Spy, Spy Again Read online

  By the time the small group had gotten to the pond—where some of the caravan were respectfully setting up a latrine area far from the water and some were hauling buckets well away from the pond and stream so they could bathe—he and Tiron were very close to a deal. Finally, he sucked on his lower lip a moment and said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take your last offer if you throw in three of those pointed helms on top of it.”

  “Done!” crowed the caravan master, with the glee of someone who is sure he has gotten a bargain. Tory was reasonably sure that Tiron had been planning to give them—or at least lend them—the helms anyway. But that was fine. He’d given the impression of driving a hard bargain, but not one that Tiron was feeling any pain over, and he was now someone Tiron respected. After all, the money was not the real object here. Getting into Karse without alerting anyone was the real goal, although the helms were going to be a useful bonus.

  Once the bargain had been struck and some initial money had changed hands, the three of them moved their horses to where the caravan horses were picketed and their bedrolls to the area where the rest of their new companions in the desert were settling down. They introduced themselves to their fellow fighters—the merchants, aside from Tiron and Ismal, didn’t seem interested in much besides their dinner and bed—and Ismal began passing out dinner to everyone.

  Since there wasn’t a fire to sit around, and it seemed that no one had managed to kill any game on the way in, dinner was pretty much exactly the same trail rations they had already been packing—but at least it was someone else’s rations, which didn’t make inroads on their own.

  Except for wine. True to his promise, each of the guards, including the three of them, got wine. It wasn’t good wine, but at least it wasn’t so bad it peeled the skin off your tongue.

  “How is it you ended up short of men?” Ahkhan asked, when the first frantic inroads into the food had subsided. The heat of the day had subsided as well—here inside the shelter of the rock walls of the canyon, the air was positively pleasant. There was even a faint sweet scent, though Tory couldn’t see anything blooming.

  The eldest of the guards snorted. “Some of those damned demon-priests crossed over into Ruvan about a fortnight ago, and their demons shredded up a village east of the Amber Moon school. Dunno what they were looking for. Guess they found it, because they kited right back across the Border before anyone could catch ’em or any survivors could get to the next village for help, but you know how it is when these things happen.”

  Ahkhan’s head tilt invited elaboration, and Birk was perfectly happy to provide it. “Some damned fools got it into their heads that the Karsites were bringing priests down south to make a try to push into Ruvan or Rethwellan, and anyone trying to cross over was going to end up as demon fodder. Next thing you know, it’s not a damn-fool rumor, it’s the gods’ own truth, and most of the sell-swords had cleared out of town.”

  “Some people will believe anything,” Ahkhan murmured. Tory knew exactly what he was thinking. That must have been the raid that got his sister. And once the priests had her, since the demons weren’t going to be sated by killing one poor horse, they just turned their pets loose on the nearest village. That would be absolutely typical behavior for the demon-priests; to their minds, anyone who didn’t worship their god was a heretic and deserved killing.

  “That’s the truth, brother,” Birk agreed. “Me, I’ve been across this Border more times than I want to think about. Demon-priests don’t bother our kind, and they don’t bother the caravans we guard. If they did, their trade would dry right up, and they need the trade as much as we do. If the rich want their spices and the Healer-priests want their medicines, they have to put up with us heretics, because they don’t trust their own people not to make a run for it once they cross the Border.”

  “Border works both ways,” Tiron agreed. “Keeps things in as much as it keeps things out. But it keeps me in business, so there it is.”

  “Surprised they don’t put a wall around the whole damned country,” opined one of the others.

  Tiron snorted. “Any sane man knows that walls don’t work. You can’t guard every furlong, it would bankrupt you, and you still wouldn’t have enough people to do it if you put everyone you could call a fighter in the country up on it with a spear. And what good’s a wall with no one on it? Anyone can go over or under it. A wall’s useless except around a city, and even then, it’ll only defend you for about a month in a siege. The best thing a wall can do is keep beasts and bandits out, not armies or people determined to cross. Not that anyone would go into Karse for less than what we’re getting. Ah, and that reminds me—there’s rules about Karse.”

  “Serve ’em up,” said Tory, steadily. “We aren’t going to buy trouble, there’s enough as it is.”

  “First rule; you don’t start nothing. Karsite insults you, bullies you, shoves you around, you eat it. Common folk won’t do that, they’re no braver than rabbits, but the soldiers and their version of highborn nobles and absolutely the priests will. Eyes down, yessir, nossir, thankew very much sir. You eat it, with one exception. Out in the desert, if its a patrol, you eat it until they draw weapons or start helping themselves to the caravan—that means the goods, or the stores, our beasts, or our gear. Then you can do what you want.”

  Tory nodded, but had a question. “Why’s that? I mean, why’s it fine to defend ourselves in the desert as long as they start it?”

  “Because Karse pays their army shit. So they get shit for soldiers. They’re allowed to rough up the common folk to get what they want, but sometimes some of them take a notion into their heads to aim for higher loot. And the ones in charge know exactly what’s wearing their colors.” Tiron smiled grimly. “Remember what I said about Karse needing us traders. That’s why, when patrols go missing, nobody asks any questions. What they don’t officially know about, nobody has to get punished for. It’s all very neat and tidy.”

  “The smart ones know where to stop and who with,” Birk put in. “And if they ain’t smart enough to stick to the fair game, then Karse don’t cry when they disappear. They know they’ve got shit for soldiers, but they don’t cry if the stupid shits eliminate themselves.”

  Kee was smart enough to keep his face impassive, but Tory could feel his dismay. The idea that the fighters of the Karsite army, the people that the common folk were supposed to be able to depend on to protect them, were actually preying on them, was utterly revolting to him. And more revolting than the Sleepgivers murdering people for money?

  “Surely they’re not all like that,” Kee ventured.

  Tiron shrugged. “Prob’ly not. Most of the units are supposed to be garrisoned where the men in each unit all come from—supposed to give them incentive to protect that’s more potent than just money, since they’re protecting people they know. But the Border patrols down here are scum. I’ve heard that one of the punishments they give criminals is to assign them to ride the Border, though I don’t know if that’s true. I do know they’ve got no reason to protect anything but their own hides, and every reason to do what they can to add to their crap pay.”

  Silence. Evening insects began to sing, softly.

  “That’s crazy,” said Kee.

  “That’s Karse,” the leader and all the mercs said in a chorus, looked at each other, and laughed. They fell quiet for a while, sipping the last of their wine. The sky overhead was still blue, but here in the canyon shadows gathered, and the light dimmed. It would be quite dark soon, and with no fire, there was no reason to stay awake other than starwatching. And Tory didn’t think these fellows had any interest in the heavens.

  Tiron wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The other rule is, if a priest tells you to fall in with everyone else and do the dance for Vkandis, you do it, to prove you love the god. Common folk don’t have to do anything but stand there like a lot of sheep while the priest blathers anyway, so it’s not as if th
ey’ll catch you out on not being one of the sheep.” Tiron pulled off his headwrap and helmet and ruffled his hand through his abundant, short black hair. “Just stand there, keep your eyes down, fall in and fall out with everybody else. Makes them think they’ve got us all properly under their thumb, does us no harm. It all may be stupid, but it works to keep the money coming.”

  “If it’s stupid but works, it isn’t stupid,” said Tory.

  “Keep thinking that way and you’ll go far, boy,” Tiron chuckled.

  The sun touched the horizon, and Ismal poured out another round before stoppering the wine-cask and putting it up in the wagon again. The six merchant drivers were already bedding down under their wagons. “Normally, we’d draw lots for night guard now,” said Birk. Tory had been wondering about that. “No point, here, with the guardians keeping water-peace, so enjoy a restful night.”

  He and the others were sipping the last of their wine slowly, as if it were a fine vintage. Well, it’s wine, anyway. They had all arranged their bedrolls in a rough circle around where a fire would have been if there had been a fire.

  “How many more of these do you think you’ll be doing, Master Tiron?” asked one of the others. He sounded a little nervous.

  “Plenty, Derdan, plenty,” Tiron chuckled. “Don’t let those rumors spook you. The only Karsite Border anyone needs to worry about is the one up north, with Valdemar. As long as they’ve got the Ghost Riders to worry about, Karse isn’t going to give two shits about the rest of the world.”

  Ghost Riders? Huh. Not too bad a descriptive for Heralds and Companions, actually.

  “And when I decide my bones are too old for sleeping on the ground, Ismal is taking over,” Tiron continued, slapping his son on the back. Ismal laughed.

  “I may take over before you decide to retire, old man, so you can drive the wagon while I ride,” the younger trader said. “Or we could run two caravans for a while instead of one, and double our profit.”

  “Listen to the young pup!” his father said with admiration. “Just like the old dog! Anyway, Derdan, don’t worry; you’ll have work with me for as long as you want it.”

  “I just want to save up enough to open my wineshop,” Derdan sighed. “And get myself a nice wife.”

  “Now why is it that every other merc I meet wants to open up a wineshop or a tavern?” Kee asked, speaking up for the first time this evening.

  “Well, we know booze, we know drunks, and we know how to handle both,” Derdan replied, logically. “What do you want to do, if you don’t want to open a tavern?”

  “I haven’t found it yet.” Tory heard the ring of truth in those words as his friend spoke them. “So I’m doing this until I figure out what it is.”

  “And if you don’t?” Ahkhan prompted.

  “I guess I’ll keep doing this.” Kee grinned in the twilight. “What about you, Ahkhan?” There was just a tiny bit of challenge in those words; Tory doubted anyone but he and the Sleepgiver heard it, but it was definitely there.

  Ahkhan smirked. “Staying in the family business.” He glanced over at Tory. “I’m fairly sure Tory would say the same.”

  “Tory can speak for himself, thanks, and yes, I’ll probably stay in the family business.” He raised an eyebrow at Ahkhan, then realized Ahkhan couldn’t see it in the growing darkness. “Have you got a wife picked out, Derdan?”

  “Don’t know what anyone needs a wife for,” scoffed Birk.

  “Shows what you know,” Derdan replied. He held up a hand—which was barely visible in the thick twilight at this point—and counted off fingers, oblivious to the fact that no one could see him counting. “Wineshop needs a cook. Wineshop needs two people at least to serve. Man needs someone to tend his home. And having a wife means someone in his bed and breeding kids to help with the wineshop.”

  “Man can hire all that done,” Birk drawled. “Well, maybe not the kids part, but if you picked up a couple orphans, you could hire that too.”

  Derdan snorted. “Not for as cheap as a wife.”

  “He’s right,” Tiron seconded. “Marriage should be a good, sound business decision. That worked for my pa, and my pa’s pa, and for every other man—and woman!—that I know.”

  Ismal made a very slight sound, as if he objected, at least in principle, but he didn’t say anything, and his father evidently didn’t notice.

  “What about love?” Kee countered.

  “What about it?” challenged Tiron. “Are you going to base a marriage on something that springs up out of nowhere, irrationally, and absolutely is going to change because you can’t sustain an emotion that strong for very long? Or are you going to find a woman you get along with, a woman you can work beside, and brings either skills or property of her own to the table?” He snorted. “Love. That’s fine for fancy songs and theater and the nobly born, but people like us need to be practical.”

  Tory thought of all the highborn parents at Court jockeying for advantageous marriages for their children and felt impelled to add, “Even the nobly born and the rich feel the same way, Master Tiron. At least, the parents do.”

  “Not that I’d ever force a youngster to wed someone he couldn’t stand,” Tiron continued. “That’s just asking for trouble. Trouble and people in beds they shouldn’t be in and every manner of mischief, and the next thing you know, feuds! No, nor someone too old or too young, neither.”

  This time the sound from Ismal was a sigh, and it sounded relieved.

  “I’d marry an older woman,” Derdan said. “Long as she’s brisk enough to work the shop and the house and brings some money of her own to the arrangement. She’s bound to be grateful, see, especially if she’s an old maid, and if she’s too old for children, like Birk said, I can always adopt a couple useful foundlings to take my name and work the shop just like blood-born. I’d marry an ugly woman, too, if she’s nice-tempered, smart, and good to be around and a good cook,” he continued stoutly. “Same reason. Bound to be grateful, and no worrying about her canoodling either. Man eats a lot more often than he beds a woman. And it ain’t a face I’m thinking about in bed, anyway, cause by the time you close up a wineshop, it’s too dark to see a face.”

  “You make some powerful points,” Birk replied, sounding surprised.

  “Old head on young shoulders,” Tiron proclaimed, sounding pleased. “If I had more men like you, I wouldn’t have to replace any.”

  “You won’t have to replace me, Master Tiron. It’ll be a long while before I have the money for that wineshop, and by then it’ll be Ismal in charge, and you—you may be ordering your wine from me, sitting back in your fine home and enjoying grandkiddies.”

  This was not the first time Tory had listened in on conversations like this one. Most people looked at marriage as a business arrangement, and not just the parents. He’d overheard plenty of highborn, parents and children, scheming about advantageous marriages. In fact, it might have shocked these men if they knew how often he’d overheard pretty young ladies or handsome young men planning on marrying people old enough to be their grandparents, with the express intent of betraying them behind their backs while enjoying a higher status or greater wealth and a lot more freedom than they had while mere unwedded children.

  Or maybe not. There probably was a fair share of that in every class, in every country. It certainly formed the backbone of many ribald theatrical farces.

  He wondered how they did things among the Sleepgivers. The few stories that Ahkhan had dropped painted it as a surprisingly egalitarian society. And certainly Tory’s grandfather had married for love. For that matter, so had Ahkhan’s father, Bey.

  But the conversation had moved on to other things—or thing: the sort of wine that Derdan intended to serve and sell. “. . . . and I’ll have the cheap red and the hard cider in the taproom, see,” Derdan said lovingly. “That’ll be what’s in the barrels, and that’ll be all I ever serve in th
e taproom. But I’ll keep my eye out for good vintages in bottles and stick them down in cellar. And I’ll have a cellar if I have to dig it m’self. And I’ll make it known to the people with money in town that I have better stuff in the cellar for ’em. Shirka reds, Amusa blush, Dulan Temple honey mead, Quirun whites. Charlot rosewine if I can get it. And . . .”

  At this point Tory just rolled himself up in his blankets and let Derdan go on about wines. It was clear he knew a lot about them, and it was clear that he was passionate about them, and it seemed that he’d never gone on about them like this to his fellow mercs before, because they all seemed fascinated. If not by the wines themselves, about Derdan’s level of expertise and his enthusiasm.

  Tory just let his mind drift, and only at that point did he realize that he and Kee were not going to be able to “look in” on Ahkhan’s sister tonight—or, indeed, most nights—because sitting there in the middle of their fellow mercs clasping wrists would look . . . odd. And sneaking off together would just make for assumptions, assumptions he had no idea how the others would react to. Maybe they’d be fine with it. Maybe they wouldn’t. They couldn’t take the chance.

  Then again, this had been Ahkhan’s idea in the first place, so presumably Ahkhan had known this was going to happen.

  He fell into sleep, still half-listening to Derdan, who was now describing what food went best with what wine.

  He didn’t dream, not that he remembered, but he woke feeling as if he should have been dreaming, as if something . . . had happened that he hadn’t experienced. It was a decidedly unsettling feeling, but no one else seemed to be disturbed, so he put it down to falling asleep listening to someone else talk.

  Meanwhile, the morning was clear, cool, and made you glad you were alive, and he was more than ready to get on with the day and travel farther down the road. He wasn’t sure what they were going to do when they had to part company with the caravan, but presumably Ahkhan had a plan.