V3: Glockenwatch

Sergeant Kasich leaned on his halberd while his squad wrapped up their routine harassment of the foreign caravaneers patiently queuing for entrance to the city, enjoying the crisp spring morning which had seen the last of winter’s snows melting away. Birds were swirling in their rambunctious flocks over the field and home, a cool breeze stirred the hem of his long cloak without troubling the aging joints beneath, and the sun edged its bright face towards the apex of noon. As clear and fine a spring day as one could ever ask for, the kind that made everything seem clean and ready for a party. Even so, he kept his eyes moving along the southern horizon, a good open sightline even from his low vantage since the fields were yet bare and untilled.

Glockenbaltz, the hub upon the whirling wheel of the world, the meeting place of all roads ever laid. From the great statue of Lady Commerce, her gold-filled hand outstretched above the Old Residence, to the swirling chaos of the Low Streets where peddlers and foreign traders barked and haggled, the city was an example to all of what could be achieved with the right combination of unity, effort, and forward thinking. Certainly there was no strong central leadership to enforce its will over the city, with merchant-princes and entrepreneurs vying for position and profit, ultimately subject to the whims of the market. It was a vibrant, living place, the air heady with the comingled scents of sulfur, spice, and sweat.

High walls girded the sprawling urban area on all sides, patrolled day and night by squads of professional guardsmen armed with polearms and swords, clad in gleaming armor that their presence was always known to the populace. Bronze cannons rested under oiled tarps, like sleeping beasts waiting for prey to stumble into their territory, ready to be uncovered, loaded, and run out into their ports for firing at a moment’s notice.

Known as the Beast Gate, Glockenbaltz’s southern entrance was the most heavily fortified portion of the city’s defenses, with a dozen more cannons than any other gate and a full complement of guards in full armor. It was also the only one large enough to easily permit the use of gargants: shaggy four-legged herbivores Lakelanders used for transportation of bulk goods, steered by a single rider seated behind the head. Immensely strong and relatively docile unless specifically trained for war, gargants could carry several passengers in comfort and still pull a laden wagon behind.

 In spring, Lakelanders brought fresh produce and winter-caught furs, as well as steel and other metals. Come summer, their red-painted warbands would ride up in search of cattle and slaves, or just to hone their skills ‘sporting’ with the guards. As the seasons turned again, yet more caravans would arrive to ransom captives or sell their loot on the open market, buying or selling foods as the year’s harvest demanded. It was simply the way of the world, given the city’s relative proximity to Chalice Lake and its savage tribes, but not one that had to be suffered gladly by those who made the defense of Glockenbaltz their sworn duty and primary occupation. Disruption of trade was punishable under the Bond, and given that the watch was funded by private donation for the purpose of upholding the Bond, most guardsmen gave wreckers short shrift.

It was still a long ways off in the year before Kasich and the rest of the watch had to worry about howling gangs of savages running amok and molesting traders on the roads, but there was always the chance that a particularly down-and-out orc warband or dwarfen mercenary company would set up camp along the long south road between the Beast Gate and the Spill. Watchmen of his veterancy rarely got tapped for hinterlands patrols, but Kasich had friends in the younger generation, many of whom would happily volunteer for such risky duty despite any warnings he might offer them.

Just one such spring chick approached him, a bright eyed girl who had joined his squad late in the winter. She was a solid public relations choice, with an exuberant smile that could make a heart skip and stutter, made all the better for being spontaneous rather than fixed and weary.

“All clear, sergeant,” Sophia chirped at him, her own halberd resting on her shoulder at a jaunty angle, modest bust puffed out in pride. “No contraband or known violations of the Bond in this lot. Permission to pass them through?”

“Granted, watchman,” Kasich said with faux-grim authority. “But be sure they know, we’ll be keeping a close eye. Can’t let these ragamuffins go thinking we’re slack in the joints!”

“Aye, sergeant!” Saluting him briskly, she let out a rather unprofessional giggle before schooling her features and marching away. If Kasich had half her energy, at any age and much less now in his near-dotage, he’d have been a captain and not a sergeant. She’d go far, as long as she didn’t let any unprofitable ideas start running around in that pretty head.

Turning his face upward, Kasich studied the position of the sun with squinted eyes, then looked back through the gate. Aha, the noon shift was coming through, sidling out of the gate as ox-drawn wagons passed through the other way. Too bad, the next group were some fairly shifty looking bobbins, bound to have taxable goods in their ponies’ saddlebags; the little bastards were inveterate smugglers and scofflaws, more of a sport than a way of life. Ungrounding his polearm, he turned and started following the last caravan in, waving his free hand to beckon his squad after him.

“Rickard,” he greeted the other sergeant, bumping knuckles with the youngster. “Go deep on the next bunch, they’re looking a little too relieved that I’m off.”

“Thanks, Kasich,” Sergeant Rickard said, grinning as he brought his hand around for another bump into his senior’s pauldron. “I’ll cut you in if there’s goodies, hey?”

It always paid to throw another dog a bone, Kasich had learned. Too many people got greedy, thinking there was some finite pie to be shared around, and only the quick and dirty would get a slice. Sure, there was a time and place for undercutting the competition, but he preferred a little kickback here and there to supplement his income, rather than a big score that would leave him retired and bored. Speaking of which…

Stopping to one side of the inner gate, Kasich brought out his purse and gathered the squad around him. They had their pouches out as well, shaking loose coins and markers into their hands; one for special taxes, the other as receipts for goods taken under the Bond. Traditionally, all proceeds from special contraband taxes and confiscations were shared equally between members of a squad, with a little flexibility here and there for particularly diligent watchmen, or particularly lean weeks which meant higher dues paid to the coffers. It had been a strong morning, with an entire wagonload of unlicensed niter being their greatest seizure by far; how the silly bastards had expected to slip it through disguised by a thin layer of manure, Kasich had no idea. Smuggling gunpowder fixings went well beyond the level of ‘discretionary taxation’ and into the realm of magistrates and flogging.

Distributing the coins and chits evenly, with the watch’s percentage skimmed off for Kasich himself to turn in, the sergeant praised and criticized his subordinates as their performances and temperaments required. They were good kids, all around bright and observant, and he worked them hard in the training yards to make sure that when the lid came off they would be ready.

“Half day,” he said as he finished sorting out the last of the copper. “Take it easy on the drinking, we’re running the wall at dawn before we pick up from the night crew.”

Half-hearted and good natured groans answered him, and he thumped his halberd’s butt sternly against the cobbles, steel plate ringing on hard stone. “None of that! If you can’t keep pace with a twenty-year sergeant on a nice broad wall, how are you going to run down cutpurses in the Low Streets?” That got a laugh out of all of them, since their long-legged sergeant liked pacing watchmen half his age while running backwards almost as much as bemoaning his ‘creaky knees’. And if one failed to outrun him, it was at risk of having a boot planted in the seat of their trousers. “Alright, take off.”

They dispersed, some of them heading for the barracks, others for family homes, all to lay down their polearms and shuck off bright blue uniforms in favor of more stylish garb. Kasich himself was looking forward to a long stroll through the market before he turned in, a sort of unofficial patrol as he meandered towards his home on Spicer’s Way. After more than two decades in the watch, he was more comfortable in blue wool and polished steel than any other set of clothes he owned, and the two-meter haft of his halberd made as good a walking stick as any decrepit old geezer could ask for.

Chuckling at his own self-depreciating thoughts, Kasich melded into the politely jostling crowd. Born a country boy, it had taken him years to acclimatize to the roaring noise of Glockenbaltz’s many markets; whether High Streets or Low, daylight meant business, and every available space was dedicated to production or sales. Local butchers haggled with elven ranchers and rangers, elbow to elbow with goblin tanners waving skeins of leather in each hand. Washing wenches  of every variety danced in the fountains by way of advertisement, their sheer garments clinging enticingly as the took on baskets full of soiled cloth. There were children cheering for candied nuts and bits of honey-wax at nearby stalls, or else running hither and yon in their herds of ten and twenty.

Turning a corner, Kasich had to go wide around a pair of orc acrobats in the middle of an impromptu show in an alcove, the female balancing her much larger partner on the pillars of corded muscle that were her upraised arms. As he watched, the male made small, carefully practiced movements, posing himself in subtle ways to make the woman’s strength seem impossible, both grinning all the while. From the amount of currency overflowing from the floppy-brimmed hat at their feet, the growing crowd that served as their audience was suitably impressed. Those two would probably get scouted by a troupe before night fell, considering they lacked any sign or board declaring membership in an organization.

Moving on, Kasich ignored the well-meaning barks that came his way; he made it a practice to never go shopping with the watch’s cut on his belt. All greetings were met with a wave of the hand, sometimes a smile, and always an unbroken stride. Moving with purpose and avoiding eye contact was the best way to keep oneself from getting drawn in, especially for a soul as naturally gregarious and generous as the sergeant’s. But the very fact that he was sorely tempted to stop and examine those delicate stone figurines, or maybe take a turn down a side street he knew had excellent pork pies, was exactly why he kept the policy in place. It would be so easy to spend a copper here and there, and arrive back at the barracks with an empty purse and excuses.

It was a story every watchman knew, and it happened from time to time, but Kasich prided himself on a ledger scribed with entirely black ink. Owing no debts was the way to a happy life, as far as he was concerned; pay up front, and always on time, and others will be sure to do the same for you.

Such thoughts on his mind, the sergeant was very careful to turn off and circumvent a stretch of the market which primarily dealt in carnal services. If there was one thing he knew was beyond resisting, it was the siren call of a professional woman who truly enjoyed her work, and took to it with the will of an entrepreneur; there were several entire shopfronts populated by that sort down the way, and his thrift was not sufficient to the task today.

Instead, he was moving through an area which, not coincidentally, was known for silks and perfumes. It was not the perfect detour for his purposes, since the gaudy fabrics and musky fragrances were just as apt to send him into a state of rut as bared flesh and raunchy shouts, but it sufficed. At least the rarified prices meant that the crush of bodies was limited to a trickle here, with more folk passing through like himself than actually seeking goods to purchase. He passed by the stall girls draped in flowing dresses of red and green and white, averting his eyes from their enticing stares just as he had in the less sensual climes of the market.

Just as he was about to clear the market and surround himself with the residences on Spicer’s Way, he caught sight of a familiar smile. Sophia was standing at a stall, her halberd leaned against a rack of silk bolts, clad only in her trousers, boots, and a simple breastband that held her assets with a firm grip. Trading her sky-blue tunic into the trader’s hands for a long carmine drape embroidered with fine black and gold, she it about her shoulders like a cloak, spread her arms and let it hang, then raised one hand into the air to see the wondrous patterns catch the sunlight. Turning around and around, she let out a peal of laughter as the merchant laughed and clapped his hands to her impromptu dance, whistling and stomping one foot in appreciation.

Her little show complete, Sophia paid the merchant in silver and took her tunic back, tucking the garment into her belt rather than putting it back on. Taking up her weapon once more, she gave the happy trader a little turn-and-sashay as she departed, disappearing from Kasich’s view into the warren of side streets.

Setting off slowly, the sergeant turned the matter over in his mind as perfumes and silks were replaced by flower-lined balconies and narrow stucco housefronts. Sophia was young and life-loving, new to the unexpected largesse provided by those who attempted to circumvent the Bond; it might be a good idea to sit her down and give a warning about thrift and excess. And hopefully do it in a manner that did not make one Sergeant Kasich seem like a stodgy old man wagging his finger at the frivolity of the young. Grumbling fragments of paternal wisdom to himself, he mounted the steps to his home and banged in through the front door, as was his usual custom.

Clean, warm, and safe, that was how he liked his place. No clutter or souvenirs, momentos of past glories absent, but the couches were deep-cushioned  and piled high with pillows and blankets, and a small cabinet of fine liquors stood beside his armor rack. Hardwood floors and glass windows, who could ask for more?

First in importance was securing the day’s gains in a heavy lockbox he kept for just such a purpose, proof against any but the most skilled and determined thieves; qualities which were not common among those foolish enough to rob a sergeant of the watch. His was a good neighborhood, in any case, and many of his neighbors were of the particularly nosy, well-intentioned sort.

Removing his armor and uniform with the thoughtless ease of many years practice, he selected a linen drape from his wardrobe and threw it about himself casually. It was the perfect time of day to visit the baths, not too crowded and not too lonely. After a long soapy soak to get the road dust off, and maybe a professional shave, he would stop by the Halberd and Blue for a pot or two of beer; it was, as its name suggested, a favorite watering hole for watchmen seeking respite from their constant vigilance. Slipping on a pair of light sandals, he set off through the door and down the street with a tune whistling between his teeth.