Neuhalle nodded absently as another half-naked maid swung among the branches, bug-eyed and kicking. The bough groaned and swayed beneath its unprecedented crop, much of which was still twitching. "You don't have to," he pointed out. "Your men seem to be enjoying themselves."
"Maybe, but it's best to set a good example. Besides, they'll change their minds when they run out of beer."
The tree emitted another ominous creak, like the half-strangled belch of a one-eyed god. "Start another tree," Neuhalle ordered. "This one is satisfied. That one over there looks like he's willing to serve."
"Aye, sir."
"Sky Father will be grateful for your work today," Neuhalle added, and his sergeant's face split in a broad grin.
"Oh, aye, sir!"
It paid to put a pious face on such affairs, Otto reflected, to remind the men that the sobbing women and shivering, whey-faced lads they were dispatching were a necessary sacrifice to the health of the realm, a palliative for the ailment that had afflicted the royal dynasty for the past three generations. The servants of the tinker families-
Neuhalle was sitting on his camp chair with an empty cup, watching his soldiers man-handle a hog-tied and squalling matron towards the waiting tree, when a horseman rode up to the ale cart and dismounted. He cast about for a moment, then looped his reins around the wagon's shaft and walked towards Otto. Otto glanced at the fellow, and his eyes narrowed. He stood up: as he did so, his hand-men appeared, clearly taking an interest in the stranger with his royalist sash and polished breastplate.
"Sir, do I have the honor of addressing Otto, Baron Neuhalle?"
Second impressions were an improvement: the fellow was young, perhaps only twenty, and easily impressed- or maybe just stupid. "That would be me." Otto inclined his head. "And who arc you?" He kept his right hand away from his sword. A glance behind the fellow took in Jorg, ready to draw at a moment's notice, and he nodded slightly.
"I have the honor to be Eorl Geraunt voh Marlburg, second son of Baron voh Marlburg, my lord. I am here at the word of my liege his majesty-" He broke off, nonplussed, at a particularly loud outbreak of wailing and prayers from the corral. "-I'm sorry, my lord, I bear dispatches."
Otto relaxed slightly. "I would be happy to receive them." He snapped his lingers. "Jorg, fetch a tankard of ale for Eorl Geraunt, if you please." Jorg nodded and headed for the ale cart, his hand leaving his sword hilt as he turned, and the other hand-man, Hein, took a step back. "Have you had a difficult time finding us?"
"Not too difficult, sir." Geraunt bobbed his head: "I had but to follow the trail of wise trees." Behind Otto, the crying and praying was choked off abruptly as his men raised further tribute to Sky Father. "His majesty is less than a day's hard ride away."
Otto glanced at Geraunt's horse. He could take a hint. "Henryk, if you could find someone to see to the eorl's horse..." He turned back to Geraunt as his other hand-man strode off. "How fares his majesty?"
Sir Geraunt grinned excitedly. "He does great deeds!" A nod at the tree: "Not to belittle your own, my lord, but he sweeps through the countryside like the scythe of his grandsire, reaping the fields of disorder and uprooting weeds!" He reached into the leather purse dangling from his belt and pulled out a parchment envelope, sealed with wax along its edges. "His word, as I stand before you, my lord."
"Thank you." Otto accepted the letter, glanced at the seal, then slit it open with his small knife. Within, he found the crabbed handwriting of one of Egon's scribes. "Hmm."
The message was short and to the point. He glanced round, as Jorg returned with Geraunt's beer and Heidlor walked over.
"Sergeant. How long until you are finished with the prisoners?"
Heidlor shrugged. "Before sundown, I would say, sir. Perhaps in as little as one bell."
