March To The Sea

The bar, such as it was, was at the far end—a broad plank laid on a set of upended kegs. The corporal led the half-dozen pikemen through the gloom, stepping over and around vomit and less identifiable substances, until they reached their objective.

'What've you got?' Fain asked the barkeep, turning sideways to the bar to keep an eye on the scene behind him. With itinerant singers around, there were bound to be thieves, as well.

'Beer or channy leaf,' the bartender replied. 'There's a mite of plum wine, but I doubt you've the pocket for it.'

'How much is the beer?' Prit asked.

'Three silver a mug.'

'Three silver? That's outrageous!' the replacement snapped. 'By the God, I never should've left Diaspra! These damned K'Vaernians are all thieves!'

'Shut up, Chem.' The corporal backhanded the loudmouth on the ear. 'Pay no attention to the idiot,' he told the barkeep. 'He hasn't got the wet out from behind his horns.'

'You need to keep him muzzled, then,' the bartender said, setting down something heavy and pulling his false-hand out from under the plank. 'In case you Diaspra fuckheads hadn't heard, we've been cut off from most of our supply for fucking months. He'd better be glad there's beer to be had at all. And another shitass remark like that, and I'll have you out the door.'

Prit started to open his mouth, and Fain backhanded the private again before the retort got out.

'We only have bar silver,' he told the bartender.

'I've the weights,' the barman said, opening a lockbox.

'You don't mind if I take your measure, do you?' the corporal asked. 'Not that anything would be off, of course.'

'Not if yours are right, there wouldn't be,' the bartender replied with a grunt of laughter.

Fain pulled a sculpture of finely carved sandstone out of his pouch and compared it to the silver-piece weight on the K'Vaernian's scales. The two pans balanced almost perfectly, and the corporal grunted in satisfaction at the proof that the bartender was fairly honest in his scale and base measure.

'There's a law against illegal measures in the city,' the barkeep said as he measured out the silver in the corporal's pouch. 'I'll give you a hair over standard measure on the silver if you want to change it all for coin,' he added.

'Why? Because you love our faces?' Prit asked.

'By Krin, you really are a walking invitation to have your face smashed, aren't you?'

'All the same, he's got a point,' the corporal said. 'Why give us better than standard measure?'

'My littermate's a silversmith. A bit over standard is still better than he has to pay for bar silver.'

'Done,' the corporal said. 'I'd rather have it in coin, anyway.'

'Where'd you come up with all this?' the barkeep asked, serving out mugs as he weighed and changed the contents of their pouches. The bulk silver was in irregularly shaped thumb-sized nuggets that looked like shiny knucklebones.

'Them Boman was rolling in it,' Prit said. 'We just got our pay from that last fight.'

'Thought so,' the barkeep said. 'You Diaspra guys are the only silver we've seen in a while. Surprised to see infantry with cash, is all.'

'It's why I came in with these twerps,' the private told him. 'I'm for some more loot, loot, loot! These Boman took Sindi, they're going to be shitting gold.'

'You'll be shitting yourself when you finally see them, you gutless infantry bastard,' a Northern cavalryman said, looming out of the darkness. 'Give me some more channy leaf, you K'Vaernian thief.'

'You'll be keeping a civil tongue in your head, or you'll be chewing with one side,' the bartender snapped. 'Five silver.'

'It was two before,' the cavalryman snarled.

'The price goes up with the aggravation,' was the reply. 'Make that seven.'

'Why you pissant thief!' The cavalryman's hand dropped to his sword.

'Let's not get carried away here,' Fain said, looking to see if there were any cavalry NCOs in the joint.

'Fuck off, you infantry maggot,' the cavalryman slurred, spinning on the slightly smaller junior NCO. 'It wasn't for you fucking Southerners, we wouldn't be in this mess.'

'Hey, forker, we're all soldiers together,' the corporal said with a grunt of laughter. 'Let me stake you to a round of beer.'

'I don't need any of your damned silver, either!' The Northerner slapped the corporal's hand and sent the freshly counted coins, more than an infantryman's pay for a month, spinning into the gloom. 'Short leg bastards. Do nothing but slow us up.'

'Corp,' Pol said slowly. 'He knocked . . .'

'I know, Erkum,' the corporal said calmly. 'Look, fellow, that was uncalled for. Now, I know you've got problems—'

'I don't have any problems,' the cavalryman growled, picking the junior noncom up by his harness. 'You do!'

The corporal hit the low table sideways, spilling beer and less mentionable products of the local economy across the revelers. He rolled away from the group as it surged to its feet and tried to come back upright himself, only to run into another set of backs instead.

'DIASPRA!' Prit yelled, and plowed into the cavalryman, all four arms windmilling.

Fain took a kick to the ribs and flipped the kicker onto his back, then came vertical with a twist and a heave, but by the time he regained his feet, the bar had turned into a giant free-for-all. A club hit him in the side of the face, and he felt a hand pulling at his pouch.

'God bedamned minstrels!' he snarled, and grabbed the itinerant singer by the horns and spun the thieving bastard off into the melee. He ducked another swinging club, catching it on his own horns, and kicked the club swinger in the balls. His assailant went down . . . and he suddenly found himself faced by the Northerner and three of his larger friends.

'It's time to clean up this bar,' the original troublemaker snarled.

'Let's be sensible about this, folks,' the infantry corporal said, although sense seemed to be in short supply. 'Nobody wants to get hurt.'

'And nobody's gonna get hurt,' another of the cavalrymen said. 'Except you.'

'Leave my friend alone.' Erkum Pol's voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible through the tavern's bedlam, but the order was accompanied by a whistling sound.

'Why?' the original cavalryman scoffed, never looking away from Fain while he raised a large chunk of wood purposefully overhead.

If there was a verbal answer from the simpleminded soldier, it wasn't audible over the sodden thump and the crunch of bones as the hard-driven plank crashed into the foursome.

Fain stepped back as the cavalrymen hit the ground, then grabbed the tabletop before the improvised battering ram could be drawn back for another swing.

'Good job, Erkum. Now, eet's time to pocking leaf.'

'But I never got a beer,' the private complained.

'Take one,' the proprietor said from behind his pile of kegs. 'Take a keg. Just get out of here before the Guard arrives.'

* * *

'They destroy our taverns and inns, carousing day and night,' Dersal Quan complained. The Council member twisted his rings in frustrated exasperation. 'And the stench!'

'Yes, and that's another thing. What with the shortages and all, we don't need all these soldiers waving their money around. It's just driving up prices and leaving the penniless . . .'

Sual Dal, the representative for the cloth merchant's guild, paused, trying to find the word he wanted.

'Pennilesser?' Wes Til suggested. 'Yes, yes. It's a terrible thing. People having money to spend is quite awful. Fortunately, that's not much of a problem in a city like K'Vaern's Cove just now.'

'Don't take this so damned lightly, Til!' the guildsman snapped. 'I don't see any of these folks buying sails