Chapter 37: Deal or No Deal

“In principle, I’m down for some travelling,” I agreed easily enough. “But what I need are specifics. How long are we talking though, from here all the way to Light’s End? What happens if I like the look of a stop and want to get off for good? Finally, and most importantly, what’s my cut?”

“The longest time spent on the road is the initial stretch, to Heaven’s Reach. That’s a solid two weeks of travel in the best conditions, and potentially up to a month if we have to deal with delays from bad weather, if a storm rolls in during that time. Once we’re at the border, things get a bit more dangerous, but we’re also never far from civilization: the garrison requirements to man the Wall simply wouldn’t allow it, since any dead zone for activity is a potential security breach. We’ll be at a new settlement every two to three days, continuing all the way until we hit the mountain range that blocks off the northeast. From there, it’s a simple weeklong journey down to Light’s End, where we’ll most likely part ways. So all in all? Two and a half months is my best guess, three months if you want to come back here after all is said and done.”

“Acceptable,” I murmured, running the numbers over in my head.

A few months of travel time really wasn’t bad, considering we were covering an entire border of the nation. It took a retired old paratrooper six whole years to cover the borders of the UK by himself, albeit he was walking rather than taking any form of transport. In any event, it wasn’t as though I had to stay for the entire journey, right?

“If you want to leave at any point, then fine by me. You’ll have to hand back any unsold merchandise, and then you can be on your way. Assuming we’re still on good terms by then, I might even give you my Contact details, in case you’re up for any jobs in the future.”

“Really?” That was the outcome I’d been hoping for, but it still sounded oddly generous to me. “No blood oaths, binding me to the Dead Hand for the rest of my life, however long it may be?”

“Nah, we don’t do that kinda thing here,” Fat Man spoke up, making me turn as I remembered his existence, after a good long while focused on Harvey alone.

“Forcing someone to come along who doesn’t want to, then giving him drugs and your back?” Little Boy likewise scoffed. "Not smart.”

“They have the right to it,” Harvey confirmed. “It’d be different, if you were looking to take up a leadership position in the organisation, but for a simple contract job as a courier? There’s no need to go that far, it just breeds resentment.”

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A surprisingly even handed approach to recruitment, I was forced to acknowledge, and the most effective from a pragmatic point of view. Slavery had been the norm, back in mediaeval times on Earth: whether the chains came in an overt fashion, or were more subtle in the form of a class system, everyone had their place in the pecking order. The problem with that, of course, was that everyone in such a position was constantly looking for a way out, often by stepping over the bodies of their former captors. It made for a very hostile work environment, in more ways than one.

“Better than joining the army, even,” I joked, recalling the terms of enlistment featured so prominently in the library.

Ten years at a minimum, the days to be counted from the end of basic training, when they were formally recorded on the roll of service. Before that, leaving was easier, and happened for a number of reasons, most commonly when a previously unknown medical issue popped up, leaving the recruit unfit to serve. After that though, discharge was only possible with officer approval, and desertion was a crime punishable by death: so more or less the same as back on Earth, a few decades prior. The main difference, though, was how many days they tended to spend in combat, as while a modern soldier could expect rotations in deployment, and post-operational leave after every deployment, the soldiers in Frontier would spend their entire deployment at the Walls. Sure, a generous pension awaited them at the end of their enlistment, but the casualty figures had been conspicuously absent in everything I’d read, so they were likely pretty awful, by my reckoning.

“Ours is a better life than any dog of the King,” Harvey boasted, happy to play along. “Better paid too, in fact, given the obvious utility of your storage skill, I’m willing to offer you an entire five percent of earnings at each stop of the caravan. What do you say?”

“Did you name tag change just now, from Harvey to Damien?” I asked sardonically, as the actual negotiation began. “None of you three have shown a similar talent, so forgive me if I believe it’s not nearly as common as you claimed. Fifteen percent sounds fine, wouldn’t you agree?”

“We run a tight ship, but there’s still plenty of men to consider,” Harvey protested. “Our two friends here get a cut, for keeping the stockpile at Allensward safe, and then there’s the carriage drivers, the guards and the two of us. Seven percent would be very generous, seen in that light.”

“Any busybody can drive a carriage, or swing a sword, but me? I can keep the most valuable or dangerous goods hidden from any inspection. What’s thirteen percent to you, if it means keeping your head when things go sour?”

“I have to keep my head above water as well, and there are dues to be paid, that’s part of what it means to be in a big organisation. Nine percent, that’s as high as I’m willing to go.”

“Eleven.” No need to drag it out any further, since we were both clearly targeting the same end-point.

“Ten percent, and I’ll put in a good word for you with the Boss.”

“Deal.”

We shook on it, like gentlemen, and unlike with Damien, I didn’t even try to drown him. Progress.