Chapter Fourteen: The New Provincial Inspector's Appointment

“What's the use of giving me the head of a dead man? You say he’s the notorious bandit Houss, but you chopped him into mince—how the hell is anyone supposed to recognize which bastard he was?” In the official chamber of the Lord of Tinez, Viscount Pierre unleashed a torrent of curses at the city constable Bob.

Bob’s round face had turned a dark purple, like overcooked liver.

Since early summer, when Viscount Pierre’s cartload of silk and spices was stolen by a bandit named Houss, the enraged viscount had sent the constable and the city guards on multiple fruitless hunts. But Bob, who usually bullied the weak in Tinez, lacked the courage to chase down bandits beyond the city walls. After several futile patrols in the south, Viscount Pierre, exasperated, issued a final ultimatum.

A few days ago, Bob had rounded up some vagrants from the south, randomly hacking a somewhat sturdy man with a dozen wounds, and presented him to Viscount Pierre, hoping to pass him off as the bandit.

Bob could take the scolding, but he was not worried about losing his post, for he had powerful backing. At this very moment, his sister was perhaps secretly enjoying the favors of the esteemed court’s deputy chancellor.

After venting his anger, Pierre calmed down, unwilling to waste more breath on the fat pig before him.

“Bob, look at this.” He tossed a parchment sealed with the court’s constable minister’s stamp to Bob.

Bob snatched it and scanned it, then bellowed, “When did this patrol officer show up? And they expect us to support him! To hell with that patrol officer—we don’t need any damn patrols for Tinez’s security!” Seeing Pierre’s darkening expression, Bob quickly clamped his mouth shut.

“Why yell? The constable minister’s orders are clear: the patrol officer is to patrol the southern border, root out bandits, and guard against mountain tribes. He has no jurisdiction in Tinez and won’t steal your position.” Pierre leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead.

Bob muttered disdainfully, “The court has no funds, yet expects us to supply equipment and provisions. And the glory goes to the constable minister! That old bastard sure knows how to scheme.”

“Bob, shut your filthy mouth. The constable minister is not someone your seductive sister can provoke. But we’re barely managing ourselves. I’ve already ordered another hike in trade and entry taxes. After winter, I’ll recruit fifteen more town guards, bringing my soldiers to a hundred. You’ll recruit a few more for your security team, making ten in total. And mark my words—no more recruiting scoundrels. You need to stabilize the security around Tinez first. The rest can wait until that patrol officer takes office.” With that, he booted Bob out.

“Art Woods Wells, the Wells family… there’s no such family in Burgundy. Where did this fellow come from?” Pierre muttered, picking up the parchment again.

...

“Master, I’m quite curious—who exactly are you? The longer I follow you, the more extraordinary you seem.” Ron lay in the carriage, chewing on rabbit meat, speaking to Art riding beside him.

Art smiled. “I’m curious too. What kind of person do you think I am?”

Ron propped himself up, gazing intently into Art’s eyes: “The first time I saw you, I thought you were a ruthless bandit lord. After arriving at the mountain cabin, you seemed a remarkable forest hunter. During our journey north, you appeared like a politician weaving through court intrigues. But outside Tinez and in yesterday’s ambush, you became a wandering knight of great prowess and chivalry.”

Art chuckled softly, pointing to a dark purple bruise on his neck. “Have you ever seen a chivalrous knight nearly strangled to death by bandits?”

“But you ultimately killed that bandit!” Ron admired his lord still.

“Ron, you’re right. If I hadn’t killed that bandit, it would be our heads on this carriage now. Remember: the best way to deal with an enemy is to kill him, then finish him with one last strike.”

Ron glanced at the head at his feet, nodded, and quietly repeated, “Kill him, then finish him.”

At that moment, Odot, scouting ahead with a broad axe, rode over to Art. “Sir, it seems we’ve reached Tinez.”

“Good. Odot, keep a close eye on the grain wagon.” Art urged his horse forward.

...

Outside the northern gate of Tinez, the ground was littered with filth and reeked horribly. In less than a month, the refugee shantytown had doubled in size. Compared to the huts made of twigs and leaves—dog kennels at best—Odot’s shack outside Lucersain was like a noble’s manor.

As they passed with the grain wagon, hungry, wolfish eyes glared from the shanties. Art rode ahead with sword drawn, Ron half-sitting with bow ready, Odot close behind with axe. Tense all the way, they only relaxed upon reaching the city gate and seeing a few guards.

A short officer with a sword at his waist swaggered over and blocked Art’s horse, glaring up and barking, “Dismount! Goods entering the city pay trade tax; people pay entry tax.”

Art had no intention of dismounting or paying taxes. Holding his sword, he pointed to the grain wagon and growled, “This is military grain. You dare collect tax on it?”

He patted his chest. “I am the court-appointed patrol officer. Do I need to pay tax to enter the city?”

...

The officer bristled. Since becoming squad leader, no one had spoken to him that way. Patrol officer? Where did this guy come from?

“Riding a broken horse and acting like a lord? Got a sealed document to prove it?”

“Odot, fetch my sealed document.” Art smiled at Odot.

Odot understood, lifting a bloody head from the wagon and tossing it into the officer’s arms. The officer jumped back, dropping the head, which rolled at Art’s feet.

Art dismounted, bent down, picked up the head, and held it before the officer. “Look closely—this is my sealed document.”

The officer was too shocked to speak.

Art turned to the spearmen behind the officer. “I am the border patrol officer appointed by the court constable minister, here to assume my post in Tinez. Clear the way.” He handed the head back to Odot, mounted, and rode forward. The guards reluctantly lowered their spears and stepped aside.

Art rode with many thoughts swirling. Before, entering a city meant smiling and trying to pay as little tax as possible. Now, he could ride straight into Tinez on horseback. He liked this feeling.

—

“So you are Art?”

“Your Excellency Viscount, I am Art Woods Wells. Here is my appointment.” Art respectfully handed the document to Pierre.

Pierre took it with one hand. “What happened to your neck?” He noticed the deep bruise.

Art briefly recounted the ambush by bandits in the northern woods a few days prior.

“Sir, that’s the situation. The heads of those two men are outside the hall.”

“Hmm, seems the constable minister chose the right man to patrol. Art, where are you from? I don’t recall a Wells family in Burgundy.” Pierre leafed through the appointment casually.

“Sir, I’m not from Burgundy. I’m Lombard.”

“Lombard? Then how—”

“My father was once the religious guard of Bishop Olof Hannis in the Holy Land.” Art couldn’t reveal his true identity yet, so he used the cover story fabricated by Bishop Olof Hannis, even presenting a private letter from the bishop to Viscount Pierre.

Pierre took the letter, broke the seal, and read carefully. “No wonder,” he muttered, then straightened and said, “No wonder you’re so brave. Being Bishop Olof’s guard is an honor. Please send my regards to the bishop.”

As a noble lord, Pierre had heard rumors that Olof would soon become Bishop of Lucersain. Though Tinez was not part of that diocese, Pierre respected Olof enough—no more, no less.

“Art, both the constable minister and Bishop Olof hope Tinez and the southern region will support your patrol. But you must understand, I nominally govern one city, four fortresses, and fifteen villages. Except for Tinez and two small manors nearby, the rest are fiefs of other lords and nobles, beyond my control. My grain and taxes barely keep Tinez afloat.” Pierre feared Art would ask for money or supplies.

“Also, as you’ve seen, the southern lands are in chaos. Tinez is almost a refugee camp for Provence. I must divert funds to aid refugees and prevent unrest. Aside from funds and supplies, I’ll give you whatever else I can.” Pierre looked sincere.

Art had guessed Pierre wouldn’t offer real support but feigned deep disappointment, lowering his head in silence.

“Sir, the constable minister told me before departure that Tinez would support me, and I must show the marquis a stable southern border within a year. Without funds or supplies, I can’t assemble a patrol. How am I to report to the constable minister and marquis?” Art produced documents from the marquis and the constable minister.

“Art, it’s not that I don’t want to support you. But look at Tinez—it’s a mess. I’ve raised taxes three times already. I can barely hold the line.” Pierre folded his arms, looking troubled.

Art lowered his head again and fell silent.

After a while, Pierre sighed, “Alright, you may collect a security tax in the county’s villages as you see fit. How much you get depends on luck. Also, you can set up a checkpoint on the southern border trade route and collect trade taxes for one year. All proceeds go to your patrol.”

Art cursed inwardly. The villages and manors were knights’ and lords’ fiefs. Even if taxes could be collected despite the lords’ harsh levies, the lords would surely bring troops to drive him off before he even entered. Collecting trade taxes at the border seemed feasible—under normal circumstances, Tinez paid a tenth in trade tax, and even after sending a portion to the court, nearly thirty marks (about 4,500 deniers) monthly remained, enough to feed sixty or seventy soldiers. But now, with war raging south and trade routes severed, only a few well-armed caravans dared cross the chaotic southern lands into Burgundy. Most merchants had ceased trading. At the border, Art would only find beggar-like refugees and powerful caravans he dared not provoke.

“Sir, you know the situation. The lords’ security taxes won’t be collected. With war and closed trade routes, border checkpoints won’t raise anything either.”

“Then what do you propose? Speak your mind.” Pierre grew impatient.

“Sir, the patrol is responsible for the southern border. We cannot be stationed inside Tinez. I ask that you allocate a small piece of unclaimed land about forty miles south of Laine, at the foot of Mount Ramel and Mount Boje, for the patrol headquarters. Also, allow me to recruit refugees to cultivate the land for military use.” Art put forth his first request.

Pierre considered. The Ramel and Boje foothills lay at the southern border of the Burgundy duchy, long neglected. Temporarily assigning them to Art was no problem. He nodded, “It’s wilderness and forest, no one claims it. If you can grow grain, it’s all yours; I won’t take a single grain. But recruit refugees only outside Tinez.”

“Tinez won’t supply me. My soldiers must survive, so any spoils from bandits we capture will be for our use, not handed over.”

“As long as you can get them, I agree.”

“Lastly, I hope you can provide 500 pounds of grain, ten spears, three broad swords, five heavy hammers or battle axes, and some winter clothing and tents. If you can add a few foot bows, that would be even better.” Art knew Pierre wouldn’t grant all weapons; he was just asking the sky.

“You can forget the grain—I know you brought a wagonload from the north. If you weren’t forming a patrol, I’d take half of it. For weapons, I can give you eight short spears, one broad sword, and three battle axes or hammers. No winter clothes or tents.”

“Don’t thank me yet—I have conditions. First, you must form a patrol of no fewer than ten men before next spring’s sowing and begin patrolling the southern border. Second, don’t use the patrol’s name to plunder refugees or merchants. If you want to raid lords’ villages, that’s your choice. Third, captured bandits and mountain tribes must be handed to me for execution or delivery to the court. Of course, I won’t take your credit for free. Ordinary bandits fetch sixty deniers, gang lieutenants two hundred, big bosses five hundred, and wanted bandits are priced separately. But you must prove they are bandits—don’t just chop heads for money.”

“Well?” Pierre stared into Art’s eyes.

Art considered briefly and, finding the terms reasonable, nodded.

“Good, it’s settled. You are now the Tinez southern border patrol officer.” Pierre rang a copper bell on the desk, and a guard entered.

“Jerry, escort this newly appointed patrol officer to the clerk and have him post an announcement of his arrival.”

Art followed the guard out. A round-faced, chubby man was entering. They brushed past; the fat man glared at Art with hatred before turning inside.

Constable Bob stormed in, fuming. “Sir, you actually gave that fellow weapons and let him collect taxes!”

“Bob, did you see the heads outside the hall?”

“Yes.”

“Do they look like bandit heads?”

“I didn’t look closely, but one did.”

“Exactly. He came with a letter from Bishop Olof Hannis and those bloody ‘gifts.’ Could I let him return empty-handed? If you bring me a real bandit’s head, I’ll give you weapons too.”

“Sir, I—”

“Enough. If you have business, speak. Otherwise, leave.”

“I came to discuss increasing the security team’s wages…”

...