Equipment and Pass

Erwin stood before a low table in the captain's quarters.

A letter trembled faintly between his fingers. His eyes narrowed behind his lenses, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He did not look up even when Ron entered.

"Found it." He set down the letter and picked up another document. A red wax seal was stamped on it, bearing Nilfgaard's sun emblem at its center.

Erwin lightly pressed a finger against the signature.

"Agreement for the disposal of decommissioned military supplies. Signed by Tava Egbrage, quartermaster of Nilfgaard's central military camp in Velen."

His finger moved from the signature to the words beside it: "Destination of decommissioned goods: civilian material recycler in the Temerian theater." Erwin tapped that line twice.

He turned the document over. It was an inventory list. Some entries had been crossed out and replaced with new numbers. Others had question marks after them, with circles drawn beside the question marks.

Erwin's finger traced down the list.

"Mail hauberks, mail coifs, finely forged breastplates, nasal helmets and kettle hats, one-handed and two-handed swords, longbows, military crossbows."

His finger stopped.

"Along with other logistical supplies, including belt buckles, quivers, armor-piercing daggers, maintenance oil, flint, bandages, and ore. Altogether, enough to equip sixty or seventy people."

"There's even dimeritium. Looks like ordinary people aren't their only targets. A mage is worth far more than a shipload of ordinary slaves..."

He put the document back on the table.

"This is the batch mentioned in the camp's letters, meant to upgrade the slaver gang's equipment and recruit more hands." His gaze left the document and settled on Ron.

"The quartermaster of Nilfgaard's central military camp. All supply allocations for the garrison pass through his hands. What gets written off, how much gets written off, and where it goes afterward—all he has to do is sign."

Erwin's Adam's apple bobbed.

"In Nilfgaard's central military camp, a quartermaster ranks second only to the unit commander."

In the ship's lower hold, Cole stood before a pile of wooden crates.

The crates had been dug out from beneath the bottommost layer of grain. Once the grain had been moved aside, a row of sealed wooden boxes was revealed beneath the deck boards. Miko used his sword to pry loose the iron nails on the lid of the top crate. When the lid was lifted, the iron rings of mail gleamed in the torchlight.

Mail hauberks, mail coifs, finely forged breastplates, longswords with their blades coated in rustproof grease, military crossbows stored folded up, their bodies made from hardwood and iron fittings, the locks wrapped in bronze plating.

Cole carried them out one by one. At last, his hand touched something else at the bottom of a crate.

Inside was a stack of blueprints covered in structural diagrams Miko could not understand. Several curved lines intersected, with dimensions and angles noted beside them.

"Crossbow lock replacement parts, third edition."

Miko handed the blueprints to Ron. Ron accepted them and gave them a glance. He could understand the crossbow lock diagram. An eccentric wheel, a pull rod, two sets of pulleys with different radii. The principle was simple enough, but the required manufacturing precision was extremely high.

He folded the blueprints and tucked them inside his mail.

When Erwin came out, he held an additional roll of parchment. Raising his hand, he unfurled it. At the very bottom was a blue wax seal bearing Redania's crown emblem, with a clear ring of lettering around it.

"Issued by the Port Authority of the Free City of Novigrad, Kingdom of Redania." Erwin tapped the seal with a finger. "A vessel pass, permitting the certified vessel to enter Novigrad Harbor for docking, resupply, trade, and repairs. Valid for three years. It still has more than two years remaining."

His finger moved down to another line of smaller text.

"Certified vessel information: vessel name, Seagull; vessel type, cog trading ship; owner, Walter Griffin; place of registration, Nilfgaard." Erwin's finger paused briefly on that line. "He registered the ship in Nilfgaard, but obtained the pass in Redania. Novigrad is a free city. As long as you pay the port fees, they let any ship in."

He rolled up the parchment and tied it again with a ribbon.

"This ship has a very shallow draft. It can easily dock in the river bend beside the camp. With this pass, we'll have a suitable channel for purchasing supplies." He looked up at Ron. "And those Florin—Nilfgaard's currency can't be used directly in the North. They have to be exchanged for crowns at a Novigrad bank. I have a former classmate working in foreign exchange at one of the banks. He can get us a good rate."

Ron watched him, waiting for him to finish.

"You know how to sail?"

Erwin adjusted his monocle.

"No, but I've read sailing manuals. A single-masted trading cog usually doesn't require overly complicated sail handling." He paused. "It's worth trying."

At a bend in the river, the camp's watchpost.

The sentry was wrapped in a cloak, one hand resting on his bow as his gaze swept downstream. The river glimmered gray-white under the moonlight. Then he saw it.

A silhouette emerged from around the river bend. First came the mast, then the sail. The bow cut through the water, drawing two white ripples along either side. A flag hung from the top of the mast, fluttering in the night wind—the sun emblem of Nilfgaard.

The sentry seized the bell rope beside him. The bronze bell atop the watchtower rang.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Three times.

The camp reacted faster than the bell. Fiona's archers were already in position atop the courtyard walls, bowstrings half-drawn, arrows nocked, their arrowheads tracking the moving silhouette on the river. Some tightened the straps of their leather armor. Others pulled spears from weapon racks. Footsteps echoed through the camp.

Then came the dense thunder of hooves.

Horseshoes struck the gravel road leading from the camp to the river bend. Karl charged at the front, only his eyes visible through the slit in his full-face helmet. His lance was tucked beneath his arm, its tip angled ahead. Behind him were fifteen Imperial Elite Cataphracts in wedge formation, horse heads nearly touching horse heads, their lance tips maintaining a single cold line even as they moved.

Sixteen Imperial warhorses, brought all the way from Calradia, each taller and heavier than any horse in Velen.

Hooves fell, making the ground tremble. The lances bobbed slightly with the horses' strides, each moving by exactly the same amount.

The ship had already docked, and the gangplank had been lowered. A dwarf came down first, a wooden barrel slung over his shoulder. Behind him came a group of ragged civilians, supporting one another as they slowly shuffled down the gangplank.

Brom heard the hoofbeats first. His head snapped up. He saw the lances, lined up in a row and charging toward the river bend. The hoofbeats grew louder and louder, gravel crushed into powder beneath iron-shod hooves.

"Fuck!" Brom threw the barrel to the ground and roared, "Cavalry! Get back on the ship!"

Before he could finish shouting, Karl had already closed to within a hundred paces of the vessel. Sixteen lances lowered at once, their tips shifting from a forward slant to level. The warhorses did not slow, and the hoofbeats changed from rapid to heavy.

Brom did not return to the ship. He lifted the barrel, the muscles in his short, thick arms taut as he held its bottom outward before him. A roar burst from his throat.

"Come on!" His voice seemed ready to shatter even the ripples on the river. "If you want to kill someone, you'll have to step over my corpse first!!"

The woman in gray did not run. She spread both arms, shielding the children behind her. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

The ragged civilians huddled together, trembling. Their hopeless eyes held only numbness.

Aina's pupils shrank to pinpoints beneath the moonlight. Her hands shook, but she still stood at the very front of the crowd without taking a step back.

Sixteen lances, less than a hundred paces from the river bend.