Maze of Moonlight

and slaves out of the bargain. Why worry about what was not in one's pocket?
What was in one's pocket, though, was a different matter, and when one of the girls of the town broke away and ran for the fields, lifting her long skirts to free her legs, Berard, laughing, shouted to his men. One of them rode after her, caught her easily, and returned, dragging her by the hair. Berard rubbed the stubble of his beard appraisingly. She was fortunate: she was not bad looking. She would find a place in the camp.
He tipped his head back, shifted his rubbing to the back of his neck where his helmet had chafed throughout a warm day. Good weather, good profit—a good day all around. The rest of the winter would be, if not luxurious, then at least comfortable. Not bad for a band of mercenaries who had so recently faced near-annihilation at the hands of the Bolognese.
It was refreshing, he decided, to work only for himself and his men, to have told the squabbling city states of northern Italy to go to the Devil along with their schemes, their grand plans, and their intrigues. What had that Bolognese affair been about, anyway? He still was not sure. Probably Florence and Milan again, with Gian Galeazzo paying off the Pavanese to make enough trouble for Padua that Venice would have to give up its very temporary support for the Signoria and turn its attention to its closer ally; which meant, of course, in the twisted drainage pattern that was Italian politics, that Florence would have been stymied in its efforts to bring Genoa under control, since Gian Galeazzo was far enough away from the city to allow for a quick strike. Bologna, then, abandoned by Ferrara and Ravenna (which would, naturally, ally themselves with Venice), would fall in behind Genoa and arrange for a troublesome band of condottiere in the employ, or perhaps not, of Modena, which might have been supporting the Florentines, or might not (it was never wise to commit oneself), to be eradicated.
Something like that.
In the end, though, only Giovanni da Barbiano, the captain of the mercenary band, had been executed. No ransom, no chance for an exchange of prisoners, no appeal. Caught, killed. That was it.
And Berard, elected leader in a quick agreement whispered among the men in the Italian night, had led the company away into the darkness, thoroughly disgusted with the vagaries of politics. He had actually thought Giovanni to have been on Bologna's side. But, then again, maybe not.
Yes, this was better. No politics, just money. For a minute, as the prisoners were taken away to be sorted, sold, killed, or kept—the men with bowed heads, the women weeping with fear at the prospect of being used bloody that night—Berard toyed with names for his little band. The Fellowship of Acquisition. That sounded good. Very good. It said it all. Simple, straightforward.
He looked up to see his lieutenant, Jehan delMari, approaching on horseback, cantering across the fields with a soldier's casual ease. “Well, Messire Jehan,” Berard said as the young man drew near, “what do you think of today's work?”
“Not bad at all.” Jehan, blond and boyish, glanced at the prisoners, the stacked sacks of grain, the chests of valuables: Montalenghe had been small but well off. “Though I think I'd rather fight other knights. That would smack a trifle more of the noble than this . . .” He examined the peasants. An hour ago some of them had been up in the church tower heaving down stones. Now the valiant defenders shuffled through the dust, thoroughly dejected. “. . . pigsticking.”
Berard laughed. “I'm sure that the rewards will flavor this pork to your liking. I imagine that we'll all eventually be quite well off. Possibly as rich as—”
“I don't want to talk about that,” Jehan said quickly. “Total up your accounts and give me my share, but leave me out of commoners' work. If I'd wanted to soil my hands with money, I could have stayed in Saint Blaise and sold cheese.”
“Hmm. More gold in Saint Blaise than cheese, unless things have changed a great deal since I left Adria.”
“The mayor makes cheese.” Jehan wrinkled his nose. “Just make sure I get my share, and I'll be satisfied.”
Jehan was younger than he looked, Berard had decided long ago. Younger, and still hot with the fire of the blood that turned even commonplaces into matters of life, death, and personal reputation. To be sure, the lad could fight—for all Jehan's disdain, the burghers of Saint Blaise had obviously trained him well enough—and it was because of his temper and his rash decision to risk a skirmish at idiotic odds that only Giovanni had perished as a result of Bologna's liquid allegiances. Still, Jehan had risen about as far as Berard estimated was safe to allow.
“You did well today,” was all he said.
Jehan shrugged. “Fighting is my life. It's simple, direct, straightforward. I like it that way.”
Ah, the surety of the young. Berard smiled and folded his arms. “Tell me: don't you ever have any regrets about leaving Adria? After all, you could be master of Shrinerock if you went back. Baron of Furze and all that.”
Jehan wrinkled his nose again. “The master of Shrinerock reads in his library, rides occasionally to the hunt, and entertains visitors elegantly.”
“Visitors? Oh, yes: I've heard stories about the Elves . . .”
Jehan glared at him, unsettled and angry both. “Be serious, Berard.”
It was an old tease, but Jehan reacted no better to it for that. Berard spread his hands. “Elves or not, it doesn't sound like a bad life at all,” he said. “I wouldn't mind having Shrinerock for a house. I'd have silks and a golden cup, and I'd make the peasants dance for me every night. At least when I didn't have a pretty girl in my bed.”
Jehan laughed. “And you'd never get near it.”
Berard contemplated the provisions and money that now were his and