Bertold van Haagen’s tent, camp of the VMC army of House van Haagen“How did you fare with the Crusaders?” asked the governor’s trusted companion.
“Not well, Teacher,” answered Bertold, removing the yellow feathered hat from his head. “Not well. It seems to me they often look for fault in my words, that they believe most of what I propose is for profit alone. ”
The old Cathayan stood with his hands clasped in his usual manner when attending to his master in serious conversation.
Even with his own bowl like yellow hat still firmly attached to his head he stood nearly a full head shorter than Bertold, which was not unusual for a Cathayan, though was short compared to the governor’s Cathayan guard (two of which flanked the tent’s door).
“Is it not profit you seek?” asked the Cathayan.
“No …” here Bertold hesitated. “Well, yes, but that does not mean I will not serve them and their cause well as a consequence. They want to defeat chaos, which we must also do if we are to make a profit. So yes we are here for profit, but that makes us no less keen to fight than they are. ”
“Who is it that distrusts you?”
“In truth, it is not that they distrust me, but that they must constantly work to overcome their natural disdain for merchants. They think all men of trade to be middlemen, neither sturdy labourers nor nobles, and they struggle to understand our vital role in this world; if not to understand it then to accept it as a fit profession for a man of worth. Labourers and nobles make form good soldiers and commanders in their eyes, but a merchant - they cannot see where he fits in. From the greatest to the least they look at me askance, as if they are surprised at the VMC’s presence here. I have brought an army of the best soldiers I could buy, and yet they still think me a shopkeeper.”
“Who amongst them worries you the most?”
Bertold did not need long to think. “I suppose of all of them, the only one who might truly make trouble for us is the commander, Sir Gottfried.”
“The bastard from Wissenland?”
“Aye. He suspected me of underhand dealings with the Royal Expeditionary Force, and although he now seems satisfied concerning my innocence upon that matter, he remains somewhat vexed. Perhaps he also harbours the fear that the very mercantile nature of the VMC somehow dilutes the Crusade, weakens it, whether that be in Sigmar’s eyes or those of mortal men.”
“Perhaps he wants a good horse yet will not allow it to eat hay?”
Bertold was used to his teacher’s obtuse way of speaking, and had long since learned how to interpret them. He thought for a while, then smiled. “No, no – I do not think that is it. He knows full well that without merchants and labourers he would have less supplies, and an army cannot fight without meat and drink. He knows that without thriving settlements this land will remain weak and so will all the sooner, all the more easily, succumb to chaos again. It is my own self he is suspicious of.”
“Over a long distance, one learns the strength of one’s horse; over a long time, one understands what's in a person's heart.”
“I should wait then,” asked Bertold rhetorically, “and he will come to trust me?”
“What of the others?” the teacher inquired. “I have observed those I can, but they are hard to comprehend through my eyes. The ways of the west are strange, and their language is at times unfathomable.”
“Ha! Soldier’s talk has you confused!” laughed Bertold. “It is not only
your eyes that struggle to know them. They are a disparate bunch - that much is certain. Take Sir Edmund and his fanatical knightly followers, little more than a company of horse in the vanguard, and yet so much involved in our councils. I have not learned why he is here in the north, though I suspect he is driven by some matter of honour - some perceived slight has left him with a score to settle or a quest to fulfil so he can prove his worth. That’s the way of these Bretonnians, they live their lives as if they are a character in a chivalric romance. Still, it is plain to all meet him that he is a man of courage and worth."
"There is also the Rittmeister von Pfofeld," Bertold went on, now decided he would make a list, "who is happy to offer his opinion often enough, but leaves me befuddled with his manner of speaking. There is rarely a word that passes his lips without its meaning twisted by being dressed it up all fancy.”
“Jade must be chiselled before it can be considered a gem," said the old Cathayan.
“Ah …. Oh … Then you think he may become more comprehensible in time? I think this trait runs too deep in him, but we shall see.”
The teacher neither nodded nor spoke, and his expression failed even to flicker. Bertold, as he always did, took that as a yes, then he continued. “Then there is the arch-priest, Mathi. He surprises me as I wholly expected him to dislike me, to dismiss the VMC as unworthy of the Crusade. But he does not. I think it is not that he has seen some good in us, or that our motives suit his view of the world, but that he is so filled with righteous hatred for chaos and love for his god, he cares not what qualities those around him have, how much faith and belief they share. He simply wants to fight, and praise Sigmar in so doing. But I complain too much, for he is perhaps warming to us, even mentioned fighting under the new banner of the VMC on crusade.”
Bertold paused to reckon up who had already mentioned. “Van Dwi remains an enigma, in turns brooding, in turns jesting. He carries a heavy burden, something obvious to those who met him as a youth. I have heard rumours about his past, about foul treachery and wicked deeds done by and against his closest family, but what the truth is, I cannot fathom, nor perhaps do I want to know.”
This elicited yet another of the teacher’s cornucopia of sayings: “The error of but one moment can become the sorrow of a whole life.”
“Well, he at least seems to know what I truly intend, and as such is not so irked by me as the others. I do not think he is here merely to serve Sigmar, but because something drives him towards destruction.”
“Water can not only float a boat, it can sink it also.”
“Hmm.” Bertold was beginning to wonder whether the teacher was playing a game with him. “And there is the Templar Valencia. Now he really is vocal in his dislike of the VMC. Many an angry word has passed his lips complaining at our suggestions and actions. He hates the dwarfs who burned his town, so much so that it seems the fire is still within him. I do not believe he is here to fight chaos, not first and foremost, but to settle old wrongs, and he cares not what grand plans and strategies he upsets in so doing.”
“One mouse dropping ruins the whole pot of rice porridge.”
This comment stopped Bertold. At first he furrowed his brow. “Mouse droppings?” Then he saw the tiniest flicker in his teacher’s serene eyes. “A joke? Yes, I will have to tell the fierce Valencia how you think of him as a mouse dropping, eh?”
The teacher let his fingers dance playfully for a moment, as if five little pairs of hands were clapping in delight!
“But on to other matters. You have watched as we searched this barren and forlorn land for ways to profit. Van Renssalaer has his new mine, and we should soon have the means to carry the goods away safely. Even now the good Captain Johann has found another possible source of profit, if he can persuade the strange inhabitants of this realm that it will benefit them as well as us. And I too intend to dispatch my agent looking to revive a trade long since abandoned but which could profit us greatly if we could revivify it. It seems the Princess Leijonhufvud may be of more use to us than a potential ally against chaos, for I have learned from one of the dwarves that her tribe dwells in the land where the forgotten trade once flourished. Hopefully my agent can gain her agreement to a trade deal - she seemed unperturbed, perhaps even encouraged, by our presence here when she visited the camp. If he cannot persuade her satisfactorily then I will go myself. What wisdom do you have concerning this?”
The teacher proceeded to tell a story: “A bear was picking corn cobs in the field, and stuck one in his armpit. As he put the next cob into his armpit, opening his arm, he dropped the one he already had.”
Bertold laughed loud this time. “Bear’s armpits!” he chuckled. “In this, good teacher, we shall have to agree to differ. The VMC is entirely capable, with so many agents and officers, resources and procedures, labourers and seamen, even several armies, to juggle many cobs of corn. We have done it before - you saw it yourself in your homeland - and we will do it again. Trade and prosperity are unstoppable forces when wielded in our nimble hands. Once this land is cleansed, then you shall see us pile up a very mountain of corncobs. Trade is my arena, my accomplishment, my skill, and although your wisdom is welcome upon any matter, even when you couch it in terms of armpits, I know what’s for the best when it comes to trade.”
The old teacher smiled. “If you have money you can make the ghosts and devils turn your grind stone.”
“Ah yes, teacher. Now that
is true.”
Suddenly a messenger arrived at the tent, one of the army’s outriders, his face grave. For a moment Bertold felt a rush of excitement, rather than fear - something was finally happening. Perhaps the war had just turned into the sort of fight he believed it would be from the off? What the messenger had to say, however, did not concern the sound of drums, the glistening of spear tips of serried ranks or flags or the thunderous din of horses’ hooves. Instead he spoke of a rather more insidious threat.
“My Lord Governor, I bring grave news concerning General Valencia and his force ...”