Arcolin turned back to the Cortes Vonja captain. “We will not need your help,” he said. “But I thank you for the offer.”

“It is no matter of mine,” the man said, “if the Council chooses to use foreign rabble instead of its own loyal troops.” He turned his horse rudely, rump toward Arcolin.

“At least they can count on us not to run away,” Arcolin murmured, remembering a particular battle that spawned at least two songs popular with mercenary companies.

“That was the Vonja militia, not Cortes Vonja,” the man said over his shoulder.

“My pardon,” Arcolin said, bowing slightly. “I misheard the story.”

“You—!” But he legged his horse into motion, forcing his way through his own troops and calling “Follow me!” One near Arcolin rolled his eyes and shrugged. Arcolin grinned at him.

“They appeared as soon as you were through the city gates,” Burek said. “Demanded the cargo, demanded the prisoners. I didn’t know for sure—they were in the city uniform—”

“Cortes Vonja is not overfond of paying its debts,” Arcolin said. “Duke Phelan had trouble with them a few times. I learned a lot about writing contracts as he revised his with them. Pler Vonja’s as bad; Sorellin’s actually reasonable, for a city run by merchants. Anyway—if their militia take charge of the merchandise and contraband, the count would be … different, let’s say.”

“They’d steal it?”

“They or the Council proper. Say that half those swords didn’t appear … the Council has the use of them, either for their troops or as raw steel to be reforged into the pikes they prefer. They’re not likely to short the count of the actual merchandise, as our merchant is a Guild member, and at any rate it is not due us.”

“What is due us?”

Arcolin grinned. “After much argument and complaint, I followed Kieri’s lead and had the contract specify that all contraband weapons are ours, and five eighths of any other contraband … but everything taken from brigands is ours, without limit.”

“Ready, sir,” Stammel said. The merchant’s wagons were hitched and loaded; Stammel had placed two on the driver’s seat of each, two at the rear, with the rest surrounding the wagons on foot. The merchant, the five guards, and the headman from the village, all with hands bound, were on foot between the two wagons.

“Excellent, Stammel,” Arcolin said. “We’ll be off, then.”

At the city gates, the guards were reluctant to let so many armed men in, until Arcolin showed his orders from the Council. As he’d expected, the appearance of that many uniforms in the city street opened a wide lane for them; though people stopped and stared, no one tried to come near the wagons on their way to the central square.

The Merchants’ Guild Hall, on the main square and across from the Council Hall, had an inner court large enough for a dozen wagons—three were there already, unloading. Several of the Council were waiting when they arrived, and the Cortes Vonja Guildmaster came out of the Hall in his formal robes a moment later. Arcolin told Stammel to unbind the merchant and have him stand forth.