Authors: Miles Cameron
‘Fuck that! She got three hundred florins.’ The Alban threw the coins into Kronmir’s face.
None struck him.
Kronmir was fussy and hated waste; but he was also a craftsman, and while he might make an error in haste, he usually retrieved it. He moved under the coins, flowed around the table between them, crossed the floor to the two sellswords, and killed them. His first dagger blow – from the sheath – went into the Alban’s throat, and his second blow, turning into his front leg, went into his partner’s head at the temple – two blows, and both corpses fell.
‘My mistake,’ he said to Nianna. ‘Their type is ten a florin, and I’ll get more. I wanted to save time with a single briefing, and instead I endangered the whole plan.’ He shook his head, cleaning his weapon on the Alban’s shirt even as his dead heels drummed on the floor.
Nianna paled and put a hand to her throat. ‘Blessed Virgin protect me,’ she said aloud. But she paused and spat on the Alban’s corpse.
In an hour he’d hired four men for less money – through a cut-out, of course – and dispatched them. He regretted his quick disposal of the Alban – the man had good skills and might have made a competent scout, with time. Kronmir was mentally penning a third letter requesting some Easterners from his master, who didn’t seem to read his reports.
Still, Nianna had committed to providing the list.
He stayed to write a report that included a small number of triumphs: poisonings, public outrages, two deserters suborned from the Nordikans who were even now reporting on military affairs in the palace.
‘At your command, I can snuff out the parvenu Duke,’ he finished. ‘In the meantime, he drills his troops . . .’ He raised his pen. He’d complete the thought when his agent returned with the reports of the four hirelings. Kronmir spent an hour in the early afternoon contemplating how much easier all this might be if he did everything himself. He didn’t mind taking risks. And the use of agents was painfully slow and the information second hand. And he wondered, as he had all his professional life, if the use of hermetical powers would help him. If only he could recruit an utterly reliable, skilled practitioner.
Except such men were too committed to other paths to power.
He shook his head. Spying was difficult enough.
The army turned onto the Alban road and marched at its fastest step, up into the hills. The Vardariotes swept the flanks like a curry brush on a dirty horse, making dust fly, and two of Kronmir’s hirelings watched the show from a high olive grove, lying on their stomachs at the edge of an ancient stone terrace, their horses hidden away among the trees.
‘He’s marching away,’ Antonio said.
‘Our employer will want to know that,’ said Alphonso.
‘Duke Andronicus, you mean,’ Antonio spat.
‘Must be,’ agreed the other. ‘Who else is in this game?’
The two men wriggled back from the edge of the terrace and ran for their horses.
Both were knocked to the ground and pinned with boots against their necks by Amy’s Hob and Dan Favour. Gelfred nodded to them.
‘You know the drill,’ he said. ‘Take your report to Ser Thomas.’
They were sellswords. They didn’t hesitate to talk but, as Gelfred quickly found, they had very little to say.
The Duke’s army marched north almost six leagues as the shadows grew longer.
‘Where the fuck are we going?’ Wilful Murder spat in the autumn dust.
Toby shrugged and pulled another biscuit from his saddle bags.
Bent leaned over his horse’s rump. ‘Not far,’ he said.
Wilful Murder glared at him.
‘No wagons, no food. And Ser Michael’s gettin’ wed tomorrow afternoon, eh? So we won’t go far.’ Bent took a pull from his canteen and offered it to Toby, who shook his head.
‘Fewkin’ bastard would
love
to use Ser Michael’s wedding to fool us and that fewkin’ Andronicus. We’ll have a battle – mark my words.’ Wilful Murder spat. ‘An’ we won’t get paid either.’ He took the flask and drank. ‘Mark my words.’
They halted in a valley between two steep ridges. There was talk all along the column – flankers went out, and the younger and faster men ran to the top of the hills.
As the church struck five, the advance guard of Vardariotes returned at a fast trot. With them came a long column of wagons and Ser Jehan with his twenty lances.
The army formed an open rectangle on the march and passed the defile at the end of the valley and then marched back towards the city. All could see what the wagons held.
It was full dark by the time the column passed the Vardariotes Gate, and the Eastern regiment dropped off on either side and saluted until the last company in the column passed them. Then, at a shrill whistle, they all dismounted together.
By then, the wagons were deep in the city, and their cargo was safe from attack or ambush.
Kronmir stood on the wall above the gate and counted forty-seven wagons. Some were merely a pair of wheels at each end with the cargo providing the wagon bed, because the forty-seven loads were all felled trees and dried lumber – an enormous quantity. Enough, in fact, to build a fleet of warships.
He also noted two of his hirelings riding with their hands bound.
Back in the Inn of the Nine Virgins, he put pen to parchment – in code. ‘The parvenu has stolen a march by bringing in wood,’ he admitted. ‘I need trustworthy men and devices, preferably hermetical, for communications and for demolitions.’ He made his sign, appended his expenses, and walked out into the cool evening air. He walked through the farmer’s market, and at the third butcher’s from the end of the second row he leaned for a while against the front off wheel of the butcher’s wagon while he cleaned horse manure out of his boot. Then he walked around the front of the stall.
‘Two cuts of spring lamb,’ he said.
The butcher waited on him personally, with a wink, and the letter was on its way.
By nonnes the next day, every man and woman who could sew was sitting in the sun outside the stables, hemming Kaitlin’s wedding dress. Four women had run it up the night before, after Gropf, the master tailor turned archer, cut the cloth. Now the overdress – in red and gold satin – rested on burlap sacks while thirty people sat around it in a circle. The kirtle was deep gold with gold buttons, and Mag sat with Liz and Gropf, working the buttonholes in burgundy silk twist. Squires and pages brought them wine.
The Outer Court had a festive air. All the soliders behaved as if they’d won a victory the day before. No one had opposed them, and they’d marched well out into the countryside. Fetching the wood was anything but a symbolic victory, and the archers talked about the ramifications of having a fleet with the Nordikaans and the Scholae. Twenty Vardariotes stood guard at the palace gates.
Two hours later, the dress was done. Gropf and some of his cronies were tacking ermine to the sleeve openings – borrowed ermine, but there was no need for the lass to know that. The hem was done and the magnificent overdress was folded carefully into muslin and taken to the barracks.
In its place, two barrels were placed on their ends in the courtyard, and four heavy planks were laid across. Then a guard composed of two men of each regiment – two Vardariotes, two Scholae, two Nordikans, and two Athanatoi – marched into the courtyard under the command of Ser Thomas. They halted at the table made of barrels and stood behind it. All were in full harness and all had their weapons naked in their hands.
The company notary came out with Ser Michael. Chairs were brought, and the two men sat.
Francis Atcourt came out chatting with the Captain, who was dressed, not as the Red Knight, but as the Megas Ducas, in purple and gold. As he entered the yard, Ser Thomas blew a whistle, and all three regiments pushed and shoved their way onto parade. None of them were in fighting clothes – every man and woman was in their finest.
There was cloth of gold, and cloth of silver, silk brocades, rich wools like velvets, and silk velvet, too. There was an abundance of linen as smooth as cream, and a quantity of gold and silver – heavy chains, rings, brooches. Soldiers tend to wear their capital – soldiers’ women much the same.
Closer attention might have revealed some paste, some gilded copper, and some tin; some brocades on their third or fourth wearer, some carefully coloured glass, and some leather tooled to look like rich embroidery.
But in general, the eight hundred soldiers present would not have disgraced some courts, albeit in a slightly more raffish manner. Clothing tended to fit more tightly and show more muscle than was usual – from Ser Thomas’s padded, quilted and embroidered silk hose that showed every ripple of muscle in his thighs to Ser Alison’s skin-tight red silk kirtle that left almost none of her physique to a viewer’s imagination, the clothing demanded attention.
Parading in their finery made them more like a boisterous crowd and less like a disciplined army. And when two heavy iron-bound chests were marched through the crowd by palace Ordinaries surrounded by fully armoured Scholae, there was outright applause.
The chests were placed on the heavy oak boards, and the escort saluted and was ordered to retire. Ser Michael produced a key and opened the two chests. Every soldier in the front two ranks could see the gleam of gold and silver. A sigh of contentment ran through the Outer Court.
High above, in the Library, the Princess Irene stood on tiptoes to be able to see the whole of the parade and the two chests. Lady Maria hovered behind her. The princess was dressed in a plain brown wool overdress – very like a nun’s habit. Underneath she wore a much less plain kirtle, but it would only show at the wrists.
‘That is not my money he is disbursing,’ Irene said.
‘I agree that he is a cause for worry,’ Lady Maria said.
‘My own soldiers already love him. Look at them!’ she said.
‘Your father’s soldiers,’ Lady Maria said.
An expectant hush fell over the parade. All the women who were not themselves soldiers were gathered at the corners of the square. Anna and a hundred other wives and near-wives from the Nordikan barracks, as well as some of the great ladies of the city, gathered near their husbands and brothers of the Scholae to see the fun – four nuns stood together with Morgan Mortirmir and a young despoina of the Dukae, who was greeted with respectful admiration – and some wolf whistles – by the Alban mercenaries. The new Count of the Scholae smiled at her every time he turned his head. Ser Giorgios Comnenos and his beloved were to have their long-delayed nuptials with Ser Michael and Kaitlin.
The expectant hush lasted long enough that Wilful Murder turned to his whispering colleagues and hissed, ‘Shut the fuck up!’
Veterans of the company knew that no one would be paid until the Captain had complete silence.
When he had it, the Megas Ducas stood and walked in front of the table. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Our first pay parade together. You will be called by name, in order of the alphabet. If your pay is incorrect, you will leave it on the table and go to the end to speak directly to the notary and to me. You will not slow the process. The princess has graciously given us a hogshead of malmsey to serve when we are halfway through the list of names. If your name is missed, wait until the end of the parade to make a fuss.
‘Every man and woman on this parade is looking forward to spending their pay – but no one will leave this yard until we’ve witnessed the weddings of Ser Michael to Kaitlin Lanthorn, and Ser Giorgios to Despoina Helena Dukas. Further to that, if you choose to take your pay into the city, be aware that there are at least a hundred men in this city hired just to kill you – that in addition to the usual crowd of ruffians who wait to rob soldiers rolling in gold. Not to mention the crooked innkeepers and whores. Caveat emptor. I expect every one of you on parade on Monday at matins.’
He smiled at them tolerantly. ‘Very well, my companions. Let’s get this under way.’
He leaned back and looked at the rolls. ‘Archer Benjamin Aaron!’ he called.
A small man in black wool with a fine belt of enamelled plaques and a little black skull cap swaggered out of the ranks. By tradition, the first man to be paid shook the Captain’s hand – he grinned, the Megas Ducas grinned back, and Ser Thomas called out: ‘Aaron, mounted archer: seventy-two florins, nine silver leopards, six sequins, less thirty-one leopards stoppages, four leopards, six sequins hospital, extra four leopards, four sequins, hard lying total: seventy florins, eighteen leopards, two sequins! Sign here.’
Aaron signed the book, scraped his coins – ten years wages for a peasant, or a year’s wage for a highly skilled artisan, and all in cash – into his hand. He gave a little bow to the Captain and also Ser Michael and marched himself back to his place in the ranks, where he immediately settled a year’s worth of small debts.
Men and women who came to the company without surnames – few runaway peasants had one – tended to adopt names that occurred early in the alphabet. Brown was a remarkably popular name, as was Able.
However, the parade also encompassed Akritos, Giorgos, and Arundson, Erik.
Ser Francis Atcourt was the first knight to collect, and conversations stopped as his wages were read out.
Ser Thomas read: ‘Atcourt, man-at-arms: three hundred and sixteen florins, no leopards, no sequins, stoppages none, sixteen leopards, six sequins hospital, extra four leopards, four sequins, hard lying extra, thirty-one florins dead warhorse, total: three hundred forty-seven florins, twelve leopards, two sequins.’
Men sighed to hear how much a man-at-arms could earn. It seemed like nothing when your blood ran over the surface of your skin on a cold spring morning, facing a Wyvern with nothing but a bit of steel between you and the monster’s teeth, but on a fine autumn morning in the courtyard of a magnificent palace, it seemed a fortune. All a man could ever want.
‘And one share,’ the Megas Ducas added.
‘Put it on my account,’ said Ser Francis, who was sitting at the table, and the men laughed.
From Atcourt it took almost an hour to reach Cantakuzenos. But after Dukas, the process moved faster – there were fewer mercenaries after D, and the Nordikans and the Scholae had got the rhythm of the thing so that if a man was ready, he could march up while his account was read, sweep the silver and gold into his hat, and walk back as the next lucky fellow pushed forward. A few awkward sods came out of each regiment – men disposed to debate the fine points of what was withheld for medicine, or what had been awarded as punishment – but in general, they went forward with almost three hundred men an hour.