The wagon sat abandoned at the entrance to the regiment's camp.
“They stripped it; not even a bent gilder left,” Ruddle reported.
“Bastards have to pay; it ain’t right, Sarge,” spat one man.
The others murmured their agreement, and Riot knew there would be trouble if he did nothing. The bad blood between the officers and the men would fester like an old maggoty wound, and there would be thefts, perhaps assaults, and then some of these men would hang or be flogged—and they still wouldn’t see any of the loot.
“What are we going to do?” Another said.
“You do nothing, you hear? Leave this to me,” Riot replied, and he stalked into the camp.
On the parade ground, Mercer's cavalry were at sword practice, stripped down to their shirts and attacking each other with wooden blades while Colonel Williams and Captain Mercer watched on.
Williams was a portly man with a fatherly face and he wore a Faelen cape draped around his shoulders that was so colorful it almost made Riot's eyes water. "Ah, Sergeant Riot, what do you think of m’new long-ear garb? Gift from captain Mercer here,” he asked.
Mercer watched Riot from behind Williams’ back, wearing a smug smile that Riot wanted to beat off his face. He could easily reach him in time and run him through. He’d hang for it, but right now, that seemed like a fair trade.
“Captain Mercer’s very generous; all he got me were two of my men dead.”
Mercer’s young face twisted in indignation, the thin pencil moustache pulled into a severe line. “They are not your men, sergeant,” he said, stressing the rank. “If they died, it was through your incompetence.”
There was a noise like a tin whistle in Riot's ear, and the next thing he knew, he was two steps forward from where he started, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Sergeant Riot,” Williams roared. “You will stand down!”
Riot was breathing heavily, but the anger emanating from the short colonel was enough to temper his own rage, and he stepped back.
Williams raised a hand to forestall Riots' words and turned to Mercer. “Two men dead, Jack? A jest is a jest, but we can’t be having men dying. Morale is low as it is. And you, Riot, really. You can’t come in here and reach for your blade like a bloody pirate; there are rules, damn it. Captain Mercer is an officer.”
If it were Riot that had failed to support Mercer in a fight, he’d find himself stripped of his rank and tied to the spars, waiting to be flogged but all Mercer got was the equivalent of a waggled finger.
“I apologized to Sergeant Riot and explained that I was waylaid by a company of enemy cavalry, but he wouldn’t hear it,” Mercer said, lying smoothly.
“Well now, Sergeant, you see? Captain Mercer has had the good grace to apologize, and I would see that you accept it. We know you’re not a gentleman, but you can aspire to the station, can’t you?”
“Sir,” Riot said, clenching his teeth so hard he thought he might shatter them.
Williams seemed to realize that was all he was going to get out of his sergeant and waved a hand dismissively. “That's all sorted then. Jack, you’ll see that Sergeant Riot and his company get a share of the loot, won’t you?”
“I would have given him my note, sir, but I do not expect he employs the services of a banker. Perhaps I could pay you in some other way—an introduction to my tailor, perhaps.”
Broken shoes held together with wire and a ripped uniform that still had the burn mark in it from a Faelen dart that had pierced his shoulder last year. The trousers were bought from a farm they had passed during the retreat. Her husband and sons had gone to war, she said. They were woolen and itchy, and he’d paid more than she had asked.
Williams barked a laugh, patting Riot good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Come now, Sergeant, it’s all in jest; all in jest, you learn to have a thick skin around the officers mess, I can tell you, and Jack has a sharper tongue than any of them!”
“We just want our share, sir; that’s all. If there's nothing else?” Riot asked.
“Yes, there is, in fact. Captain Mercer and I were just discussing it. There’s a hunt afoot! The Wikkan are hopping about, and we’ve been called in to assist them.”
“Deserters?” Riot guessed.
“Not just any deserters, Leybound.”
Any interest Riot had flickered out; chasing real deserters was useful because you could hang them outside the camp as a warning. Catch a leybound, and they just threw them back in the cage with the others.
“Sounds like a job for Captain Mercer, sir,” Riot offered.
“I’ll be leading the search, Riot, with you and your rabble in support, that is, unless the new Lieutenant arrives in time.”
Mercer wielded the offhand comment like a rapier, and Williams coughed, at least having the decency to look embarrassed.
“See here, Riot, I know you’ll be disappointed, but you couldn’t keep them forever, surely you knew that? Those men need a real officer, and whoever it is will be glad to have you to help them settle in.”
“Sir,” Riot responded, hearing his own voice sound hollow.
“Now Arcanist Riley has taken an interest in this,” Williams continued, ignoring Riot. “And he’ll be arriving soon; hence our little display here. You know he likes to see a little swordplay, I’ll need you here too.”
Riot was unable to prevent a groan.
“Come now, sergeant, Riley’s one of our biggest patrons. Who do you think pays for the rations and the boots on the mens’ feet?” Williams asked.
Certainly, there were things that needed buying. Every day, a dozen bullocks were slaughtered just for this regiment, thousands of eggs, and hundreds of chickens. Grain by the wagonload for the officers' horses, flour to make the hard, dry biscuit they ate when they marched, and tea leaves by the sackful.
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Rich Patrons gave money, that was true, but Riot would bet his sword that not a single gilder was ever spent on boots.
It was called snaffling. The quartermaster took a cut by getting discounts from the merchants who supplied the army. Then they would hold back certain things for the officers: the best cuts of meat, liquor, and wine. Then there were the things the quartermaster held back himself—uniforms, buttons, and blankets—that were sold to the very men he was supposed to be providing for. Of course, the quartermaster split the proceeds with whatever officer was overseeing him, which in the present case was Captain bloody Mercer.
“The regiment’s broke, Sergeant, so we need to make Riley happy; perhaps your men can join us; we shall promise not to embarrass them too much," Mercer said.
Riot completely ignored Mercer and addressed Williams. “Sir, we just got back from a four-day patrol, they won’t be happy about heading out again as it is, and now they have to prance around like gleemen for an arcanist.”
“Jack, give us a moment, would you?” Williams asked.
Mercer's expression went from indignation to superior sneer in an instant. “I believe I’ll join my men,” he said, taking up a practice sword as if the idea had been his all along. “Feel free to join us, Sergeant; I’ll go easy on you.”
Williams watched Mercer with a thoughtful expression before turning to Riot with a faint smile playing on his lips. "Listen, Nathaniel, you know Riley likes you and all of that last man nonsense. But we have to make him love the whole regiment. He’s influential with the Arcanists and the Wikkan, and we’ll need his support if we’re going to be front and center in the spring when we head out against the Covenant. You want that too, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, onto this business with Captain Mercer.”
“Two men dead, sir, Stokes and Argus.”
“Good men,” Williams announced, nodding somberly.
Riot knew the colonel had no idea who they were; Argus and Stokes had been loafers and scoundrels but they deserved better than dying with empty bellies in the dust.
“Bad for morale,” Williams went on. “It strikes me that you and the company are due some form of restitution. I have something appropriate in mind. Leave it with me, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Jolly good. Ah, here’s Riley now!” Williams exclaimed.
“And the Wikkan,” Riot added, with a dark look at the approaching group.
You never saw a lone Wikkan, and here were three of them in dark robes. There was a rhyme about it; what were the words? Something about witches in threes. In the rhyme, they were tall and rail thin, with black eyes and straight black hair, and they didn’t walk, they floated, or something.
These three didn’t float. In fact, the middle one fairly trudged along and looked nothing like the ones in the stories. She looked like a farmer's wife, all lumpy around the middle, with flyaway, dirty blond hair. The two that flanked her were drab, simple-looking creatures who had the air of long-suffering daughters-in-law.
The arcanist carried his large paunch before him like some great siege engine, and it stretched his gray arcanist's robe. A deep frown dominated his gammon-colored face, and the patchy parts of his beard fought grimly for the remaining free areas of skin. He met Colonel Williams and saluted, his fat fingers bumping against his sweaty forehead. “Colonel Williams, it's always a pleasure to be back with the rank and file,” he boomed.
“Arcanist Riley,” Williams said, returning the salute. “And Wikkan Kerne,” he added, giving the dumpy witch a formal bow.
Kerne’s hands were behind her back, and she bounced slightly on the balls of her feet as she looked over the men like she was examining a herd of cattle in a market. “This is what you spend all of your money on, is it Riley? Where is he then, this last man of yours?”
“Come here, Sergeant; no need to be shy,” Riley boomed, beckoning Riot forward. “This is him. You’ll remember the siege at Ivansrook, of course. Eight weeks long and they crack open the gates to find poor Alric Rook and all the others dead as door mice. All that’s left is young Riot, the last man.”
Kernes black eyes were pinned to Riot, a faint smile playing on her lips. She looked like a hen with ruffled feathers, but there was something in her eyes that suggested that if a fox ever got into the chicken house, it would be a very sorry creature indeed.
“Quite the reputation, Sergeant. I can’t imagine it’s easy being a stone-eye in the regiments, fighting against your own people,” Kerne said. She spoke like one of the women who came from the dales to sell their produce in the harvest markets in Fallow, her accent slightly lilting, the slow words all running together.
“I was born and bred in Fallow, ma’am,” Riot replied.
“He might have been sired by one of those primped-up Erudoran ninnies, but Sergeant Riot is one of us, aren’t you Sergeant? He’ll be the one to catch your missing leybound,” Riley said, beaming proudly.
“I will be leading the party, of course,” Mercer interjected, giving a gentile bow. “Sergeant Riot merely sees to the day-to-day operations of the men: rations, sentry duty, digging latrines. I would be happy to discuss the finer details of the search with you.”
Riley waved a hand dismissively. “You don’t know these leybound, Captain Mercer. They’re criminals, base despicable cretins. They’d sell their own grandmothers, and worse.”
“Arcanist Riley is correct. The man we are looking for is called Gerrard Price; he used to be a captain of some renown, and capturing him will be difficult.” Kerne added.
“That’s why I brought her here. We need a proper bastard to catch Price,” Riley said.
“Are you a proper bastard, Sergeant Riot?” Kerne asked mildly.
Mercer looked like he had chewed on a bitter fruit, and Riot took a moment to enjoy his discomfort.
“Can’t speak for myself, ma’am, but the company are bastards to a man. We’ll catch your leybound.”
“If this leybound in question was formerly an officer, we can’t send a sergeant after him,” Mercer said stiffly.
“I don’t see that makes much difference,” Riot said.
“Sergeant Riot, do you mean to say that you believe that officers are no more challenging opponents than common criminals?” Williams asked.
Williams wore an expression of polite expectation, and Riot wished he was as good at reading the colonel as he seemed to be at reading him. Williams was moving pieces to set him up somehow, and he was too stupid to even see what the game was. But when you were in the mouth of a beast, the only way out was to break the jaws off.
“Out there, away from the duels and the rules, an officer’s just a man with an expensive sword,” Riot said.
“How dare you?” Mercer said, his chin thrust forward.
“Well, you wanted to see some action Arcanist Riley, and I smell a wager.” Colonel Williams said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them enthusiastically. “How about it, Captain Mercer? Care to fight for the honor of your fellow officers against the famous last man?”
Colonel Williams caught Riot’s eye and gave him a sinister smile. This was his method of repayment. The opportunity to humiliate Mercer in front of the men. It would certainly do the trick, but Riot might get his head cracked open in the process.
Mercer’s sneer of distaste twisted his fair complexion. “Duel with a sergeant? Surely you can’t be serious Edgar.”
“Not a duel; call it an exhibition. Practice blades only. First to three strikes? What do you say, Arcanist Riley?”
Riley looked like all of his birthdays had come at once. “A test of mettle, one warrior to another! You know, I was a fair duelist in my time, don’t you? If I were a younger man, I would take up a blade myself! But let us see if the next generation has what it takes, eh? Fine fun, fine entertainment!” he cried.
Mercer untied his sword belt and tossed it to one of the other officers. “Sergeant Riot has questioned the honor of all officers, and I feel I must answer him. So I accept.”
“Sergeant Riot?” Williams asked.
This wasn't about the company, the damn Colonel had engineered the whole thing to keep Riley happy. It didn’t matter if Riot or Mercer won, as long as Riley got a good show and kept filling the regiment's coffers.
He could just let Mercer win but what would that prove? That he wasn’t some pawn for Williams to move around? It wasn’t worth giving Mercer the satisfaction, and Argus and Stokes were dead, and Mercer would have to pay for that.
“I’ll fight,” Riot said.