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"Vito, give it to me straight." Habro grimaced. "What do you really think of Tiberius as a captain?"
Even after last night's long talk about how joining the White Company might leave them sidelined with little future, the moment it came time to actually sign on with Tiberius's Lightning Company, Habro's heart was pounding harder than any war drum.
Come on—a brand-new mercenary outfit run by a twelve-year-old kid? A man who'd spent half his life crawling through the mud and blood of the Disputed Lands was supposed to take orders from a boy? It sounded insane. Completely fucking insane.
Sure, the kid was sharp as a razor and played fair, but age and experience were gaps you couldn't fake. Brains didn't fill bellies.
Truth be told, when he woke up this morning the whole idea still felt like the worst bar-room joke told over watered-down ale.
Even if the boy was clever as a fox, clever and being able to lead men were two different animals.
Sounding out old Vito was crucial. For mercenaries, the quality of the boss decided whether your purse stayed full and your head stayed on your shoulders. Right now Tiberius was the potential employer, and they were the stakes being wagered.
"Tiberius?" Vito gave Habro a sideways look, but inside a heavy stone finally dropped. He almost wanted to laugh.
[The kid's set now,] he thought. [Habro, Demetrius, Lysapo—they're seriously thinking about joining the Lightning Company. That pushes the boy's outfit close to eight hundred men overnight!]
"Quit grinning like an idiot, Vito!" Habro snapped, ready to shove a fist in his mouth. "My company's about to go bankrupt. I need a reliable captain who can keep us alive!"
Vito dropped the cocky smirk. His face turned serious, eyes sharp as he looked at his old friend.
"Tiberius…" He spoke slowly, voice carrying a rare mix of respect and wary admiration. "He's cut from the same cloth as his uncle Jules—the 'Trustworthy' reputation isn't smoke and mirrors. If he says something, it happens. No clipped coins, no watered silver. He promises a certain wage and death benefits, you get exactly that—every copper."
Then his tone shifted, dropping low like he was sharing dangerous secrets.
"But when it comes to methods… brother, I've been in this game half my life. At his age I've never seen anyone more ruthless or better at grabbing men by the heart. The kid's clever as a demon, but his hands are as bloody as the hardest archons behind Volantis's black walls!"
Vito leaned in, ticking points off on his fingers.
"He'll wear the same cheap linen shirt as the lowest grunt, sit in the dirt with them, and choke down the same sandy, bran-filled rice and iron-hard salted beef without batting an eye. When the men see that, who the hell's gonna complain?"
"But then he turns around, stuffs a fat purse of silver into a soldier's hand after a good fight, slaps the man on the shoulder and says, 'Take your brothers to the best tavern in town. Order the fattest roast chicken, the strongest wine, the prettiest girls. The credit's yours—enjoy every bit of it!'"
"The widows and orphans of the fallen get full, heavy death benefits—enough to live on. He watches that money himself. Anyone dares skim even a single coin…"
Vito paused, then grinned, showing teeth in a hungry smile.
"Back in Lys, some estate steward tried to short the families on grain and pay. Tiberius dragged the man and his thugs straight into camp. He said, 'What belongs to my soldiers belongs to my soldiers. Anyone who puts a hand on it, I'll chop that hand off—along with the head attached to it!' Then he picked up an unsharpened iron sword and beat the bastard from spine to skull himself."
"He didn't let anyone else touch them. Kept swinging until he was covered in blood and brains. Then he told the whole camp, 'Dump this garbage at the main gate. Don't care if they're dead or alive. If they're lucky enough to crawl away, good for them…'"
Vito finished:
"So you ask me what Tiberius is like? I'll tell you—he's a natural lord in the making, heart black as coal ash. But follow him and you never worry about a knife in the back from your own side, never worry about your deeds being stolen or your benefits swallowed. Just do the job clean, don't get clever, and listen to him. On the Lightning Company ship, he's the only helmsman. Got it, old friend? So—ready to climb aboard the Lightning Kid's boat?"
"Fuck, that's it?" Habro snorted, dragging the words out long on purpose to hide the growing wave inside his chest.
"I thought you were gonna tell me the kid has some weird habit like washing eight times a day or sleeping with a doll he made himself!"
He slapped his thigh hard, the smack loud—like he was trying to convince himself. "What you described—stick and carrot, fair play, keeps his word, bloody hands but never over the line… that's exactly what the best Volantene generals who actually win battles do! Iron rod in one hand, justice in the mouth! The kid's a natural commander in the making!"
He fell quiet for a moment, then lifted his eyes, gaze sharp.
"But Vito, we both know—in this dog-shit world, just doing the basics already puts him head and shoulders above ninety percent of the idiots out there. How many noble lords and rich merchants talk big but can't even manage basic fairness and keeping their word? They delay pay, hand out clipped coins, tell companies to feed themselves…"
He spat, like he was trying to eject every rotten employer he'd ever suffered.
"Fuck it," he said, voice now carrying raw relief and fresh steel. "No more talk. If he's even seventy percent of what you say… then he's not some risky 'future prospect.' He's ready stock. A sixteen-year-old 'ready-made general'! Vito, you sure you're not bullshitting me? Swear—if even ten percent doesn't match…"
His face flushed red; he wanted to drop a threat, but the air went out of it.
"If he's even seventy percent of what you say, I'm never leaving the Lightning Company!"
Vito watched his old friend's performance and finally grinned wide. He knew Habro had already made his choice.
Vito's Diary
(At Twinbridge Camp)
That idiot Habro finally grew a brain.
(Heavy ink here)
Good. Back in the Stepstones he and Chief Jules hacked pirates together. In the Myr Hills they stood under Dothraki arrows side by side. We know him.
(Handwriting relaxes)
Except when gambling fever hits he turns into a brainless mule. Can't walk past a woman. Eats enough for half a squad by himself…
Ah, whatever. On the battlefield he fights, on the contract he keeps his word. For mercenaries that's plenty. Everyone in the White Company's got quirks—Old Tom gambles, Galvin chases skirts, Leon drinks… no big deal.
In this world, another strong arm is always welcome.