Caravan of Courage: IC

Jelkela, Morning, March 22, 1257


A wretched hive of scum and villainy, the Lucky Dog tavern was well-known haven for those far lost from polite society in Jelkela. Frequented by petty criminals, ruffians, and all other manner of dishonorable souls, it was not the type of place that usually counted well-respect merchants among as its regular patrons. However, Bertram was desperate and out of options. He had lost three caravans in as many weeks and his trading company was on the verge of ruin.

With a quiet prayer on his lips Bertram entered the tavern with Paulos following close behind him. Alarmingly, the tavern still contained a number of patrons and the smell of ale generously distributed, particularly on the dirt floor, greeted the pair.

Bertram felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the worried face of Paulos. Drawing close, the valet spoke in a low voice,"My lord, if I may...is this course of action truly the wisest choice?" 

"Paulos," Bertram firmly replied. "I grow tired of your caution. We need a captain to lead the caravan guard and Orso, for all his flaws, is that man."

"He is a drinking, before midday, in a place like this. What sort of noble chooses to freely associate with scoundrels like this... Surely..." Paulos began, pausing as he carefully stepped over a pool of vomit which had hastily been covered by straw, "...we can find a more suitable unaffiliated fighter. What about the Swadian from last spring? Or Jarl Marayirr's bastard. He was handy with an axe and..."
 
"Enough! Do not try to sway my mind any further Paulos. Orso is our man, regardless of what you or my wife may think about the matter."

"As you will, Baron," Paulos replied with a slight frown and a nod of his head, clearly not pleased with the outcome of their short discussion.

Moving further into the tavern and deftly avoiding a developing fight that materialized in his path, Bertram finally found Orso draped across a bench in the corner of the tavern. Dead to the world, the grizzled Rhodok soldier lay face down across the scarred wooden furniture with several empty tankards of ale resting around him. Without hesitating the old merchant grabbed a nearby flagon of water from a passing serving girl and emptied it over the prone figure's head.

"Ga-!!! I’ll kill you, you bastard!" the bedraggled man roared, stumbling to his feet as he attempted to draw a weapon which he clearly no longer carried on his hip and instead crashing into the table in front of him, which groaned in protest and seemed to be on the verge of breaking beneath him.

"I’ve a job for you Orso," the old man said looking down at Orso, not quite managing to hide the disgust on his features at the state of the other man, who unsteadily began to rise to his feet. "The roads leading to Dhirim are not what they once were, my old friend. Bandits, deserters and all manner of malefactors threaten all those who travel on the roads. They strike without warning and prey on the strong as well as the weak, vanishing into the forests before they can be brought to justice and leaving naught but death in their wake."

Drawing a heavy breath, Bertram ran a hand through his graying hair, making no effort to hide his pained face,"I've lost three sizable caravans in less than a month and I can’t afford to lose another one. I need a competent captain to take charge of the sole remaining caravan that belongs to me and to see that this time my shipment of goods arrives safely in Dhirim. What do you --"

"I’m retired," the Rhodok replied disinterestedly, almost falling to the ground again as he sat down. "Find another for your fool’s errand, Swadian, I’ve far more important business to attend to here in Jelkela."

"Be that as it may...you owe me a favor, Orso, a great one at that.," the old man countered with a serious face, unconcerned by the angry glare that the soldier shot in his direction at the mention of old promises. Sitting down, Bertram nodded in the direction of the bar and gestured at the barrel of ale over which the pretty barmaid presided. "You can drink yourself to death afterwards if you so choose, but first, first you must repay your debt to me."

A current of anger gave way to a familiar hint of violent fury in the features of the other man, but Bertram knew Orso better than to worry. With a shake of his head Orso finally grumbled his acquiescence, a deep sigh releasing the anger from his heart, “Fine, fine, but you’ll have to lend me some coin...I need to buy back my armor and weapons.”

Looking down his nose at the disheveled knight Paulos sniffed before speaking. "My lord, perhaps an ‘advance’ on Sir Orso’s payment could be provided...if he vows not to drink it up."

"Well now, that all depends, how generous would this advance be?" Orso replied, flashing a most inhospitable smile in the direction of the valet.

"It will be enough," Bertram quickly interjected before the sharp-tongued steward had a chance to escalate the situation any further.

The manservant's eyes locked with those of Sir Orso, neither of them willing to look away or even blink in fear of appearing to be the weaker man.

"My lord, might I suggest that we provide our brave knight with half of his payment," Paulos began with a sly grin on his face. "That sum should provide enough coinage to outfit the Captain more than adequately. Let us just hope ‘enough’ is worth the sizable investment."

"An excellent suggestion Paulos,"Bertram declared, clapping his hands together and slowly standing, wincing as his legs straightened. He smiled at the other two, "Old wounds. Orso, I’m sure you remember…Paulos, be a lad and go with the Captain."

"My lord?" Paulos nervously said as his face slowly began to turn into an ashen color. "You want me to accompany the Captain as he seeks an outfitter and then return to you?"

Bertram laughed,"Heavens no! I want you to accompany Sir Orso and the caravan to Dhirim. Treat him as if he was of my own household and aid him in as best you can, after all, we hired him for his sword arm and not his business acumen. I’m sure he’ll come to rely on you as I have over these last few years."

Paulos sat unmoving, for the first time in a long time unable to arrive at a suitable response, as the thundering laughter of Orso filled the tavern.

Summoning the barmaid over with a wave of his hand, Orso whispered what appeared to be a familiar ordered, and sat smiling as the women returned with the four generous goblets of Jelkelan wine. Taking hold of two of goblets he smiled first at Paulos and then Bertram, before speaking with a newfound mirth,"Come then friends, let us have a toast to our venture before we seek out those pitiful souls desperate enough to trade their lives on the road to Dhirim for the paltry promise of coin."

Qualug Tarkhan counted his decent pile of silver once, and then again to make sure. A total thirty-three silver denari and thirteen small silver sestertii, lay present, more then enough to feed a man for a month. Satisfied, he began his morning routines. Qualug washed his face, redid his Khergit ponytail and beard knot, and lifted his saddle and bags to his shoulder, containing all of his worldly possessions. His lamellar vest was strapped to the saddle, along with his quivers and warbow of vaegirian yew. He wore but his Khergit robes, shield dangling at his side, with axe and dagger. Everything else was in his saddlebags somewhere.

A denari to the tavern-keeper for room and breakfast for another day. The meal was hearty, chicken soup, a thick slice of bread and cup of ale. It might of been a bit early for ale, but even the meanest ale was better then the water they served in this city. In the few weeks Qualug had been here, he had learned that the water was only good if one wanted to spend the day on a chamber pot.

His morning, (and main), meal eaten, Qualug left for the common stables with his kit. Not the smaller noble stables that catered to the high born of Rhodokia and their messengers, but the larger one, mostly for merchants and their mercenaries. He had to see to his horse, and he did not put it above the Rhodoks to steal anything he owned.

The sun was yet rising when he arrived at the stables. The stableboys did not bother him, as they has become accustomed to Khergit.

Arkrijuth perked up and neighed when her rider poked his head into the confining rhodok stall. The light grey horse pushed against the stall's door until Qualug opened it, and lead her to the corral. Finally free, (albeit in a small, some what inclosed space), the mare pranced around while Qualug rested himself on the fence; his saddle, bag and kit slung over the wall.

22 March, Hills east of Jelkala.

A black mass of cloth lay sprawled, prone in the twigs, heather, and tall grasses of the scenic highland hill. Goman pushed these obstructions clear of the tightened back bowstring's path. The calm air did not have the strength to carry the hunter's scent downwind to the beast. It had taken an hour to approach the animal undetected in the vastness of the mountain. Moving gingerly through shallow defilades sloping off and down to one side over hundreds of meters and praying to the heavens that the beast remained still for long enough.

When Goman reached the avenue he would approach by, a slight incline rising at the Stag's side, he slowed his movement down to a step every fifty heartbeats. Gradually his steps turned to a low crawl, painfully slow. But now, after so long, so carefully and yet harshly approaching in dead silence, he could just see it through and over the sticks and straws.

The art never lay in making the long shot. It was stealth alone which made it possible. And stealth does not beg for time, it begs for the inattentive eye of the prey, and massive patience on the part of the predator. Bring them to their end without their realization. Allow them to be assured of their continued life, for it has not ended thus far.

Goman pulled an ounce more, and the stillness of the aim, the tiring of the muscle, and the position of the target were at climax. No more waiting, his fingers loosed, and the string snapped forward to crack against the bow wood and sprung the arrow into the chest cavity. The stag leaped up and galloped off for a few seconds uphill, quickly losing momentum and potently realizing its demise in some way. It buckled down and moaned out its last breaths before being silenced by a quick thrust into the base of the skull.

Goman had heard tales from tribes to the far east of the cruelties inflicted on beasts by town dwellers to attempt to make them more flavorful. He did not understand how it should be so. But he did know beasts. He would lose something dear to him to show such menace for a momentary pleasure. Each creature under the heavens does bleed out eventually, and when it gives its blood to him, he will accept it as a gift. A gift which the heavens and the beats under it bestow upon him as hospitality, for he exists not in a land of his own making or choosing. Guest in Nature's tent.

He called loud and hard, shrilly, and a small brown mare made its way to him from where he left it. Goman dragged the slain beast to a convenient boulder and elevated its hind, letting gravity empty the gallons. Rolling up his sleeves, the tribesman cupped his hands under the crimson, refreshing himself. Satisfied that the blood had emptied, Goman opened up the stag and cleared out the intestines. The Heart, Liver, and Gizzards were harvested, and the other chest cavity organs disposed of.

Removing the thick saddlecloth was a little difficult with Sharwa acting skitterish from the scent of blood. Not a welcome trait in a battle horse, but it always seemed she could control her fear enough to not buck or run away, at least.
There was no more complaint besides a troubled neigh.

The disemboweled stag was a heck of a load for Sharwa, but Goman carried as else as he could to compensate as they made their encumbered way to a nearby Jelkalan outskirt village. Lightly enforced as the game laws were, this was the Rhodok King's stag. It would be suicide to bring this to town, but perfectly sensible to slip it into a backroom of a silkweaver's abode to trade for a load of food and denars that was more managable for one person. The townsfolk got a fair price for the meat, and could make it last.

Goman would have shared such a kill with his tribe some years ago, but he could never preserve and consume all that meat for himself with what he owned. And a soldier must be not be overburdened, as Orso would say. So down into town a tired horse and rider went, to rest at the stable.

Qualug watched as his mare gleefully pranced around for a few minutes, the flighty steppe mare stretching her legs after being cooped in a relatively tiny stall. Every night, Qualug left, putting her in a stall. Come morning, the mare was more then happy stretch her legs like she would have done on the steppe.

It did not last long, however. With a whistle, he called the mare back, the roan managing to restrain herself and trot back to her owner. With an almost depressed sigh, Qualug gently scratched the mare for a few seconds before pulling his saddle off the wall and strapping it to Arkrijuth. His skills needed to stay sharp, and even loath as he was to cut the mare's freedom short, Qualug need to practice his art. Mounting her, he prepared to leave. There was a training field outside Jelkala,  he needed to complete his daily practice if he was to have any chance to attract the patronage of a Noyan when he returned to the Khanate.

As he prepared to ride out, a stable-boy ran up to the Khergit. "Sir, Jurthmus would like today's cost of stabler and feed, before you leave."

Qualug grunted, fishing out a denar from his silver-pouch. He would have to find some sort of work soon, idea one that either fed him or provided more then two denarii a day. With a dissatisfied grunt he tossed the heavy silver coin to the servant. "Tell you're master that he is paid, the extortionist that he is."

The stableboy caught the coin easily, glanced at it, winced, and spoke again. "Beg pardon, sir, but the cost has increased. My master demands five denarii to stable and feed your mare."

Qualug looked at the boy with a serious glace. "Boy, in the Khanate, lying is punished with a whipping, if not losing one's tongue. Speak the truth, or allow me to go on with my business."

"Mylord, I do not lie, it is five denarii for a night --"

Qualug exploded. "Five full denarii to stable a mare?! What extortion is this? In any other civilized town I could stable a horse for a week under such price! In the Khanate I could stable her for a month!"

"Sire, the recent losses to the supply of grain-"

The Khergit did not hear the stable boy's plea's. The red blanket of rage had covered his vision, and he roared, screamed and ranted at the poor stableboy.

Eadmund stood next to Amarante, his dark bay rouncey; using his spear in his left hand as a walking stick, a sword and a leather bag by his side, a cloak over his shoulders, and a kite-shield on his back that all left his right hand free for the lead rope. Eadmund was looking at the huge walls of Jelkala in front of him, and it reminded him so much of his own town of birth. A number of mules pulling carts, packhorses, and pedestrians trundled past on their way into town. The King's standard hung above the northern gate of Jelkala that was flanked by two spearmen.

Leading Amarante by the headstall towards the gate, Eadmund whistled to himself. Children, dirty faced and dressed, crowded around and spoke to Eadmund like they knew him or otherwise to offer useless trinkets for measly prices but as he approached the gate, they are shooed off by one of the guarding spearmen, the latter's massive pavise shield almost hiding him. “Morning,” they said, giving each other a cursory nod.

Walking through the gate, the town was so alive. Straight ahead was an arch beyond which were the markets that would be bustling in a few hours, to the left was the town's arena that was usually mobbed by town folk, and to the right was one of the inns and the stables.
Eadmund was met by an old acquintance whose son, after Eadmund took all valuables off, took command of Amarante and led her to the stables. Eadmund and his friend took the arch and walked through to the market, immersing themselves in the hubbub of the morning traders setting up.

“The boy'll make sure your fine mare is well catered for. But my dear fellow, how are you? The girls alright? Been long in the country?”asked his friend.

“Sire, I'm fine. Poor, but fine,” Eadmund responded, “the lasses are fine as well and send their love. But I haven't seen home since the beginning of the year.”

“Well, once we've got you settled down you can do what you came here to do. I have quite a bit of business so you don't need me to babysit you, right?” the friend asked.

“No, it's fine,” Eadmund said, smirking and looking about at the sights, "haven't been here in ages so it'd be nice to have a dekko about.”

“'A dekko about'? Well sure, but you'll have to leave those at the house,” indicating the spear, shield and bags, “and still, keep your eyes open and your mind clear.”

"Thank you."

It would be interesting to see how Jelkala had changed, if at all, since he last saw it some nine years-ago. Those were the days. Going on drinking expeditions with his old comrades-in-arms of the old company. But still before the profitable times.

Goman entered the stable doors with a furrowed, questioning brow, Sharwa reigned in behind.
His eyes darted to the source of the commotion, a Khergit blaring disapproval at a child. The Sarranid recognized the stableboy and a denar in his hands, recoiling from the verbal storm.

Squinting, Goman reached into his saddlebag and then walked in between the child and the shouting, purple faced man. He handed something to the child, spun him around and then nudged him towards the door. The boy hurried off, and Goman faced the horseman.
"I paid a full denar for this." he spoke calmly, reaching into a bag of barley that fit in the grasp of his left hand, showing the Khergit the grains falling back into the bag.

Collaboration: Úlf and GisforGammaa




"Come then friends, let us have a toast to our venture before we seek out those pitiful souls desperate enough to trade their lives on the road to Dhirim for the paltry promise of coin."

Paulos stared at his beverage while his fat master and the drunkard knight crashed their goblets together. The two men laughed and smiled clearly happy to be in each others company again after so many years if only for this brief moment. 

Paulos wanted to scream. Never in a thousand years did he expect to be sent to serve the disgraced warrior who sat opposite of him, over enjoying the wine in his cup. Worse, he was being sent into the wilds between civilization. Bandits and savages and worse roamed the wooded hills beyond the city walls attacking unsuspecting travelers simply for the joy drawn from their fear.

What had he done to be punished so? Had he not served Master Bertram diligently these last four years? Waking before the dawn to draw his Master a bath and laying out his finest silken robes and slippers. Was the manse not maintained at the highest level, the cooks and maids appropriately terrified of Paulos' wrath should they fail to perform to his expectations?

Paulos had been the perfect majordomo and the fat bastard had betrayed him into the hands of a drunkard.

His thoughts drifted to the many ways he would die on the road.

"Paulos...Paulos, wake up man." Bertram's voice snapped him out of his morbidity.

"M-Master?" He stumbled over his usual response. Unuse to being caught off guard. Orso smiled at him from across the table. Clearly the valette had missed something in their exchange.

"I said that I expect you to show the utmost respect to Orso here. The history we share is no small thing and I know how billigernt your tongue can be!" The fat man laughed at his own joke. Paulos smiled his most innocent smile. It never reached his eyes.

"Of course, Master. I'm sure Lord Orso will come to count on me as you have." Addressing the old knight with such respect turned his gut. Perhaps death would be swift and he wouldn't have to suffer under the drunk for long.

"Good lad, see Orso? I told you. Paulos is the best you could have by yourside." Bertram said before raising his glass one last time and finishing the rest of his drink. "Now, I will leave the two of you to get acquainted and equipped."

Finishing his second drink, Orso nodded, offering a wide smile. "Of that I have no doubt you always had an eye for picking out the best soldiers." Rising to his feat, this time with far less difficulty, Orso clasped hand over the merchant's shoulder. "Fear not old friend, I will see your goods to their destination and your servant returned to you unharmed."

Wandering into the crowded streets of Jelkela, Paulos and Orso headed towards the stable of Jurthmus.

"This paltry sum of coin will hardly be enough for a well-trained horse," Orso complained while idly weighing the sizable pouch of coin that Bertram had given him in his right hand.

"Master Bertram has generously arranged for a stallion to be provided for you, 'Lord' Orso." The hawk-nosed Paulos nearly choked. Clearly the thought of Orso beyond anything more than an annoyance was anathema to the foppishly dressed servant.

"Wonderful, let us see to this horse then, the men can wait, after all a knight is only as good as his horse," Orso replied with a smile. "Lead on Paulos, to the stables of Jurthmus!"

"Then we should be thankful that the quality of a horse should not rely on the quality of its knight." Paulos mumbled to himself, just loud enough to be heard.

"What was that?" Orso asked, waving a hand dismissively as he focused on walking in a straight line.

"Nothing Lord, just commenting on the pedigree of your steed."

"Good, good, Bertram was never one to favor poor horses, but onwards Paulos, we have much to accomplish before the day is done."

The two men made their way through the winding streets and alleys of the city. The artisans and commoners lowered their eyes in difference, or perhaps disdain, of the two men passed them by. The smell of the bakers and smithies chimney stacks covered the worst of the lingering smell of human waste that clung to all cities.

Much to Paulos's displeasure the journy from the tavern to the stables took lonver than expected, with his stumbling warrior-companion stopping to speak to several smiths and shop keeps, only to halfheartedly promise to return later that afternoon to look over their wares one last time before setting out from the city. 

A plain sign, reading only Stable, finally indicated that the pair had arrived at Jurthmus' equestrian lodgings. A simple building of wood, the stable was clean and well-kept, with little in the way of decorations or unnecessary features. In short, it spoke of the hard-earned lessons picked up from a lifetime spent soldiering; waste not, want not.

"Jurthmus!?" Oso shouted, finding the stable empty of both its master and attendents. Growing tired of waiting Orso gestured to valet, "Come Paulos, let us find this absent stable-master."

Wandering around the side of Jurthmus' stable the strange pair were greeted by the sight of a dismounted Sarranid horseman staring daggers at a Khergit outrider on his steppe horse, while a stable boy fled towards the sanctuary of the stable proper. Orso paused as recognition began to dawn on him, past the haze of the alcohol, and he squinted against the light of the sun to get a better look.

"Goman?"Orso loudly asked. "Goman! Where have you been? I've got a job for you, pays good enough and there's sure to be trouble, so we've no time to pick fights with foreigners."

Qualug paused to catch his breath, and in that moment a young Sarranid shooed away the stableboy that had become that target of his now exhausted ire. Looking the tribesman up and down, Qualug watched him pull out a small bag of barley and showed it to him.

"I paid a full denar for this."

Qualug's jaw dropped. "That's... insane. What could have forced the price of feed up so much?"

A pair of men entered the stable in the background, one a grizzled veteran from his scars and another a manservant from his clothes. After a second of squinting, the Rhodok yelled out to the Sarranid "Goman? Goman! Where have you been? I've got a job for you, pays good enough and there's sure to be trouble, so we've no time to pick fights with foreigners."

Qualug shook his head. He would be out of coin in the week if he stayed here in Jelkala. Pulling out his warbow, he stung the powerful shaft of yew. "Well, I'm not staying in this city then. Better to ride the open road; a few days will get me to Reyvadin. Plus, there is plenty of grass beyond the city walls." He tapped his mare forward, put his warbow into it's sheath, and reached back to undo his lamellar vest from it's saddle strap.

''Come Ashraf'' Thedran pulled on the rope and the donkey followed with, they were almost inside Jelkala. The guards gave him a quick look, after all, Thedran was clad in armor and well armed. The Swadian returned the look and entered the city will little trouble.

Thedran made his way to a stable, but before he even entered the shack, Thedran could make out the distinct shout of a Khergit. Thedran grabbed the handle of his dagger and made his way in, following a knight and what Thedran assumed was his servant. He relaxed and followed the men in, listening in on their conversation

"Goman? Goman! Where have you been? I've got a job for you, pays good enough and there's sure to be trouble, so we've no time to pick fights with foreigners."

Thedran made note of the livery of the knight and his servant, as well as their face before looking for the stable boy.

''A donkey? That'll be three denarii a day''

Thedran frowned but paid the boy

''I suppose its a good thing I might not stay here too long, this is almost robbery, its an ass, not a prized stallion''

''I don't make the prizes sir!'' shouted the kid

Thedran sighed and paid his due. ''Where's the nearest tavern, then?''

''The Lucky Dog is close, but its not... recommended, the patrons are going to rob you for sure!''

''I can defend myself boy, thanks for that, here, drink's on me'' he said, taking a bottle of ale from his saddlebag and giving it to the stableboy, before leaving for the tavern.

"Goman?"Orso loudly asked. "Goman! Where have you been? I've got a job for you, pays good enough and there's sure to be trouble, so we've no time to pick fights with foreigners."

Goman's ears perked behind the turban and he cocked his head to the side to see Orso as he called. His eyes smiled and he quickly moved to greet Orso, spilling a bit of expensive barley before sealing up the tie on the bag. "Sehlam, my friend!" He said, only marginally successfully containing the happy breaking of his young voice.

"I've been a few days on a hunting trip, and I took a beautiful Stag in these green hills of yours. You should have seen the antlers!" He took a second to slow down, and detected the strong scent of alcohol coming off of Orso. Goman waggled his finger at Orso, slowly hissing "Haraaaam" jovially.

More formally Goman spoke, "I'll follow you anywhere, Brother. Lead on."

More formally Goman spoke, "I'll follow you anywhere, Brother. Lead on."

"Wonderful, that makes at least one soul committed to this expedition that I can trust, other than Paulos of course," Orso replied, offering an honest smile at Goman and a rueful wink in the direction of his newly acquired valet.

Paulos clearly wasn't as impressed with the young man as Orso was. He looked at the dark skinned youth with the eyes of a man about to purchase an ass. "A fine edition to our venture, Lord Orso." the servant made no attempt to hide his contempt.

"Enough Paulos!" Orso shot back at the valet, a frown showing on his feature for the first time in several hours. "I've had my fill of your banter for the moment, you would do well to mind your manners when addressing my friends."

"Of course, My lord. No offense to your comrade intended. Simply a poor jest."

"No harm, no foul Paulos, Bertram will never know," Orso said slapping the valet on the shoulder and laughing. Leaning in closer to the valet, he spoke in a low voice as he gestured at Goman, "Although, I'd watch myself around Goman if I were you, he's very proud you see, and rather good with a knife."



Qualug shook his head. He would be out of coin in the week if he stayed here in Jelkala. Pulling out his warbow, he strung the powerful shaft of yew. "Well, I'm not staying in this city then. Better to ride the open road; a few days will get me to Reyvadin. Plus, there is plenty of grass beyond the city walls." He tapped his mare forward, put his warbow into it's sheath, and reached back to undo his lamellar vest from it's saddle strap.

Orso eyed the Khergit thougtfully, paying particular attention to how proficiently the foreigner strung his warbow and the ease with which he guided his mount.

Coming to a decision, Orso raised an open hand and stepped in front of the mounted horseman,"Stranger, you look like the capable sort, a man used to time on the road and a life spent far from the safety of city walls. Dare I say, the sort of man who knows his way around a sword and bow. I pride myself on having an eye for that sort of talent and experience as it were. Help us escort a trade caravan to Dhirim and we will pay you...what will we pay him Paulos?"

"For such an...accomplished blade. Three hundred denars. With an additional thirty-three every week to cover any expenses. That would be more than fair, Lord."

As Qualug strapped his Lamellar vest to his chest, the grizzled Rhodok whom just finished talking to the tribemen barred his path with a plaintive gesture.

"Stranger, you look like the capable sort, a man used to time on the road and a life spent far from the safety of city walls. Dare I say, the sort of man who knows his way around a sword and bow. I pride myself on having an eye for that sort of talent and experience as it were. Help us escort a trade caravan to Dhirim and we will pay you...what will we pay him Paulos?"

"For such an...accomplished blade. Three hundred denars. With an additional thirty-three every week to cover any expenses. That would be more than fair, Lord."

More then fair indeed, actually being quite generous. Barring unforeseen circumstances, he could hole up for several months in Vaegiria and live quite comfortably, or even a year at a stretch should he economize. Long enough for the Noyans to forget his old bandit affiliations, so that he could return home and perhaps settle down for good. And Dhirim was on his route anyways, he would only be losing the time wasted on waiting for the slower caravan.

There had to be a catch, of course. But to ask now would only put the Rhodok on the defensive, and perhaps destroy the opportunity that lay ahead. And if worse came to worse, he was confident in his ability to out ride any sticky situation.

Dismounting to stand even with the Rhodok, he nodded, and offered his hand. "Tis a good offer, and I would be remiss if I did not avail myself to it. Although I do have questions, they can certainly be answered later. I am Qualug of Ada Kulum." 

Several streets away

Eadmund and his friend arrived at the latter's home. It was one of the myriad of terraced, two-storey, half-timbered houses that constituted the guilds-men quarter of the city. Inviting Eadmund into his home, they had to stoop to get through the door which was difficult for Eadmund what with his panniers and a shield on his back and a five-cubit long spear. The friend took off his coif and cloak, and Eadmund doing the same with his, handed them to a housemaid who welcomed the two men. He left his sword belt, spear, shield and his panniers under the stairs. It was dark in the house even at this time of day and with the few lit rushlight candles dotted about the room. The house smelt of lavender, wood smoke and of bread that drifted over from a nearby bakery. The friend went through a door to search for food.

When he came back, a handsome pale faced woman and a radiant damoiselle were following. Eadmund gave them a slight bow as he was introduced. Both wearing pleasant smiles, they curtsied respectfully, and were introduced as the mistress of the home and their daughter. Following them into another room on the ground floor, they sat with the men taking the heads of the table. Sitting to his right, the young girl immediately started in an attempt to talk to Eadmund in the Rhodok tongue.

“Rina, speak Calradian. You need to practise and he will understand if you make any mistakes.”

“Sorry, Pa. Sorry, Edmondo.”

“It's fine. It's just Eadmund, by the way,” said Eadmund.

Presently, and before the conversation could continue, the maid returned with food. It was a modest meal of white bread, cheese and ale.

“I will start today searching for employment,” said Eadmund after they had eaten, “with one of these famous Jelkelan litsters or those velvet producers. I might even take a look into what the King's service would entail. Not enthused about that though. Sorry for intruding on your home.”

“Sire, all is well,” said the mistress, “And you are welcome here and may stay for as long as you need. I know you and hubby are close.”

“Bless you, my lady.” thanked Eadmund, bowing his head. Turning to his friend, “Remember five years ago? That skirmish when our vingtaine was waylaid by those odoriferous steppe folk?”

“How could I forget. We got them back though, didn't we?” said with a smile.

“We sure did. My old shirt of maille got severely damaged. Saved my life, it did. But it's about time I got myself a replacement. I'm wondering if there is some-place I can get myself one cheaply.”

“I understand. I don't particularly know of any places that do them cheaply but I'll show you a perfect little armourer's that makes wonderfully well-made things on order. I will need to go that way, anyway.”