Green Rider

They walked until nightfall, and settled beside the road around a little campfire. Karigan leaned against the rough bark of a pine, huddled in her greatcoat. She wanted to stay as far away from Garroty as she could, but his coarse laughter assaulted her ears and echoed down the road. He spoke of profitable campaigns his company had engaged in.

“I tell you, Torne, some of those villages in Rhovanny are ripe to pluck, especially in the wine country. And the wenches there don’t carry swords.” He grinned at Jendara. She glared back.

“Sacoridia is a bit too peaceful for profit,” Garroty said. “That’s what I think. There is always something happening down in the Under Kingdoms, though. Petty lords trying to reshape the map. The year has been good for many merc companies.”

“Stick around, my friend,” Torne said. “There are those in Sacoridia who would change things as well.”

“Maybe so, but Zachary is a strong leader. It would take a united front, maybe more, to bring him down. The governors might not like him a lot, but the common folk do, and what the governors don’t need is an uprising among the common folk. Nothing would get done. The harvest would rot in the fields. Paper makers would stop their mills. The governors’ wealth would dwindle. Simple as that.”

“Then what are you and your company doing here in Sacoridia,” Jendara said, “if it’s so unlikely there will be an uprising?”

“Aah. Now we come to it. Rumors, Beautiful. Rumors, no doubt begun by your employer, and designed to create unrest. I’ve even heard of a woman who has convinced a good many common folk that Sacoridia has no need for any king at all—not enough to start a rebellion, but enough to spread dissent. And her ideas are catching on.

“The Talons are here in case an uprising does occur in Sacoridia. It would prove more profitable than anything that has ever happened in the Under Kingdoms. Imagine, the governors uniting to bring down the king. Talk about profit! If your employer is as good as he claims, the peace Sacoridia has enjoyed for centuries will be shattered. There is nothing better than civil war if you’re a merc. Captain Heylar of the Talons has eyes and ears in the courts of most provinces. Wouldn’t hurt to encourage a profitable situation now, would it?”

Karigan listened to this with wide eyes. Much more was going on in Sacoridia than she had ever dreamed. Did this sort of speculation always go on, or was there really a threat to Sacoridia’s peace? There was always intrigue—the Berry sisters had said as much. Intrigue was as much a game in real life as it was on a board. But surely, threats to the king were not commonplace. Nor the threat of civil war.

“You expect mercenaries can encourage the governors in civil war?” she asked Garroty. His smile was feral in the dancing light of the fire. It made her feel like dinner, and she was sorry she had drawn his attention.

“So, the Greenie speaks.” He leaned to the side and spat. “Of course we seek to influence what would be in our best interests. Civil war means work. Work means profit. Men of the Talon Company are wise in the ways of such things. They merely encourage the governors to do what is right. And should they do what’s right, Talons will be strategically placed to negotiate contracts with the highest bidders. It’s more convenient to hire a company of well-trained soldiers than to raise a rabble army of commoners.”

Karigan shook her head. Outsiders were trying to create a civil war in Sacoridia for profit. As the daughter of a merchant, she understood the nature of profit, but at what cost? The very idea was gruesome.

Quite suddenly, she felt an urgent need to reach the king with the message F’ryan Coblebay had entrusted her to carry, but she was caught up in a hopeless situation, held captive by two swordmasters, and now accompanied by a seasoned mercenary.

MIRWELL

Warm air flowing through an unshuttered window cleared out stale air which had accumulated in the library chamber throughout the lengthy northern winter. What a change mild air was, and for once without that damp, chill wind.

A bee droned along the flowered vine growing just outside the window, and the air smelled of fresh green things and lilacs. The square of sky framed by the window was brilliant and clear. On such days, it was said, you could see Mount Mantahop of the Wingsong Range from the fortress gate towers. Mirwell scoffed at that—in all his years he had never seen it. The range was just an indistinguishable line of nubs and bumps far, far away on the horizon.

He sipped from his goblet of rhubarb wine and stared into the embers of the day fire, allowing the wine to warm him from inside. Despite the influx of summerlike warmth, the old stone fortress was dim, and if you weren’t careful, in a perpetual state of damp and mildew. Mold grew in the dark corners which his servants battled constantly with soap and scrub brushes.

The damp made his bones ache. He could never seem to keep warm, not satisfactorily anyway, and he suspected it was unhealthy to reside in the dank fortress. His personal mender advocated he leave his library chamber and soak up the sun outside, but there was too much to do. This was no time for catnapping in the sun.

The efficient Beryl Spencer sat across from him in a straight back chair, her nose buried in half a dozen sheaves of paper. She must be nearsighted. He would have to look into getting her fitted for a pair of specs, but he hated the idea of wrecking her lovely oval face with glass and wire. Besides, the lenses would no doubt cost a pretty fortune.

“The clan is presently headed by Stevic G’ladheon,” she said. “It was his only daughter, Karigan, who provoked Lord Timas. She hasn’t been seen or heard of since running away.”