Free Murder in Tarsis by John Maddox Roberts

the walls of the city. The two men stood on the deck of the old hulk, leaning against its ornately carved quarterdeck railing. All around them, smoke drifted from the other inhabited hulks in wind-driven wisps.
    “The nomads are getting impatient,” Ironwood said, his eyes slitted against the cutting wind. “They want to fight or move on. It’s not in their nature to stay in one place, doing nothing.”
    “There have been rumors,” Nistur said. “Rumors of a new chief who has united the tribes.”
    “They are more than rumors. I’ve been hearing reports for the last three years of this man who calls himself Kyaga Strongbow, and I’ve seen towns on the desert fringe that he’s sacked.”
    Nistur shrugged. “Any pack of scruffy bandits can loot a defenseless town. It takes more to threaten a city like this.”
    “I’ve heard something else,” Ironwood added. “Shellring came here this morning. She says that the lord’s officers are recruiting mercenaries, as many of them as they can hire, and offering good wages.”
    Nistur cut a sharp glance toward him. “What a pity you are in no condition to seek employment.”
    “I am almost recovered!” Ironwood insisted. “The weakness always passes after two or three days. I am fit for duty now.”
    “And yet, even so, would it be wise to hire on at this juncture? The masters of Tarsis are entirely wanting in a reputation for fair dealing.”
    “A mercenary who waits to be hired by a lord of sterling character will soon starve. They always balk when the final payday comes around, but they always pay, because they fear us. If they had the means to control their mercenaries, they’d have had no need to hire warriors in the first place.”
    “You know the customs of your profession,” Nistur allowed, “but surely it is a good idea to be on the winning side. Is it likely that great mob of nomads can prevail against Tarsis?”
    “I’ve not inspected the defenses of the city,” Ironwood confessed. “I never thought to be hired here. Tarsis is a place where mercenaries stay between wars. Many of the recruiters pass through here, and a fighting man rarely has to wait long for employment after he’s spent his pay.
    “But to answer your question: the nomads fight mainly as horse archers. As such they are formidable on open ground. Because they are excellent bowmen, they can move fast and keep their distance while filling the air with arrows. At close quarters they are fair lancers and middling swordsmen. Such warriors are rarely able to take a walled, defended town. For that you need siegecraft. You must have skilled tunnelers and builders of mantelets and rams and catapults. The nomads scorn such things. Defending a city such as this may mean nothing more than manning the walls until the nomads lose interest and ride away.”
    “Perhaps,” Nistur said dubiously. “But it is a city of merchants, and such persons are rarely inclined to part with
    their money for any reasons save fear and desperation.”
    “I am going,” Ironwood insisted. “Whether or not it’s an easy war, I won’t stay here and live on the old man’s charity.”
    Nistur sighed with resignation. “Then I have no choice save to go with you.” Absentmindedly he scratched beneath his beard, where the mark of Ironwood’s ring tingled faintly.
    The mercenary favored him with a humorless smile. “If you didn’t wish to become the bondsman of a mercenary, you shouldn’t have taken a contract to kill one. Cheer up, Nistur. Falling under a geas is far from the worst that could have happened.”
    “That remains to be seen,” the ex-assassin muttered.

    The sign above the door of the tavern consisted of a pair of crossed swords. The two men ducked beneath the low lintel and entered the dim, smoky interior. It was only midmorning, but the place was packed with armed warriors, most of them wearing oddments of mismatched armor, the sure sign of mercenaries who picked up their equipment as needed