The Black Company: The First Novel of 'The Chronicles of The Black Company' by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online Page B

to behave while you’re here.”
    Here was a posh garden establishment socially miles above our last port of call. Here even the whores had titles. Plantings and tricks of landscaping broke the gardens into areas of semi-seclusion. There were ponds, gazebos, stone walkways, and an overwhelming perfume of flowers in the air.
    “A little rich for us,” I remarked.
    “What’s the occasion?” the Lieutenant asked. The rest of us jockied for seats.
    The Captain had staked out a huge stone table. Twenty people could have sat around it. “We’re guests. Act like it.” He toyed with the badge over his heart, identifying him as receiving the protection of Soulcatcher. We each possessed one but seldom wore them. The Captain’s gesture suggested we correct that deficiency.
    “We’re guests of the Taken?” I asked. I fought the effects of the ale. This should go into the Annals.
    “No. The badges are for the benefit of the house.” He gestured. Everyone visible wore a badge declaring an alignment with one or another of the Taken. I recognized a few. The Howler. Nightcrawler. Stormbringer. The Limper.
    “Our host wants to enlist in the Company.”
    “He wants to join the Black Company?” One-Eye asked. “What’s wrong with the fool?” It had been years since we had taken a new recruit.
    The Captain shrugged, smiled. “Once upon a time a witchdoctor did.”
    One-Eye grumbled, “He’s been sorry ever since.”
    “Why is he still here?” I asked.
    One-Eye did not answer. Nobody leaves the Company, except feet first. The outfit is home.
    “What’s he like?” the Lieutenant asked.
    The Captain closed his eyes. “Unusual. He could be an asset. I like him. But judge for yourselves. He’s here.” He flicked a finger at a man surveying the gardens.
    His clothing was grey, tattered, and patched. He was of modest heighth, lean, dusky. Darkly handsome. I guessed him to be in his late twenties. Unprepossessing.…
    Not really. On second glance you noted something striking. An intensity, a lack of expression, something in his stance. He was not intimidated by the gardens.
    People looked and wrinkled their noses. They did not see the man, they saw rags. You could feel their revulsion. Bad enough that we had been allowed inside. Now it was ragpickers.
    A grandly accoutred attendant went to show him an entrance he’d obviously entered in error.
    The man came toward us, passing the attendant as if he did not exist. There was a jerkiness, a stiffness, to his movements which suggested he was recovering from recent wounds. “Captain?”
    “Good afternoon. Have a seat.”
    A ponderous staff general detached himself from a clutch of senior officers and svelte young women. He took a few steps our way, paused. He was tempted to make his prejudices known.
    I recognized him. Lord Jalena. As high as you could get without being one of the Ten Who Were Taken. His face was puffed and red. If the Captain noticed him, he pretended otherwise.
    “Gentlemen, this is … Raven. He wants to join us. Raven isn’t his birthname. Doesn’t matter. The rest of you lied too. Introduce yourselves and ask questions.”
    There was something odd about this Raven. We were his guests, apparently. His manner was not that of a street beggar, yet he looked like a lot of bad road.
    Lord Jalena arrived. His breath came in wheezes. Pigs like him I would love to put through half what they inflict on their troops.
    He scowled at the Captain. “Sir,” he said between puffs, “Your connections are such that we can’t deny you , but.… The Gardens are for persons of refinement. They have been for two hundred years. We don’t admit.…”
    The Captain donned a quizzical smile. Mildly, he replied, “I’m a guest, Milord. If you don’t like my company, complain to my host.” He indicated Raven.
    Jalena made a half-right turn. “Sir.…” His eyes and mouth went round. “You!”
    Raven stared at Jalena. Not one muscle twitched. Not an eyelash