Bralos grinned. “Quite true, as regards that last, my good Master Haigh, but there have been some significant changes for me and mine since that day, too. The old, callous traditions still apply to most of the rest of the army, but the Grand Strahteegos, in a fit of pique, declared me and my squadron to be mercenaries, not any longer true Ehleen soldiers, which means that the strict interpretations of army traditions need no longer be applied to Wolf Squadron, you see.
“Insofar as your first statements are concerned, you’re quite correct; to buy shirts like mine for the entire squadron would be much beyond my means at the present time. But on the march back down here to Mehseepolis, I’ve reasoned out another idea. What would you quote me tentatively on five hundred single-thickness mailshirts, to be assembled of larger rings?”
“It would be far quicker and cheaper, my lord,” replied the smith, “to just order up as many backplates. I could probably fulfill part of that order myself, here in this shop, and for the rest, I could job them out to some other good smithies I know of …?”
But the officer shook his head. “No, I dare not be so blatant … not yet. No, I was thinking of having one of the locals, hereabout, enclose these shirts I envision between two layers of thin leather or linen-canvas. They’d be or at least look like jerkins, in the squadron colors, and thus not be an affront to the Grand Strahteegos each time he saw one of us.”
“I understand.” The smith nodded, grinning. “But look you, my lord, there is a better, cheaper way to give just as much or even more protection to the backs of your horsemen. I’ll show you, but please excuse me while I fetch some things out of the shop.”
The man returned with a basketful of what looked at first glance to be bits and pieces of scrap iron and steel, but when he had laid a handful upon the table, Bralos saw them to be thin squares of steel, not yet polished and still discolored from the tempering, each of them pierced with a small hole at two corners on one edge. After laying the squares out in staggered lines, the smith looked back up at his guest.
“These, my lord, are a part of special order we’re doing up for a customer who wants a jazeran, a scaleshirt, which while bulky and heavy is the best protection from both edge and point short of a breast-and-back of Pitzburk plate. And they’re cheaper than either plate or mail, too. For him, these plates will be riveted in overlapping rows onto a double-thick jack of saddle-skirting leather. But there are other ways to use such plates, too, my lord.
“The innermost layer of your canvas jerkin could have a thin layer of cotton batting stitched on, then squares or lozenges of good steel atop that, each sewn or riveted as you’d wish, and another thinness of batting, then another of canvas sewn in a quilted pattern. Add brass or iron guides for the straps of the breast-plate, eyelets to the armholes to affix the mail-lined half-sleeves you’ve already bought, and you’d have an arming-jerkin with a well-hidden difference.”
Bralos studied the arrangement on the tabletop, frowning in deep thought, considering this new, fresh suggestion. Then he looked up and demanded, “But what of the collars to protect the throat, Master Haigh?”
The smith waved his hand. “Simple, my lord, very simple. Long, curved plates that will overlap a bit in the front. Sew enough thick braid onto the collar that it would be stiff anyway and conceal the thong used to join the overlapping plate ends.”
Still frowning, Bralos asked, “But what of the weight, the bulk?”
The smith sighed. “The bones must come with the mutton, my lord. But, look you, this will be replacing the ordinary arming-shirt. The weight of the steel in back will, if anything, help the man’s body to balance the weight of the breastplate and spauldrons, and even with the weights of everything—steel, rivets, canvas, thread and batting—added together, I’d be so bold as to say that it will weigh a bit less than a double mailshirt.”
Bralos chewed at his thumb for a moment, then inquired, “Can you have one of these padded shirts made up so that I can examine it? Also, that way we’ll know for certain about how much of everything will be needed.”
“What are the colors of your Wolf Squadron, my lord?” asked the smith by way of a reply. “Crimson and silver …?”
After he had arranged with Master Keemohsahbis to have two pipes of a middling wine he knew to be favored by his troopers carted out to his camp, along with a half-pipe of a far better example of the vintner’s art and some small casks of brandy to go to the squadron officers’ mess, Bralos collected his slightly tiddly guards and rode back to camp.
There he strolled about to see that everything needful was being done, called for a fresh horse to be saddled, visited his own quarters long enough to doff his armor and change to clean clothing, then rode over to Sub-strahteegos Tomos Gonsalos’ headquarters. Had anyone with the authority stopped him and asked him why, he was quite prepared to lie, to say that he was searching for Senior Captain Thoheeks Portos to render his report on the campaign in the foothills and deliver up the receipts for the banditslaves and the chains in which they had been delivered to the noisome slave pens.
But when he saw the crowd and hubbub around the plain building housing Gonsalos’ offices, he almost reined about and rode back to truly report to the overall commander of cavalry. He did ride on, however, as far as he was allowed to ride. The Council Guardsmen who halted him and courteously requested that he dismount then just as courteously demanded to know his reason for approaching the area of the sub-strahteegos’ headquarters.
Bralos swallowed the testy, impatient answer that had been upon the tip of his tongue; for all their show of courtesy and good manners, Council Guardsmen had a well-earned reputation of blooding their steel first and determining if such had been necessary well after the fact, and aside from his gauntlets, he now wore nothing that would resist the honed edges of their weapons any better than his flesh.
“Lieutenant,” he lied glibly, “I have but just led my squadron in from a campaign in one of the northern thoheekseeahnee. I found that word had been left for me to report to the Lord Sub-strahteegos Thoheeks Tomos immediately upon my return. I am responding to that order; I cannot do less, Lieutenant.”
“Of course not, of course not, my lord Captain Vahrohnos,” the guards officer agreed readily, “but let it please my lord to understand, far more important men than the Sub-strahteegos himself just now are visiting him, so perhaps later today or tomorrow might be a better time to report.”
Bralos shook his head. “Lieutenant, the message said ‘immediately upon my return,’ and it has been my experience that the officer always chooses his words carefully and means just what he says. I will report today, now, and that’s that.”
The guards officer nodded once. “Very well, my lord Captain Vahrohnos, but my lord must then surrender his sidearms to me and he must allow himself to be searched. My lord has his functions, I have mine. One of my men will take care of your horse and weapons.”
The adjutant would have stopped Bralos, shooed him away back to his camp, had not Tomos caught sight of him through the partially opened door of the larger room where he and several other men sat around the largest table. Excusing himself, he strode out to greet Bralos warmly.
“You’re back far earlier than anyone expected you to be, Bralos. What happened, did Chief Pawl despair of ever catching that pack of marauders? If so, old Pahvlos will’ve been proved right; nevertheless, you can bet a month’s pay he won’t be at all pleased.”
Bralos shrugged. “Not at all, my lord. Oh, yes, we had trouble for the first week or so, but then Captain Chief Pawl devised strategy that gave us an inexpensive victory and above a hundred fresh slaves for the state.”