The First Spear winced and rubbed the scar on his scalp. ” ‘Fraid I can’t. Fight, I mean. I can do most anything else—didn’t even seem to lose any of my wits. But the chirurgeon told me that my skull’s not up to any more blows. Kill me straight up, he said.”
His dark eyes studied Demansk for a moment. Then, he turned his head again and looked at his new wife. “I dunno, sir,” he mumbled. “I wouldn’t mind, myself. Been kind of bored, to tell you the truth. But Ilset’s not really old enough to run the farm on her own, and . . .” He swallowed. “Truth is, I’d miss her something terrible.”
The last remarked warmed Demansk—and, perhaps oddly, reassured him. The one uncertainty he’d had in coming here was the First Spear’s temperament. As a troop leader, the man had been superb. It was no accident that he’d risen to the highest slot a ranker could be promoted to. But the inevitable social distance between someone like him and a noble Justiciar in the modern Confederacy had made his actual personality an unknown factor to Demansk.
What pleased him was not so much that the man obviously doted on his wife. That was not really uncommon, for all the officially patriarchal nature of Confederate society. It was the fact that he was so readily able and willing to admit it. That spoke both to the First Spear’s deep self-confidence as well as his lack of concern for long-standing custom.
Both of which he’s going to need, thought Demansk, if he agrees to my assignment.
“That’s not a problem,” he said. “As it happens, I’d prefer it if your wife accompanied you anyway.” He rushed ahead, forestalling the next objection. “And you needn’t worry about the farm. I’ll buy it back from you for twice what you paid for it—including extra for improvements—and I’ll set aside a large retirement bonus for when the assignment’s done.”
Honesty forced him to add: “Though I can’t tell you how soon that would be. Several years, most likely.”
Again, the First Spear’s dark eyes studied Demansk. Then, without taking his eyes from the Justiciar, he turned his head a bit and growled: “Go back into the house, Ilset. And close the door.”
She obeyed promptly. Clearly enough, however much the First Spear doted on his wife, he retained the usual authority of a Confederate husband in his own family.
After he heard the door close, he took a long, slow breath. “Begging your pardon, sir—I realize it’s not really my place to ask—but . . . how dangerous is this assignment really going to be, if I take it? Not for me, but for my kinfolk.”
Demansk was impressed by the man’s intelligence. All high-ranking troopers, of course, were adept in the skills of war. But most of them gave little thought, if any, to the complexities of political maneuver.
Demansk didn’t answer immediately. He examined the house, for a moment. A typical yeoman farmer’s dwelling, thatch roof over mudbrick construction. A bit larger and better made than most. There were panes in the two small windows in addition to the shutters, even if they were made of the cloudy glass which was all anyone except noblemen could afford.
His eyes ranged to the north, as if trying to study the unseen village where the First Spear’s kinfolk lived. He was fairly certain he’d see much the same thing. A small settlement of freemen, who had managed to carve out a decent life for themselves amidst the steady decay of the Confederacy of Vanbert.
“It’s possible they could all be impaled,” he stated curtly, “if the worst happens. Not likely, but I can’t rule it out. They’d certainly be stripped of their lands and sold into slavery.”
Having gotten it out, he added a bit hastily: “But that’s if the very worst happens. Which, to be honest, is not all that likely. If for no other reason, simply because things will be such a ratfuck mess that nobody will really know any longer who did what to whom. Your kinfolk would be more or less invisible in the fog.”
The First Spear chuckled. “Like that, huh? ‘Interesting times,’ as they say.” He gave the house his own quick examination. “And what if things turn out well?”