The pointy faced driver in the ill-fitting uniform turned the cart into the dusty yard and pulled the horses up in a cloud of professional profanity.

The overweight sergeant who ran the camp belched around the stem of the pipe clamped between his rotten teeth and rolled himself forward off the back-tilted chair. “Where’s Slivo?” he demanded.

“Slivo?” the driver answered back with a northern accent. “Wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care.”

“Well he’s th’ regular supply driver,” the sergeant growled. “So yer oughter know him.”

The driver spat a stream of tobacco juice over the edge of the cart, growling, “and why should I, who was just given the miserable duty week last? Damn him to the nether hells for all I care!”

“Hah,” the sergeant answered. He wouldn’t have given two damns himself if Slivo hadn’t been the barleywine smuggler he was. “And how did you get so honored as to merit such duty, fer I don’t recognize yer uniform at all?”

The driver swung his legs around and jumped nimbly to the ground, stumping back to the rear of the cart. “Let’s just say it isn’t wise to gamble with courtiers, no matter how drunk they are, and leave it at that, eh?”

The sergeant thought that a merry jest and pulled the pipe from his mouth to show it. His laughter wasn’t any more pleasant than the rest of him. “And what have yer got fer us this time, noble chanceman?”

The driver, unlashing the tarp and lowering the tailgate, answered without turning from the task. “A barrel of flour without too many worms in it, and some cast off regular army blankets for you lot. Nothing for the beasts.”

“Ah, bugger th’ beasts,” the sergeant waved a grimy paw. Let’em eat each other does they gets hongry.” He stuffed the stem of the pipe back between his lips and puffed hard a time or two. “Anything else? On th’ wagon?”

That was what the driver had been waiting for. “Oh, could be yes, could be no. You know how it is with the wars and all.”

“Ah,” the sergeant smiled. It figured a bones player wouldn’t be all that concerned with the letter of the rules. “And was it yes, might it be sommat as would interest a post such as our homble home here?”

The driver was up in the cart, wheeling the flour barrel to the rear edge of the opened gate. He paused to contemplate the roundabout question. “I don’t know just exactly if there’s a yes for you, sergeant, for haven’t I got a consignee for each packet they’ve loaded onto my cart? Still, there’s a bit I’ve been unable to deliver....”

“Ah,” the sergeant repeated. “And what sort of consignment might it be?”

The driver was stacking blankets beside the flour barrel, and an overseer was herding a couple of the dall slaves over to haul the booty off. “Well, he confided, “I’ve a bit of a packet meant for the officers of an infantry squad that got themselves stationed out in the prairie somehow. I’ve been wandering back and forth across the area for a couple of days now, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of anything waving our good king’s banner.”

The dall were at the cart now, and struggling to lift the barrel. The driver came back with another pile of blankets and tossed them onto the rest, raising a cloud of dust in so doing, and setting himself into a coughing fit. He barked and hacked, growling and sneezing as he doubled over looking fit to die. The sergeant and the overseer backed away, fearing some fell disease, but the slaves had frozen in place.

“Forgive me,” the driver wheezed when he’d throttled the last cough. Tears were in his eyes and snot dripping from his nose, which he wiped on an already dirty sleeve. “Got a bit of a disagreement with th’ dust and it will catch up to me now and then.”

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“I’d guess,” the sergeant marveled. “Who was this courtier you swindled who’d put a soldier with such afflictions to such duty?”

“The driver shook his head sadly. “Does it matter, sergeant? My earlier advice stands, and don’t gamble with any of the foul breed can you avoid it.”

“Hmph,” the sergeant grunted. “Good advice I’ll accept. Now about our earlier discussion?”

“Hmm?” the trader sneezed one last time, wiping his reddened nose. “Ah, the poor lost squadron. Alas, I fear the fire of two nights agone may have done for the poor lads.”

“More’s th’ pity,” the sergeant oozed insincerity. “And moreso that yer were unable to deliver yer goods.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the driver rubbed hand to chin. “Mightn’t it have been that I had already delivered ere the fateful eve?”

The sergeant smiled around his pipe. “These days and times, a body never knows, does he? But what happens when you return with goods still upon the cart?”

“Good point,” the driver allowed. I suppose if I could find some kind soul who’d grant the goods asylum from the king’s dingy storerooms I might be tempted to give it refuge.”

“Aye,” the sergeant agreed. “But what sort of asylum would be required of such a kind soul? Was he to offer, I mean.”

The driver was rummaging around in the front of the cart again, killing time until the dall slaves had removed the last of the blankets. As they receded towards the guard cabin, he pulled a small crate free. It clinked when he moved it, and the sergeant’s mouth began to water.

Small, the crate was, but the driver handled it as though it were filled with snakes. When he did set it down on the tailgate, he opened the lid to reveal a pair of bottles in a bed of straw. The sergeant reached out a great paw to touch one, but the driver slapped his hand away.

“Have a care, sir,” he admonished. “I’ve yet to assure myself you’re the one to take proper care of my charges.”

“Ah?”

“Clearly, sir,” the driver spread his arms wide, “such tender lovelies as these deserve no less than the gentle caress of a man of means.”

The sergeant leaned in closer and examined the bottles. He’d seen their like before, but only on those rare occasions when he’d been in the city. Regular army officers were issued a ration of brandy when they took the field for extended periods, and such bottles as these carried it.

He’d never tasted any before, but he knew immediately that he’d like it. “And what sort of proof would show you such a man?” he fought to keep his voice even as the drool formed behind his lips.

The driver shrugged. “Oh, I suppose a small ransom. Not enough to beggar an honest soldier, but just enough to show his sincerity.”

“Ah. And what sort of ransom would tell you that?” the sergeant wondered a bit too quickly for his bargaining position.

The sergeant cradled the crate against his bosom as a lover as he watched the cart trundle off northeastward. Five silver imperials was most of a month’s pay for such as he, but it was worth every copper. Brandy! Only the finest sort drank brandy. And now that included him.

“Oh, possibly one or two of the others,” he added to himself as he crept carefully toward the cabin. Should they prove themselves men of means. Read, he could not, but he could do figures after a fashion, and by the time he eased through the cabin door with his prize, he was five imperials to the good with a bottle yet to his credit. All that remained now was to turn the thought into deed.

Joblar rose out of the grass before the camp was fully out of sight, and Koli found time in his program of self-congratulation to be irritated.

“All went smoothly?” he wondered.

“Smoothly enough,” Koli nodded, “although my skin was crawling the whole of the time lest one of those three vermin we allowed to escape should happen to wander out and recognize me.”

“ But, still, it’s done then isn’t it?” the dall pressed, temper clearly on edge.

“It’s done,” the trader admitted, already shucking the borrowed uniform. “But I can’t say as how I’m all that pleased with the bargaining. Five silver imperials? Why, I wouldn’t accept such an offer from a tart and I was breeding her during the negotiations! Fortunate for us he was too dim to understand how dear was my desire to foist the stuff upon him.”

“But is he too dim to taste the poison?”

Koli laughed out loud. “Dim has nothing to do with it, friend Joblar,” he waved a hand. “That swine wouldn’t know the taste of brandy if you drowned him in a lake of it. All he knows is that his betters enjoy it, and so he will too, does it gag him in the swallowing. I’m only sorry we had to waste both bottles, for I have tasted brandy before.”

“How long do we wait?” Joblar’s ears were forward and erect, his whole body quivering with anticipation.

Koli shrugged. “Do they drink the whole of both bottles right away, they’ll be dead by morning. Do they husband them, who knows. Not that it matters; one or two swallows each will have them too sick to raise a hand, and that will do as well for our purposes as death.

“We’ll give them until false dawn,” he added. “Just in case.”