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

ten for five days. There’s only the six of us but we entertain, of course. That bag is Goldenrod’s—how much did you bring, dear?”

“Eight sausages and four loaves, plus some bananas,” she said. “Just enough to get us to Sunday morning.”

Sweetbread’s supplies were more varied, including vegetables and spices. Stitches made terse notes. The guards watched without interest until the last chest was opened.

“And the traditional booze and candy,” said Sweetbread.

“Ah, yes,” said Stitches. “We’ll have to take that with us.”

“What?” The householder was sure he’d misheard.

Stitches recited, “Their Majesties have ordered all alcohol and luxury foods brought to court for safe-keeping, to avoid drunkenness and dissention. Guards, take the chest. I will write you a receipt.”

“Fuck, no! You can’t just waltz in here and take my stuff!”

The outburst grabbed the attention of everyone around the cooking fire. Sweetbread’s nephew and son-in-law stood. The guards reached for their swords. One bore a steel one instead of the wooden one the Kingdom used in tournaments. Newman stepped forward to stand with his host’s men.

“Please, Sweetbread.” Stitches put her hand on the man’s chest and stood tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “You’ll get it back, it’s just temporary. Just go along for a couple of days until people calm down. The guards have orders. Royal orders. You don’t want to push them. Please.”

Sweetbread glared at the guards. They met his gaze without flinching. He stepped back. “Fine. I want a list of everything on that receipt.”

“Of course, of course.” Stitches took a fresh sheet and wrote a detailed list of the chest’s contents. “Here.”

Sweetbread read it over. “Fine.”

The guards hefted the chest between them and led the way out of the household’s encampment.

Sweetbread took the spatula from his wife, Tightseam, and went back to tending the scramble.

“I didn’t think the crown had that kind of authority,” said Newman.

Tightseam answered, “They didn’t, until we approved them taking emergency action at this morning’s meeting.”

“I thought Sharpquill had better sense then to pull this kind of shit,” muttered Sweetbread. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been an ‘aye’ for it.”

“I think he does,” said Goldenrod. “Did you notice Stitches kept saying it was a royal order? And she and the guards are part of the Kingdom royal court, not the Autocrat’s event staff. Stitches does all the Queen’s dirty work.”

Pinecone said, “If the king’s being the problem we just have to wait until the next Crown Tourney. That’s what, two months?”

“Back home, yes.” Sweetbread stirred the scramble some more. “Who knows when they’ll schedule one here?”

“Oh, well,” said Pernach, “like I always say, I don’t care who the king is, I can always stay drunk for six months.”

“No you can’t,” said his wife. “They took the booze.”

Newman walked out of the fire's circle of light and faced the woods. After a few minutes Goldenrod came up and put an arm around him.

“You okay?” she asked.

“A little shook,” he admitted. “I was ready to pitch into a fight with two armed men. And I can’t honestly say what they were doing was wrong. Last thing we need around here is panicking drunks. But Sweetbread let us sleep in his tent, he’s feeding us, he's a friend, so I’m taking his side.”

Goldenrod hugged him. “Feudalism is catching.”

***

The hunters set out in the morning.

Bodkin and his followers were chatterboxes. Newman didn’t want to tell them how to run their hunt—he was the stranger here—but any prey would hear them coming. The conversation focused on archery. Bow-making, fletching, techniques for precision shooting. Newman contributed anecdotes about crafting his composite bow and Boy Scout tournaments he’d competed in.

He realized they were all target shooters, not hunters.

The woods were mixed density. Bodkin led them through a gap in the trees that might be a game trail, if there were big moose here. The undergrowth to the sides had enough room for humans to slip through. Thick patches of shrubs were scattered about separated from each other by dozens of yards.

Droppings and half-eaten leaves were more common in the denser areas. The herbivores didn’t like being seen. A scattering of bones, some broken open to yield brains or marrow, showed they had reason.

Which made following this gap a lousy way to find them. But Bodkin and his friends could walk two or three abreast as they chatted.

Newman drifted to the rear of the group. The conversation continued without him. After another ten minutes of strolling he thought he heard rustling off to the right. Without a sound he pivoted into the denser woods.

Walking quietly was something he’d practiced many times. Put his feet on dirt and live roots, not dead sticks or leaves. Go through the empty spots. When a branch has to be pushed aside hold it until it’s back in its original position. Keep a steady pace so breathing isn’t loud.

A soft grunt ahead was just loud enough to hear. Newman steered to the right of it. If he couldn’t hit one he wanted to flush the game toward Bodkin.

Circling a pile of brambles gave him a glimpse of the animals. Half a dozen deer clustered around some flowering shrubs.

Newman looked down. He wanted to look like another herbivore, not a predator. If he didn’t spook them he had plenty of time to nock an arrow and line up his shot.

Once he looked to aim he’d have to be quick. Staring eyes were a threat. The deer would bolt.

He chose the nearest as his target. The arrow flew into the deer’s belly. It bawled and the rest scattered. By the time he had a second arrow nocked there wasn’t a single deer in sight.

Speed won over stealth as Newman chased the wounded deer. At first he ran in the direction he’d seen it go. Then the blood trail appeared. Running