The pen tapped impa­tient­ly. Flecks of dried ink speck­led the paper: A con­tract titled “cer­tifi­cate of employ” in a block face. The tap­per, a scruffy, hard-bit­ten cut­ter in leathers, sat alone at his pub bench. He hummed as he tapped, accom­pa­ny­ing the fid­dler saw­ing by the hearth. 

A shad­ow fell on his paper, and the cut­ter quit his tap­ping. He looked up. From the bus­tle at the bar had come a lad. Pim­ply, clad in dirty wool, with a notchy axe on his belt. A wood­cut­ter’s axe. 

“You’re Sad­dle­back?” mum­bled the lad.

“Yeah,” said the cut­ter.

The lad straight­ened, squared his thin shoul­ders. “Met your gang at the bar. Said you was look­ing for hires.”

Sad­dle­back leered, mock­ing­ly. “Strong hires, lad. Strong being the oper­a­tive word. Clear off.”

“I’m—”

“A’ve seen larg­er mice,” Sad­dle­back inter­rupt­ed, jab­bing with his pen. “Do yer­self a favor n’ piss off.”

“But—” start­ed the lad, yelped. He had been yanked aside, replaced by a fig­ure in a brown cloak and a bat­tered buck­et helm. A scent of tur­pen­tine accom­pa­nied.

Sad­dle­back raised an eye­brow. “Ye look more the part. Wan­na cut of the ven­ture to Beau­gan Fun­nel?”

A pair or gauntlet­ed hands emerged neath the cloak, briefly reveal­ing a belt bristling with blades and ammu­ni­tion. They clasped. The knuck­les popped dul­ly. “Risk’s what?” said the helm, muf­fled.

“Mod­er­ate, so say Old Tiber and Fel­lowes’ scouts,” said Sad­dle­back. His pen rapped on the lip of a pewter stein. * “Good loot pos­si­ble. Earnest pay­ment in beer.”

A met­al hand waved, dis­mis­sive. “White meat,” the fig­ure scoffed, depart­ed, clank­ing.

“Suit yer­self.”

Sad­dle­back shut his eyes, stretched weari­ly. His jerkin creaked at the seams. He looked to the bar, where his fel­lows drank and chor­tled. One, a man with a met­al nose, was speak­ing eager­ly to a rud­dy woman in dread­locks. He point­ed to Sad­dle­back, nod­ded. Sad­dle­back raised his eye­brows, and the rosy cut­ter saun­tered over.

“Hal­lo,” she slurred, wob­bling vague­ly.

“Hal­lo,” replied Sad­dle­back, twist­ing the inkpen between his fin­gers. “I see old Vin­d­stär accost­ed ye at the bar.”

She bared snarled teeth, a sort of grin. “Aye. Said you’re pay­ing drinks for at–” she hic­cupped. “Attachés.”

“Yeah, well. Goin’ to–”

“ ‘M going with. Let me sign.” She lunged clum­si­ly for the pen. Sad­dle­back yanked it out of reach. “A’think not,” he said.

“C’mon.”

“No lush­es in me posse. Split.”

The drunk turned a deep­er red, tot­tered away, curs­ing. Sad­dle­back shot an incred­u­lous look to Vin­d­stär, who watched, chortling, from the bar. He flashed the lead-nosed man a mean ges­ture, took up his beer, sucked down the foamy dregs. Though the stein’s glass bot­tom, he spied yet anoth­er approach­ing fig­ure 

Sad­dle­back gulped, put down the stein. “Hal­lo.”

“Well met,” said the fig­ure, a large man clad in armor bent from plow­boards. Rough linen bound his limbs and low­er face, and his hands were thick and twist­ed. He peered over the bar­rel-like body­plate with sad eyes. “I am Rile, of Sown­bar­row.”

“A’m Sad­dle­back. Mean ta come ven­ture with me gang, Rile?”

“I do.”

“Front­lin­er?”

“Yes.”

Sad­dle­back nod­ded, sniffed. “A’s­mell salt neath those wrap­pings, mate,” he said, qui­et­ly. “Yer’a blighter?”

Rile shift­ed, uncom­fort­able. “Yes, but I keep sequestered. ”

Sad­dle­back nod­ded. “A’ll ask no more. Ye’re wel­come, all the same.” He pushed the paper for­ward, tapped it read­i­ly. “Pay’s an equal share, sanc­tioned under T&F. Esti­mat­ed mod­er­ate dan­ger and a haul in upper ranges.”

“Good. I will go.”

“Splen­did,” said Sad­dle­back. He dipped the pen and prof­fered it. “Sign there.”

Slow, achi­ly, the blighter signed. “There.” He nod­ded. Sad­dle­back took up the con­tract, blew on the wet ink. 

“Mas­ter Rile…” he ges­tured to the bar, to Vin­d­stär and the wait­ing gang of cut­ters. They raised glass­es in greet­ing.

“Wel­come to the crew.”

Hired hands

Ven­tur­ing is hard.

Since cut­ters first cracked the earth­’s fate­ful tombs in search of gold, since they delved the for­bid­den depths for hid­den lucre, since the very dawn of the fatal adven­ture-cap­i­tal pro­fes­sion, ven­tur­ing sorts have sought to make their job a lit­tle eas­i­er. ** Arms, armor, tac­tics, recon­nais­sance; all, while inte­gral parts of the cut­ter’s trade, have nev­er shown to ease their ardu­ous trade so well as one asset: Extra bod­ies.

Thus, since the first cut­ters first delved, there have been hirelings. Hench­men, they are called. Hires, attachés. Aids to ven­tur­ing par­ties. Be they low­ly mer­ce­nar­ies, skilled work­ers, team­sters, or mere­ly fel­low cut­ters of an espe­cial­ly itin­er­ant bent, a good crew of hirelings is known to round out the odd edges of most any ven­tur­ing gang of mer­it or suc­cess. 

To be an attaché is, while nei­ther the safest nor the most secure entry into the ven­tur­ing pro­fes­sion, often the eas­i­est. Extra fight­ers are oft desired by any cut­ter band with a healthy incli­na­tion for supe­ri­or num­bers. The qual­i­ty or longevi­ty of such fight­ers is often of lit­tle mat­ter, as they only need to be paid if they sur­vive. †

Indeed, the most com­mon job afford­ed to hench­men is also the most dead­ly: Front­line com­bat­tant; a role under­tak­en only fool­ish­ly, under dread­ful mon­e­tary need, or by ter­ri­ble wont for dan­ger. Rare is there a ven­ture of high reward which does not involve some form of melee. †† For this rea­son, cut­ters are apt to bring on extra hands for the pur­pose of fight­ing.

Oth­er hires are brought on for less dread­ful ser­vices. Typ­i­cal­ly, they are skilled indi­vid­u­als acquired to per­form tasks the cut­ters can­not. Team­sters, prospec­tors, crafts­men, hunters, guides; all are use­ful.

As hirelings are engaged by cut­ters them­selves, often via doc­u­ments or ver­bal agree­ments of dubi­ous repute, banks, cut­ters’ own employ­ers, often frown at their employ. While a cut­ter is licensed, rec­og­nized by, and answer­able to their favored bank, the cut­ter’s hench­men are not. This degree of sep­a­ra­tion and loss of con­trol is intol­er­a­ble to all but the most lais­sez faire of mon­e­tary insti­tu­tions, such as Tiber and Fel­lowes, who active­ly encour­age the bring­ing-on of aux­il­iary hires by cut­ters.

What­ev­er their employ­ers’ stance on attachés, cut­ters con­tin­u­al­ly engage them. So exces­sive­ly, in fact, that hench­men and atten­dants have become an accom­pa­ny­ing and sig­nif­i­cant niche in both  ven­tur­ing econ­o­my and folk­lore.

The great cut­ters of rumor, the knight-errants, brave car­tog­ra­phers, and dash­ing scoundrels of pop­u­lar regard, are all known for hav­ing grown the mag­ni­tude and ranks of their purs­es and friend­ships by the acqui­si­tion of hires. Bands of broth­ers and sis­ters, be they what­ev­er creed, race, or species, unit­ed in ven­tur­ing pub and con­sor­tium by the promise gold and adven­ture. Rare, bright embers of the ter­ri­ble, tempt­ing ven­ture rush; brighter than the all those who nev­er shone com­bined.

By their sto­ries, the low­est, the hum­ble, only fur­ther aspire to one day assem­ble their own mot­ley crews.