The Lost War by Karl Gallagher (novel24 .txt) 📗

Newman and Deadeye went to the Autocrat to report the encounter. He cut them off and dispatched a runner. “Wait until the Knight Marshal, Count Dirk, gets here. He’s in charge of fighting.”

A minute later Dirk arrived, asking, “What’s up?” The count had come from weapons practice. He still wore most of his armor. Sweat stained the thick cloth underneath.

“Contact with hostile locals,” said Newman.

Dirk snapped from relaxed and tired to laser-focused. “What kind? Civilized?”

Newman stood straighter. “No, sir. No clothes, no metal or stone tools.”

“But you think they’re intelligent?”

“They used wooden spears, no stone points, and spoke to each other before attacking us.”

“Casualties?”

“One wounded on each side.”

Dirk sat on the Autocrat’s table. The edge of his leg armor cut a notch in the smooth wood. “Okay, give me the whole story. From first sighting.”

Deadeye interpolated colorful details into Newman’s dry report.

“Green skin, tusks, broad muscular shoulders . . . are we talking orcs?” asked Count Dirk.

“Totally orcs,” said Deadeye.

“Of course. We have dragons, so of course there’s orcs.”

Autocrat Sharpquill asked, “Are we at war, then?”

Dirk shook his head. “No. Young hot-heads attacking a rival hunting party isn’t war. We need to find their home village and talk to the elders. Demarcate hunting territories, maybe do some trade.”

He thought a moment longer. “For now, I’ll attach a fighter to each hunting party for security. We’ll send out patrols to look for the village. And make sure the gate guards are taking the job seriously.”

“I presume you want your fighters released from hauling wood and water and shit?” asked the Autocrat.

“No, it’s good exercise for them,” said Dirk with a grin. “But you’ll have to schedule around their patrols.”

“Just give me twelve hours’ notice.” The Autocrat turned to his laptop to check the spreadsheet for workers.

Count Dirk waved the hunters ahead of him as they left. “Newman, you don’t seem very bothered by finding monsters here.”

“I guess I’m more comfortable with strangers trying to kill me in the wild than dealing with protocol for nobility. Your excellency.”

***

The fish was delicious. Even with no spices to work with Master Sweetbread had crisped the pink flesh to add a contrast to the base taste.

“Where’d you find this?” asked Pernach. He still had soot on his face. He and Pinecone had skipped bathing when they smelled dinner cooking.

Newman finished chewing his bite. Just having some protein that wasn’t venison would make this a good meal. Sweetbread made it something to savor. “It found me. Lord Badelaire grabbed me after the hunting allocation and offered a trade.”

“How’d he catch them?” Shellbutton wiped up some juice with a bit of vineroot.

Mistress Tightseam answered, “He has a rod and reel. I’ve seen him on the riverbank.”

“Yes, he’s out there every day,” confirmed Goldenrod.

Sweetbread slid the last bit of fish onto a plate. He put the frying pan aside to cool and sat down with his family. “Pity he can’t bring in more. This probably has nutrients we’re not getting elsewhere.”

“We should make some nets. That would catch more.” Goldenrod looked at the piece of fish on her fork, counting to ten before eating.

Pinecone laughed. “Who are you going to kill to get the rope? Cuirass and Pliers broke each other’s noses over a twenty foot piece.”

“What about the stuff you made from tree bark?”

“Master Chisel’s replaced most of it,” said Sweetbread. “It stretches in the rain.”

“Hmmm.”

Pernach shared the tale of someone who’d tried to make rope but had been sent back to food gathering by the Autocrat after four failed attempts.

“Weirs!”

The rest of the table looked at each other to check if anyone understood Goldenrod’s outburst.

Newman felt obliged to provide a straight line. “What?”

“Fishing weirs. They’re like a dam that catches fish.” She looked around and found no support. “They’re good at catching fish. It was in the Magna Carta. The Barons made King John tear down his weirs. Cost him a lot of revenue.”

“We can’t dam that river. It’s too big,” said Sweetbread.

“We don’t need to. Imagine . . . oh, a basket in the river. Water goes through, minnows go through, eating fish get caught.”

“So a wicker-work dam,” said Tightseam.

“Yes.”

Pernach chuckled. “The cuttlefish will love that. They’ll eat half the construction crew.”

“The cuttlefish haven’t killed anyone yet,” snapped Goldenrod. Though like most people she’d switched from bathing in the river to a stream.

Diplomacy was called for. Newman said, “We’d just need some spearmen guarding the builders.”

“You’d think they’d have learned to avoid us by now,” said Pinecone.

Sweetbread shrugged. “The six foot long ones are just as stupid as the six inch ones at home.”

“Yeah, but octopi are smart. They should be smart as an octopus.”

“Wait until we get to the ocean. Imagine smart octopi the size of a football field.” Newman grinned at the shivers he caused.

Goldenrod didn’t shiver. She was thinking.

***

Soap making used ordinary kitchen pots and a cookfire. Redinkle and Shellbutton did their work in House Applesmile’s kitchen, maneuvering around the meal schedule.

That made it easy for Autocrat Sharpquill to find them.

They started at his, “Good morning, ladies.”

Redinkle’s stomach twisted when she saw the look on his face. “Good day, my lord.”

Shellbutton just offered a nervous curtsy.

“I’ve heard about your work,” said the Autocrat. “I admire your ingenuity. You’ll both receive crafting awards when we have the leisure for such things.”

His pause seemed to demand a response.

Redinkle offered, “Thank you, my lord.”

“Yes. It’s very clever. But we can’t eat it. Can’t drink it. And the lard you’re using could have gone into meals. We need those calories. We need your labor producing food, not soap. I formally order you to stop making soap and return to productive labor. You’ll be assigned duties