Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (75 page)

Tallior, discovering useful allies the longer Beld
spoke, inquired what the men had done thus far to neutralize their enemy.

“There isn’t any way,” Beld admitted painfully.  “If
it weren’t for his magic, we’d grind them up in a minute.  But if we
head-to-head like last time, he’ll start tricking.”  He shook his head.  “We
can’t get close enough to finish the job.”

“With mages,” Tallior observed, “stealth is usually
the surest method.  I have a powerful poison that works within thirty
heartbeats of swallowing.  If you slip it into his food, no one will be able to
trace the cause of death to you.”

“Nope,” Beld conveyed the negative with his whole
upper body.  “You don’t know anything about Kingshome, do you?  I can see. 
He’s in a different squad, which means he lives in a different building.  I
can’t go in there without a good reason.”

“Such as?  Make a plausible reason.”

“Isn’t any.  Nobody ever has reason to go into the
other barracks.  It’s just food and beds in there.  Since I can get both in my
own, why am I in a different?”

“You eat in the barracks?”

“Yeah.  All of us out of the same pot.  Forget
poison.  How else do you deal with magic types?”

“There are other ways,” Tallior revealed, “providing
you have the right equipment.  But not quiet ways, and it’s safer with many men
at once.  Fifteen or twenty men is best.  If anyone else is around they will
know you meant to kill him outright.”

“How ‘bout the warehouse mock-up?” Veji asked.  “If
there ain’t no one else in there we could do it right.”

Beld shot that down.  “Use your head, damn it!  Anyone
could walk right in on us, and where you going to find extra hands?  Can’t go
asking around the town if you want to keep it quiet you were involved when their
bodies come up.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “Can you get the men and whatever
equipment you said?”

Tallior nodded.  “It would require an eightday at
minimum, but I can.  What do you have in mind?”

“If I can get them outside the town, you can lay an
ambush, right?”

“Not out in the open on the road.”

“Under cover then.  All right.  You send me word when
you’re set, and I’ll tell you what to do.”  He fixed Tallior with a hard
glare.  “We want the same end, but you came prepared to buy help if you needed,
didn’t you?  I expect some gratitude.”

“Naturally,” Tallior spread his hands.  “I understand
you are taking a risk by attacking a member of your band.  I’ll begin making
the necessary preparations, and I think you’ll find my ‘gratitude’ most
generous.”

Beld left the table, making for the door with his
friends in tow.  Tallior smiled at the simple fools behind their backs after
they departed.

“This is our bunk area.  Pick whatever cot you want as
long as the closet is open.  You six D Classes,” Sloan gestured at the back
side of his small group, “need to train all winter.  Otherwise we don’t need
you.”

Unsmiling, overbearing and seemingly dead to the
world, Sloan deposited the Fourth Unit’s newly assigned recruits in the north
wing with only those four sentences as welcome.  He vanished.  The men were
perplexed as to what they should do next.

Marik and Dietrik had known their new shieldmates
would arrive this morning after breakfast.  They lingered in the north wing to
see who would form their unit.  Also perched on their cots, Edwin, Talbot and
Floroes eyed the ten new mercenaries speculatively.

For the first time an understanding of how Hayden
might have felt at this time each year bloomed within Marik.  The men to whom
he would entrust his life stood before him, most looking lost as sheep without
their shepherd.  He lifted his voice to catch their attention from where he sat
cross-legged atop his cot.

“Don’t let Sergeant Sloan rub you wrong.  He’s not
much of a conversationalist, but he’s a terror with his sword.”

Every new man focused his attention on Marik.  Five
decided they could find their own way in this new world and spread out to claim
open closets.  Two remained standing where they were, devoting their interests
to Marik from a distance while the remaining three stepped closer to the
talkative mercenary.  Marik recognized, with mild annoyance, the taller figure
of The Peacock.

The three who approached were a disparate bunch.  In
the middle stood a wiry sort, less bulky that most in the Fourth Unit but no
less the muscled.  His two inch black hair swept straight upward in defiance of
gravity.  He studied Marik with guarded interest.

To either side of him stood blank faces that revealed
little of what their owners might be thinking.  A Tullainian with grayed hair
waited for whatever Marik would choose to say.  His thumbs were hooked into a
belt that encircled his waist below the side-slits on his native tunic.  He
rested his gaze slightly over Marik’s shoulder rather than on his face.  It struck
Marik as odd, making him wonder if a scene were unfolding outside the window. 
Marik would have turned if not for the impression that this might be exactly
what the gristled veteran wanted him to do.

Ignoring the disconcerting feeling of a person standing
behind him, he studied the third man as the first spoke.  “Seems to me he’s
plenty terror enough already without one.”

The last man looked to be in his mid-thirties.  He
held a pack slung over his shoulder with his left hand.  His right hand, balled
in a fist, held nothing.  Repeatedly his thumbnail pressed against the inside
curve of his first finger, flicking outward momentarily before returning.  Four
or five heartbeats later it would flick out again.  Marik could read nothing in
his blank features while Dietrik took up the conversation.  Could this be a man
like Sloan, who lived only in the chaos of battle, or did the cool mask simply
represent the protective barrier most people erected when meeting a group of
strangers for the first time?

“I suppose that is accurate enough,” Dietrik replied
from his seat on his cot.  “The good sergeant is short on social skills.  My
own advice is do whatever he tells you lickety-split.  It will save him the
trouble of making an example out of you.”

“An example?  Should I be worried?”

“I doubt it,” Marik answered.  “As long as you use
your common sense, Sloan will leave you alone.  He doesn’t usually pay
attention to you unless you’re doing something stupid.”  He held out his hand. 
“Anyway, welcome to the squad.  I’m Marik, and that’s Dietrik over there. 
Those two walking away are Edwin on the left and Talbot.”

The first took Marik’s hand in a firm grasp.  “You can
call me Cork.”

Dietrik, amused, asked, “Your name is Cork?”

Cork laughed.  “No, it’s only a nickname.  But I’ve
gotten used to it.  It sounds more ‘
me
’ than my real name.”

“Why ‘Cork’?” Marik wanted to know.

“Beats me,” he admitted with a shrug.

Since Cork did not offer his real name, Marik instead
offered a handshake to the Tullainian.  He unhooked one thumb to accept the
gesture, revealing his own understanding of the Galemaran language by saying,
“Chiksan.  Your duty is to tell us what happens next?”

“No,” Marik admitted.  “But we’re going to be fighting
together, so we ought to help each other out.”  Chiksan nodded with an economy
of motion.  The last man hesitated a moment before opening his balled hand to
return Marik’s shake.

“Wyman.”  The hand returned to his side, the thumb
holding position, awaiting flicking orders.

He offered no further personal information.  Chiksan
took the silence as an opportunity to inquire, “So we are all members of the
band, yes?”

Marik nodded.  “That’s right.”

“Then what of this classification status?  You are
either a member, or not a member.”

“In most mercenary bands,” Dietrik explained, “that’s
true.  But the Crimson Kings are a funny lot.  Are you one of the D Classes
Sergeant Sloan mentioned?”

Chiksan shook his head, the hanging gray locks fanning
his face.  “I am not.”

“Then you have no worries.  The band doesn’t like amateurish
warriors to be seen fighting in their name, so they only allow C Class members
and up to go out on contracts.”

“Well what about me, then?” Cork demanded.  He sounded
surprised.  “The sergeant called me a D Class when he checked us off out in the
mess room.”

Marik smiled.  “You’ve got your work cut out for you
then.  The officers will keep tabs on you.  Basically you have the entire
winter to train.  They’ll help you out to a lesser degree, but you’re mostly on
your own to raise a rank by spring.”

“Or?”

“Or else they’ll boot you out of the band.”

With a frown, Chiksan observed, “Are all bands in
Galemar this strict?  Truly this is a different land.”

Dietrik made to ask the older fighter about his past,
except Wyman’s turning away broke the circle.  The others decided to find the
best of the remaining free bunks.  Marik missed noticing the two others who had
listened from a distance until Dietrik pointed with a whisper.

“What do you make of that one, mate?  There must be
quite a tale behind him.”

Marik followed Dietrik’s finger through the gloomy
room, dark with the fire unlit for the clear day outside.  He found the object
of Dietrik’s curiosity.  “What?  You can’t even call that a
young
man! 
Why did they let a boy into the band?”

Hardly thirteen years old if Marik overestimated, a
youth with sandy blond hair stowed his pack’s contents inside a closet formerly
belonging to a different young man named Kenley.  When he locked the door, he
spent a moment staring at nothing while he considered.  He chose to leave the
barracks.

When he passed the two men sitting on their cots, he
paused a moment to shift his gaze.  He looked fully at Marik.  Without
pretense, the boy stared at him, his mind’s workings hidden behind an
expression of blank impassiveness.  Yet tingeing the edges, Marik sensed
animosity radiating from the unknown youth.

The pause lasted only a moment.  When it ended, the
boy resumed his journey to other parts of the town without a word.

“What was that about?” Marik asked.

“Who knows?  Children have ever been beyond my ken.”

A quick peek to the side revealed The Peacock shaking
out a burgundy shirt from one of his oversized packs in an attempt to conquer
the wrinkles.  He tutted while finding a place for it, apparently displeased
with the amount of storage space his closet afforded him.

The last activity that Marik would find entertaining
was watching what must be a fallen blueblood unpacking his entire wardrobe. 
With so many men needing to be sorted out this year, the new recruits’ arrival
landed closer to noon than midmorning.  Luiez would be serving up lunch.

Marik and Dietrik pulled out their swords with the
intention of practicing after the meal.  They approached the kitchen window at
the same moment Borneo hefted a steel pot large enough to hold the Fourth
Unit’s new boy.  He set it atop the counter.

Luiez noticed them, smiled broadly and lifted the lid,
allowing an aroma reminiscent of burning underarm hair to strike them in the
face with near-physical force.  Since they always considered themselves
fortunate to have Luiez as the Ninth’s at-home chef, they smiled weakly in
return.  Sadly, they slunk to an empty table with plates heaped full of their
least favorite dish.

They picked at their food, Marik asking, “This is what
he chooses to welcome the new recruits with?  We’ll be lucky if we still have
any of them tomorrow morning.”

“Perhaps he feels the strangeness of our band, as
compared to others, will be lessened if their first meal is roughly as
disgusting as the food is reputed to be in those same bands.”

Marik laughed.  “You may be onto his secret.”  He
waved a hand over his plate to clear the wafting fumes.  “Though picking a dish
that could stand up and beat an A Class fighter to death might be taking that
too far.”

He toyed with a mysterious lump he uncovered from the
depths of his serving, watching the new members enter and leave.  Cork
approached them from the window with his own utensils in hand.

“Mind if I sit with you?  I still have a few
questions.”

“Go ahead,” Marik nodded at the empty stretches of
bench to either side.  “Only a few?  You must know more than I did when I first
arrived.”

“I pity you then,” Cork guffawed.  “If that’s true,
then what in the world prompted you to enter?”

“Oh, that’s a long story.  Maybe I’ll tell you if
we’re stuck on a long march to our next contract.  The roads can be damned
boring.”

Cork sniffed, holding his spoon over his plate. 
“Olander noodles and peppers, huh?  And tomatoes?  And some type of meat.”  He
looked at Dietrik across the table.  “So how’s the food here?”

Impishly, Dietrik replied, “It cannot be beaten!” 
Marik nearly burst out with a laugh.  “You go on ahead and give it a taste. 
Luiez whipped up a batch of the Ninth’s favorite to greet our new members.”

“He did?”  Cork studied his plate with respect.  “Well
that sounds good enough to eat!”  He lifted a spoonful and plunged it into his
mouth.  “Mmm!  That’s a nice blend of the tomato’s juices mixing with the fat
from the cheese.  The peppers add a tang that compliments the onion as well.” 
With a satisfied nod, Cork loaded his spoon with twice as much.

Dietrik watched him for a moment before shrugging. 
His eyes met Marik’s, the thought so much like his own that Marik could read it
plainly. 
It takes all kinds.

“But the best type of noodle dish,” Cork continued,
oblivious to the failed prank, “is the one my mother taught me to make.  I use
hardboiled eggs and shredded fish…oh, it knocks your boots off when you taste
it!  Still, this is not bad at all.”

“Shredded fish?” Marik asked for the sake of
conversation.

“Oh, yeah!  You’d be surprised.  I grew up in Juncture
Dock so it’s only natural that I’m great with fish.  That’s a town on the banks
of the Varmeese where it empties into the Southern Sea.”  He gestured to the
south with his spoon, accidentally knocking it into Marik’s sword where it lay
propped against the table.  “Oops!  Sorry about that.”

Marik bent to pick it off the floor.  “That’s all
right.”

Cork examined the sword as Marik set it to rights. 
“Can you actually hold your own with a blade that large?”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“I guess so!  Though it must slow you down, right? 
Maybe we can spar!  I’ll show you my great moves!”  He nodded, closing the
one-sided agreement.  Cork looked satisfied for all of three moments before consternation
took hold over him  “But what’s this D Class nonsense?  I’m a superb fighter! 
The best in Juncture Dock!”

“The officers base the rankings on many different
factors,” Dietrik told him, amusement playing across his features.  He propped
his head on one arm against the tabletop.  “Thus the different trials and their
many questions.”

“I remember that,” Cork admitted.  “Them picking apart
every thought I had.  Do they want fighters, or philosophers?”

Cork continued venting.  He paused to remember what he
wanted to ask them when Dietrik suddenly clicked his tongue twice, as if
chivying a horse.  When he had Marik’s attention, Dietrik extended one finger
so he appeared to be wiping his nose.

Marik followed the direction of Dietrik’s gesture,
seeing who his friend pointed out.  “Well that figures,” he muttered.  “And on
a day it’s not raining, too.”

“What?” Cork asked.  They ignored him.

The woman approached their table.  “I’m supposed to
give you a message, that I am.”

“Save your breath, Caresse.  I can guess.”