“When Gort lost his shot at the Green Purse, he became a mercenary, because that was all he could do. Two years later, Shana joined him as part of the supply convoy. They took their kids with them. A lot of mercenary companies do this. On a long campaign, there will be a supply train following them with wives and husbands and sometimes kids.”
Reynald’s face told me nothing. He just listened.
“The mercenaries who are going to die are not the youngest or the healthiest. It’s an old-dog campaign.”
Old-dogin mercenary speak meant a slow-paced campaign, the kind that didn’t pay that well, but didn’t call for any long marches or heroics either. Old-dog campaigns were fought by veterans, experienced, steady, but past their prime.
“These people are the second tier, looking for a simple, short campaign and willing to work for less, because few jobs come their way these days and they have to take what they can get.”
They were like Gort and Shana. Trying to keep afloat.
“You want to save them,” he said. There was no judgment in his voice. No emotion at all.
“Yes. Eighty people. Eighty families. That’s so many lives. But if we do save them, there’s no telling what the consequences will be. Preventing this event from happening doesn’t mean that the powers behind it will just abandon their schemes. It could cost more lives than it will save in the long run.”
“But you don’t know it will?”
“I don’t. I wish I was wiser. I’m afraid of making a mistake that other people will have to pay for.”
I realized we were standing still. “Why did we stop?”
He nodded at the ocean. “The Yolentas’ pier.”
To the right and just up ahead, a long stone pier cut into the ocean. Three large ships waited by it, their complex segmented sails stowed and secured. Long flags with copper, cobalt, and gray streamed from their masts.
I needed to stop venting and concentrate on the reason we had come here.
The Yolentas’ pier ended in front of the three warehouses. On each side, a narrow street ran deeper into the city, perpendicular to our bridge and passing under it. The street that we had taken to get to the storefront was directly under us, running along below the bridge.
I crossed the bridge to the other side and looked at the two side streets. The street on my left curved and veered north. The one on my right ended in a small plaza with two other streets, one going southeast and the other eastward. Narrow alleys branched off from both like capillaries from larger veins.
I needed a plan. Luckily for me, I had an experienced tactician next to me. Reynald had planned hundreds of battles and skirmishes.
I kept my voice low. “In four days, the next shipment of the overpriced pink salt will arrive at this pier. I want to steal one of the barrels and replace it with the one we bought.”
“Stealing a barrel from the Keepers of Iron.” Reynald raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
He looked slightly wicked, like a villain planning something dangerous yet fun.
“Can we do this?”
The blademaster surveyed the tangle of streets below. “Yes.”
“Safely?”
“No plan is foolproof, Maggie. But probably.”
“I promise I will explain everything once we have that barrel.”
He shook his head.
“What?”
“Wondering what sins the Yolentas have committed.”
“Maybe I just want to steal their salt.”
“No. That’s not you. The Yolentas have done something special. Something that’s more than their usual schemes and backstabbing.”
