The Thief's Art of Handling People
When people think of a thief, the first thing that comes to mind is his martial prowess. A thief who could behead a hundred men in a single breath, who could assassinate even an emperor if he tried. But to Marhal, a thief meant something else entirely: the art of handling people.
Killing people? Even a hero could manage that. But this was a skill no hero could replicate—the thief's unique technique, honed by sneaking into noble libraries and mastering it on his own. The art of controlling everything that happens between people.
"Hey, kid. If someone from the opposite end of the world tells you they're from your hometown, you gonna be happy about it or not?"
"I'd pin 'em down and hold a knife to their throat first."
"Shit, yeah, I'd do the same. But that's your situation! What about normal folks?"
"They'd be happy?"
"Exactly. Humans are animals with a strong sense of belonging. Stronger than any other beast I've seen. Even in a small group, just sharing that bond sparks fondness. So all you gotta do is subtly show you're from the same place. Even ice-blooded types melt with this one. So what should we do?"
"Act friendly?"
"Sure, but you need common ground for that. And that's where local traits come in—dialects, specialties, culture. Hook 'em with just one, and any human will bite."
The thief slung an arm over Marhal's shoulder and whispered in his ear while glancing at their comrades a short distance away. As if they couldn't hear from there. It was another facet of the thief's art of handling people.
"Look at the people here. A born wanderer, an imperial know-it-all witch, even a priestess pampered by the Holy Empire. So what do you do?"
"Learn 'em?"
"Bingo. Steal it all. I guarantee, once you do, there won't be a soul in the East you can't befriend."
Afterward, the "witch" remark earned the thief a lightning bolt from the mage, and the saint gave him an earful about using more polite language. Just a slice of everyday life in the hellish West.
Marhal slipped seamlessly into the mercenaries' midst. To an outsider, he might've seemed like one of them from the start, with Rebela the only guest.
He turned to the mercenary man who'd introduced himself as Haribal.
"Hired by a merchant or noble? Or going independent?"
"Hired. Like we got the cash to enter the land race ourselves."
Haribal gave a bitter laugh. His homeland's specialty was tea—high-grade leaves even imperial nobles bought. But the money trickling down to folks like him was just enough to stave off starvation for a year. They'd heard the finest leaves traded for their weight in gold, but Haribal, who'd been picking them since age five for over a decade, had never laid eyes on the stuff. All he knew was it was some rock the color of tea leaves. He still cringed remembering asking a senior mercenary why they'd dyed coins to look like tea leaves when he first saw gold.
"Hired, huh... What about success fees? Fixed pay just for claiming land? Or does it scale with the size?"
"Why you wanna know?"
"I'm in a similar boat. This lady's a knight serving my employer."
Revela gave a perfunctory nod by way of greeting. Haribal saw nothing off about them. Whatever Marhal's past, he was a real mercenary now, and Rebela a genuine noble knight.
"So, what's the business?"
"Mercs hired for land races usually fall into two contract types. Fixed pay for any land claimed, size irrelevant. Or performance-based, scaling with the haul. Which is it?"
Marhal spelled out the basics for a reason. You'd think any merc in a land race would know this stuff cold, but you'd be wrong.
"Probably the latter."
"Probably?"
"Guild explained it, but none of us can read."
"Duchy script's not that hard if you're just reading, right?"
"Weird language. Why the face?"
"Nah. Just a bad feeling."
"About what?"
"Contract shenanigans. Happens all the time."
Instead of owning his mistake, Haribal eyed Marhal suspiciously. Entering a land race was life-or-death for him and his men. Easier on the psyche to doubt a stranger than admit he'd been duped.
"Mind showing it? If not the contract, sketch it from memory on the ground."
"Hey, Kal."
The man called Kal had sharp, feral eyes. He pulled a paper from his pocket, then used leftover kindling by the fire to copy the contract onto the dirt.
As Marhal eyed it, Rebela sidled up quietly.
"You know the language?"
"Holy Empire priest script."
"The one only high priests read?"
"Prejudice. Merchants dealing with the Holy Empire all know it. Gotta, to trade with priests."
"What the hell?"
"You got scammed."
Not just Haribal—the other mercs gathered round. They'd staked their lives on this race. One fight to plant the flag here, and they'd left a comrade's body unburied to move on.
"We got dead too. We bet our lives on this job. Scammed? Scammed?"
Haribal grabbed Marhal's collar. Without that thin thread of shared hometown nostalgia, he'd have started by lopping off fingers.
Marhal didn't flinch. Rebela, hand on her sword hilt, tensed more.
"Haribal must be pretty famous, huh? Be objective."
"Fought in the Union Wars. Got some shitty nicknames too."
"Big shot among mercs."
The Union Wars—five years of strife and skirmishes after the Demon King's death, before the Union formed. No full-scale nation-on-nation clashes, but plenty of localized bouts between nobles, states, or mixed. Those ran on elite squads, and surviving with nicknames meant Haribal had real skill.
"Good fighter doesn't mean sharp eye. Contract's mostly legit, but one clause is off."
"Which?"
"Pay's for land deeds and flags from the race."
"So?"
"Nah. Deeds alone transfer land. Race flags? Just normal cloth post-race. Only pampered noble brats take 'em as souvenirs."
"..."
Haribal's skirmishes were extensions of political feuds. Among skilled mercs and knights, he'd heard tricks—like nobles gaming contracts with fine print.
"But this came through the merc guild."
"Pioneer Village branch, right? Big-city guilds bleed from scams monthly; villages? Worse. Go back, the clerk who took it'll be gone."
"Known him since Union Wars. He's the branch chief."
"Perfect bait for trust. He explain it himself?"
"Yeah."
"Faking reading Mass Script? Holy Empire roots, then."
"...Dropped son of a priest family."
"Dropped kid clawing for family nod? Sounds legit, right?"
Haribal's face hardened. His grip on Marhal's collar trembled with rage. Reality sank in. He and his men were had. Sure, grab the flag now... but with a guild chief involved? Forging originals was child's play. Rules favored the cons, leaving a lone merc powerless.
Disappear for years, start fresh?
Land race wasn't that tough. Picked prime land for big pay, but a backwater? He could solo it. Wait a few years, race quietly alone...
"No law says you gotta succeed. Claim this land yourselves?"
"Smart head on you. But merc contracts ain't dropped on a whim. Ditch it, you're wanted."
"Fail it, pay a penalty."
"Usually. This one's hefty."
Land ownership on the line. Huge backing, huge reward—but big failure fee too.
"That fee worth more than this land?"
"Doubt it."
"Union keeps landlord IDs secret. Fail clean, become landlord, then sell or develop. Your call."
"Fee's one thing, but building a village from scratch? Costs a fortune we don't have."
"Land pulls money easy. Beg the boss over there—he'd happily fund a village."
Haribal looked dumbfounded. Yeah, that made sense. Borrowing from another landlord? And them giving it freely? Unthinkable.
"Reasons aplenty, but key one's simple. Say you wanna ally with the future city lord."
"For that, they lend?"
"Not lend—give. Any landholder knows friendly neighbors are gold. Right?"
Revela nodded.
"Indeed. That city's rebuild needs massive supplies and manpower. As landlord, you legally inspect all passing goods. For pocket change to build shacks, they'd pay to avoid hassle."
"I... could really be a landlord?"
"Yep. And since you're claiming, why not more?"
"Hold up. Too good. What's your angle? Still no name or reason you're here."
Haribal realized late: no name from Marhal, no purpose stated. A suspicious survivor of knight-led battles, nodding like a puppet to a stranger's words.
Was the wandering monk who once gripped the Holy Empire like this?
Caution flared, but memories of his long-left home dulled it quick.
"Marhal the merc. Racing now. Goal? More land, obviously."
"What's that got to do with us?"
"Our flag's nearby. Nudge positions, we both get more. Here to propose."
"Heard. What do we do?"
"One thing first. Haribal, how d'you handle a traitorous merc captain-seller?"
He dropped his voice low.
"Rip limbs, gut 'em, then behead. Special numbing poison—traitor feels every agony alive."
"Then handle that traitor first."
Marhal pointed at Kal, the contract guy.
"Me, a traitor? Bullshit! Boss, guy's nuts. Kill him."
"Kal's my oldest comrade. Accuse him outright, ruins our bond."
Haribal's words carried veiled killing intent. Marhal didn't blink.
Calling a traitor a traitor—what's the issue?
"Kal, Holy Empire born? Learned Duchy script after?"
"So?"
"Holy elite copy scriptures to learn script. Slow, reverent—with thumb and forefinger only. Like you did."
"..."
"Mass Script's just tweaked common tongue. Read-only folks muddle through. Someone who's copied scripture can't read Mass? Lied to drag your crew to death? Who the fuck's barking?"
"Surround him!"
A dozen mercs ringed Kal in seconds. Spears and swords filling gaps— no amateurs.
"Kal, last words?"
"Lies, boss! Ten years together. You trust this motormouth over me?!"
"Old you would've argued logic, not whiny excuses. Bind him."
A man's frantic cries rang out, silenced in under a minute.
"Dealing with traitors takes an hour. Cool?"
"Fine. Tell you flag spot. Plant there."
"Thanks. Repay this debt."
"Hope so. We're out."
Marhal and Revela remounted. Rebela, stern-faced till distance grew, asked:
"That from the Saint?"
"Huh? Scripture?"
"Yes."
"Yeah. Copied some myself."
"And Hessen black tea?"
"Thief's tale. Hero and him—bad case of wanderlust. That bastard brother fixed it with marriage?"
Grinning ear-to-ear at sis-in-law, probably stuck home. Or touring with family.
"Marriage? The Hero? Or thief?"
"Road's calling. Hyah!"
"Answer! Empire diplomacy might shift!"
"Not your concern anymore."
Marhal was already galloping ahead.
"Damn."
Revela clicked her tongue softly and spurred after him.