Ethan sat in a camp chair, looking out over the riotous camp around him, sipping lightly at a rather nice vintage. A local red that the Taberna staff had recommended. Like the Basics partying around him, class-wise, he didn’t belong in the Taberna behind him. They beneath, him above.

  But that didn’t stop the professionals inside from catering to both.

  They got posca, a stew with meat and, well, putting it delicately, the less than pretty serving maids. Or matrons. It wasn’t just food basics couldn’t afford to be picky about.

  Ethan though, sat beside a camp table covered in the remains of a very nice selection of thinly sliced meats, a couple local cheeses, fresh-baked flat bread and good wine. In front of him, Anarita, in a long flowing skirt and jacket that left her midriff and arms bare, moved her hips through improbable shifts and undulations fit to make a snake jealous while Greta regaled him with the camp gossip in a very low-cut, sleeveless dress that made the most of her considerable assets. And the minx knew it too!

  With a regretful, but unsurprised sigh, he set the chalice down, covering it with his hand before Greta could refill it, shooting her a thankful smile and a small purse. “Anarita.” He called softly. “You both might as well run along and do that shopping, that looks like work coming.” He gestured with his chin to where a steaming James, Miro on his arm, was stomping towards them. “No reason it should ruin your evenings too.”

  Things had been going entirely too smoothly; this was the other sandal dropping no doubt. Now at least, he’d get to find out how.

  “We have a problem.” James blurted out as he passed several fully armed and armored guards and stepped beneath the open-sided pavilion’s shade.

  “Oh?” He picked up the ewer and poured wine into two fresh chalices. Gesturing the two to open seats.

  They accepted with a quiet murmured word of thanks before James continued. “Yes, My Lord. We are being extorted-”

  Ethan just stared at him. By who? Duke? Court? Sheriff?

  “-by a local gang. Or maybe guild. It’s hard to tell the difference in this cursed town.”

  …what? “In the morning, take a few decades over and beat some sense into them then.” And if that sense required caving in a few heads in the doing, why they should have thought of that before screwing with a noble. It was a handy club to swing about.

  “That’s… not really possible, My Lord. They seem to have a large number of thugs hanging about. Armed and armored we’d slap them around easily enough. But tunics and daggers would leave us coming up short. Or at least paying a bloody price for little gain.”

  “I’d take a staff or a few daggers, but either way it’s about honor and reputation. The two always have a price.” He pointed out. “But fail to pay and it costs you more in the long run.” There were limits to where you could allow yourself to be pushed. Limits that when ignored, merely encouraged every rat to push for more. “If tunics and staves won’t do it either, then take the armor and we’ll pay what fines we must.”

  “That might be a bit harder than it looks, My Lord. They’d hardly get away with this if they didn’t have an arrangement with the local guardia. I’ll eat my helmet if they don’t get a slice in exchange for protection.”

  “Not surprising.” But unfortunately, an escalation. Putting down the guardia was a far cry from thrashing some thugs. Not impossible, but those fines were growing by the moment. Not to mention the real question: who was that guard captain paying off above him? Without knowing that anything lethal became considerably more dangerous. Cost versus benefits…

  “What are we being extorted for?”

  “Shipping, My Lord. Or rather any goods we might want to sell to those ships. I found buyers for the luxuries easily enough, and at very good prices locally. But anything that is bound beyond the city is getting targeted. And since I was setting up a shipment of carapace for the Blood line-.” He shrugged.

  Well fuck. “How much of a piece?”

  “One part in five for the thugs. That’s on top of a one in ten ducal trade tax.”

  Ethan winced. One in ten was bad enough when it was ladled on top of the fucking gate tax, road fees and so-fucking-called public safety bond. But a fifth on top of that? That wasn’t a tax, it was banditry! “Fuck them. We’ll sell it elsewhere.” He spat.

  “That.. well since we tried to sell, they aren’t too interested in letting us back out. There were a lot of hints and side-of-the-mouth mutterings about paying now, and acknowledging the local power structure, or next time we ship anything past Obstrgartenfeld it suffers various accidents.”

  “They said that? Fuck the fines, kill them all.” Ethan was becoming steadily less amused.

  “Not… not outright My Lord. Hints and muttering, ya? They beat around the bushes and implied a great deal without coming out and saying it.” He waved his hands, but the way Miro’s eyes tightened, he wondered if their implications hadn’t come with rather stronger language than he was willing to pass on.

  “I really don’t think we can afford to go heavy. I saw them turn away goods flagged under a Barons banner. And his steward looked fit to froth at the mouth, screaming at them. They’d not survive such behavior without backing. High backing.”

  “Or everyone assumed that and let them get away with it for far too long.” Ethan pointed out.

  “That’s… that would be a very fortuitous case, My Lord.” And they weren’t that lucky, Ethan could hear him carefully not say.

  It might at that. But it stuck in his craw. Sideways. Was every fucking merchant organization out to fuck them? His eyes may have been a bit judgmental as he glanced side-eyed at Miro.

  She shrank back slightly before digging in her heels and raising her chin. “This sort of thing is bad for business My Lord. Succeed or fail, it leaves bad blood with men no merchant can afford to be at odds with. Men with the strength and power to do something about their anger. I’ll not say never, but it’s rare that anyone of my class is foolish enough to start such a feud. Far more likely is that their, ah, patron is using them as a borrowed knife. To what purpose I can’t say, but this sort of thing won’t make money. Higher volumes at a reasonable rate pay far better and are safer than choking traders out of the market. Neither nobles nor commons will sell at a loss!”

  Ethan considered that for a time. Reaching down and taking another sip of the suddenly tasteless wine. Then another. Counting down from ten and trying to get a hold of himself.

  It didn’t help.

  “You are telling me I have to bend over and take it from dock rats, Sir James. That I’m not even permitted not to play the game. That not only am I about to get fucked, but that I have to pay them for the privilege?”

  “I’d not put it that way, My Lord.” James demurred. But Ethan noticed he also didn’t disagree.

  “No.”

  “My Lord-“ Two voices protested, no small amount of panic in them.

  “There is a standard of conduct required of a noble. Taking this sort of slap goes beyond that. The damage done to our reputation might be beyond losing a quarter of our men. Reputation is life, Sir James! More now than when we were simple Bandsmen. If we play the target, everyone will take a shot. It’s not just ego. It’s not just my pride speaking. It’s survival.”

  With a sigh he stood up and stretched. “But no hurry, let the men enjoy their party, we can march down there in mass tomorrow and hang the lot of them. I’ll grovel a bit to the duke’s court and pay the fines later. Even if it’s more than that fifth.”

  “My Lord, Please!” James was practically begging. But for once, his not-a-spy-master was just wrong. There were things you could afford to take and things you couldn’t. When you couldn’t, it didn’t matter the price; you fought. In death’s ground.. his mind whispered.

  A lancer trotted up, armor clanking slightly but you’d not guess its weight from his light-footed movements. “Milord.” Eadric, Ethan mused, unable to see the face clearly in the fading light through the T shaped opening of his helm but recognizing his voice easily enough. The man offered a salute, hand slamming into his chest as he waited just outside the pavilion.

  Ethan waved him in. “Yes?”

  “Decurion Tiberius sent me, Milord. There’s a largish detachment of clean and armed men drinking in the establishments across the way. They’re drinking, but none seem to be getting drunk.

  “Armed how?”

  “Spatha’s, Argile loitered by them, loike, and theys nice looking blades in shiny done up sheaths.”

  “Armor?”

  “Na, no more than a leather jerkin Milord.”

  “Any of the guardia keeping an eye on them?”

  “Not sos I noticed, Milord. And I would have. Argile, he was with the roving squads and he says them baton boys was followin dem along like flies on shit.”

  He glanced sideways at James, a pained grimace still lay across his face, but the Quartermaster was decidedly unsurprised. Perhaps he wasn’t the wrong one, after all. Asking forgiveness instead of permission was all well in good when you could pull it off. Otherwise…No. There were limits to the amount of blood, and more importantly, the type of blood they could spill inside these walls.

  “How many?”

  “Three or four dozen, milord.” He fought the urge to snort. Not enough to actually win a fight. But enough to make a great deal of noise losing one. Stalking goats.

  “Thank the Decurion for the warning, Eadric. Tap Decurion Caius on your way back and let him know we’re doubling up duty on the gate. But when he, and you, finish your watch, the first round is on me.”

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  He grinned widely. “Thank you, Milord!” Ethan gestured a dismissal, not bothering to watch as he trotted off.

  With a sigh, he sat back down. What to do, what to do. He tapped his fingers on the table, considering the issue. What he couldn’t afford to take from a dock rat, he’d have to thank the duke’s court for. And this large of a showing could not be anything but. Would their reputation survive on that distinction?

  “My Lord?” James interrupted his thoughts. He irritably waved him on. “Just because we have to sell, doesn’t mean we have to sell everything. Drop them a small part of the whole, say 50 sets of carapace. Let them take ten.”

  He glared at the man. Did it matter 10 sets or a hundred? He turned his gaze away. Forcing himself to calm down.

  Because, yes. It did matter.

  Perhaps he’d let this whole noble thing go to his head.

  But. To his head or no, he made a quiet promise to himself. Given the opportunity, he’d gut these sons of bitches. And he’d do it with a rusty dagger and leave them to die slow.

  Letting out a breath of air, he forced himself to take another small sip of wine. Staring outward at the sky. A minute passed as he fought with his instincts. At last, he set the wine down.

  “Do the minimum you have to, James. Any more than that and we’ll march out of here carrying the lot. We’ll find a land trail from Auenland to Entebrun and trade that way in the future if we must.” James opened his mouth to object and he barked at him. “Damn the costs! There are limits, Sir James. And you are pushing mine!”

  “Yes Milord. On another matter?” He rushed on, a trifle too quickly. Ethan forced his temper down; it wasn’t right to take it out on James.

  “Which?” He took another sip of wine. A far too precise sip, but it was the best he could manage.

  “News My Lord. A great deal of it that affects us.”

  He let his breath out carefully. One breath. Two. “Go on.”

  “Elden’s Eagles had their standard cropped.” Ethan flinched and stared at the man. Elden wasn’t what he’d call a decent man, but what the hell did he do to get his standard snapped in half? Not just broken, but ritually so as both punishment and a true death of hope. And by who? “The Emperor’s chosen did it personally from the rumors. It’s said they turned to banditry when they didn’t get a noble title and the war contracts dried up.” Ethan took a reflexive gulp of wine. He could see it happening. For all that any band was a military formation, that meant little before a Tier 7 in powered golem plate. But already? They hadn’t been gone for that long!

  “Just rumor?”

  “Half rumor, an Imperial Herald was reading a dispatch from the Capital. The dispatch reported the cropping and suggested that any remaining Bands look for honest work at the borders. The rumors are as to what exactly they did, how it was done, who did it to them and if any of them survived long enough to see it.”

  Fuck. Ethan absently rubbed at a faded scar on the bottom of his bicep. A narrow miss with an impi javelin in a battle beside Elden. He made a quiet prayer to Kiron that his early glory would be weighed against this shame.

  He raised his chalice in a final salute. Good man or no, he’d stood fast in battle and held the line. That meant something.

  “Also, we might have a lead on the number of men on the walls.” James offered. “There is a rumor in the market that the Duke’s Northern vassals are feeling put upon. That they may shift their fealty to the Count of Auenland en masse.”

  The wine glass froze halfway down. “More half rumor?”

  “Not as such, Milord.” Miro offered, somewhat reluctantly. “We had a, well if I say a drunk I’d be lying, but anything else would be a guess. He happened on us and was a bit too eager to tell the tale.”

  “Someone wanted us to know?

  “That… seems likely, Milord.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugged, “Maybe one of the Duke's many enemies? Or maybe it was black and-“ She raised her hands, joining the thumbs and flapping the fingers.

  He felt a cold blade running down his spine. A Raven? Even the chance of it had him looking over his shoulder uncomfortably. The Emperor’s agents were as legendary as his armies. Though more as myths and purported hands behind the scenes than any confirmed facts.

  Ethan tapped at the table, slotting this piece of news into the puzzle and finding he didn’t like the shape of the whole.

  “Sir James, double the guard on the wagons. Make sure no one gets a look inside. But quietly. Don’t advertise it.”

  He tapped a while longer, then mused, mostly to himself. “The duke is probably the wealthiest man other than the Emperor, may his grace shine on us, in the empire.” He didn’t pause as James and Miro echoed the benediction. “But he paid his levy in food, Labori and coin. Not fighting men. His troops are fresh and unbloodied. But also unblooded. Not on anything more serious than a Basics revolt and the occasional minor rift. Hell, he hires Bands to handle even those better than half the time. If you throw in the Emperor’s dispatch, maybe even an agent…”

  He trailed off, picturing the maps he’d seen with noble symbols. Symbols he remembered from the lists of battle honors. The northern fields up by the forests of Enterbrun were a far sight less fertile than their southern cousins. But that was a relative thing. They were still rich lands. Able to field large bodies of troops and equip them lavishly. Many had been in the thick of the fighting and were by any metric well blooded. Whether that blooding was a hardening or bleeding was hard to say from the outside. But either way, the men that were left would be leveled, trained and mentally ready for a fight.

  If it came to an open field, he’d give them the odds even if outnumbered by two to one. But only in an open field. For all the weaker troops manning them, the fortifications of Obstrgartenfeld were the real deal. Three concentric walls, each taller than the last. Fitted with a large complement of defensive siege engines, sally gates and one of the largest granaries in the empire. No, with all that and a core’s backing, it would not fall unless the Emperor publicly took a side.

  But even under the table, his will would be felt. Mercenaries, Bandsmen. It was a large portion of the city's usual battle line and without them… they’d have to shy away from open battle… Passively relying on fortifications and natural barriers like rivers and canals. And that would surrender a great deal of ground. A great deal of very fertile, rich ground. Not to mention prestige.

  Rampantly burning the crops would likely bring the Emperor down on their heads, but stealing the harvest? That was a very noble deed! So long as it was still sold. Feeding the empire at large, why would the Emperor mind?

  Ethan let the possible conflict play out in his mind. Strike and counter strike. Skirmishes over harvest collection points and blockades of trade. Raids more likely than armies on an open field, but hardly bloodless affairs even so.

  With a sigh, he let it go. He didn’t know enough to more than outline the still-mostly-rumored conflict. Certainly not enough to say who’d win or what form that victory would take.

  He snorted softly, a wide grin beginning to grace his face. He didn’t need to either. It was an opportunity! For profit, but more for a chance to return the favor the duke had done him. More from spite than actual effectiveness, but you did what you could.

  It might redeem their reputation a bit in the doing as well. At the very least to his own men.

  And that was worth a great deal. “If they want to fight the duke, they’ll be in the market for armor… ” He trailed off meaningfully, glancing at James. “Give the men tonight. And time to sleep it off. But pass the word, with messengers if you must, that everyone is to be back and awake by noon for a feast. Let any watchers see us settling in for it. Then once the foods eaten, we pack up at full speed and march. Yes?”

  The man was a duke; he couldn’t involve himself personally in every little bit of skullduggery. And Ethan doubted that whatever functionary was managing this farce would or could stop them from passing through. Screw them over, sure. But block the way or attack those under the Emperor’s travel writ?

  Not likely.

  James nodded. Smirking slightly. “It will be done, My Lord.”

  “Then get out of here. Go enjoy your evening.”

  He bowed with a small smirk. “Now those are orders I’ll never argue with! My dear, shall we?” he offered his wife an arm, then the two walked off towards their tent jauntily.

  Leaving Ethan to consider their planned course. Selling to the duke’s enemies…

  It was a small thing. A petty thing.

  But somehow, it made him feel a great deal better.

  _______

  The next day, sitting at a raised table above the feasting men, he grabbed a handful of local grapes and a chalice of wine made from the same. Life was good.

  “Careful not to let the local nobles hear you say that, My Lord.”

  Ethan paused, taking a moment to realize he’d said part of that last thought out loud. Not the full one obviously, but that wouldn’t stop a good conversation. “And why might that be?”

  “Obstrgartenfeld is the breadbasket of the empire. They’re all about quantity. Not quality. Grapes practically burst from the vines here. In size and numbers you’ll find nowhere else. But that doesn’t make for good wine.”

  He raised an eyebrow invitingly. It wasn’t an area he knew much about.

  Rainer continued easily. “The best wine comes from vines that barely grow. In sandy soil where they fight for every drop of water merely live. They produce small, shriveled little things. Grapes with all the flavor of their larger brethren concentrated down to near a raisin in size. They’re not fit to eat, but they’re not meant to be.”

  “Try the wines at Auenland when we get there for real quality wine. They are as good as the capitals, just losing out to the higher-level Vintners.”

  “Are you suggesting that adversity and privation improve quality? I’m hardly going to disagree, but I doubt that is a popular idea with the old blood nobility.”

  “You’d be surprised My Lord. It is a widely espoused ideal. And one that even nobles ascribe to. It’s just that privation… well, it can take many forms.” He offered the last sentence somewhat awkwardly.

  Ethan nearly choked on the subject of their banter. Wiping his mouth carefully before continuing. “Like being forced to drink the local wine?”

  “Indeed, a most trying predicament.”

  “Well, let them feel that way. It tastes like wine should to me. That great wall is a bit on the ascidic side.” For all it cost more than ten times as much.

  “I’m not surprised, M Lord. The posca and, umm, large quantity wines sold at the war camp were largely sourced here. I imagine it’s a familiar taste.”

  He gave the man a side-eyed glare. “Are you suggesting I have a soldier's taste for fine wine?”

  “My Lord I would-“

  “Because you’re right. I do. And considering the cost, I’m not of a mind to change that.” Of course, most soldiers would drink any alcohol offered, be it overpriced or plain posca. And he, a leader of soldiers, would do the same.

  “Ah. The problem, Milord, is just as offering a wine of excellent vintage opens doors, being seen to drink the common varieties, outside of special occasions, can close them.”

  “Special occasions?”

  “Ahh, many a noble commander has taken a mug of posca with his troops before battle.” Ethan nodded. He’d raised that mug himself, and not just once. Nothing let the men know you cared for them quite so much as drinking and eating what they did. On occasion at least. “But having one for a reason, and being seen to enjoy it on your own are two different things, My Lord.”

  “And the Southern Duke-” Of the four directional dukes of the capital, each ruling a quarter of the outer rings. “-offering it at his parties?” He was rather famous for it. Or infamous. Which, as he thought about it, rather proved Rainer's point.

  “A duke, and especially a duke with a battle record like his, can afford to be eccentric, My Lord.” And he could not. Ethan chuckled softly.

  Their conversation continued for a time, going over such riveting subjects as table manners and how to fake sophistication in his taste for wine. Which more or less boiled down to sweet being bad and how to recognize several famous brands. Both by sight and by the way they curdled the tongue.

  That last would take some significant practice. Something he’d normally enjoy, but when each small amphora could cost as much as a gold, it somehow tasted even worse.

  Finally, the meal below came to an end, though one that had men looking regretfully at the rather smaller portions of wine than they’d expected.

  Ethan stood and walked around the table, remaining on the small, raised wooden stage. “Alright. The food was good, and the wine better.”

  A roaring cheer broke out and he let it linger for a time.

  “You’ve had a bit of fun, but unfortunately, the locals might be getting into a conflict soon, and we can’t be stuck here waiting for that mess to work itself out. We're going to have to call it short.” He paused and let the men get it out. Groans and quiet curses echoed out, and he felt no small amount of sympathy for them. He’d have preferred a few extra days of civilization himself. Ah well. But that didn’t change anything. “Pack it up, we march in half an hour. Centurions and Decurions you have your orders. Dismissed!”

  The men, experienced campaigners one and all, even the Basics, didn’t just leave. They ran for their tents in a half-organized, half-chaotic scramble that had those same Centurions and Decurions cursing and shouting orders left and right.

  Ethan left them to it.

  “Sir James, Sir Conner, any problems?”

  Conner gestured to James, who thanked him briefly. “None milord. Made the sales this morning to the inner city and to the docks as well. Made a few purchases as well, but nothing large-scale.”

  Ethan nodded, careful not to think too carefully about what the docks entailed.

  “Sir Conner?”

  “Da usual. Nothing too serious, but wes need to have a flogging at our next stop.” Ethan gave him a second, harsher glance. A flogging wasn’t serious? He let it go. If the man didn’t want to say, then he’d more than earned enough trust for that.

  “Anyone else?” He offered, glancing through his nights and senior Centurions.

  “Then let’s get the hell out of this den of vipers.”

  ___