The money Bueralan left with was enough to suggest that Lady Jaora knew the issue was coming to a head and wasn’t confident about winning.
She gave him five golden coins. Each was minted in Gogair, and thus shaped in the regular quadrangles of that country’s currency. She had promised him another five at the end of the week, and another twenty if he was still alive when the fighting was over. It wasn’t bad pay: the ajh was a worthwhile currency. Of course, there were better ones. If Bueralan had his way, he would be paid in Ooilan raqs. He would have to melt three ajh to make just one of the hole-punched pieces from his homeland. But in compensation for that imagined loss, he snagged a clean shirt from a room full of fresh uniforms on his way out. It had an Echoes insignia, but that, Bueralan decided, only made it worth a little more to him. He stepped out into the afternoon’s sun with the shirt tucked beneath his arm.
Rafya Khoury was waiting for him outside the bathhouse. She leant against the wall with an air of nonchalance, as if the job of playing messenger was not beneath her. ‘I thought I’d have to go back empty-handed,’ she said easily as he approached. ‘Lord Makara has requested your presence at his home.’
‘I’d like a bath first,’ he said.
‘We all have desires. Yours will just have to remain unfulfilled.’
He could have pushed it, but didn’t. ‘I guess you heard I met with Lady Jaora?’ he asked as they began to walk down the street, away from both the bathhouse and Jaora’s house.
‘The laudanum seller told me.’ When Bueralan made no response, Khoury continued. ‘It sounds like you’ve given some thought to what I said last night, at least. Working this town is an easy job for a mercenary. No battlefields, no letters to write to families after someone dies. It might change in a few days, but after that, I think it’ll go back to being quiet and easy.’
‘You think this town will go back to being quiet?’ They passed The Last Courtesy and another water tower. In the alley next to the brothel, Bueralan saw the small cart he’d noticed on his way into town, beside the two white workers who’d offered him water. ‘I’ve seen slave markets before. They’re worse than any battlefield.’
‘Maybe in Ooila, but here the two don’t compare.’
In Ooila, Bueralan did not say, there were more children. That was the primary trade in his home country. Wealthy families would buy young boys and girls to be blood brothers and sisters for their natural-born children. They told themselves that, rather than simply taking a child from his or her natural family, they were bettering the child, giving it an education, an opportunity. It did not matter that those children rarely survived into adulthood.
In Zajce, the Captain of Scratch opened the door to a three-storey building made from dark brick. Apart from the colour, it was identical to the one Lady Jaora lived in, and Bueralan was not surprised to see barrels of water lining the hallway beyond the door. Outside, soldiers from Scratch milled around, just like their Echoes counterparts. He almost smiled as he was led up to the second floor and into a room that was likewise similar to the one where he’d met Jaora. Makara, a lean white man with greying hair, needed only the two mercenaries at his side to complete the image. He did not disappoint.
‘Baron Le,’ the Lord said, his voice deep and calming. ‘You have seen my old partner today. Is she well?’
‘She looked fine,’ he said. ‘But as I told her, I haven’t been a baron for a long time.’
‘Since the Thousandth Prince’s revolution, from what I understand. You were one of the leaders who were exiled after it failed.’
‘It was a difficult time,’ Bueralan said. ‘But I don’t believe you called me here to discuss my past.’
‘No.’ Makara smiled. The point, both he and Bueralan knew, was simply to let one man know that he knew about the other. ‘No, what I am here to discuss is the safety of my town. The future of it, if you will. Tell me, did anyone check you at the gate when you entered?’
‘No.’
‘No,’ he repeated. ‘You see my problem. Anyone can enter. Anyone can leave. I control part of the streets, but not the gates. If I controlled them, I would control Zajce.’
‘First you have to complete the walls,’ Bueralan said. ‘Then you can put in some gates.’
‘I am trying to speak to you as an equal,’ Makara said. ‘I believe you are a man who has seen good governance. You know how important it is to control borders. Do not speak as a man who is no more than a common mercenary. I need a man who can see the future as I do.’
‘You don’t have a future, if Jaora remains alive. Whether Mayor Kana’s army makes it here or not. Jaora has you pulling back your soldiers, giving up parts of the town. You’re no better, right now, than that half-built wall around Zajce.’
Makara’s gaze slipped past Bueralan, to Captain Khoury. Whatever passed between the two must have been positive, because Bueralan did not feel the tip of a sword against his spine. ‘How much has Jaora paid you?’
‘Five ajh in the hand, another five next week. Twenty if I’m alive at the end.’
‘Are you worth that?’
‘Who can say?’
‘I can.’ Makara leant back in his chair. ‘But five ajh is a lot of gold. No single mercenary is paid that much here. None would demand it, even Syl.’
‘I hear a lot about Syl,’ Bueralan said, ‘but I don’t see her around.’
‘She’ll be back tomorrow night,’ Khoury said. ‘That’s when things will start to pick up, one way or another.’
‘The captain is right.’ Makara held Bueralan’s gaze. ‘Because of that, I’ll double what Jaora is paying you. Ten ajh. There will be no second week, so you’ll not need another ten. But if you’re alive at the end, I’ll pay you forty ajh.’