“Because, if I hand it back to you it will be empty. And you’ll need to span it. I thought that much had been clear. You practiced reloading because… you’re going to reload it. One job. That’s all. And if you do it half as poorly as you just practiced, there’s a very good chance we’ll both die. Do you understand me now?”
I nodded numbly.
He took the crossbow from my hands. “Good. Now get in the wagon and keep your mouth shut. And hand me a blanket.”
I was reaching for a blanket when I saw him open a chest near the front of the wagon. A moment later, he slipped a cuirass of brass scales over his head and then pulled another larger tunic on over that, covering the armor completely.
He saw me staring. “I did mention a battle was forthcoming, didn’t I? I thought that much was clear. Now hide yourself.”
After handing him the blanket, I sat down in the wagon and set the quiver next to me. At that moment, I thought Lloi was lucky to be running around in the grass with a ripper.
I was considering that riding off into the wilderness with a stranger, no matter how much fame or money might be won, was perhaps the worst idea ever, when I heard something. Hoofbeats. Faint, so much so that I didn’t recognize them as such at first. But real enough. As they got closer, I could tell they belonged to several horses.
Braylar whispered, “Six. Better than seven. Much worse than four.” I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me, himself, or the flail.
I scooted against the wall of canvas, and noticed a worn spot, just thin enough that I could see out without anyone seeing in. There were six riders. One had a shirt of rusty and poorly-patched mail that barely stretched over his wide girth. He was much older than the other five, and I assumed he was the leader. He had straight gray hair hanging in a sweaty curtain beneath his iron helm, and a thick white mustache that obscured most of his mouth. In his hand, a round, wooden shield, and a sword in a scabbard at his side. On his other side, a cracked and weathered horn hanging from a baldric. That didn’t bode well.
The other five riders wore dirty gambesons, similar to the quilted jerkins the city watch wore in Rivermost, though these were raw, undyed, and thicker. They had either short axes or long daggers at their hips, and carried spears and shields, each with a quiver of javelins alongside their saddles. These soldiers looked around as they approached and shifted in their saddles like they ached to be out of them. They look inexperienced, bored, and young. But they were definitely a handful of armed men. Just as Braylar predicted.
Our wagon rumbled and creaked along slowly, tack and harness jingling. The five young soldiers halted about thirty feet away, with the leader riding a bit closer, and Braylar stopped the wagon. And I began to sweat in earnest. Three of the soldiers moved out of my square of vision, still maintaining their distance, fanning out slightly, but I could still see Braylar’s back, the leader, and two of the young men in quilted armor.
The man in mail spoke-he sounded congenial enough, and I hoped Braylar was wrong about their intentions. “Greetings. I’m Hornman Urlin. And you are…?”
“Very pleased to see you.” Though I couldn’t see his face, it sounded like he was smiling. Smiling was good. Unexpected, but good. “I am Thutro. Sometimes called Thutro the Prosperous, though few enough remember the second part now.”
Hornman Urlin crossed his arms in front of his substantial lap and leaned forward. “Heading to the Great Fair, then?”
Braylar sounded nothing but affable, which must have taken heroic effort. “Yes, I am. I suppose you hear that quite a bit this time of year?”
Hornman Urlin nodded. “A good number of folks on the way to the Fair. A good number, true enough. But you picked a strange road to take, stranger. No road at all.”
“I thought it looked suspiciously grassy as well.”
“Why not take the trade roads, friend Thutro? Safer on the road, with fellow travelers.”
“Fellow travelers, yes. But also brigands who prey on them. You and your men, you do a good job protecting travelers, I have no doubt. But you can’t be everywhere, no? So, being undefended, I thought it safer to stay away from the roads.”
The Hornman didn’t take long mulling this over. “Maybe. Maybe safer. The Grass Dogs might have a thing or three to say about that, I’m thinking. But maybe it’s not safety you’re worried about at all. Maybe you’re carrying something you wouldn’t want inspected on the roads. Maybe your cargo, you don’t want inspected at all. Could that be it?” He said this casually, jovially even, which seemed to be at cross-purposes with the intent.
“Possible? No. It’s true. I don’t want my goods inspected. But that’s only because of their extreme paucity. It hasn’t been a good year. A good stretch longer than that, truth be known. Ten years ago, I had five wagons, all outfitted with drivers and guards. Five years ago, three, outfitted with my reluctant brothers and their lazy sons. This year, as the last of my fortunes deserted me, my family did as well. So I’m left to shepherd myself and depend on the good fortune of meeting protectors in the wilderness, rather than brigands and nomads. So you’re correct, I’m reluctant to show my small goods, but please, if you would shame a broken man further, inspect as you must. It won’t take you long. You’ll find nothing objectionable.”
Braylar told these lies with complete ease and conviction. It was really quite impressive.
Hornman Urlin shaded his eyes against the setting sun and surveyed the wagon again. “And this pauperish cargo of yours of no objectionable nature, what is it then?”
No hesitation. “Quills. Parchment. Inks. A fine stylus or two.”
Urlin laughed, monstrous mustache shaking like a tree bough overburdened with snow. “Quills, is it?”
“Clerics and lawyers are a pestilence on this world, but they do have their uses. A wise man would avoid their company altogether, it’s true, but a man of commerce, a merchant with a strong stomach, he might find a way to work their company to his benefit.”
Hornman Urlin continued to laugh. This seemed like a clever stratagem on Braylar’s part-he claimed to possess goods unlikely to interest a Hornman and his crew, and even those Hornmen who could read and write enjoyed making sport of those who make it their professions. “Fleecing the fleecers? I salute you. But five wagons? That’s what you said, wasn’t it? Five? And guards? For quills?”
Braylar continued to lie as easily as he breathed. “Clerics and lawyers are notorious for clutching their coins with iron fingers, but they’re also vain. And I carry nothing but the finest materials. Even in my depleted state, I refuse to sell unworthy merchandise. For quality, rare quality, the clerics and lawyers paid, and paid dearly. I did well enough to warrant the wagons as my reputation increased, and the guards were necessary to protect my wares. If a merchant loses his goods, he loses everything. But now, well… the plague claims men from all walks, but the last outbreak struck clerics and lawyers with particular ferocity. Perhaps the gods have a sense of humor after all, eh?
“But it’s been years now, and their ranks have been slow to recover. I tell myself that it’s only a matter of time, that more fleecers will be called to their duty soon enough. But until then, I load and unload my single wagon, dream of lost riches, and struggle on. I couldn’t afford a crippled guard in my state. I can barely afford the food to carry me between Fairs. I-” Braylar lifted a hand. “Pray forgive me, good Hornman. I don’t seek your pity. The life of a merchant is hard, and I’m reduced, it’s true, but I carry great hope to the Great Fair. And again, I’m far luckier to have met a Hornman, rather than a nomad or brigand, so forgive me for prattling on. I’m sure even in this wilderness, you have pressing duties.”