The sounds of revelry rang through the thin walls of the low-ceiling tent, but its occupants felt no desire to join in.

  Or most of its occupants at least. Guile’s eyes might have strayed to the tent flap more often than not. Ethan hid a grin. Some men were made for command. Some were axes ever in want of a good blooding. You needed both.

  “So there it is.”

  The map lay open on the campaign tables before them. 8 short, four-legged tables, each small enough to fit on a mule’s back and light enough to not overburden the beast. Arranged together, with a judicious use of wedges and props, it made an acceptable knee-high surface. Six men sat around it on cushions. You had to remove the armored skirt, or pturgis, to manage the half cross-legged posture comfortably, but it beat trying to take heavy furniture into the field.

  “Goblin fodder along the Blood Line, at the mercy of the flat land nobles and constantly trying to eke out a living against those sneaky bastards,” Whether goblins or nobles he didn’t specify, “but in prime growing land and with the hope that any new nobles, in several generation, will move out from you and leave you with prime growing land.”

  “The North Sea fjords against the sea raiders, with decent growing lands and an unmolested, if shorter, growing season. It’s sure to see heavy fighting during the winter raiding season. And with no hope of a change to that situation. Those raiders have fished and raided those shores for as long as the empire has stood, and being long-lived as they are, will likely continue to do so till the world ends again. But at least they make for better neighbors!”

  A round of chuckles broke the heavy mood.

  “No insult meant to the goblins of course, who while treacherous and prone to knifing one in their sleep are at least predictable.”

  Chuckles broke into open laughter.

  “Or a rocky, frigged mountain pass. Acting like a cork in the ass of the great beyond. Slaughtering beasts and rift spawn before they can make the river and The Forest beyond it. Maybe eat some poor peasant’s cows. And the peasant too for that matter. It’s crap growing lands, crap growing seasons, but rich in hunting, timber if you can get it out, and possibly metals, if you can find them.”

  Ethan snorted. James had a way of making even a summer picnic sound depressing. Of course, with expectations suitably lowered, he usually had a few sweets to top it off with.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He continued. “The Blood Line is a trap. It looks like the nicest of the lot. Fertile land with a hope of eventual relief from the raids. But it’s to close to the Riverlands and falls under their say.”

  He spat to the side in disgust. “That’s slave country, make no mistake. Even if they dress it up in nicer clothing, a peasants life there is miserable indeed. And as minor nobles, we’ll either become a slave driver ourselves, or a corpse.”

  He continued calmly, “Imperial title or not, we couldn’t stay independent for long. Not when they own every market and wring every drachma till it squeals.”

  There was a general nod up and down the table. No surprise, the Riverlands were the bread bowl of the empire. They paid their taxes in grain and cloth. Feeding armies and cities. The blood line was south of that heartland, but close enough that it was likely little different.

  It was no place to be the bottom man. Or even the newest small noble. It was especially no place for fighting men with spines. Not if they wanted to keep them un or gently bowed.

  “The north isn’t as bad as it looks. The first few years without fortifications will be deadly. But if you can survive those and throw up a sturdy fortress, then you can take in your peasantry every winter and mostly wait them out. Still have to defend the walls, but the price in blood will be payable, if not particularly pleasant. Veterans there will be high-level, tough bastards!” He said with some admiration.

  “And that brings us to the hidden gem of the lot.” Ethan broke in. “The mountains. In particular, the northern pass called Alfwin.” He tapped on a red dot in the far north west of the empire. “It’s frigid cold in the winter, and with a short summer. The altitude will rob the air from your lungs and we’ll be in an eternal war with beasts and rift spawn… But a rewarding war. Beasts have valuable hides and rifts offer rewards. A far cry from skinny bird boned goblins or elves wielding spell worked ice that melts in the summertime.”

  “It’s not land for farmers, but then, the lot of us would make miserable farmers. We’ll never compete with the existing nobles trying to do the same old thing. We are warriors, and a war against beasts is a far cry better than against demons. Not to mention …”

  He stopped speaking and merely swept a meaningful glance around the table. They nodded, serious looks filled with no small amount of passion stared back at him from the five men. Some things could not be spoken out loud.

  “We are in agreement then?” Ethan asked.

  Six voices spoke “Ay!” nearly in unison.

  He nodded, “Then we just have to plan out how best to do it.”

  He waved Conner forward. The grizzled veteran nodded before tracing a line across the map.

  “-three months. With hard marching and decent weather.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Andrew chimed in, traced the arcing route himself. North to the capital and cross the Rheingold on the ferries at Veifurt. Then west along the tow road to Obstgartenfeld through the breadbasket of the empire. Then northward along the Silberstrom tributary to Auenland. “I don’t think we can afford to move so many people by riverboat. To beat the rush, maybe move off the beaten path. If most of the others choose the blood line like you seem to think, then the Rheingold River west will be packed. Instead, what about heading north up the Nebulstrom, skip the Obstgartenfeld stretch altogether and the flat landers with it, then cut west from Erntebrun.”

  “We could, sir Andrew.” Ethan wondered if the words felt as strange in James's mouth as it did in his ears. But both had better get used to it. “But as the primary trade artery for the empire, the tow road along the Rheingold is also the best road in the empire. We’d make half again the speed on it. Not to mention the paths up to and over from Erntebrun, while looking quite wholesome on this piece of art, give goat paths a bad name in practice. The metal they’re famed for exporting is shipped in river boats, not on roads.”

  “Then there is resupply. Even with the crowds, at least if we can get an even marginal head start, the fiefs on the way to Obstgartenfeld pull in three harvest a year. By the time we get there, the winter wheat should be in and the granaries overflowing with it. Making both the rates and quantities available to be in our favor.”

  “That’s not the case up the Nebulstom. The hill folk barely make ends meet as farmers or herders. In the fall you might manage it. But spring? Even with the writ it will be hard to buy sufficient supplies. At least if you don’t want to leave a dozen brewing feuds behind you.” He hesitated. “That would be a bad idea-“

  Ethan waved that aside. “I’m not about to pick a fight with the Falxman.” Those hills might not grow wheat, maze or beans in any great quantities, but they sure as hell grew fighting men. They paid their taxes in blood, not bread. They were the last set of ennobled bandsmen. Some five centuries earlier, but the roots still showed. They’d settled the unwanted hill country and proved themselves tough enough to handle it. Their Iron mines were productive, and their smiths justifiably famous, but it was fighting men that were their true export.

  He’d fought beside those tough bastards too many times to want to fight against them. Especially not on their home ground.

  Andrew too shook his head and leaned back in surrender.

  Ethan chimed in, “All right, so down the high road then up… Three months. That’s pushing mid-summer by the time we arrive. Doesn’t give us much time to get a crop in, even if everything goes well.” Unsaid was a battlefield truth. It wouldn’t.

  James shrugged, “It will be rough getting fields laid out, but rye and winter wheat planted in the summer or fall will be ready to harvest in the spring. If there are fields even worth planting. No, as planned, we’ll have to feed the peasants mostly meat. Not that we’ll be short of it, or even have to go out looking for it!”

  “Ay! And something to look forward to, that is.” Guile grinned.

  Unsaid was the reason they were even willing to try this route. And doubted any others would. Just keeping a hold warm through the winter, through snow and high altitudes, would be a hard job for most. Woodcutters working half the year to feed the fires of the other half.

  But they had something. A seed of hope his grandfather had come by. A rift reward from an incursion the Band had handled solo.

  A military core. The cores offered by the emperor were merely civilian ones. Hamlets at that. And a living, leveling hamlet was a far cry from a similar fortress. It wasn’t a unique resource. But it was a damn rare one.

  Cores in general were an imperial monopoly. They could not be bought or sold to any but the Emperor. But at least civilian cores had a predictable source, and a backhanded path to get them. They were a possible, if unusual, reward for tiering up a settlement. Not a low-tier upgrade, for the most part, but it was possible. And while selling them was illegal, ‘gifting’ between a senior noble and liegeman was not.

  This was the most common source of new fiefs, younger sons of nobility ennobled and given a core by their liege in exchange for vassalage. Taxes over time not being considered selling.

  Ethan hid a snort. But that was civilian cores. Military cores came from rifts. This was the only source Ethan had ever heard of and if there was another, that information was probably also an Imperial monopoly.

  But for all of that, there was a slim gap in that prohibition for them as well. Not even the Emperor would deny providence. A rift reward belonged to those that closed it and there was no law against a noble using one.

  And that was the fine print that had stymied them for 3 generations.

  A noble only.

  And finally, they were that.

  As long as they kept their mouths shut, it was hope in a baby’s head-sized crystal seed. A growing, self-heating fortress that might offer special classes. Even a regional unique class of their very own, if rumors were to be believed. After all, the Falxian’s Fortress, and the unique class they owned, hadn’t been built brick by brick at the hands of men.

  This was their hope. A military core, and there wasn’t a gnat’s chance in hell that one would be offered in the auction. If there was a core offered above hamlet, he’d eat his helmet. A location no one else wanted, and a host of battle merits to spend on what was left. They would have a fortress to raise future warriors in. Not a manor house to play at gentleman farmers barely better than the peasants they led. Barely noble and scrabbling for every drachma.

  No, they’d make an opportunity of necessity and carve a living out of fighting the beasts and rift spawn for meat and profit. And if they had to pay their taxes in fighting men, well at least it was a trade they knew well.

  A labor legion though, that was not something that had made its way into their admittedly bare bones plans. Nearly a thousand Labori and with families along somewhere between that thousand and fifteen hundred mouths, depending on the legion... It was a joker in the deck. An opportunity for sure. A chance to do in years what they’d planned for a decade. But only if they could feed and house them through the harsh winter.

  “How much, James? How much extra to feed, worst case, almost two legions of mouths through the winter?”

  “With hunting-“

  “No. Expect hunting, but without having seen the land, we can’t count on it. Not for the first winter at least. We prepare for the worst case, even as we hope for the best. Assuming minimal hunting and gathering, how much food do we buy, and where from…” He traced the lines again, the baronies of Gruntel, Traubenland and Bluetendorf would be their closest neighbors. Subordinates to the Count of Auenland. The elegant but unverified legend read wine, timber, wool and furs as their main exports. Not food.

  James shrugged. “I can only direct you to the logistics primer. Two and a half pounds of mash per tier 0, per day if you expect hard labor out of them. Three for tier 1s.” Ethan pictured the rest of that passage in his head. Four for tier 2s, ten for a warhorse and as little as five for a lighter scout horse. They were numbers no commander could fail to know.

  “-And just living through cold weather without adequate shelter counts. Figure five months of winter. Somewhere around 450 tons eaten for bean mash. And that number doesn’t consider rot or spoiling…”

  Ethan nodded. The numbers weren’t quite as bad as they seemed. Three pounds was eating weight, and beans were 3 to 1 cooked to dry. Jerky was more like 2, but a little went a long way in a soup pot. Throw in Blake’s help to prevent spoiling…

  Still, factoring in some wastage… by Brunti’s left nut that was a lot of food. At least the Labori brigades, by class and usage, were called the Emperor’s Mules for a reason. They could pack the food in. Or pull wagons full of it. Wagons… another thing they’d need. Or tow barges.

  Neither were in their standard inventory. Not much use for them close to the front. Couldn’t bring them into an incursion and pack mules were both faster and less picky about the terrain.

  “I did manage-” James continued, dragging him out of his thoughts. “-to ferret out a few extra bits of information on our prospective Labori.” Before he’d been informed of the rewards. Ethan hid a sigh. Not like the camp hadn’t been ripe with rumors no doubt, but he’d only been gone a few additional hours.

  “That they all look alike?” Guiles joked, elbowed Andrew and receiving a long-suffering sigh in return.

  Surprisingly, James nodded enthusiastically. “I believe that was the general consensus on the subject. And its why the apportionment is on a first-come, first-served bases.”

  Ethan sat straight and stared. First come… Only an idiot, or an extremely arrogant noble he supposed, would think that all labor battalions were the same. Setting aside specialist construction battalions versus the ditch diggers, there were levels and skills. Morale and the state of their equipment. Vested leadership, family status and average age.

  And the Emperor was no idiot.

  “What’s the catch?”

  “You pick them, you start feeding them, immediately.” James laid it out succinctly.

  Ah. A catch indeed. That many mouths, even for a few days at the current camp prices…

  “…Is it worth dragging the men away from the party early-?” The words fell flat from his mouth. Of course it was. They couldn’t afford to be stuck with an aging battalion of scut workers and neither could they afford to be at the back of the migration. Food costs would soar. But tearing the men away from their much-deserved revelry. That too would have a cost.

  Where to place the balance… “Sir James, do a bit of your usual skullduggery-”

  “I’m a quartermaster, not a spy!” He protested.

  “That’s exactly what a spy would say!” The familiar refrain rang from five mouths. Before his ennoblement, it would have been six. Damn his dignity! Ethan could only satisfy himself with a small smirk.

  “Ba, savages. I give up on you.”

  “Fine Sir James, give up on us. But first, find me the battalion we want. Young and ambitious with a good leavening of skilled workers. Wouldn’t mind if they were shy on the children but prioritize ambition. We want Levelers-“ people who go out of their way chasing levels, not merely just surviving. They were looking for the difficult ascent to the first tier and the class change that came with it to raise themselves and their future families into a better life. “-first and foremost.”

  “While we’re at it, let's do a bit of recruiting. If we need to feed folks over the winter, Army Cooks would be a godsend.” A good Cook might turn simple base ingredients into epicurean delights, but an Army Cook could turn the same ingredients into travel biscuits, dried beans and jerked meats. Extracting every last bit of nutrition and then some in the process.

  A bit hard on the taste buds, but they would go farther and last longer. Not always great for morale to sacrifice taste but far better for it then starvation. “If we could pick up a few specialist classes while we're at it. Blacksmiths, Leatherworkers and a Caravan Masters for instance, damn but that would be nice. There must be at least a few talented souls soon to be out of a job.”

  “I’ll try Milord, but we won’t be the only ones recruiting. The Army Cooks I’d lay money on. But the crafters will find fat safe billets in established domains.”

  “Do what you can.” Ethan agreed. Not everything would go their way, but if you didn’t ask then the answer was always no.

  “Sir Guile, I need you to put on your angry face and follow Sir James.” He raised a hand proactively, stopping both protests in their infancy. “James, let Guile do what he does best. Not a man, drunk or sober as will bother you with him trailing, and in a camp in the throes of revelry, you’ll need that.”

  “And Guile. You’re the scary bodyguard. Not the ambassador. Don’t talk in front of the clients. Don’t start fights. I cannot afford to retrieve you from the guardhouse!” Again went unsaid. “It’s not just coin anymore. It’s our honor!” He glared at the sheepish-looking red-headed giant for a few more seconds. Then sighed. He was a trial in any kind of garrison camp. But damn, but he was a force of nature on the battlefield.

  “Sir Andrew, I need you to do a check on our gear and animals. We were pretty rough on them during the push. Have what needs repairing repaired. Sick the Medics on the beasts and get us ready to leave as soon as possible. Keep an eye out for wagons if you can get them cheaply. But don’t bother if it’s not a very good deal.”

  The capital would be a better spot to pick them up. Especially if they could get there ahead of the pack. “James, spend a few minutes in your copious free time-” He smirked at the resigned chuckle that rumbled through the room, “-thinking about trade goods. If we know the route and can get out ahead a bit, we might be able to make our coin stretch a bit farther.”

  He nodded, making another note. He’d do it far better than Ethan would anyway. The man had a nose for good deals.

  “Sir Conner, you get to do for the men what Andrew is doing for the gear. Check wounds, organize a general inspection of gear. I know it won’t be popular, but you can put out a bit of sweetener with the medicine. The Imperial Quartermasters have opened the supply taps and at a significant discount. Let the men know I’ll chip in a fifth of their costs on gear replacement or improvement.” Each man owned his own gear and was responsible for maintaining it. Or replacing it if he failed to do so. A heavy burden considering the costs of a quality suit of armor. The Band's stores contained a bit of extra just in case, but it was for sale. Even if that sale came with a loan. No band could afford to simply give gear away.

  “I’ll also want you to make a list of goods you think we should stock up on, and yes, I know hauling them damn near the length of the empire isn’t enticing, but needs must.”

  Conner slapped a closed fist against his breastplate.

  “Sir Leofsige, I need you and your scout squad geared up and heading north in the morning. Don’t go more than half day out then back, but give me an idea of the road's condition and threats.”

  Leo too slapped his fist against his scaled shirt.

  “Brother, I need you work up a great many preservation spells. I imagine our supplies of demon cores are more than sufficient to power them?”

  Blake nodded easily, sipping at a mug of tea. Magisters of the Imperial College would not touch anything stronger. He didn’t know exactly what they did to the poor boys and girls admitted to that place, but thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t been selected. None who emerged could hear its name without cringing, nor would they speak of it under any circumstances.

  The results though, they were worth it. A good Magister was worth his weight in tier 1 iron. “More than full. The Imperial Purchasing Agents dropped their prices by a third.” Ethan winced. He shouldn’t be surprised. The need was no longer there, but it was one of the main sources of income for the warbands and anyone caught with a large supply was going to be deeply unhappy.

  “So-“ Ethan drew the question out.

  “I refused to sell, of course. Even bought up a good bit from others at a small premium above the imperial. A new core,” he paused sheepishly and rushed in some additional words, “if we get one, will need feeding and even traveling demon cores should be better than coinage on a weight for value basis. At least once we move out of this glutted market.

  James was smirking quietly in the background; no doubt he had a great deal to do with that decision. Ethan refused to ask.

  “Do you have any other recommendations before we move on? Journey runes or camp wards?”

  Blake was already shaking his head. “No point. For nigh on two thousand people? They’d bankrupt us in a week. I considered the camp wards, but you know the restrictions. The usual sets only work out here because demon taint, foreign to this realm as it is, stands out like a banner. Unless you want to wake up every time a sparrow flies by...”

  Blake shook his head and continued. “No, preservation spells are where we’ll get the most return for the cores. That and healing rituals for the inevitable injuries. About all I’ll have time to prepare anyway.”

  Ethan shrugged. It was worth checking. There’d been more than a few times where a properly applied Journy rune had turned a battle. But they were damn expensive to power.

  He tapped the map slowly, tracing the route and imagining the many ways it could go wrong. “We are going to have to change. I know,” he waved a hand absently. “-it’s obvious. But no less true for that. Actions, manners, how we protect our honor, personal or band, how we make connections and alliances. We are warriors. Successful ones, I’m proud to admit, but born and bred to the warband and the battlefield. Not to stronghold and fief. We don’t have the skills for administration. Even Sir James here is a quartermaster.” He paused, “and maybe a spy!” He ignored the sparks of laughter to continue. “And a military quartermaster, no matter how competent, is not a steward.”

  “Even with the plans we’ve laid. It’s a lack we need to make up. And there is an opportunity here to kill a number of demons with one ballista bolt.”

  He paused for a moment, then took the plunge. “Marriage.”

  Squawks of surprise and protest rang out, but he plowed on through them. “Who better to teach us proper deportment than a wedded noble daughter? How better to make alliances and gain the administrative skills we need? Many a noble daughter is as trained for management and from a younger age than their brothers are for knighthood.”

  “And loyal to the house that spawned them, not us, sire.” James cautioned. “You’d be taking spies into your bosom, even if, Brunti willing, not malicious ones.”

  Ethan shrugged. “True. Life is a compromise.” He spoke it as holy scripture. The Truth of the battlefield. All advantages came with drawbacks. “As long as the juice is worth the squeeze.”

  James twisted the end of his dagger pointed goatee, considering. “Couldn’t say for sure. But we have a lot of secrets, sire…”

  Ethan batted a hand out as it to shoo away a fly. Only one significant one, and once placed, it could not be removed. Nor hidden. “It won’t matter once we found our fief.” Was all he could say on that subject.

  “That doesn’t mean the fief can’t be taken.” And the core with it, James pointed out, a stubborn gleam in his eye. Ethan smiled fondly. Always secrets for secrets sake with him. He really should have been a spy master.

  “Not without paying an ocean of blood.” Good fortifications were like that. Valuable, but by their very nature, more deterrent than temptation. Large walls made good neighbors.

  “Or starving us out! A not terribly hard thing to do without fields planted or resources developed. We’ll need to buy food, that second year unless things go far more in our favor then we have any right to expect. Food that will be either from, or through our neighbors’ lands.”

  “A legitimate point. But I don’t plan to court our neighbors. Conflict is inevitable, but not immediately, I hope. No reason to court heartbreak. No, I was thinking of farther south along the river. Old blood, but far enough away from the center of power to take a chance on new blood. And far enough away from us to offer little interference. We don’t need their military might. Just an entrance into society, knowledge and social training. In return, they gain a connection to new blood, a hardened military force as allies, but not one so close as to constitute a threat. And,” the real reason they would accept. “-a way to avoid spinsterhood. I don’t need to remind you of the ratio of living men to women.”

  That drew a massed nod. The price paid in blood had fallen on male shoulders, far more often than female. And while nobles survived more often than peasants, more than a few had earned a glorious entrance to Kiron’s domain. “That’s… those are valid points, sire. But they aren’t a panacea against betrayal. Just because families aren’t close, doesn’t mean they can’t sell the information closer.”

  “It does not. But distance has its own benefits. Takes time for messages to travel, even if the snow doesn’t stop them entirely. And betrayal goes both ways, so long as we don’t take a stupid woman to wed, she must see that anything that harms us, will in turn, harm her home and children. She’ll not poison her own bed and seed.”

  James raised an eyebrow. “Logical.” He sniped, with a sardonic look.

  Ethan grimaced. There was that. It wasn’t a perfect solution… But. Nothing ever was. It was still a choice that offered more than it cost. And in a coin that mere money couldn’t buy.

  Legitimacy. Even after ennoblement, and all the battlefield honors that earned it. They remained new blood. Many, from the banquet hall to the tournament grounds, didn’t recognize a family without three generations on the patent. Something the imperial seal and disposition should partially mitigate, but only partially.

  Taking a noble wife, having an heir of two noble lines. That would go a long way towards closing that gap. A buy-in and acceptance of the social construct.

  “I’m resolute on this course, Sir James. I recognize and accept the risks, but the benefits outweigh them. I will also want you, my new knights, Guile excepted, to follow along.” Guile couldn’t stay faithful if his life depended on it. And with a knighted wife, it might. “Not all from the same holdings, but wives of a similar status will cement your own, and provide some insurance that your children can remain of the knightly class.” One of those complex loop holes in the yearly limit, is that a qualified relative could temporarily fill in while a child matures and is trained.

  “Wouldn’t mind a place to settle down. But yous let me know how Gretta and Anarita take da news... Just yous wait till I’s make some distance. Da tears and wailing hurt my ears.”

  “You’re all heart, Sir Conner.” Soft laughter filled the tent.

  “Anything else?” He offered.

  “Then let’s be about it.”

  He watched as they left the room, then quietly followed. Not to fulfill one of the many pressing tasks that needed seeing to, but something even more important.

  A couple steps down a short hall took him to the unit shrine. He waved away the salutes of the half dozen men guarding it and stepped inside.

  Dropping to his knees before the standard, he bowed his head. “Father. Grandfather. Great grandfather. We did it!”

  Yes

  __________

  “Master Rainer, tis a good evening we’re looking to have.”

  The slender man twitched slightly, raising a hand almost in negation before apparently thinking better of it.

  “Indeed, Lord Ethan, it is shaping up to be most pleasant.”

  “Did my missive reach you?”

  “Yes Lord Baronet, and as evidence, here is the list you requested of the evening’s offerings. I took the liberty of adding in the core specialties as well even though they weren’t on your list.”

  Ethan nodded, kicking himself even as he accepted the offered papyrus scroll. That was a foolish mistake, though one he hoped would come to nothing. He unlatched and pulled the rollers apart, giving the contents a once-over.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll need to be doing a few things at once due to the short time available. Please give me an overview. How is this play going to progress?”

  “Ah, well then. We will start with fief placements. Each steward will send the Imperial Logistics Officer a précis of the location their principal is interested in. There will then be a brief opportunity, in order of most to least popular, for the interested parties to make competing offers until the highest is accepted. Those who fail to acquire the property will then indicate the next location they are interested in. This will progress until all have chosen. You did notice, I trust, that there are more potential fiefs than baronets?”

  “Yes, and if this is to be believed, only thirteen cores for what, sixteen baronets?”

  “Regrettably, yes, they have always been a rare and highly sought resource.”

  “But, it’s rumored that expanding without one is… suicidal?”

  “Ah, not quite. I believe the records show that three in four cored settlements prove out. That is a settlement remains after 50 years. Note that this does NOT mean that the same bloodline still holds the settlement or has any pretensions towards independence. Financial or otherwise. Without a core, the number drops to one in four.”

  “Then..?”

  “These are all the cores the Emperor has made available, but how many exist in the vaults of the high nobility…” He finished with a sidelong glance.

  “Ah.” Ethan shrugged. That transfer loophole.

  “Indeed. Imperial independence is a gift, but not one that everyone can afford.”

  He took a second look, pure curiosity. Cores were rare enough that information on them was mostly rumors and conjecture. The Old Blood Nobility knew far more, but it wasn’t like they were going to tell him their secrets. “Agricultural core, with a small buff to germination rate. Agricultural with a minor yield increase. Forestry core with a miniscule chance to spawn a white hart… Some of these cores are clearly better…”

  “Yes, there is a wide gap between the best and worst. But for all that, I wouldn’t discount the value of a white hart. Even after the long war, there are nobles who have both the wherewithal and passion to pay for a legendary hunt.”

  “That… that I had not thought of. I guess you just have to find an angle.”

  “Indeed, yes. But still, some angles are easier to find than others. So there will be a great deal of interest in some, and less so in others. In particular, I expect-“

  ___

  “11 merits from Baronet Malger for Fjord Hakenfel. Well-chosen sir. May the North be the safer for your presence.”

  “Baronet Lucianus, what is your alternate choice?”

  Lucianus was a decent sort. A barrel-chested, muscle-bound warrior whose defining features were a pair of sharp brown eyes, a large straggly black beard and the pure stupid courage to stand when wiser men ran, and win when smarter men knew it couldn’t be done. As solid and stout a comrade as you could have, if a bit lacking in flexibility.

  “Haa, I’ll take Fjord Dunvalen then.” A fjord to the far Northwest, Ethan placed it, decent defensive ground, decent farm land but right along the main migration path of the frost raiders.

  “I do not believe any remain who can contest your choice, so it is yours for the base price of 5 merits.” The most popular lots along the blood line had gone for 25, so perhaps he wasn’t so lacking in flexibility after all. He was positioned quite nicely for bidding on the core of his choice.

  “Now, all that remains is Baronet Ethan’s choice of Alfwin Pass. As you too are uncontested, it will cost you the base price of 3 merits.”

  “That concludes the fiefs portion of this disbursement. But we have a great deal to get through, so let’s move right along. Now, as you all know, cores are a rare and precious resource. Found only infrequently as a reward on a settlement’s tiering up or incredibly rarely as a rift reward. The collection you are about to see represents over a hundred years of the empire's production and our hopes to expand for this generation. Do treat them as the treasures they are!”

  “Now, the first Core is a real gem. An Uncommon Agricultural Hamlet Core with a Small bonus of regeneration. Imperial records lead us to believe that alongside the standard Basic classes-” He placed the core into an elaborate metal stand, then, with a gesture, a pair of blue boxes appeared to hover before them all.

  The general class description key appeared briefly, then flickered into three more boxes.

  Basic was the lowest quality of class, but it was also the most flexible and easiest to come by. Nearly any non-magical, non-study skill could benefit from their skills and in turn, grant faster growth. Even if those skills, by way of being so unspecific, had the smallest benefits. “-and agricultural specific Farmer-” A fourth box appeared.

  “-such a core, if leveled to a township, might offer a medical class.”

  That… That had not been in the notes he’d been given. It made a man wonder what else the nobles knew and weren’t telling. But he had a show to put on, so he pushed the pointless thought aside and spat out a quick “10”. A half beat before other voices chimed in. Some lower, but at least three higher. The Imperial Logistic Officer easily pointed to one man. “I have 25 from Baronet Flaminius. 30 from Baronet Werner.”

  Ethan half raised his hand, then with a sigh let it drop.

  “Ah, 35 from Baronet Lucianus. A man with a very full war chest I am sure. Any others?” Regret lay in many a face, but it was a hopeless kind of regret. A point then. Earned merits had not been made public, and aside from one foolish braggart James had managed to dig up, Earnfeld with 37 points, and his own 73 points. He wasn’t at all sure how this would play out.

  “No. Then I give the good Baronet my congratulations.” A dangerous hold, but an excellent core. And one that was almost militarily aligned. Well done Lucianus. In fact, he caught the burly man’s eye, then raised both hands, grasped together, in the sportsman’s pose of victory, receiving a good-natured nod in return.

  “Next is an Agricultural core with a Small bonus to plant germination.”

  “Alongside the standard agricultural starters, it will likely offer the Planter class after a tier up to village. A specific farmer type with a great deal of utility. Do I hear a –“ Ethan made no bid. Any fool could see that farming would not be the main focus in the mountains. That didn’t stop others for fighting ferociously for it and it finally sold at last for 30 merits.

  “A Forestry Core with a Minor bonus to timber quality. Its specific class is Timberman-” New boxes replaced the old as Ethan skipped past the ones he’d already seen. With a drop in quality it had not just seen a drop in the size of the buff, but also the experience gain was lost.

  “-and includes the Basics of course. With a minor bonus, any specialized classes would be a matter of luck, purchase or great deeds.” Ethan nodded. That was the way of most things. By the time a hamlet grew to a township, they’d have additional classes. By hook, crook or rampant luck. Else, they’d have long since died out. Of course, if the core started out with a guaranteed class, those same actions would probably give you additional options. Quality told. But beggars could not be choosers.

  Ethan raised his voice again for “5”, but didn’t even get a nod as it jumped from 7, to 9 to 15 and at last 23.

  “Another forestry core with a minute chance at spawning a white hart. This is a bit of a wild card. The standard forestry classes and with a low standard utility but with a chance at a legendary beast, no matter how small that chance.”

  Ethan hesitantly, even as a smoke screen, he didn’t care for that experience penalty, raised his hand and called “5”, only to be quickly outbid. Baron Carmicle claimed that one at 18 merits. The fathead probably already had a noble patron waiting in the wings. He’d have to as the prime spot on the Blood Line he’d snagged wasn’t heavily, or even lightly, forested. Not unless he wanted to try and log the Darken Wood itself.

  And good riddance to bad rubbish if he did. Between fief and core, Ethan didn’t imagine he had much left to spend.

  “Agricultural with a minor bonus to vegetable yields.” Ethan didn’t bid and it tapped out at 16.

  “Agricultural with a minor bonus to crop health.” 19 points. And a good buy at that in Ethan's book. They weren’t skilled farmers who could ensure good health merely by skill. Yields would only come into play if the crops survived to be harvested.

  “Husbandry Core with a minor chance at twin births. Herdsman specific-”

  “-plus the basics.” Ethan threw in a couple losing bids, then bowed out gracefully. It was a great core. At least if you weren’t in raiding territory. Even with Herdsman being more useful in a fight than a farmer, grain in the fields was a lot harder to carry off than beasts in a corral. It still went for 22 points. Familiarity, if nothing else. Horses and mules any bandsmen knew and it was a much smaller leap to sheep and pigs than to grain and vegetables.

  “Agricultural, minor bonus to flower growth.” Ethan had to fight down a snort and almost fell out of his chair when Aldur’s confident voice rang out at 10. He was challenged briefly, but quickly won at 16. Ethan stared at his old foe with an eye raised in confusion and got merely a gloating smile in return…Fuck. What had he missed…?

  Still, he got his own in revenge, as Aldur became more and more confused as Ethan continued to lose bids. Till at last throwing in the towel on an agricultural core with a minor bonus to blond births.

  Yes.

  Blondes.

  What were they supposed to raise? Courtesans? Even that piece of drech went for 19 merits as the remaining four, Ethan making a show of it, fought for their last chance at any core. The looks he was getting were more doubtful now, considering even. Let them guess. The truth was too ridiculous.

  Far easier to believe that he was slumping for a Count or such. He blessed Rainer for that cover. He’d planned to pick up the cheapest core available for cover. It wouldn’t have even been a waste. Two cores of different purposes would pair quite well together. But cores could not be placed close together, and defending two at a significant distance was too risky for the first few years. Once they’d built up forces and had the lay of the land it would have been a real boon.

  If they survived that long.

  “Very good, all cores have been disbursed, so on to the resource allotments. We have a variety of treasures from the imperial vaults along with several Imperial levies on skilled tradesmen in a variety of fields.”

  “To start us off, not the most valuable but certainly near the top, I have a set of master crafted tools, low Tier 2. These are the basics to get the most common professions off the ground. That is smith, potter, charbonnier, cooper, tanner, cook and brewer. The master craft bonus for each set is a small training boost!” Ethans eyes bulged.

  The notes had said master crafted. It hadn’t said what the bonus was! He jumped in over a babble of small bids. “10” Angry faces turned his way, but looked way quickly in regret. Few had much left after fief and core, something he was looking forward to abusing.

  “12” Gebahard spoke quickly, he’d bought a fief at 26 but had missed out on a core altogether. He’d not have given up on the final core if he’d had a choice, so that put him at 18. As to how much of that he’d spend on one bonus… they’d have to see.

  “13” Ethan calmly replied. Gebahard hesitated, then waved it away.

  “Congratulations Baronet Ethan.”

  “Next, we have a contract on the Imperial fisc for travel expenses. 2000 silver drachma.” A large sum, but money could be acquired in many ways. There were far more valuable things coming. It went for 4 merits.

  “A master crafted plow. With a small bonus to yields.”

  “A set of 100 master crafted training spears.” Ethan quickly yelled a bid. Lucianus topped him, then was topped in turn. Back and forth till he won at 14 merits. Slapping the man down with his deeper reserve. It felt rather good, though he quickly stepped on the feeling.

  A runaway ego could drive one to poverty in an auction. Or get him killed.

  Still, he didn’t regret the fight or the cost. Such training tools were nearly an imperial monopoly during the war, but they likely had a number of such sets, and with the need dwindling, could afford to gift one.

  “A class stone,” Ethan leaned forward. The contents of the stones hadn’t been listed, but any class stone was dreadfully valuable. And dear. If you just waited for a town to grow into additional classes, well, how long would that take? And who knows what those classes would be.

  Even if this was likely, else it wouldn’t be here for the claiming, a fairly common class it was still useful to lock in the option. “For a Stone Mason.” Ethan breathed out. Damn. It was indeed a fairly common class here in the heartlands. But one that never wanted for work. And who didn’t need one where they were going?

  Bids shot up quickly, topping at 11 points. A set of bids Ethan was conspicuously silent during. He had to play his part. No matter how much he wanted the damn thing, it wouldn’t sell the lie he was weaving.

  If he was going coreless less there had to be a reason, and the most likely was offering a knee to a senior noble. Or arse, he mused uncharitably. And that noble could and would provide both core and a master stone mason. Not a fresh novice in the class with years before he could put it to use for anything besides huts.

  No, this was a long-term investment for a determined independent. Bless the Emperor for thinking of them, even if he couldn’t partake of his grace.

  “7 year indentures on a set of 50 skilled 1st Tier Common or better classes. Men who’ve fallen afoul the Emperor’s low justice.” He warned calmly, though few of those present looked put off by the prospect. Of course, low justice didn’t need saying. High meant a death sentence, not 7 years of labor. “A decent spread of both professions and gatherers.” Ethan nodded. That meant the farmers, herdsman, timberman and miners on the gathering side, and the gamut of blacksmith to wood carvers on the other. And not some basic Craftsman with skills in those directions, real focused classes.

  Ethan quickly spoke again over the chatter. “7” The angry looks were back and not going away. Enemies, then. He wouldn’t seek them. But they could also bugger a goat before he’d back away for the likes of them. He’d not fought them for fief or core, it was his turn now.

  “8” “9” That last had been Gebahard again, and Ethan considered, before speaking again. “10”

  Gebahard practically spat “11”.

  Ethan waved it to him. There was another of the same kind on the list. And he doubted he’d pay more than 9 for that one. 73 three points would go a long way, but waste not want not.

  “A Tier 2 limited skill stone-” Ethan leaned forward again. A tell for sure, but not one he minded giving. Who wasn’t interested in a permanent source of an extra skill. They were much more common than class stones, but they didn’t want for owners either. “-containing the skill Long Blades-”

  Useful. A noble had to know the sword. It was a convenient weapon for wearing about indoors or as a backup in case you lost your longer weapon in a fight. But hardly the primary preference of real warriors on the battlefield. At least not against demons or beasts.

  It was against men that swords came into their own.

  Thankfully, it was already a skill he had. Weapons of War was a more general skill, but it had its own high points that synergized with his command-related skills and buffs.

  No.

  As useful as it would be for some under his command, at only five recipients per year it was a tool for noble prestige not the battlefield. it wasn’t where he’d choose to spend his limited resources.

  Besides, if he needed a duelist, he sick Guile on them.

  The winning bid was 5.

  “A class stone containing Bowyer.”

  Ethan quickly spat out a bid “5”

  “6” “7”

  He hesitated, but grit his teeth and kept bidding. Hunting or war, you could not ignore the bow and while the band had poached a 1st tier Fletcher, the next closest thing they had was a maxed-out 0 Tier Craftsman with a stone-granted skill in woodworking. And that Craftsman would cry tears of blood at finally having an opportunity to advance! “9”

  Silence lingered and he let out a breath in relief.

  “Congratulations to Baronet Ethan.”

  “Next is a bull and 4 heifers. All at Tier 1 and of the Imperial stud.” A valuable lot, for sure. But one he hesitated to bid on. Would they prosper at high altitudes? He didn’t know. Better to go for sheep or better yet, goats, he decided regretfully. The lot went at 6 merits to Garibald the same as won the sole husbandry core. Many an egg in the same basket, but if he could keep them secure in his northern fjord, then he’d have a living to boast about.

  “An additional labor battalion-” Ethan shook his head. As much as he’d like more men, he wasn’t so sure of feeding what he had. It went for 2 merits. Seemed almost criminally cheap, but untrained human life often was.

  “An imperial contract to deliver 50 tons of food with a year’s warning, and pursuant of travel restrictions.” Ethan hesitated. He’d seen it in the notes, but it just wasn’t flexible enough. He didn’t know what they would need a year for now, nor exactly what ‘travel restrictions’ could be stretched to cover. Did it mean a foot of snow? Did it mean only along a major roadway? It was just too chancy. If it had been a delivery this winter, he might have taken the chance, but reluctantly, he let it pass for 5 merits.

  He picked up the second set of indentures for 9 merits, then a set of 100 training bows for 11.

  He let a lot of furniture and a manor seed pass by unbid. The first was too heavy and the second, a seed that would grow into a manor house in a season if provided the wood and stone, wasn’t all that useful. It wasn’t a core to keep growing or to maintain itself. Just a rift-rewarded house, to grow in place once, then be left to the owner for anything further.

  “A class skill for a Scrimshawer.”

  A bonesmith! Ethan nearly stood up with excitement. Then glanced around sheepishly, only to see mockery on his colleagues' faces. Well, that made things easier. “5” He spoke excitedly.

  A few looked interested, but not at that price. Then again, with the demon rifts closed and most having sold off the harvest already, it wasn’t nearly so valuable as it could have been.

  But the Band hadn’t sold their stock, had even bought a bit when prices dipped. Demon bone, or claws and horns for that matter, made for fine weapons. Cheaper than iron of the same tier and often more durable, if not quite as capable of holding an edge.

  With a Craftsman shaping and grinding it, that is. With a specialized crafting class and a magic one to boot, he’d bet copper against silver that would change. Was betting, really.

  Even without the demon materials, there would be beasts and rifts aplenty where they were going. There’d be material to work with.

  “Congratulations, Baronet Ethan.” Aldur raised a hand and flicked it in the arena gesture for first blood. He was no fool to have sold his proceeds off cheaply. But even so, long-term it had less utility. Goblins dominated the dark forest, and aside from the usual rift duties, that meant thin, birdlike bones and wretched, stinking flesh.

  “Next, we have –“ A series of smaller, if valuable, material lots came through. Tier 1 Iron, hardwood and quarried stone, delivery included in the spring of the following year. Good things to have. But too late for use this year, and widely available for purchase closer to the pass. The bloodline had a very different resource spread. Great farmland, but not much in the way of metals or even quarries. At least that he knew of. Hardwood they could have… if they’d brave the Darken Woods for it.

  That would be a hell of a feat if they pulled it off. But it would take a small army. Unsupported? Well, there were far easier ways for a woodcutter to commit suicide.

  Then a few additional skill offerings. T0 Thrust, Shield bash and March. Excellent skills. But ones suited for raising levies. They were class skills for most military classes and if not, anyone could teach a skill if they had it 2 tiers above the tier they were trying to teach. The skill would max out those same 2 tiers beneath the teacher and as a non-class skill so it was of limited utility. It could also take a good bit of time. The stones were a shortcut. A way to make Basic Class levies not quite so shitty in a hurry.

  And then bury them in nearly the same amount of time, Ethan snorted.

  Then at last, “Our final lot is a set of 5 Tier 3 knightly plate armors made by a Tier 3 Armorsmith.”

  The Logistic Officer waved a hand, and four men carried in a wooden armor wrack graced with a true marvel. A gleaming black front and back clamshell formed the chest protection, Tier 2 Iron mixed with a bit of adamantite, he'd wager. The tier 4 material, even in small quantities enough to boost the less noble metal to tier 3 status.

  Articulated pauldrons of the same wrapped the shoulders and down to the elbows. A Corinthian helm sat on a white, silvered aventail. Mithril, and while the duller color said it was an alloy, it wasn’t diluted to the point that its characteristic damascene light reflections disappeared. That meant at least half mithril. Similar chain mail sleeves peaked from beneath the pauldrons and the gauntlet-bracers that stretched beyond the elbow in a sharpened point.

  Leather pleats plated with greater demon scales, pturges, covered from the hips to knees, with a bit of silver showing mail chausers beneath that. Then a combination of greaves and sabatons of the same blackened metal fully encased the feet up to an armored knee cap.

  It was... beautiful. The stand was placed, then with a little work, they unlatched the breastplate. Hinged at the right side, it swung open to reveal a padded aketon beneath. Tier 3 padded greater demon hide with mail reinforcement at the armpits.

  He let them look for a few more moments, then continued, “As you can see, each is a functional war plate without the artistic touches many nobles insist on. For all that, they are quite beautifully made.”

  They were indeed! And as proof-

  “4” “6” Yells and quiet threats graced the floor rapidly. “8” “9”

  Ethan grinned. If he’d counted properly… “10” most of the calls quieted, but the looks promised that he’d made an enemy or two.

  “11” Aldur spoke quietly. Ethan gave him a considering look. He’d thought him tapped out when he’d given up on the last iron lot at 3 merits.

  “12” Ethan spoke. Looking Aldur in the eye. The contact held for a few more moments, then regretfully, Aldur shook his head. Ethan released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “Congratulations to Baronet Ethan, may you use them to protect the empire. That concludes our disbursement, but as you all well know, any leftover battle merits may be exchanged in the usual way with myself or one of my subordinates, before you leave the camp. The merits will not be accepted a month from now, so do ensure that you expend them.”

  “The resources that can be, will be given you before the morning. For the rest, I wish each of you a good night.”

  ___

  Aldur braced him as they filed out of the dining hall. “73 merits? I wonder who-at” He slurred the who just enough into what that he could deny it later. “-you’ve been doing on the side.”

  Ethan snorted, “You managed 64 with a generation less. Careful what the mirror shows you.”

  “Ah, yes. Your great-grandfather was the first, wasn’t he?” Aldur flicked his hands in the symbol for a touch again.

  “Not the first. Just the first to raise a standard. His father was the first bandsman. He cut his teeth selling his sword in small inter-fief wars.”

  “And now we are baronets…” Aldur sighed, his eyes overwide but empty. Looking at something far beyond the walls about them. Ethan could only agree. Aldur’s ancestors came from the same source as Ethans. Little better than jumped-up Basics.

  But look at them now?

  Ethan considered, then extended his arm, hand open and empty. “We won’t be neighbors, and I regret that. Who will my sons sharpen themselves against now? Will my new neighbors keep them on their toes like you did me? Maybe yes, maybe no. But I’ll say this: may your line live on till one of mine expands far enough to fix that.”

  Aldur gave him a sardonic smile, then reached out and grasped his forearm. “May you live long enough to go soft!”

  Ethan laughed, letting go. “I don’t think either of us will have that problem, old Friend.”

  “Probably not. But look where unlikelier dreams have brought us.”

  Well, he couldn’t disagree with that. “If –“

  “Excuse me, Baronet Ethan?” A page in red heraldry politely interjected.

  No.

  Not red, Crimson! Aldur gave the color of the tabard a wide-eyed glance, then, with a final nod, turned and walked away. And if the haste was a bit on the unseemly side, well, who could blame him?

  “Yes.”

  “Your presence has been requested by Count Egino of Veifurt.”

  Ethan hid a sigh. There were many a thing he’d rather do than speak with the Crimson Count. Like gargling sewage or dancing on hot coals. But it wouldn’t do to offend that savage old bastard. Not if he wanted to remain among the living. “Lead the way.”

  They tracked through a series of narrow stone passages, defensive features rather than construction limitations, before emerging in a wide administrative center. Where James was standing at attention to the side of the sitting Crimson Count. What was going on here…?

  He made his way across the room and waited to be acknowledged. Little better than his knight, or the page, if truth was to be told. Vielfurt was one of the oldest fiefs in the empire. Nearly the first settled outside the Capital at the end of the last apocalypse, if you believed the stories they told. And in public at least, he’d not dare to do otherwise.

  True or not, they were an ancient house and their noses, like their blood, were well elevated. But for all that, they were neither blind from it nor soft with age. If this grey-bearded, tall but not excessively muscular man hadn’t been promoted for his battle merits, it was because of politics, not because he hadn’t waded through a lake of blood.

  He waited a good five minutes while the count read through a scroll, making a few notes with an ink stick that was regularly reinked by the page beside him.

  Then at last he nodded and raised his eyes, handing the annotated scroll to James. “Good evening, Baronet, and congratulations on your ascension.” The words were somewhat bland. Polite nothings, for the most part. He was rather famous for his vocal contempt for the Falxian Counts. Ethan couldn’t imagine he held a set of even newer nobility in any great favor.

  He’d rather vocally lamented about wasted cores and deserving younger sons. Still, polite nothings or not, at least he’d said them. That was better than Ethan had expected. He continued speaking, not bothering to wait for Ethan to return the courtesy.

  “I find myself in a position to do you a favor, and what is more surprising, for you to do me one. In the process of selecting the 6 labor battalions granted me by Imperial Decree, I find myself with a glut of undesirables. Ones I plan to foist off on you.”

  Ethan began to dread where this conversation was going. Imperial title or no, denying this man might be beyond his power. Especially as they would need to travel through his fief and the ferries that his family held as a monopoly in the near future.

  “I am referring, of course, to what you Bandsmen refer to as levelers.” Wait, what? “Malcontents. Those unaware of their proper place in life and a pernicious disease to any long-settled hold. My agents made me aware of the types of questions your man here was asking.” Not even an acknowledgement of knighthood, no surprise there. “And I decided to make a virtue of this… farce. If the Emperor, may his light shine upon us, can send militant undesirables to the borders, so too can I.”

  Charming. Ethan hid a grin. He’d heard worse and on no few occasions. Being ennobled was a step, or several steps, up the ladder, but until you reached the top, shit still fell straight down. If only all the rudeness he’d see would come with such a silver lining.

  “Your Lordship, I would be honored to take them off your hands. Sir James, do you have a legion picked that can return the favor?”

  “Yes Milord. The 79th, Quinctius of Marvery’s unit. Called the Young Bloods. Three-quarters of the unit has an age between 16 and 22, with an average level of 8. Few are married and even fewer with children. The remaining quarter is the dregs from another ambitious unit. Those left behind when the rest ascended. About 5-10 years older, with a high proportion of wives and children of various ages.”

  Ethan nodded and turned to the Count, only to be waved off. “As a new noble, let me give you some advice, as I’d prefer you not humiliate the institution. Nobles shape. We do not haggle. Point them in the desired direction and let the servants quibble over the details. My steward is over by the wall there. I have a few other baronets to deal with soon. You have my leave to depart.”

  Ethan and James bowed. Ethan took a single step backwards, James two, then they turned and walked away. Things were looking up! He dropped a few words to James, then took the Count’s advice. He had far too many other things to plan and organize.

  ___