Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

mare. He said, “To Bari, soldier.” He drew a paper from a pouch. “I hold this permission from Baron Mannerheim to pass through his lands with my people and chattels.”

The leer turned mercenary. “Unfortunately, city man, I can’t read. What do you carry on the mules?”

“Personal property, which, I repeat, I have permission to transport over Baron Mannerheim’s lands free from harassment from his followers.” He added, in irritation, “The baron is a friend of mine, fond of the gifts I give him.”

One of the soldiers grunted his skepticism, checked the flint on the lock of his piece, then looked at the sergeant suggestively.

The sergeant said, “As you say, merchant, my lord the baron is fond of gifts. Aren’t we all? Unfortunately, I have received no word of your group. My instructions are to stop all intruders upon the baron’s lands and, if there is resistance, to slay them and confiscate such properties as they may be carrying.”

The merchant sighed and reached into a small pouch. The eyes of the sergeant drooped in greed. The hand emerged with two small coins. “As you say,” the merchant muttered bitterly, “we are all fond of gifts. Will you do me the honor to drink my health at the tavern tonight?”

The sergeant said nothing, but his mouth slackened and he fondled the hilt of his sword.

The merchant sighed again and dipped once more into the pouch. This time his hand emerged with half a dozen bits of silver. He handed them down to the other, complaining, “How can a man profit in his affairs if every few miles he must pass another outstretched hand?”

The sergeant growled, “You do not seem to starve, city man. Now, on your way. You are fortunate I am too lazy today to bother going through your things. Besides,” and he grinned widely, “the baron gave me personal instructions not to bother you.”

The merchant snorted, kicked his heels into his beast’s sides and led his half dozen followers toward the city. The soldiers looked after them and howled their amusement. The money was enough to keep them soused for days.

When they were out of earshot, Amschel Mayer grinned his amusement back over his shoulder at Jerome Kennedy. “How’d that come off, Jerry?”

The other sniffed, in mock deprecation. “You’re beginning to fit into the local merchant pattern better than the real thing. However, just for the record, I had this, ah, grease gun, trained on them all the time.”

Mayer frowned. “Only in extreme emergency, my dear Jerry. The baron would be up in arms if he found a dozen of his men massacred on the outskirts of Bari, and we don’t want a showdown at this stage. It’s taken nearly a year to build this part we act.”

At this time of day the gates of the port city were open and the guards lounged idly. Their captain recognized Amschel Mayer and did no more than nod respectfully.

They wended their way through narrow, cobblestoned streets, avoiding the crowds in the central market area. They pulled up eventually before a house both larger and more ornate than its neighbors. Mayer and Kennedy dismounted from the horses and left their care to the others.

Mayer beat with the heavy knocker on the door and a slot opened for a quick check of his identity. The door opened wide and Technician Martin Gunther let them in.

“The others are here already?” Mayer asked him.

Gunther nodded. “Since breakfast. Baron Leonar, in particular, is impatient.”

Mayer said over his shoulder, “All right, Jerry, this is where we put it to them.”

They entered the long conference room. A full score of men sat about the heavy wooden table. Most of them were as richly garbed as their host. Most of them in their middle years. All of them alert of eye. All of them confidently at ease.

Amschel Mayer took his place at the table’s end and Jerome Kennedy sank into the chair next to him. Mayer took the time to speak to each of his guests individually, then he leaned back and took in the gathering as a whole. He said, “You probably realize that this group consists of the twenty most powerful merchants on the continent.”

Olderman nodded. “We have been discussing your purpose in bringing us together, Honorable Mayer. All of us are not friends.” He twisted his face in amusement. “In fact, very few of us are friends.”

“There is no need for you to be,” Mayer said snappishly, “but all are going to realize the need for cooperation. Honorables, I’ve just come from the city of Ronda. Although I’d paid heavily in advance to the three barons whose lands I crossed. I had to bribe myself through a dozen roadblocks, had to pay exorbitant rates to cross three ferries, and once had to fight off supposed bandits.”

One of his guests grumbled, “Who were actually probably soldiers of the local baron who had decided that although you had paid him transit fee, it still might be profitable to go through your goods.”

Mayer nodded. “Exactly, my dear Honorable, and that is why we’ve gathered.”

Olderman had evidently assumed spokesmanship for the others. Now he said warily, “I don’t understand.”

“Genoa, if you’ll pardon the use of this name to signify the planet upon which we reside, will never advance until trade has been freed from these bandits who call themselves lords and barons.”

Eyebrows reached for hairlines.

Olderman’s eyes darted about the room, went to the doors. “Please,” he said, “the servants.”

“My servants are safe,” Mayer said.

One of his guests was smiling without humor. “You seem to forget, Honorable Mayer, that I carry the title of baron.”

Mayer shook his head. “No, Baron Leonar. But neither do you disagree with what I say. The businessman, the merchant, the manufacturer on Genoa today, is only tolerated. Were it not for the fact that the barons have no desire to eliminate such a profitable source of income, they would milk us dry overnight.”

Someone shrugged. “That is the way of things. We are lucky to have wrested, bribed