153
Not Slavers
The group of Quistadors plowing through brush and snow were a sorry sight. At first glance they were slavers, but to the eyes of Scout Two they were a bunch more interested in finding someplace to stay, not anyone to capture and drag off. “Ewan”, Oran called softly to his partner, three paces back and five right, “what do you see?” He felt the Celt, with whom he’d worked before, slide closer.
“No stealth. No scouting. Two different groups give commands – little group, big group. They don’t get along, except the leaders. The armsmen aren’t taking this seriously.” There came a three-second pause. “Maybe they came for slaves, but they’re not interested in anything but getting warm. I think they didn’t have enough supplies.”
“Yeah”, Oran agreed. “Not enough supplies for now means not enough at all means they never planned to go back.” He frowned. “Where’s the slaver patrol? Artur won’t be happy they missed a group like this.” Knowing the group wasn’t going to see him, he still slid backwards off the rise before rolling to his knees. “Something’s wrong here.”
“You’re sending Runner.”
“Yeah. Grab our rifles – let’s get higher.”
The way Runner could communicate what Oran wanted gave Antonio chills. The cat came bounding up to his column and delivered something like a growling meow, his way of announcing that he had orders. Antonio just watched as the scout-companion leapt to his best group of riflemen and swatted at every single one. He propelled the score toward their horses, then proceeded to add don Delgado and his man Ruiz, don Cortez and his squire, to the mounted group. The great cat gave Antonio a glance and lash of his tail, which Antonio took to mean “You can come, too”, and led off. The pace wasn’t an easy one.
“They are
not slavers”, Kelsin hissed in aggravation. “Pay attention, rifleman! They’re hunting, yes, but look at the way they’re hunting: they’re after someone they think is moving, not for a path to a village.”
“The leaders are angry”, Brina observed. She was more attuned to emotion clues than most Scouts. “They were tracking their target – then they lost them.”
“Yeahhhhhh”, Kelsin sort of hummed, agreeing. “Rifleman, tell your leftenant we watch and don’t get seen. Brina – see if you can find whoever it is they’re hunting for. Let’s figure this out before we do anything.” He noticed the rifleman was still there, staring at him.
“You Mounted Rifles are helpers, you’re not in charge”, Kelsin said slowly, emphasizing each word. “I’m the Scout who found them, so I’m in charge. If you can’t look at them and tell they’re not slavers, you don’t even get an opinion. If I still see you here after my next fart, Rhabadh-rí Chen will hear abou–“ He grinned at the way the rifleman, finally given an incentive he understood, scrambled. Discipline held; the man – a dozen years Kelsin’s elder – kept low and quiet.
“Life! Not quiet enough”, Kelsin muttered to himself. Well, this troop had been looking more east, so east he’d lead.... “Ghost in the snow”, he told himself, “except with traces.”
Yellow snow is annoying to lay by, but Oran considered it better than the discomfort of a pulsing bladder. While he’d been moving, he noticed the need, but when he slid into place on a lump, the added pressure had tipped the scales. He couldn’t remember for sure if he’d brought the ability to pee while laying on his side with him from Earth, or invented it here; one thing, though, was certain – peeing in a dozen centimeters of cold snow had the advantage of not splattering, and it kept the smell from spreading, too. Then the trick was to move away while rotating, and come down gently. Once it would have been two or three different maneuvers; now his muscles were so fit and tuned that it came as one gliding motion he didn’t even think about. Anyone recently from either Earth would have said it was like a close between ballet and gymnastics; to Oran it was just part of the job.
Ewan landed beside him. “Two groups”, he noted. “Guess where the local patrol is?”
“Fumbling around over there. Frak! No, wait – someone sent a runner....” He watched a tiny disturbance cutting close across the path of the intruders, staying silent, waiting to see if Ewan would pick up on it.
“Two Scouts out there”, came the conclusion finally. “One’s coming to see what those fighters are hunting. The other is giving them a faint trail to follow.”
“And now cutting back to lead the riflemen. The Celt patrol must have circled around behind”, he deduced, because none of the locals here would trust that bunch to do it quietly.” Oran further deduced that these riflemen were new; they were eager but obviously inexperienced.
While he was watching, Brina glided up and joined them. “You’re on my high spot”, she chided.
“Knew you didn’t see us”, Ewan replied; she didn’t dispute it.
“Far troop is hunting the near ones”, Brina told Oran. He hadn’t seen that, but then he’d been busy getting the bigger picture.
“Hunting someone, anyway”, he mused, knowing she was right: the first group was the bunch that messenger had told Antonio about, and the second was someone interested in making certain not just that they never got back, but that they never got anywhere. That by itself was enough, but Oran had other considerations: someone wanted to get to Antonio and had gone to the trouble and expense of putting together a fake slaver bunch to do it; now someone didn’t want that to happen – so he had to wonder if they knew what the first group did, and didn’t want Antonio to know? Or did they plan to try to take the first group’s place? Whatever their plan was, he needed to stop it, for the purpose of gathering information.
“Brina, who’s with you?” he asked.
“Kelsin. He’s waiting till he figures out what’s going on.” She wiped a trickle of mucous from her nose, refusing to sniffle – that was a sound that carried.
Oran smiled. Kelsin was steady – and he knew some things. Though it wasn’t necessary, he turned to look; Runner was close, bringing the requested reinforcements. Scout Two sent an image of Runner leading the men in between the two groups. Runner’s return image was of a playful kitten bouncing off trees and men and horses until they were where Oran wanted them.
Ewan’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Hunters are stopping.” He gave Oran a heartbeat to look. “One tripped over something. Ah – old tree stump. He’s angry, kicking it.” And the leader was upset, grabbing the angry one and spinning him. The man slipped and fell.
“Snow isn’t that slippery” Brina stated, Ewan nodding agreement. The mystery was solved a moment later as the fallen man’s companion lifted, not his friend, but a fistful of coin in the air. Amazingly, he didn’t yell.
“Well, they aren’t going anywhere for a while”, Oran muttered, a tinge disgusted. The next moment the snowy woods echoed to first one, then another birdcall of species not know to the world – at least as far as any of them knew. Oran checked his rifle and took aim. “Ewan – leader-second, up front. Thighs; we need him alive.” Then he gently squeezed his trigger.
“Staggered line, facing north, let’s move!” Kelsin called softly. Enough volume for the dozen riflemen to hear risked letting the target know they weren’t alone, but it didn’t matter. The bird calls had been emphatic: turn and prepare to subdue.
“Do Stellar’s Jays live here?” Samson asked Antonio.
Antonio laughed quietly. “No – that’s a Scout giving orders. Runner’s gone lazy, so we’re where Oran wants us. I think that last call means we’re just supposed to stop anyone who tries to fight.”
“Is there a signal?” Samson inquired, honestly curious. “Like another bird?
A rifle shot rang out. “Yeah, the Mark III Rifle bird”, Antonio laughed.
The leader, bending over to scoop up silver from the hollow it filled, felt pain in his right thigh. It was enough his leg didn’t want to take the weight, but discipline and training held. He turned, his brain having identified a firearm as the origin of the sound, and as he shouted orders, his right hand reached inside his vest and drew out a flintlock pistol. Just when he’d decided it was dry and ready, a second lance of pain cut through the same thigh. Since he’d turned to face the source of the sound, this bullet followed a slightly different path. Where it grazed the first path, already-shredded muscle descended into a state of badly-done ground meat. The earlier downward motion of his body resumed, this time out of control.
Dominique and Natanael drew swords and formed a triangle with Raúl the moment the monstrous animal bounded through their procession, knocking down three of their hired fighters. Victor had his out without thinking, as well, but as the beast bounded back through, knocking three more fighters off their feet, he laughed.
“It’s a cat, and it’s playing”, he called. He turned to see Leonido yelling, ineffectually, at more of their fighters. Eight of them broke off in chase of the animal.
Victor sighed. They’d reached the end of their journey, he was certain. It was time for a good lung-full of air. “Don Antonio de la Vega!” he shouted. A memory clicked. “Bid your Scout call back his cat!” His conscious mind figured out what his subconscious already had: if a Scout with a cat companion was here, so was someone of rank, almost certainly, and in their present location, that likely meant don Antonio.
At the front of the hunter band, men with crossbows dropped to cover. Their own officer was already down, his assistant tightening a sash high on the leg to stop blood. Others fanned out, prepared to do battle as the tough roughlands veterans they were.
“These know their work”, Brina commented. “They are confident.”
“So I noticed. I’ll fix that”, Oran responded grimly. His sights fell on the crown of a head, of one of the more hidden crossbowmen; his finger moved the trigger.
Brains flew back. Their comrade had been hidden; what musketman’s stray bullet had delivered such a fate?
“They don’t understand what they’re up against”, Ewan observed. “Two at once?” He didn’t need to see Oran’s nod. “Three... two... one....”
Two heads ruptured like ripe melons tossed from a battlement. Experience and discipline began to erode from fear. Then to their left, a line of men in mottled blue uniforms emerged from the trees. Commands they didn’t understand were yelled, and the muskets in their hands – muskets that didn’t look right – lowered. In spite of themselves, half the crossbowmen rolled to watch. One word was yelled – and eight men around the force commander went down. As they turned back, two more heads exploded.
“Cease fire!” Oran called. He heard the Celts moving in from the back. Below to his left, Kelsin advanced into the open with a dozen rifles. From the information he’d recently learned about the Realm, he made a guess at the thoughts taking place in the badly-mauled force before him: a dozen muskets meant at least a caballero; ten more – he grinned as Antonio’s other ten arrived on the left of the first group – meant possibly a viscount; a dozen on the one hand and a score on the other... what were they facing?
Time to tell them. One Kinner-Ruger in his left hand, the other ready in cross-draw holster, he stood and trotted down the hill. Initially the men he was approaching sat or knelt in shock, but then a spearman swivelled to bring his weapon around. Oran didn’t even think about it: threat appeared, threat removed. The man went down with two holes in his chest – but that wasn’t the straw on the camel’s back, it was the fact that Oran hadn’t even slowed to aim, had hardly looked at the man. The Scout’s arm had come up and back down, the revolver in it roaring twice, and he just kept moving.
“Den se por vencidos!” he called. “Esto yo digo en el nombre del Conde de la Vega.”
Surrender yourselves! I say it in the name of Count de la Vega.
A man with a slender sword, unlike the usual Quistador blade, stepped forward, but didn’t drop the weapon. “¿Quien es, este Conde? ¿Es uno que da lealtad al Duque?”
Who is this Count? One who gives loyalty to the Duke?
Antonio came riding in, accompanied by the two knights – caballeros, to the Quistadors – don Delgado and don Cortez, and their squires. They’d thrown on the custom laminated wood breastplates Master Aengus made for nobles under Rigel’s authority, over their clothes, and exchanged travel cloaks for better ones trimmed in rich color. “I’m that Count, and my loyalty is not to your Duke. Nor shall it ever be, so long as the blasphemy called slavery remains in the Realm.” He sat looking down, letting his companions enjoy the looks of complete defeat on the faces of all but a handful of the invaders. First ambush, then muskets like they’d never seen, that shot straight! and enough muskets for a full Count... and now the Count himself, on horseback, with caballeros indeed not just in name, with mounted
squires! Their reality had been shattered, and not many could bear it.
Oran stopped outside of the reach of the slender sword. Eyes met in understanding, and the man nodded. “Very well. I am Caballero-Ayudante Rodolfo Salvador Montdragón de Blanco. If I surrender, what will become of my men and myself?”
Oran liked the order: first his men. “First we care for your wounded, and get you to somewhere warm and dry.” A quick trilled birdcall brought field medics running forward to begin that care. “I say we’ll start on the wounded now.”
Caballero-Ayudante Montdragón watched a moment, and shook his head slightly at the sight of aid rendered to those who hadn’t yet actually surrendered. “We will not be returning to our homes”, he judged.
“True”, Oran admitted. “But if you have families left behind, we have ways of getting them here.”
Montdragón laughed outright. “From the Duke’s city? Not likely. No”, he continued, sobering, “merely because we do not return, they will be sold into slavery.”
Oran grinned. “Then that’s how we’ll get them back. Caballero – no, first surrender. You aren’t slavers, so you don’t have to do hard labor. But you didn’t come peacefully, either, so you’ll have to serve some sort of sentence – don Antonio gets to sort that out.”
“There’s nothing to sort: a certain upstanding caballero’s son seduced the offspring of a dear friend of the Duke. The caballero has already become not upstanding, and then become not. We were sent to find this son and his friends, and make them not.”
“Did she get pregnant?” Oran inquired, wondering at the extreme length of the punishment.
Montdragón studied the Scout a moment, then shrugged. “I cannot be punished for speaking of it, here. One Leonido who has lost his name seduced the heir of a notable caballero. If the heir had taken the position of a man, nothing would have been done but to see to it that this Leonido could never speak of it. But as they exchanged places... one does not do such things to the heir of a friend of the Duke.
Antonio kicked Muskatel lightly with his heels and rode into enemy territory. “Add that to the crimes your Duke supports: if a man can wield a sword in loyal service, where and how he wields his own sword is no other man’s business.”
The enemy spokesman looked up, laughter in his eyes. “Except of his partner. Don Antonio, I go where I am sent and do as I am bid. I am not required to agree.”
Brina had trotted forward to stand by Oran. “He needs someone to be loyal to”, she declared softly. “He can’t set his own course.”
Oran looked at the caballero-ayudante until a response came. “You have a seer-girl – take caution.” He sighed deeply. “She sees truly. It is a flaw. A bishop once told me it makes me faithful to those under my command.
“You spoke of penalties. But we have done no crime.”
Oran looked to Antonio. “In my eyes, yes. But these aren’t my lands. They are under the sword of Artur, king of Celts. That you came, unbidden, armed, is an offense in his eyes – to the council of chiefs, too. My guess – he won’t insist on much, probably all your weapons.”
“I do not surrender my sword.”
“We can work that out”, Samson chimed in. “Ransom it, possibly.”
A voice in pain yelled. “You cannot surrender them! I command!”
Montdragón looked down at Oran’s Kinner-Ruger. “You would bring a blessing to the world, to end him.”
Oran grinned. “Some of your men, you could do without?”
“Some of ‘my’ men are someone else’s creatures, set to bedevil me.”
“Okay – you can keep your sword, and any of those creatures you don’t want, we’ll give to King Artur.” In a way Oran was sad that no one objected. Did it mean they were becoming less civilized? From a certain perspective, he thought maybe it meant they were getting more so – but that was a topic best suited for a late night in the hot springs or baths.
Caballero-Ayudante Montdragón chuckled. “Acceptable. Very well, I give us to you as conquered ones, Conde de la Vega.” Oran whistled, and from the north Celts moved in, taking weapons.
“You’re some of the Escobar investigators”, Antonio summarized that night around a fire in a well-sealed lodge. “And while most had no idea what an Escobar was, some who did didn’t like Escobars, and at least one seriously hated you.”
“Enough to kill”, Victor agreed, feeling hollow now that the escape was done. “When I heard there were armed men....” He nodded to Montdragón. “I feared you pursued us.”
“They pursued me”, Leonido grumbled – some might have called it a whine. “He was willing!” He sucked back a sob. “And my family are all slaves because of our pleasure.”
Oran shook his head. “There were eight hundred thirty-six sueldos in that stump. If we can find your family, we can buy them and bring them south. But silver coin like that doesn’t buy very many quality slaves.”
Antonio answered the unstated question. “Right now I can’t spare much, either. Once trade gets moving, more. If Devon has more gold from that half-assed mine, more. Don’t worry, though, don Rodolfo; we’ll find and ransom your families as fast as we can. You swore to my service; I owe it to you.
“Thinking of service – how do you feel about Inquisitors?”
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