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Downtime is hard for mercenaries. For people who earn their crust from constantly moving back and forth across the colossal length and breadth of the empire, not counting the lands that stretched to north and south, sitting still is hard.
Yet here we were, holed up in this cheapest of inns, a crummy down-at-heel place where the sheets were thin, and the soup thinner, miles from anywhere in particular, in one of the countless backwater towns that you seemed to forget the moment you left. Outside had sounded like a worthy option until the rain had started, and even less of one once the wind had picked up, leaving us to struggle the few miles between our intended campsite and this town, whose name I’d already forgotten. We’d managed to wrangle four rooms from the bored-looking inn keeper who seemed uninterested in the handful of Gal I’d handed over, taking the smallest as my own, letting the rest divide the other three up outside, and closing the door, so that their voices become a soft murmur outside.
I threw off my coat over the nearest chair, thankful, in a grudging way that a fire was already lit, kicked off my boots, pulled off my socks, now sodden, and threw myself into the comforts of the nearest armchair, which sagged pleasingly, in the way that well-loved furniture does, stretching my feet out to fully enjoy the warmth. For the first time in what felt like a entire moon, I relaxed. Despite our pitiful surroundings at present, we had delivered, a couple of days previously, a notorious outlaw to the Empire, after a solid week of tracking across hard country, and now carried what had to be a solid double-pound of gold between the seven of us.
I felt warmth return to me, and briefly remembered something that my father had once said on his return from the field.
“You have three friends you need to keep close to you at any time. Your weapon. Your comrades. And warmth. Lose any of these, you’re in trouble.”
Wise words, that’s for sure. But my father had a saying for almost anything, even if it didn’t make sense except in that specific context. I’d often wondered where he’d learned them, or if they were of his own creation. And, with that thought in my head, I let sleep take me, briefly.
Warmth greeted me like a friend as I woke, and it was not alone. Mifune was sat on another chair by my side, picking his way through one of the books of poetry that made up the majority of possessions the ronin owned. He smiled as I stirred, pushing back the coat that he’d draped over me, now perfectly dry from the fire’s heat.
<”Good morning, Boss.”>
“Mnnn. Five more minutes”
He chuckled, closed the book
<”What does Tzao Zhu say about the morning bird?”>
“Tzao Zhu didn’t have to worry about working for a roof over his dead. Bloody philosophers rarely do. It’s why they’ve got time to be philosophical.”
He grinned.
<”But you and the bird both do have to work to eat. Luckily, we’re not birds, and you don’t go to bed on an empty stomach.”>
He held out a plate of stew, topped with a few slices of thick brown bread, and at the very sight of it, my stomach grumbled, elcitiing a chuckle from the swordsman
<”Told you.”>
“Yeah, yeah.”
I tucked in, shoving entire slices of potatoes into my mouth. I felt bad for assuming the worst of the food in this place. When was the last time I’d eaten something this good? The inn in Fayreport a full two moons ago? Or further back? I crunched through a few rashers of bacon, then looked up to see Mifune grinning at me, a mug of tea in his hand.
<”You are hungry, aren’t you?”>
I grinned back, ignoring my manners for once.
<”You remind me of my son sometimes. Not…just your appetite, obviously. Just…all of you, Matias. Your spirit.”>
He took another sip and put the cup down on the floor.
<”When I lost…everything…I lost purpose. Like a sword with no blade.”>
I nodded, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. After all, to my guild, I was more than just a leader-a confider, a shoulder to cry on, a help in times of need. His rough hand, worn with a life of swordsmanship, and hard work, moved to rest on mine.
He didn’t need to say anything more.
“Eh, don’t talk like that, Mifu. You found us. And tonight’s not a night for sad reminiscing. We’ve not had enough to drink, for one.”
He chuckled
<”Quite right, Boss…Quite right”>
He grinned, and let go of my hand, and I returned to the broth, Mifune to his book, and we sat in companionable silence. I finally put the plate down, pulled the jacket up to my chin, and closed my eyes.
“Mifune…”
<”Hmm?”>
“What are you reading?”
The rustle of a few pages before he answered
<”Ah, at this point, a long poem about the War of the Three Families. You see, some centuries before the Empire, in the eastern kingdom, there were three families, all vying for power. Intermarriage, to an extent, held their houses together, but…”>
I settled back into the arm chair, enjoying the warmth
<”After the illusion of peace comes war, inevitably…”>
“Inevitably a breaking of fellowships, families, and lives”
<”Always the optimist, Matias.”>
I grin lazily.
“I know people too well. Doubtless, between the Boy and the Idiot, we’ll be in much the same situation before long”
<”One hopes the Emperor lives long enough to avoid such things, or that Prince Varya gains sense or Prince Petyr age before the Emperor dies”>
“How does it end, Mifune? The War of the Three Families?”
He paused, took a breath. I knew myself that my father’s copy of The Tragedy of the Three Families, an Imperial re-writing of the text carried out in the opening days of the Empire’s rule, under the direct gaze of the First Emperor, and thus a more moral and sanitised version ran to several thick leather-bound volumes, and the original text ran even longer and bloodier.
<”None of them win. They fight among themselves, the brothers lead weakened armies, and a minor feudal lord sweeps them aside on his way to power. Had they banded together, and shared power, he would never had stood a chance. But that’s hindsight for you.”>I realised slowly I was starting to fall asleep, despite my best efforts, and pushed the coat off, sitting up straight. He stood, as if ready to go, picking up the plate and his cup from the floor. Turned to go. A thought came, unbidden, to me.
“Mifune?”
<”Yes?”>
“Am I a good Guild Maester?”
A moment passed.
<”Yes. Of course you are. I would follow you to the edge of the world. We all would. You know that.”>.
And with that, and a soft smile, he was gone, leaving me with my thoughts.-The door next to Matias’s room opens, admits the ronin, and closes again, as the swordsman settles back into his seat
“Ya in for this hand?”
Blondie takes a drag on her cigarillo, and blows a cloud of smoke that Mifune fans away with slight irritation. Rogir is stripped to his waist, a blanket draped over his shoulders to keep the cold out, his jacket and shirt, together with Natalyia’s left glove and Blondie’s hat piled on a spare chair, cards on the battered table between the four of them.
Blondie pours a shot of some strong smelling alcohol that Mifune can’t place, and with some skill, slides it across the table without spilling a drop. Rogir claps, and Blondie takes a short exaggerated bow.
“Than’ ye. Here all evening, best shot in the Western ‘alf of the Empire. Eastern ‘alf too, till the acciden’”
She’s drunk, in a pleasant way, the messy blonde hair untied, poncho off for once.
“Boss ok? Missed seeing him at dinner. He lightens the mood, he does…”
This is from Rogir, who seems to be assessing whether hypothermia is worth a few more hands, given his current luck. The ronin nods.
“Good. Mifune, you haven’t got a few coins? I seem to have lost rather a lot to these two, and I’m not really of the opinion either of them want to see my underwear…”
Mifune shrugs, reaches inside his gi, and pulls out a few coins from one of the purses he keeps on him, placing them one by one in the small pile that constitutes what’s left of Rogir’s cut. Natalyia smirks, itching the scar tissue across her nose.
“You’re backing a lame horse here, Mifune-san. This guy can’t beat Oci in Dragon’s Duo, let alone Royal Houses. C’mon. I’ll deal you in…”-A score of hands later, with the first light of day peeping in at the window, and the candles all but guttered, a still fully dressed Mifune, now with Blondie’s hat perched neatly atop his head, and still nursing the same glass of whiskey, sits among a now rather cold Rogir, Natalyia and Blondie, who now huddle together for warmth, shooting the ronin looks colder than they are, hungover and grumpily poking each other. To the ronin’s side sits a pile of clothing that reaches his shoulders, comprising of everything but Rogir’s underwear, boots, and lute, Blondie’s entire outfit aside from her shirt, and Natalyia’s entire armour, sword, and jerkin, plus her boots. He’s about to play the next hand, a half-House of Queen, Jester and Knight, when there’s a soft knock at the door, and Matias steps into the room, his hair damp. He halts at the sight, and in the fraction of a second between the young man registering exactly what he’s seen and Blondie lobbing a spare blanket at him, there’s an amused grin, before he catches the blanket, and wraps it around his shoulders.
“Well,” he manages to say.
“I see what you mean by taking advantage of divisions now, Mifune.”
Then the tone of the leader is back in Matias’s voice.
“Oi! Idiots! Reclaim your clothes, pay Mifune what you owe him, and I want you all down at breakfast by cockcrow. Pronto! We’ve got a new contract, and I don’t give a damn if your hangover is worse than a hammer to the head. Move it!”
And with that, the young lordling is gone, boots thumping away downstairs, leaving three cold mercenaries and a ronin, masterless no longer, to settle the matter of a few gambling debts.