Guild (3)
“I’d like to commission a personal escort.”
“Go to window 8.”
The staffer’s tone was all business. The man who’d come to place the request headed to window 8, just as instructed.
“I want to hire an escort. How do I do that?”
“Fill out this form.”
Another staffer handed over the paperwork. The man stepped back to pore over it and start filling it out.
“Mercenary Guild Personal Escort Request Form… special clause? What’s that?”
The page was crammed with unfamiliar terms. For a man commissioning an escort for the first time, everything felt alien. But the special clause section nagged at him most. He’d never heard the word before, and he couldn’t help tilting his head in confusion.
“What’s a special clause?”
He returned to the window. The staffer, with hollow eyes, began explaining.
“A special clause is a supplemental contract. For escort missions, it sets the compensation amount the guild guarantees in advance, depending on the level of risk.”
“Uh… could you explain it simpler?”
“Put simply, if you buy the special clause for an escort job and something goes wrong causing losses, we refund a set amount.”
“Then I should definitely get one.”
“Check the prices and choose.”
At the staffer’s curt words, the man glanced at the pricing chart. He could only stick out his tongue in shock.
“One… 1 solidus?”
A single gold coin. The fee was higher than expected, leaving him flustered.
“For 1 solidus, we cover up to 50 solidi in damages.”
“Fifty… fifty times the amount?”
The coverage was far more generous than he’d imagined. The man fell into thought. It was his usual trade route, but lately beasts had multiplied, turning it dangerous. That’s why he’d decided to hire mercenaries—but even with them, if he got hurt or his goods damaged, the losses would be huge. With this special clause, though, any damage could be covered.
“Of course, our guild reps will investigate the incident on-site, and the payout depends on the assessed damages.”
The staffer pointed to the fine print at the bottom of the contract. The man read it. Sure, fraud seemed possible in theory, but…
The staffer, used to seeing men like this, cut right to it.
“Whatever you’re thinking, it won’t fly.”
“Wh-what do you mean…?”
“Bribing a mercenary or deliberately damaging goods to claim the clause? That’s a contract violation, and you’ll face legal action.”
She flipped the contract to the back and pointed. Sure enough, it was all there—in writing, stamped with the House of Uranus seal. A mere merchant beating a noble in court? Absurd.
“H-ha, never crossed my mind.”
The staffer nodded impassively and tapped the special clause section.
“So, are you signing up?”
“It’s a long way east.”
“Just take another escort job back.”
“They pay well, too.”
“I prefer the west—it’s easier. I’ll stick to jobs coming this way.”
In Constantinople, the capital of the East Roman Empire, crowds flocked to the guild with personal escort requests. Jobs piled up endlessly, letting low-rank guild mercenaries pick and choose to make ends meet. Idleness meant starving—a mercenary’s daily grind. But with requests pouring in, their earnings were starting to eclipse independent operators.
“Heard escort jobs at the mercenary guild pay big.”
A merchant’s offhand remark. The sharper traders nodded.
“Who knew swinging a sword would pay off like this.”
“Should’ve become mercenaries instead of merchants.”
The grumbling spread from trader lips across East Rome. And those who pricked up their ears at such rumors? The Turks.
“Maybe try mercenary work.”
“All we know is riding and swinging swords—farming’s no good for us.”
Turkic nomads, mostly. Not all lived that way, but those flooding into Anatolia herded livestock, hunted, and traded furs. Then disaster struck: climate shifts. Sudden floods turned their grazing lands to swamps. Pasture grass dwindled to nothing. Nomad life plunged into poverty. Small wonder they eyed guild jobs promising steady pay.
“Merchants say even the Alans are signing on with the guild.”
East Rome teemed with mixed ethnicities—no overt discrimination like elsewhere. But cultural pride bred disdain for distant nomads, rooted in history of border raids. Hard to shake. Nomads struggled to find non-pastoral work amid the prejudice. Yet fellow nomads, the Alans, were mercenaries? That meant Turks could do it too.
“If those Alan weaklings on worse horses can hack it, so can we.”
The chieftain’s word. The tribe raised hands in agreement. One nomad asked the chief,
“What if they reject us?”
“If they’re weaker, we take their land our way.”
Barren, grassless waste. Lingering meant doom. Survival demanded action—submission, raid, conquest. No other path for nomads.
The great Turkic migration between East Rome and Arabia. The vacuum it left sparked clashes between Christendom and the Arab world.
The Turkic migration. Georgia spotted it first.
Georgia, long a battlefield between Khazars and the Islamic Caliphate. Even after the giants withdrew, nomads trailing Khazars kept warring. Georgia, honed by life-or-death struggles, tracked nomad every move. Their dwindling numbers? Obvious.
“Nomads are moving toward imperial territory lately.”
The general’s report. Young King Giorgi I nodded.
“Any quick way to seize their lands?”
“Yes, but…”
The general eyed the king. Giorgi, knowing why, sighed and nodded.
“Nobles dragging their feet, as usual.”
Son of Georgia’s unifier Bagrat III, Giorgi lacked his father’s political savvy. Bagrat had reined in nobles; Giorgi struggled. Post-Bagrat, Kakheti nobles rebelled. Too young, Giorgi yielded independence. A third of the kingdom split off as the Duchy of Kakheti.
Shaken, Giorgi learned: woo or threaten nobles to solidify power. But the work was ongoing. Mobilizing against nomads risked sparking suppressed revolts.
“Worse, East Rome will demand the land back soon.”
“No doubt…”
Bagrat’s foster father, David III, ambitious, expanded Tao to unite Georgia—defying East Rome. He allied with Bardas Phokas against Basil II. Phokas led early, but Abidos crushed him. Furious Basil cornered David, who pledged all lands upon death for pardon.
Poisoned by nobles, David died; East Rome claimed. Bagrat’s diplomacy shone: unaware of the deal, absurd for heir to inherit nothing. Amid Bulgarian wars, Basil relented—partial return near borders, rest to Bagrat.
Seemed tidy. But Basil ended Bulgaria swiftly, pressing Georgia.
“Even at war, he sent envoys warning Father to yield inheritance for the rest. Basil II won’t let us keep it.”
A third lost to revolt; lose Bagrat’s legacy, and Georgia vanishes. Defying the emperor, Giorgi vowed to hold every inch—attacking East Rome if needed. Conflict inevitable. Fatimid alliance let them pinch East Rome, barely holding. But stagnation meant withering; revenue lands essential. Hence eyeing nomad vacuums.
“What if you abandon it for now?”
“Abandon? Kakheti traitors or Oghuz nomads would claim it.”
Enemies everywhere. Couldn’t watch them seize and strengthen.
“Then what’s your plan?”
Giorgi pondered, then stood decisively.
“I’ll pull troops from the East Roman front and throw them into battle.”