So did Gar’s heart, almost. He recognized the hard-faced leader—Crel, one of the few free survivors of the young people’s village. When he had first seen the lad, his face had glowed with health, happiness, and the pleasure of the company of his youthful friends. He had been smiling, easygoing, and genial. Now, though, he was gaunt, steely-eyed, and tense.
The lieutenant came forward grinning. “Very good, very good—for men who haven’t been taught a thing. So you want to join General Malachi’s army, do you?”
“We do!” the men chorused, turning to him. “Keep your eyes front!” the lieutenant snapped. They jumped and whipped their gazes back to the hair of the men ahead of them.
“Shoulders straight! Bellies in! Hold those spears straight up, if you can remember which end you think has the tip!” The lieutenant prowled along the line. “You’re filthy, you stink, your clothes are ragged! You all need your hair cropped to your skulls! You’re undisciplined—you need kicking into line!” He paused at the front, grinning at the leader. “Still want to join?”
“Yes!” Crel spat, and the others echoed him.
The lieutenant nodded and started to stroll around them again. “Well, you might do at that. All right, off to the barracks with you. Sergeant Chester!”
“Sir!” A sergeant came running, snapped to attention, and saluted more crisply than Gar had noticed in a day and night at the camp.
“Take these men in charge,” the lieutenant commanded. “See them scoured, shorn, and uniformed. Burn those rags they’re wearing, then set them to their tasks.”
“Yes, Sir!” Sergeant Chester turned to face the recruits. “ ‘Ten-shun! No, not like that suck those bellies in! Drop those sticks, they’ll do for the fire. Thumbs along the seams of your leggins! Square those shoulders, don’t pull ‘em back! All right, now, march! ”
They followed him toward the tents. Too late, Gar realized he was in their line of march and started to turn away—but Crel saw him. His eyes widened with the shock of recognition and Gar could hear his thought: Was he a spy for the bandits all along? Then Gar’s pitiful stance must have registered, because he thought, No, the poor man’s a captive and a slave. Then he marched on and Gar breathed a sigh of relief.
He wasn’t about to rely on the boy’s first reaction, though—he might change his mind when he thought it over. Gar watched and, when the lad went to the latrine, Gar went after him.
Crel looked considerably better for a wash, a shave, and clean clothes, but the harshness and bitterness were still there in his face. He glanced up as Gar came in—then stared and braced himself for a fight.
“Easy, easy,” Gar said softly, hoping no one would hear through the canvas walls. “I’m just the village idiot out to visit the necessary room. You don’t have to have that much intelligence to know how to use a privy.”
“Idiot!” Crel hissed. “Is that what they think you are?”
“I’ve been very careful to make sure they think so,” Gar said.
“Then it was your father who came to our village.” Crel’s eyes filled at mention of the happy, hopeful pair of longhouses.
“No, that was me,” Gar told him. “I angered General Malachi in my proper form and he set patrols to find me. I disguised myself as an old man, and they rode right by me.”
“Then why disguise yourself as an idiot?”
“Because they had begun to be suspicious of the old me. The idiot was a bad choice, though—brains don’t matter in a human shield, and they’re quite happy to have a bear like me to prod ahead of them onto the pitchforks of the enemy—should any of them think to try to fight back. I’d rather not disillusion them.” He let that sink in for a few seconds, then added. “I gather you’d just as soon they didn’t find out which village you came from, either.”
“That’s right enough,” the lad said slowly. “Are you making a deal?”
“Only pointing out our mutual interest,” Gar said, “that neither of us wants his real nature bandied about.”
“So you won’t tell them where I come from if I don’t tell what you really are,” Crel said slowly. “Before I agree to that, though, I’d like to know why you’re here.”
“Because I was caught,” Gar said simply. “I’m trying to figure out a way to stay alive when they attack that town down below us and drive me ahead with the other slaves, to draw whatever kind of weapons the town men have. So far I’m ahead of the game—none of them are going to expect me to try something clever at the last minute. What are you here for?”
“Why is everyone?” Crel asked bitterly. “I want to be on the winning side.”
Gar stared at him for a moment, wondering whether Crel intended to be with the winners, or for his side to win because he was on it. Then he nodded. “Deal?”
“Deal,” Crel said.
I can’t believe he’d betray the memory of his friends like that! Alea thought.
Neither can I, but it’s not for me to lecture him after what he’s been through, Gar replied. What about your day? Find anything worth knowing?
Nothing, except that everyone’s so sure of the Scarlet Company that they don’t even bother thinking about it. Alea’s thoughts simmered with frustration. Of course, when I did put the thought into their minds, it scared them. They pushed it away as quickly as they could.
Sure of the Scarlet Company but afraid of it too, Gar mused. How about the town in general?
No government, if that’s what you mean, Alea thought wearily. I learned there’s a great deal of commerce. Barges and carts are coming and going all the time, constantly being loaded and unloaded, if that matters to you.
Actually, it does, Gar thought slowly.
Alea stiffened, catching the complex of associations that came with the words—an image of a web with the town at its center, every strand vibrating with the necessities of life. I see, she thought slowly. The town controls the villages even without a government.
Only by being the central market, Gar thought, but there are many villages and only the one town. If the merchants decided to stop dealing with one of them, that village would suffer harshly, maybe even die if it had a year of bad crops and no way to bring food from other villages.
But the merchants wouldn’t do that! Alea thought.
No, they wouldn’t, came the slow answer, but they are managing the market, which means they’re controlling the economies of the villages.
Have you found your government at last? Alea thought acidly.
No, Gar replied, still slowly, but I’m beginning to understand how they can manage without one. Of course, he added hastily, it only works as long as the town doesn’t grow too greedy.
I suppose the priestesses take care of that, Alea mused, the priestesses and the sages.
Yes. Gar seemed to be brooding. This looks to be one area in which the Scarlet Company would not be watching for bullies.
But she caught the thought he didn’t mean to send—that an economic bully was still a bully, and the Scarlet Company might have an interest after all.
So the next day, she went to talk to the people who presumably kept the merchants from being bullies—though as she walked up the steps of the goddess’s temple, she couldn’t help but think that the priestesses certainly wouldn’t be paying much attention to economic systems.