The senior Councilor gave a harsh bark of laughter. “He has us there—I was thinking it meant halter and lead, but the way it’s written, he’s right.”

“Go ahead,” Arcolin said to the men who had paused, watching this exchange.

“Very good sir.” The men began unhitching the mules.

“I’ll go find us carts,” Burek said.

“The far end of the market,” Arcolin said, pointing. “When I was here before, I saw a row of carters down there.”

“We use our own mules?”

“Yes. Pay the full rate, but explain we want to try out new teams. And if you find a couple of extra pack saddles at a good price, pick those up too.”

In the time it took Burek to return with word that he’d arranged carts and pack saddles, the Guildmaster had called upon two other Guild merchants to form a jury to pass judgment on the guilty merchant. They had agreed with the Guildmaster—Arcolin wondered if they ever disagreed—that the merchant had broken the code in more than one way, and deserved to be stripped of his membership. They brought out a fat book—a list of Guild members—and literally cut his name out, with a small sharp knife. Then they ripped the badge off his robe.

“Your name will be removed from every list in every Guild League city,” the Guildmaster said. “The penalty for falsely claiming Guild membership is public whipping and a brand. Do not think you can pass yourself off as a Guild merchant any longer. You are nothing to us, a mere peddler.”

The man wept; Arcolin felt pity for him, but not much.

The Guildmaster turned away and went back into the Guild Hall; the Councilors told the city guardsmen to take all the men into custody.

Arcolin sent two of the men now holding mules to fetch the carts; Burek went with them. The others took the packsaddles, and, stripping off the harness, saddled them. The senior Councilor looked at Arcolin. “I thought they were soldiers—but they know the ways of teamsters and grooms?”

“Soldiering requires many skills other than sticking someone with a blade,” Arcolin said.

“Our militia commander claims he needs grooms and teamsters as well as troops to move his forces about.”

“I’m sure he does,” Arcolin said, buffing his nails on his shirt. “After all, your militia are tradesmen and craftsmen who serve but two years unless there’s a war, isn’t that right?”

“Yes—but what has that to do with it?” The senior Councilor frowned.

“There’s scarce time in two years to learn to handle a pike in formation, maneuver, and fight. We train recruits for a full year before they see battle, and they are with us, many of them, for the rest of their lives. All these can groom, saddle, and harness horses or mules; they all ride; they all dig ditches and build barricades.”

“But that takes time away from weapons practice, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t they be better if they did that only?”