Punish Them for Me (3)
"The guards are coming here? Why?"
"No idea. It's not just us—they're pairing up in groups of a few and hitting every inn and restaurant in the city."
"Every other inn too?"
Rosens had a handful of inns doing business. Aside from the one directly across from mine, they were all so small-scale they hardly counted as real competition.
The door swung open, and three guards stepped into the inn's common hall. Everyone inside turned to stare at them. Caught in the sudden spotlight, the guards looked a bit flustered. The senior guard in the middle cleared his throat awkwardly and approached me.
"What's this about, at this hour?"
"An official notice from City Hall, addressed to the Crossroads Troll Inn."
I took the paper he offered with a dubious frown. It bore Hildeva's official seal and was drafted based on a higher edict from the capital.
Conscription Order
To support the Myanfeld refugees, inns must provide labor for the refugee camp.
"A conscription order?"
"Yes. The Crossroads Troll Inn is to provide cooking staff."
The staff started whispering among themselves at the mention of "labor." I skimmed the document before turning back to the guard.
"What kind of labor? They don't expect our waitstaff to go pitch tents and chop firewood, do they?"
"Nothing like that. You're specifically assigned to supply cooks."
So they wanted us to go cook for the refugees. But surely they didn't expect our little crew to handle the whole crowd.
"This order's gone out to every inn and restaurant in the city. Other businesses will get conscripted for whatever fits their trade."
"Starting when?"
"Tomorrow morning."
I shot him an incredulous look, and he elaborated with a helpless shrug.
"We only got the notice ourselves around noon today and have been scrambling ever since..."
"I get it. Makes sense. But I've got a question."
The guard's face fell—he'd come just to deliver the paper, and now he was stuck fielding my questions.
"Will they compensate us for lost business during the conscription period?"
"As far as I know... yes, they'll provide appropriate compensation for any losses."
"And why Rosens, of all places? Bue's way bigger—surely easier to house refugees there."
He looked genuinely stumped, mumbling that he didn't know the details. Fair enough—a lowly guard couldn't be expected to grasp the politics between directly ruled cities.
The relationship between Bue and Rosens was a bit murky. Technically, they were separate direct territories under the crown. But back when Rosens was on the brink of dying out, it had temporarily fallen under Bue's administration. And after the Golruk extermination, when the city reopened, Bue had poured in every resource needed—from guards to city hall staff. Everything came from the big city up north.
If I had to guess, Bue would ship over supplies for the camp again this time. Rosens could legally tell them to back off—"Hey, we're our own direct territory now"—but after all the generosity, it wasn't that simple. You couldn't always play hardball by the rules.
I had the gist of it. Time to talk to Lambert and Hildeva directly for the details.
The next morning, Francois and I headed out early to the guard barracks, the muster point. The donkey cart was loaded with cauldrons and cooking gear. She'd prepped simple bulk meals before dawn; Pelei and Idi would just reheat and serve them to guests. No choice with the conscription—we'd unify the menu like old times.
A few other city food vendors were visible through the thick Buren River fog, all trudging toward the barracks.
The Myanfeld refugee camp was a vast empty lot next to the guard building. That's where all the conscripts were gathering.
"Hey! Bertrand, you got drafted too?"
I turned at the familiar voice. It was the bakery owner I'd rented space to, trailing behind us with his apprentices, arms full of gear.
"Morning, boss. Hop on—we'll load it up."
"Thanks. My arms were about to give out."
They piled everything onto the cart and wiped their brows.
"This is Francois, our head chef."
The baker and his apprentices gawked at her greeting, entranced. In the fog, she must've looked like some elegant angel materializing out of nowhere.
"Why drag bakers into this? You guys do more than bread?"
"Probably just sweeping up everyone in the food trade. We'll see what others are doing and improvise."
"Haha, yeah. Stick close—Francois is a wizard in the kitchen."
We chatted on the way to the barracks. The baker was fretting over conscription rumors.
"These kids are all draft age. If it really happens, I'll lose my whole crew overnight."
"That'd cripple the business."
"Exactly. Baking's not a one-man job. Everyone in the trades is sweating this."
Skilled trades often took on kids as "apprentices," working them cheap or free under the guise of training. Most learned the ropes and took over or branched out, but shady operators just burned them out on grunt work.
We arrived at the barracks amid the small talk. Guards herded us to the camp.
Dozens of tents stood in neat rows, blanketed in fog and frost. Refugees shuffled like shadows, breath clouding the air.
"Over here! This is the kitchen area!"
One corner had a makeshift outdoor setup: firewood stacks, long serving tables, and mountains of ingredients from who-knows-where.
We claimed spots under the guards' direction, hauled wood, and lit fires. Francois inspected the supplies, stroking her chin thoughtfully—menu planning.
"I'll handle this. Why don't you go find the guard captain?"
"Thanks, Francois."
To get the lay of the land, I parted from her and the baker and went hunting for Lambert. Near the camp entrance, I spotted Hildeva chatting with some officials amid wagons unloading supplies.
I wove through and approached.
"Bertrand!"
She beamed, delighted to see me here of all places.
"Mayor. You're working overtime."
"Sorry about the sudden levy, Bertrand. Caught you off guard, huh? But we can't handle this with just guards and city staff."
"No worries. Gotta help each other out. Bue can't take them?"
"Too big—ironically, no space. Hang on."
She grabbed my arm, tugging me aside away from the officials. Once out of earshot, she whispered:
"Bertrand, it's gotten complicated."
"What's wrong?"
She glanced around to ensure privacy before continuing.
"Bue's guards are blockading the south road out of Rosens. They won't let any more refugees head down."
"Hm... that's a problem. They expect us to house all these people?"
"For now, yeah. I get Bue's side, but we can't keep them here forever. Send them home or help them settle."
"Shouldn't the capital handle that?"
No single direct territory could absorb another region's refugees. Wars or disasters usually led to hot-potato games between cities, forcing the crown to step in. Especially when no one even knew what happened in Myanfeld.
"True, but... no word from the capital makes me think they're quietly siding with Bue."
"Seriously? Looks like they're trying to keep refugees from reaching the kingdom's south."
If they couldn't go farther south from Rosens, there were no other routes to the kingdom's southern regions. Circling the Vurn Mountains was out of the question for refugees. This was a containment play.
But why?
"I talked it over with the key officials," Hildeva murmured.
"And... we reached a rather awkward conclusion."