CHAPTER 8
The barracks adjoining the castle gate was reasonably tidy, but Sterren would not have applied the word “clean” to it. The cracks between the stones of the floor were filled with accumulated black gunk, and cobwebs dangled unmolested in the less-accessible corners of the ceiling. Various stains were visible on the whitewashed walls; some of them, particularly those near the floor, were very unappetizing.
He had certainly seen worse, though; his own room, back on Bargain Street, had been only marginally better.
His belly was pleasantly full, and his head very slightly aswim with wine, and he decided not to pick nits.
He had come directly from the dining hall out to the walls to make this inspection of his troops and their lodging, so as to get it over with. His main purpose, he reminded himself, was to see what sort of men he was supposed to command, not to criticize anybody’s house-keeping.
But still, it seemed to him that a really first-rate group of soldiers would keep their quarters in better shape.
He did not bother to look in the cabinets or kit bags at each station, nor under the narrow beds. He would not have known what to look for, and besides, it seemed like an invasion of the soldiers’ privacy. He glanced at the bunks, each with one blanket pulled taut and another rolled up to serve as a pillow, and could see nothing to comment on.
He walked on through to the armory, where a fine assortment of weapons adorned the walls and various racks. He reached out at random and picked up a sword.
It came away from the rack only reluctantly and left a little wad of rust behind. The area of blade that had been hidden by the wooden brackets was nothing but a few flakes of dull brown rust, and the leather wrapping on the hilt cracked in his grasp. Gray dust swirled up, and he sneezed.
Behind him, he heard some of his men shuffling their feet in embarrassment. He carefully placed the sword back on the rack.
He should, he knew, reprimand somebody for the incredibly poor condition of the sword, but he was unsure who, specifically, to address. Furthermore, even if he was the warlord, he was also a foreigner and a mere youth and not even particularly large. The soldiers were all considerably older and larger than himself. He knew that his title should give him sufficient authority to berate them all despite being so thoroughly outweighed and outnumbered, but he could not find the courage to test that theory.
Maybe later, he told himself, when he had settled in a bit more, he could do something about it.
Even as he thought it, he was slightly ashamed of his cowardice.
“My lord,” someone said, “these are the weapons we use for practice.” A hand indicated a rack near the door.
Sterren picked up another sword. This one was in far better shape, without a spot of rust, the grip soft and supple, but the blade, he saw, was dull.
Well, it was only a practice blade. You wouldn’t want to kill anyone in mere practice, would you? he asked himself. He nodded and returned the weapon to its place.
He wished he knew more about swords and other weapons. He had no idea what to check for.
The rust, however, was obviously a very bad sign.
He turned back to face his men.
All of them, as he had noticed before, were larger than himself, but not all were mountains of muscle like his personal escorts, Alder and Dogal. In fact, the majority seemed to be pot-bellied or otherwise running to fat. He mentally compared them to the city guards he had seen back in Ethshar, strolling the streets to keep the peace, or rousting the beggars from Wall Street, or carousing in the taverns.
The Royal Army of Semma did not fare well in the comparison. Ethshar’s guardsmen came in all sizes, but they all had a certain toughness that this oversized bunch did not display. Guardsmen might be fat, but they were never soft.
Much of Semma’s soldiery looked soft.
Sterren suppressed a shrug. Things were different here. Whatever duties these men had, they obviously didn’t require the sort of ruggedness that was needed to maintain order in the world’s largest, richest, and rowdiest city.
Alder had told him that Semma had been at peace for more than forty years; Sterren hoped that was not about to change.
If it did, though, and all he had to fight with was this pitiful handful of men, well, Semma wasn’t his homeland. He could always surrender.
Couldn’t he? It occurred to him that he had no idea what the customs were in the Small Kingdoms regarding prisoners of war.
He walked from the armory back into the barracks and noticed something he had missed before. One of the bunks had been moved. It had been shoved up against a wall, so that the space between that bunk and the next was twice the space between any other two. As further confirmation, half the floor in the widened space was cleaner and lighter than the rest of the barracks floor.
His curiosity was piqued. “You,” he said to the nearest soldier, “slide that bunk out from the wall, would you?”
The soldier glanced at his mates, who all somehow managed to be looking in other directions.
“Come on,” Sterren said, using the phrase Lady Kalira had used when urging her horse onward.
The soldier stepped forward, moving slowly as if hoping for some miraculous reprieve, and pulled the bunk out, back to its original position.
In doing so, he uncovered several lines of chalk drawn onto the dirty planks.
Sterren recognized the lines immediately and grinned. He suddenly saw that he had something in common with these oversized barbarians.
“Three-bone?” he asked, in Ethsharitic.
The soldiers looked blank, and he puzzled out a Semman equivalent and tried that.
One soldier shook his head and replied, “No, double flash.”
His companions glared at him, too late to hush him. Sterren waved their displeasure aside. “What stakes?” he asked. “And do you pass on the first loss or the second?” He had picked the word for gambling stakes up from Dogal during the journey from Ethshar. Double flash was not his favorite dice game, by any means, he would greatly have preferred three-bone, but it was certainly better than nothing.
A friendly game was just what he needed to help him feel at home.
It would also serve nicely to get to know some of his men and perhaps to build up a little money that the other nobles would know nothing about. That could be very useful if he ever decided to leave.
He still had his purse, and the winnings from his last night in Ethshar. He pulled out a silver bit. “Will this buy me a throw?”
Feet shuffled, and someone coughed.
“Well, actually, my lord...”
“For now, just call me Sterren, all right?”
“Yes, my lord. Ah... Sterren. We usually play for copper.” “Good enough; can someone make change? And who’s got the dice?”
Coins and dice emerged from pockets and purses, and a moment later Sterren and three soldiers were crouched around the chalked diagram, tossing copper bits into the various betting slots. Any further inspection was forgotten.
When the dice were passed, Sterren felt the familiar thrill of competition, but the sense of calm oneness with the dice that he usually felt was absent. He dismissed it as an effect of the unfamiliar surroundings and proceeded to throw a deuce, losing his turn.
It was well after midnight when Sterren wearily climbed back up to his room in the tower. His purse was lighter by several silver bits, the equivalent of over a hundred coppers. His luck had been consistently bad.
Whatever talent or charm had kept him alive and solvent in the taverns of Ethshar obviously had not worked in this alien place.