Westonbridge, a village not twenty miles from Westbrook...
A chill spring breeze blew into the Old Nag, the old but oft re-painted door swinging wide to permit a traveller; a bald, scarred old figure laden down with thick homespun clothes, a cloak of stitched hides and a few rabbit pelts strung from his belt. The soldiers in the tavern glanced up at the woodsman, but seeing nothing more than a belt knife and a man in need of a drink they went back to their own drinks and games.
The bald man stumbled into a chair and waved for the barmaid, a pinch-faced Northern blonde with hands red from scrubbing. She took her time getting to him, sniffing archly at his approach.
"It's a farthing for a cup, if it's ale you want. Ha'penny if you want a tankard." The woodsman fiddled with a neck pouch and withdrew two dirty silver bits; quarters cut from a silver penny.
"A cup, mistress. And a crust for the other farthing, if you'll take it." The barmaid scooped up the coins, sniffed, and turned to leave - the woodsman grabbed her by the wrist, then released it once he had her attention again. "Who runs this tavern, mistress?"
"Master Bellwether, and don't you be touching me or he'll have you out on your ear, you hear me?"
"Pardon me, mistress, but might you ask if Master Bellwether would like to buy some furs? I have a red fox fur hidden away, if it would suit him." The barmaid sniffed once more.
"I very much doubt it. Wait here, I'll bring your cup and crust."
The bald woodsman leant back and fished a slip of willow bark out of his belt, which he chewed idly. His eyes roved over the soldiers in the tavern, taking in details for a few minutes before the barmaid returned. She spoke a little more politely, if still with some stiffness.
"Well, I was wrong. Bellwether wouldn't mind a look at that fur after all, but he wants you to show it to him in the back, in case any of the soldiers out here decide they want it instead. Come on, you'll get your drink back there while you haggle."
The woodsman gave her a thin smile and hefted himself up, following her into the tavern's back room. There awaited him a rotund, middle-aged man with ruddy cheeks and nose, thinning blonde hair and many creases around the corners of his eyes. The fat man was leant on one side of a table, at the other side of which was a chair and a hastily arranged slab of meat, cheese and bread, as well as a pitcher and goblet of wine. The man let out a throaty chuckle once the barmaid left, closing the door behind her.
"Orzo, you sly old fox! Good to see you. More of a grey fox these days than a red one, mind." The woodsman gave another thin smile. He sat and, after giving the food a cursory sniff and the wine a cursory taste, began eating without ceremony.
"Bells. It's Tom while I'm down here, by the by. Good to see you too. Always said those muscles would turn to butter one day."
"And I can't be happier they did," chuckled Bellwether. "I see you've kept up your training, though."
"Mmf," said Orzo through a mouthful of cheese and meat. He swallowed. "Where are the rest of the gang?"
"Dead and gone, mostly. Fielding's in Risstan these days. Can't say for Mild." Bellwether narrowed his eyes at Orzo, then raised his hands in a warding gesture. "Now hold on, I know what you're going to say-"
"Hear me out, Bells."
"No! Banditry's a young man's game. I'm old and fat now, thank you very much, and I like it that way."
"You must know the local poachers, men and women good with a bow and a knife."
"I... might know a fellow or two, but again, no! Even if you wanted to put a new gang together - which I will have no part of - you're out of luck. Most of them have gone into the levies now anyway. If you're that desperate to recruit, do it after the fighting when they realise they have to go back to their lives."
Orzo gave a short, harsh laugh through a mouthful of wine and bread. "Fool's game, and only fools like us were young enough to fall for it." He seemed to consider a different tack. "You not joined up, serve your Lord in battle?"
"What, and serve as target practice? No thank you, I'll stay here and run the inn I bought with my hard earned silver."
Orzo gave Bellwether a flat stare. "You were the deadliest shot in Harmondale. As I recall, that's how you earned your pile."
"Twenty years ago. Why risk my life on the front when I have a warm bed, warm food and a warm woman to keep me, well, warm? Or have you forgotten what it's like to sleep in a flimsy excuse for a tent, if that, on earth so cold you could still think it was winter?"
Orzo shrugged off-handedly. "I was thinking the supply lines. You could make a killing on the baggage train. 'Quartermaster Bellwether'. A command post of sorts, like the old days, but one where all you have to do is buy supplies and sell them to the right people."
Bellwether squinted, his piggy eyes glinting in the candlelight. "You a recruiter now, Orzo? You'd have better luck getting young boys in the village than old men like me. And the pay is terrible on the supply lines, even with the bribes. Baemund might be a good and noble man, but he's a stingy arse when it comes to wages."
"Baemund is," said Orzo, and left it at that. He watched Bell's eyes; the old innkeep didn't take long to gather his meaning. He leant in closer, frowning.
"That's treason," said Bellwether, his voice barely above a whisper. Orzo shook his head.
"Only if Baemund was wearing the crown. It's honourable loyalty, this way. Loyalty, anyway. Besides," said Orzo, hefting a bundle of rags from within his hide cloak, "it pays a lot better." He pulled the rag bundle open a little, revealing the bright gleam of silver. Bellwether stared.
"That... is a lot of silver." He licked his lips. "But it's still a bad offer. I have everything I need here. More silver isn't worth getting my neck stretched."
"No, but it's a better way to live than this," said Orzo, gesturing at the inn. Bellwether's eyes hardened. Orzo ignored it, continuing. "Come on, Bells, is this even you? Don't you miss the thrill? Don't you miss being in charge, living by your wits? You're no more a fat old innkeep than I am a tired old hound. Think about it; enough silver to move this old nag up to town and a few months of living again. Or have you forgotten when the Red Fox and the Golden Hawk were the two most feared men in the North?"
Bellwether seemed caught between hunger and revulsion.
"Join the supply lines. Find some likely lads and lasses in the levies and make them an offer; I know I can trust you to seal up the loose ends if they aren't interested. You take the lion's share and all you need to do is sit in a cart and listen, then send me some letters. Come on, what do you say?"
Intrigue: Set up a spy network in Baemund's armed forces to gather intelligence on his troop movements, disposition and likely plans of attack. Spend 0.2 ducats on this*, repeating the expenditure each season if the war continues past one season.
*The wages for a single levy of infantry for a season. If a levy is 500 men, this essentially means offering twenty informants 20 times the normal wage for their information and a capable spymaster 100 times the norm to keep it all together. Hopefully more than enough to keep my spies 'loyal'.