’s bones—we know any one of us could split that fat leech—what difference does it make what he says?”
Paks reached for the pitcher and poured several mugs full. She pushed one toward Stammel and took one herself. She sniffed at it; it smelled much like the ale sold at market in Three Firs.
“Paks, have you had ale before?”
She blushed. “No, sir, not really. Just a few swallows.” She took a cautious sip.
“Don’t drink much, then. It makes some people quick tempered; you don’t need that. Vik, I don’t have to ask you.” Vik had drained his mug at one swallow.
“No, sir—and how I’ve missed good ale these long months.”
Stammel grinned. “You can spend your pay quickly on ale, if that’s your choice. Just keep in mind—”
“Oh, aye—no fighting, no talking—but what about wenching and dicing?”
“Well, if you must, you must. I’d recommend
“Yes, sir—perhaps I’ll wait for another day.”
Arne laughed. “Adding up the cost, Vik? Homebrew’s the cheapest, they say.”
“It’s not so much my silver I care for as my fair white skin—you know how I dread being ill-marked.” The rest laughed. Between sunburn, freckles, and healing battle scars, not much fair white skin was displayed.
“That’s all right, Vik,” called Coben from down the table. “You can teach me that dicing game—what is it?”
“Don’t play the innocent, Cob,” said the redhead. “I heard about you with that girl from Dorrin’s cohort—was it five silvers, or six, you won from her while she taught you dicing?”
“More than that, my lad, more than that,” said Coben, and drained his mug. “I’m a slow learner, I am. Especially when I’m winning.”
“Here you are,” said Bolner from behind them. He and each of the serving girls carried a platter of sliced roast meat to set out on the table. By the time they had finished stuffing themselves with meat, rounds of dark yellow cheese, redroots, bread and soup, the rest of the room was empty.
“Now,” said Stammel. “A last reminder. Don’t wander about alone—stay in pairs, at least. Keep alert; Foss has as many thieves and cutpurses as any city. The slavers won’t bother you if you stay together. Don’t brawl. Keep your mouths shut about the Company and its business, but be polite otherwise. If one of you gets drunk, the others
