“Is there a battle ahead?” I asked.
The soldier looked at me like I was retarded.
“Would I be charging into a battle?” he demanded. “Haven’t you heard? The palace burned down! The heirs to the throne are all dead. The word is we’ll have a new government.” He swelled his scrawny chest. “A military government!”
He dusted off his clothes. “So, anyway, the captain ordered us to charge the tavern up the road. Free drinks, there’ll be.” He puffed out his chest again. “After that, we’ll maybe burn one or two villages.”
He retrieved his sword from the road and waved it above his head.
“For junta and country!” he cried, and began a shambling run up the road.
After I resumed my seat, Gwendolyn started the cart in motion.
“That sounds bad,” I commented.
“What do you care about the Royal Palace?” demanded Gwendolyn.
“Not that. Favor to the world, burning down that pile of refuse. No, I meant the part about the military government. You heard him. It’s obvious the soldiery’ll take it as an excuse to commit atrocities on the population.”
Gwendolyn laughed. Behind me, Wolfgang giggled.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, in a resigned voice. I was getting tired of being the butt of their humor.
“This is Goimr, my boy,” cackled Wolfgang. “Now, if this was Sfinctria, or even Pryggia, your fears would have substance. Quite the proper committers of atrocities, your Sfinctrian army. And the Pryggs are no slouches, either. But Goimric soldiers? Commit atrocities? I fear you overestimate their capabilities.”
“The last time the Goimric army tried to plunder a village,” commented Gwendolyn, “the inhabitants sent them packing.” She looked back at me, grinning like a wolf. “And they were lucky the men were still in the fields. They suffered thirty percent casualties at the hands of the women and children.”
“They’re really that bad?”
“As you have earlier surmised yourself,” remarked Wolfgang, “Grotum does not tremble at the rattling of Goimric sabers.”
I shook my head. “They’ll get better, I’m afraid. I don’t know much about politics, but I spent enough time around my uncles to know that Ozar will be sending in military advisers, soon enough.”
“With your uncles along, no doubt,” came Gwendolyn’s sneering voice, “like proper soldiers of fortune.”
I controlled my temper. “Actually,” I replied in a calm voice, “they’ll not be involved. They refuse to participate in such affairs. It’s one of the reasons they always turn down the offers of the Ozarine government to give them regular commissions. They say occupation work corrodes the soul.”
Wolfgang cackled. “Such a crazy world! Mercenaries with honor! Of course, they are Sfondrati-Piccolominis.”
I remembered the last emissary of the Senate, sent packing from our house with a boot mark on his behind. Ludovigo’s boot, that’d been—he was always the most ill-tempered of my condottiere uncles.
“Have you got a war somewhere?” he’d demanded of the emissary. “A real war, I’m talking about?”
The emissary had hemmed and hawed, rambling on about the geostrategic significance of the pacification of some far distant land I’d never heard of. But he didn’t get very far along. Ludovigo is not a patient man. The boot had followed, with my other uncles contributing verbal mayhem.
When the emissary was gone, scuttling down the street, Ludovigo had turned to me, scowling and chewing his mustachios.
“Remember this, boy,” he’d growled. “Seventeen, you are now. You’ll be a grown man soon, responsible for your actions.” His glare was joined by that of my other uncles. “The family will forgive a wolf, but we’ve no mercy for jackals.”
“Certainly not!” I’d exclaimed, not really understanding the ins and outs of the matter. But I understood my uncle’s boot.
“What a world we’ve produced,” sighed Ludovigo. He’d resumed his seat, planted his boot on the table, drained his mug. “There was a time when it was a proud thing, to be an Ozarine. Go back in the family line, you’ll find that plenty of Sfondrati-Piccolominis served in the army of Ozarae. With pride and distinction. Pride and distinction.” He sneered. “Now, I’d as soon join a pack of hyenas.”
“I’d rather join a pack of hyenas,” my uncle Rodrigo had contributed. “Never claim to be more than scavengers, your honest hyenas.”