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Chapter 14

Archie


Bayreuth


I was sitting in a tavern that was so mediocre I can’t even recall the name of it, drinking a mug of less-than-mediocre beer that the only reason I was drinking it was because I had paid good coin for it. I’ve had worse, mind you, but I cannot recall any since the burning of The Upright Pig in Jena several years ago. If the tavern keeper’s beer was this bad, I was not about to try his other offerings. I prefer my vinegar to be honest about itself, not to be masquerading as wine.

It was the fourth day of the travel. I had not pushed either my mounts or myself, and had even stopped early in the day to give the three of us a bit of extra rest. I estimated I had traveled maybe seventy miles in the four days, perhaps a bit more. Not as much as I had covered in forced marches as a cavalry trooper, aye, but enough to put some stiffness in the back and legs and remind me that I was a former cavalry trooper now.

On the other hand, I was also my own commander these days, my own captain, no longer reporting to the likes of Colonel Farquhar, fine man that he was. And so I called my own marches, and if I wanted to curtail a ride, why, it was my own business, now was it not?

I looked down at the beer, took another pull at it, and muttered that my captain should have picked a better tavern.

“Your first time in Bayreuth?” A body settled onto the stool across the table from me. I looked up to see a younger-than-me man smiling at me as he set his own mug on the table. A soldier, I gathered from the buff coat he wore and the pistol that hung on one side of his belt and the cavalry saber that hung on the other.

“Ja,” I responded. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, in my experience, there are three types of folks who drink beer in this place: those who have no nose for beer, those who are so dirt poor they can afford nothing better, and those poor souls who have arrived in Bayreuth for the first time and have no idea what sort of place they have walked into.” He tilted his head down a bit and looked at me from beneath bushy eyebrows.

I chuckled. “A fair hit in the ring, I confess it.”

He looked me over. “A soldier? Between companies, maybe?”

“Ex-soldier. Retired now.” I held up my left hand with its less-than-complete rank of fingers, and he nodded.

“I’ve seen that before,” he said. “Makes it a bit hard to hold onto things with the tips of your strong fingers gone like that.”

“It does that.” I gave him a nod, and followed it with, “You look like you’re still serving. Who with, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Bretagne’s Company, originally recruited out of Savoy, and still mostly Savoyards on the roll, for all that we’ve been serving in and around Grantville and Thuringia-Franconia the last few years.” He reached up and touched the brim of his hat near where two feathers—one white and one red—rose out of the hatband.

“Battles?” I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t heard of anything near Grantville in quite some time. If there had been recent fighting, it was news to me, and I wanted to hear of it.

“Nein.” He waved a hand to one side. “We do mostly security work.”

“Bodyguarding?”

“Some of that, yes, but mostly guarding locations or shipments of valuable cargo, particularly of up-time tools or materials that can’t be easily replaced.”

“Ah, getting paid for helping rich merchants sleep well at night. Pays well, does it?”

“Well enough that we’re expanding the company by a squad.” He gave me a sly grin. “You interested? My captain would love to have an experienced man like you in the ranks.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “I’ve spent my time on the back of a horse riding patrols. I work for one of those rich merchants now. The pay’s better, the food’s a long sight better, and I get to sleep indoors in my own bed most nights.”

He shared my chuckle. “And who are you and who do you work for, then?”

“I am Archibald Gottesfreund, assistant and companion to Master Titus Wulff, of Jena,” I responded. “Call me Archie. You know of him?” I continued as his eyebrows climbed.

“I’ve heard of him,” he replied. “Captain Bretagne has note files on most of the influential people in the Grantville to Magdeburg corridor, and some from outside it. Master Wulff’s name was prominent, and his file was thick. The man seems to have fingers in every pie worth tasting, and people lining up to sell him more.”

I shook my head with a smile. “No, if Master Titus is in his usual practice, they give him the pie and walk away feeling good that they did it.”

The expression on my face after I took another pull at my beer must have been tragic, for the soldier gave a laugh before taking a swig from his own drink. I raised my eyebrows at him, and he laughed again.

“I wouldn’t drink Schlottmann’s beer if you paid me,” he said. “Well, I might if you put enough guilders on the table, but not otherwise. But his winter wine is drinkable, and has a kick to it.”

“A man of discernment, I gather. What’s your name and rank, soldier?”

“Wolfe. Sergeant Hans Wolfe.” At that moment, another figure loomed up behind him dressed similarly. “And this man-mountain is Origgi, my squad’s leading private. We’re doing courier duty for the captain back to the Savoy, for Origgi’s sins. Sit, Origgi.”

I got a better look at the man as he settled with care onto a stool, as if to test if it would hold his weight before he committed to it. He wasn’t a giant, but he was the largest piece of manflesh I had seen in quite some time. His buff coat did not come from a single ox, I can testify to that.

“What was it this last time, Origgi? Filthy weapon again?”

“No, Sarn’t. Drunk and disrespecting the guard, Sarn’t.”

“Oh, that’s right. Time before that was the filthy weapon, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Sarn’t.”

Wolfe looked at me. “And since he’s my man…”

“You have to ride along to keep him under orders.”

“I see you know the type.”

I snorted. “Sergeant, for more than a few years, I was the type. I’m a half-Scot and I rode with Colonel Farquhar’s Scots horse company in northern France for fourteen years.”

Wolfe shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to think about what riding with an entire company of Scots would be like.”

“Interesting, Sergeant. Very interesting. But in my salad days, riding independent courier duty wasn’t considered a punishment.”

“It is if your pay has been stopped, you’re not with your buddies to borrow from, and the only mount that can bear your weight is a Belgian breed that you have to climb like a high pass arete to get into the saddle.”

I winced at that. “My sympathy for you, Origgi. And not to change the subject, but I need a meal, and after tasting the beer here, I’m not sure I want to try their food.”

Wolfe shuddered. “Wise man.” He drained his cup, and pushed my mug over to his man. “Here, Origgi, finish that and follow me.” He rose to his feet and turned to me. “Allow me to show you to a better establishment than this, Archie.” I stood as well and readily followed him from the mediocre tavern whose name I still can’t remember, followed by the thump of Origgi’s boots hitting the floor behind me.

We ended up at a tavern called The Golden Cockerel. And yes, I’ve heard every form of vulgar joke that can be made out of that name, and probably some you haven’t thought of, so don’t bother trying. It wasn’t as good as the best in Jena, but it was good for all that. The two soldiers shared a goose pie, more of which went to Origgi than to his sergeant, I had slices cut off a mutton roast, the bread was fresh for all that it was barley, and the beer was rather better than just drinkable. We started talking about their courier runs and where all the couriers ran and how often, including Munich, Augsburg, and Ulm. By the time the food was gone and we were into the second round of beer, the evening became filled with the type of stories that begin with “No shit, there I was…” They started it, but I held up my side of the conversation and gave as good as I got.

The tavern keeper pushed us out the door as the last patrons of the evening. My new friends escorted me back to my inn, for which I was thankful. I’d had enough beer that navigating a strange town might have proven to be, shall we say, tricksy? We may have serenaded the night watchmen as we traversed our way. I don’t remember anything between closing the door of my room behind me and the wretched roosters’ crowing the next morn.

***

I awoke the next morning feeling as if a mouse had died in my mouth—or worse. The innkeeper took one look at me as I stumbled out of my room dragging my bags behind me, and offered me a small cup of Brandtwein—for a price. I paid it.

By the time I finished strapping my bags on Maus—my second horse, not whatever it was that died in my mouth—I was starting to feel a bit better. I led them out of the stable, swung up on Cortana’s saddle, and nudged him forward, muffling a groan as the footsteps resonated in my still aching head.

It did me a bit of good when I turned the corner toward the gate and met Sergeant Wolfe and his hapless companion Origgi coming down the main road. Wolfe looked worse than I felt, which I wasn’t sure how that was possible, but it still comforted me. Origgi, however, looked no worse for the night’s wear, which I at first considered to be a sign of the unjustness of life…until I got a look at the horse he was riding. The animal was the largest mount I’d ever seen a saddle on. My hips ached just watching Origgi having to straddle the beast. I rode on the other side of the sergeant and maintained my distance from the hulking brutes, mount and rider alike. Looking at the strain on Origgi’s legs, I decided there may be justice in the world after all.

The sergeant and I exchanged small nods. It looked like that hurt him more than it hurt me, which was little comfort. We moved as little as possible and said less as we made our way to the gate. Some ways down the road on the other side, Wolfe held out a hand and pulled up. Origgi brought his mount to a standstill as well. Curious, I stopped and looked over at the sergeant.

“Remind me never to get in a drinking contest with you, Archie.” His voice was rough, and up close his eyes were more red than white. Somehow I doubted mine were any better. “Keeping up with you last night has well-nigh slayed me.”

“And here it was I thought I was doing the keeping up with you,” I replied, “the doing of which has left me closer to death than to life on this very morning. I’ll not be so fast to lift mugs with you in the future my own self.” For some reason the Isle of Skye was coming out in my speech that morning. Must have been the hangover.

A small smile crossed his lips. “You’re a good man, Archie.” He stuck out his hand.

“You’re a braw man yourself, Hans.” I clasped his hand, and we wrung as hard as we could for a long moment, before we both gave it up as a bad business.

“Where’s your next ride taking you, Archie?”

“Augsberg, and then on south from there.”

“Ah. Well, we’ve company business to see to in Munich, and then it’s southwest to Savoy from there for us. So perhaps we’ll meet again along the road. But, in case we don’t, take this.”

He handed me what I thought at first was a coin. Right size and shape to be a guilder, but made out of brass and it had a square hole in the middle of it, so it obviously wasn’t money. I looked at it, then back at him.

“Captain Bretagne had these made up. He calls them medallions, but most of the troops call them tokens, or marks of favor, or something like that. If you’ve got one, it gets you discounts on services, and gets you recognition with our troops at any place or any time. It’s got our name scrolled around the rim, with our motto on one side and our address on the other. Keep it in your pocket for now, and give it to Master Wulff when you get home. Who knows, it might be of use to you on this ride.”

I looked at it. I could see there were marks on it, but my eyes were so bleary I couldn’t make them out. I took his word for it, and thrust the token deep in the pocket of my buff coat.

“My thanks to you, Sergeant, and I’ll indeed pass this to the master when I return. Safe travels to you both, and I look forward to our next meeting.”

“God’s hand on you as well, Archie.”

We all three touched hands to hat brims as an informal salute, and they urged their mounts into motion. I watched that horse move, and my sympathy for Origgi grew. I shook my head, then said, “Come on, lads. We’ve a distance to travel of our own,” and nudged Cortana into motion.



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