One Tin Soldier

[Josette]

Listen, children, to a story that was written long ago,
'bout a kingdom on a mountain, and the valley folks below.

[Josette]

“Treasure, sir?”

“Yes, you heard me correctly.” There was a groan of leather as the Boyar tipped back in his chair, his hands clasping and resting atop his sizable midsection. “Treasure. Gold.” His thin lips pulled back to reveal a line of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, barred in devilish grin. “More than we can imagine, from what the reports claim.”

The only other man in the room, inversely, leaned forward in his chair. His hands, thick with sturdy gloves, rest atop his knees as he considered his next words; to question the Boyar was not something that Connick cared to do. However, as the commander of his armies, the man felt it necessary to learn more. “Which reports would these be, sir? If you do not mind my asking.”

If Connick had indeed offended Boyar Regis Dyskin the Third, the portly man gave no indication. Instead, he continued to peer at his companion from beneath bushy eyebrows. “Reports from my taxmen, mostly. And occasionally, a good civilian, who felt it worthy information to be passed along.” Regis gave a small shrug, and added, “it seems the citizens of this particular city see no reason to keep quiet regarding their newly acquired riches.”

The commander mused over his superior’s words for a moment, before offering a short nod. “I suppose it is worth following up.”

“And I agree!” In an action that was surprisingly quick for such a large man, Regis shifted forward and struck the top of his ornate wooden desk with a clenched fist. Papers were sent skittering to the floor, but the Boyar hardly noticed. His face reddened with excitement as he climbed to his feet. “These people are under my care, are they not? My armies ensure their safety, and my laws maintain their peace. It is therefore entirely appropriate that I at least inquire about this treasure.” With an expression both quizzical and expectant, he asked, “do you agree, Connick?”

“I agree, sir,” the man replied automatically, his robotic tone suggesting that he would answer the same regardless of his actual thoughts on the matter.

Yet Regis appeared satisfied, a smug approval drifting across his features. “I thought you might.”

Both men fell into a deep silence, one of anxiety, and one of contemplation. Connick watched the Boyar as he paced the length of his large office. Regis paused occasionally, but only to study one of the paintings or sculptures that decorated the room. It was not until he came to rest before the crackling fire that he finally put voice to his thoughts. “We shall draft a letter to the mayor of the city, requesting more information on this fortune of theirs. Should their response warrant further investigation, we will act accordingly at that time.”

Nothing suggested that the topic was up for discussion, and with a curt farewell, Connick excused himself.

[Josette]

A week had passed before Connick was once more summoned to the Boyar’s office. This time, however, the voice that answered his knock was far from sing-songy. Instead, it was sharp, hot, and enough to make the six-foot-seven commander wince.

“Enter!”

He did so, albeit hesitantly. “You called for me, sir?” Connick’s gut reaction was to avert his gaze, his jade eyes remaining fixed on a point just in front of the desk. Even despite these precautions, the heat of Regis’ rage washed over him. There was no cheery fire in the hearth this morning, which was perhaps fitting, as the mood did not call for it. The city, Connick surmised, had not responded well to the letter.

It was not long before his suspicions were confirmed. “Do you know,” the Boyar sneered, “what these imbeciles had the nerve to say to me?”

From his post just inside the door, the taller man offered a small shrug. “No, sir.” An expectant pause followed, and when Connick realized he was being waited on, he made an attempt. “Did they refuse to divulge information?”

A loud snort answered him. Then, bitterly, “I would much prefer an outright refusal. Instead, I am given this.”

His balled fist opened, and a crumpled piece of paper plummeted to the well-swept wooden floor. Connick scurried to retrieve it, before retiring back to the safety of the doorway. Carefully, and well aware of the Boyar’s sweat that dampened the paper, he unfurled its edges, and began to read.

“Lord Dyskin, it is with immense pleasure that we respond to your note. We are incredibly honored that you might dedicate some of your precious time to contacting us. As for the treasure that you speak of, yes, it does exist. In fact, it is our greatest accomplishment; we are especially proud of it. Should you be interested, we would like nothing more than to share the secrets, and the riches, of our home.” He cleared his throat, immediately aware of which line had so offended the Boyar. Then, his voice wavering slightly, he concluded, “humbly yours, Jameson Kavich, Count of Torrine.”

When Connick finally glanced up from the letter, he was startled by the state he found Regis in. The man’s face was flushed a deep crimson, his brows furrowed, beads of sweat glimmering across his features. Further inspection revealed that the large man actually trembled, the pent-up rage nearly enough to topple him. A frown tugged at Connick’s lips. He had never seen the Boyar so upset.

[Josette]

“The nerve of this Kavich man.” Regis’ words were impossibly cold, a stark contrast to the heat he continued to radiate. “To offer to share the gold with me? Is he mad? Does he know who I am?”

“I imagine so, sir. Everyone in Salvar knows you, and elsewhere too, I suspect.” Though it was a hypothetical question, Connick had seen an opportunity to flatter his companion. That always worked to smooth his feathers, and this occasion was no exception.

The round man stilled his shaking, and some of the deep lines that criss-crossed his forehead faded. He did not smile, but when he finally replied, his tone had thawed significantly. “Do you think so?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Regis gave a low hum of thought, a hand raking through his hair. It was short, and thinning in places, but dyed a deep, inky black by all manner of concoctions. “It is important that the people know that I have their best interest at heart. All I have done has been for them! However.” He paused, turning to pace away from Connick. “I operate on respect and discipline. If my people cannot abide by the rules I set, how can I be expected to rule them?” Growing more sure of himself, the Boyar’s step quickened, and his words came more quickly. “This Count can use all of the flowery words at his disposal, but his refusal to hand over the entirety of the treasure suggests he cares very little about myself, or what I do here. I could not possibly let him get away with this. I must set an example.”

“Sir, if I might.”

Regis, and his train of thought, halted. His frown revealed that he was miffed by the interruption, but he turned to Connick nonetheless. “Yes?”

The commander of the Boyar’s army shifted from one foot to another. “Sir, I would only caution you. What sort of example are you looking to set? I worry that your people might be frightened by a display of power against their own.” Both gloved hands rose, motioning his pardon before Regis could speak. “Only as they do not know the full story, my lord. They do not know what Torrine has done to you, or the treasure.”

The outburst that Connick anticipated never came. Rather, Regis merely regarded him with a thoughtful expression, his fingers tracing his impressive mustache. “I suppose you are right, Connick,” he admitted finally. “I could publicize the treasure, yet that might attract unwanted attention.” There was no need for the man to specify; it was quite clear that he referred to the Church. Regis had always been somewhat disenchanted by the Church of the Ethereal Sway, annoyed by their sense of entitlement, and frustrated by their tendencies to meddle in his affairs. Twice in the last five years had their representatives audited his actions, claiming that they were merely ensuring consistency across the twelve provinces. Was it not enough that he suffered through the Salvic Council meetings? “No,” he muttered. “No, I would rather we keep this amongst ourselves.”

[Josette]

It was only then that Regis glanced down, and realized that his bearish hands were still clenched into fists. He spread them slowly, and pressed them, palms down, atop his desk. He heaved a great sigh, the expulsion of air deflating him as he slumped back into his chair. “What, then, am I to do? I cannot possibly let this Count get away with his,” one hand moved to circle the air as he struggled to find the word, “blatant disobedience. Yet I cannot risk turning my people against me, or inviting others into what is my business only.”

“I understand your concern, sir,” Connick assured the Boyar. However, in truth, he was merely relieved that he would not be asked to set his troops on a largely innocent city. While Regis might see disobedience from civilians as reason for death, his commander did not.

His relief was short-lived. Regis’ eyes widened as an idea struck him, and excitedly, he announced, “I’ll hire arcane knights to take care of Torrine for me.”

Connick blinked back. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Arcane knights, Connick. Magic.”

“I know what they are, sir.” There was an edge of disapproval in his tone, replacing the initial shock. “I wonder why it is that you are considering using them.”

Regis frowned. “Well why not? They will get the job done, far better than our more typical soldiers.” The dig at Connick’s men did not go unnoticed, but it did go unanswered. The Boyar continued. “And they will not be traced back to us. Why would I, a member of the Salvic Council, engage in such things? I would not dream of interacting with such people, let along hiring them. I am quite certain that this will detach me from any blame.”

And when the Boyar used the phrase ‘I am quite certain,’ there was no changing his mind. It was Connick’s turn to sigh, though he did so as discreetly as possible; his chest hardly moved beneath his robes. Still, he could not bring himself to agree with his superior. Instead, he simply asked, “how, sir, do you hope to arrange for such a thing without attaching your name?”

Where a frown had once rest, now only a wicked smile resided. “I know a man.”

[Josette]

Nine days later.

"They told me you were quiet, but I did not expect them to send me a mute."

The voice was soft, barely audible over the tavern's din, and came from just over my right shoulder. Cool air pressed through the window I sat beside, and midnight's darkness turned the panes into a mirror; I wearily watched the reflection of the mercenary as he eased into a rickety chair.

"No comeback?" he continued, lips curling as he leaned forward, the wood groaning beneath the movement. His expression was not one of smug amusement, but rather, genuine curiosity.

I shifted atop my own chair, finally turning to face him, before replying, "I was not aware that conversation was a requirement on this assignment."

His smile widened. "S'not," he answered easily, "but I find it helps the time pass." Only then did his expression grow sly, his green eyes flashing devilishly. They were already narrowed by drooping eyelids, and marred by crowsfeet, but they seemed to shrink still as he studied me. Whether the lines came from worry or laughter, I could not say for sure. I suspected a bit of the former, as no mercenary could escape such things, but more than a healthy dose of the latter. "Kronin does enough conversing for the lot of us, among other things. It is a wonder time doesn't just fly for him."

"Kronin?" I echoed. The name tugged faintly at threads of foggy memory, but I could not conjure up a face to match it.

The older man studied me, as if unsure that I was serious. Then he answered, "aye, Kronin. He is the one making all the noise." He tossed a small nod over his shoulder, and when I found the man in question, I wondered how I was able to forget such a character.

Though there were only twenty-odd patrons in the tavern, their chorus of voices filled the small space from corner to corner. Ripples of laughter accompanied the stories that hardworking men told in their rough, Salvic accents. Voices rose as they argued good-naturedly, fighting to one-up their companions, or impress the pretty girls in the plain, cotton dresses. The ebb and flow of discussion was typical, but one voice drew her attention. It did not rumble like thunder, deep and gruff, like the locals. Instead, it was lighter, far more feminine, and far more showy. Obnoxious was the first word that I could find to describe it.

Kronin was short, I learned as I followed the voice to the man. He was perched atop a barstool, and his boots did not reach the floor, putting him at five foot by my best estimation. But to call him small would be a mistake, as his build was wide and stocky.

[Josette]

He provided a stark contrast to the woman who sat beside him. She more than made up for what he lacked in heigh, her long legs reaching the well-swept floor with room to spare. Her bare arms revealed white, milky skin that seemed even paler against her long, pin-straight black hair. When she gave an annoyed toss of her head at a joke Kronin made, I was started to see the fine tips of elven ears.

"Who is she?" I inquired to my new companion.

His response was a breathy sigh, falling somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "You really were not paying attention during your debrief, were you? That is Relina. I am Grax." He nodded toward me. "Add in Kronin, and yourself, and you have the best band of mercenaries this side of Testhan Valley."

I frowned at him, frustration also creeping into my tone. "I was not debriefed," I stated plainly. "I was simply told that my help was needed in Salvar. My teacher, Alquinn, felt I would benefit from the experience, so he sent me."

Grax nodded. "Aye, Alquinn is the one who called us all together." Then he paused, scowled slightly, and asked, "did you not ask questions about the assignment?"

"I do not ask questions," I countered. "I follow orders."

Grax's slits of emerald eyes searched my face, but when he found it unreadable, he loosed a shrug. "A good soldier. I wager Alquinn approves of that." It was not my place to say, or even assume, one way or another, so I merely mirrored the man's shrug.

[...]