A Wizard In Absentia

CHAPTER 7

The freelance asked, “Can you move quietly, in the wood?”

Ian tried to smile. “I can try.”

“Well, then, let’s away.” The soldier turned to go, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “I cannot go on calling you ‘boy,’ ” he said. “It’s too clumsy. What’s your name?”

More danger—but Ian was in the thick of it now. He might as well pray for the best and tell the truth. “Ian,” he said. “Son of Tobin.”

“And I am Gar Pike.” The freelance smiled. “Well, then, Ian Tobinson—let’s away.”

They went onward under the trees, between the trunks, Gar as silent as the wind and almost as silent as the dwarves in his soft boots. Ian plucked up his courage and followed.

They threaded their way through the back trails, so faint that Ian could barely make them out. Every now and then, Gar would stop, cock his head, and listen. Then he would nod and lead Ian forth. Several times, though, when he stopped to listen, he turned quickly into the nearest thicket, parting the bushes before him and stepping into their center, holding the bushes back for Ian to follow, then pressing them back together and crouching down, motioning for Ian to do likewise and pressing a finger to his lips for silence. When this happened, Ian would do as Gar bade him and stay very still, breathing through his mouth. Then, after a while, he would hear the crashing and the crunching of the soldiers as they moved nearer. Several times they came almost to the thickets where Gar and Ian were hiding and Ian would hear them talking. They were afraid the lord would punish them for not having found the runaway youth. Each time this happened, Ian’s body knotted with fear. Not so much as he had felt before—he did not panic; Gar would protect him, he knew, if it came to a fight. Ian saw his own hands tighten on his quarterstaff, though, and remembered very well that Gar was, after all, only one man. If he had to fight trained soldiers, perhaps he would not be able to prevail. If that happened, Ian resolved to guard his back for him. Though he was only a boy against full-grown men, he knew his quarterstaff-play well, and might be able to delay a second soldier long enough for Gar to finish with the first.

They travelled through the forest all night in this fashion, and the near brushes with the soldiers became less frequent. But near dawn, when they were about to hide for the day, Gar suddenly turned aside from the trail. “Take cover, and quickly!”

Ian leaped after him, pushing through some underbrush into the center of a thicket. There they crouched on the bare earth, for all the world like deer. “Down,” Gar murmured, though he himself only sat, “and be very still.”

There was more tension in him than usual. Ian huddled under the leaves, wondering what was so much more dangerous this time.

Then he heard three voices. One of them was a cutting nasal whine—and Ian’s heart raced, for he recognized it. “If we do not find him, serfs, the hide on your back will be scored!”

“But, my lord…” The soldier sounded exhausted. “We have searched all night, we have searched all over the wood. Surely one of the other bands will have found him by now.”

“Impossible,” the other soldier snapped. Then, in a placating tone, “It is our duty to our Lord Murthren to search for the boy until we drop in our tracks, if need be.”

My lord Murthren! It was well the soldiers did not find them then, for Ian could not have moved a hand or a foot. He was frozen, frozen with fear.

Gar cocked his head to the side, listening, interested.

“Well said, though fawning,” the nasal voice sneered. “Now get on and do your job, and search for him!”

Ian trembled, recognizing Lord Murthren’s voice. The lord snapped, “You would be wiser to die searching for him, than to suffer my displeasure. He has violated one of the Sacred Places of the Old Ones! If we do not find and slay him, a curse, a murrain, shall fall upon all my land, my domains!”

Ian’s eyes widened with fear. A murrain, a dread disease, spreading over all the whole duchy! Cattle wasting away and dropping dead in the fields—perhaps people, too! He bowed his head, and squeezed his eyes shut against tears as the feeling of guilt within him grew, gaining strength. “One of the Sacred Places of the Old Ones”—was that the strange “Safety Base” into which he had strayed? And how, then, did Milord Murthren know of it?

But the voices faded away. When Ian could no longer hear them, he started to get up—but Gar’s hand fell on his shoulder, holding him in place. Ian froze, then looked questioningly at Gar. The freelance laid a finger across his lips again, head cocked to listen.

Perhaps ten minutes longer they stayed in their places. Then Gar rose slowly, and Ian, with a sigh of thanks rose with him. His legs tingled as the blood flowed back into them. He stretched sore, stiff muscles, then looked up to find Gar gazing down at him quizzically. “So that was your crime! ‘One of the Sacred Places of the Old Ones’! That great stone egg in the center of the meadow—was that it?”

Ian nodded, unable to speak.

Gar chuckled, shaking his head. “What superstitious fools, to fear such places!” he said. “Though I’m sure the lords cultivate the rumor. I know someone who sheltered in an Old Ones’ place himself once, when his side lost the battle and the enemy was searching for him. He told me that the guardian spirits the Old Ones left are gentle to those who claim their protection—and if they laid a curse upon him, it was a strange one, for he lived well, and longer than many soldiers I have known.”

He looked about him, sniffing. “I smell dawn coming.” He turned away. “Come, Ian! We must be out of this forest before the sun rises.”

Ian looked after him, then stumbled into a run until he caught up with Gar. His legs seemed leaden with exhaustion, but if the freelance could push on, so could he. And within him, there was relief—if Gar had said it, it must be true. He need not fear the curse, nor the murrain upon Milord Murthren’s domain.

They came out onto the roadway as the sun peeked over the hills, and the sky was streaked with rose and gold. Gar looked around him, breathing deeply of the scents of the morning, then looked down at Ian. “We are nearly to the end of our journey,” he said. “Half a mile down this road is a town, and I know a man there who will shelter us and ask no questions.” He smiled, warm and friendly. “Let your head lie easy, my lad. Once you are dressed in my livery, no man will question you. You are twelve good miles from the edge of Lord Carnot Murthren’s domains. In fact”—he chuckled—“they are apt to think you are still hiding in the forest, not far from wherever you entered it.” He cocked his head to the side. “How long has it been since you ran away from your home?”

Ian started to answer, then stopped to think back. So much had happened… “Two days, sir. Two days, and two nights.”

Gar nodded. “Yes, they will still think you are very close to home. Lord Murthren must have been searching beyond his own borders, out of sheer frustration. Whoever would believe a boy of twelve … Ten? Very well, ten … could forge his way through the whole of the forest, alone and at night?” He turned away, chuckling again and shaking his head. “Come, lad. Beds and hot porridge await us—nowhere nearly such excellent fare as you had in the Sacred Place of the Old Ones, no doubt, but nonetheless most welcome after a long night of walking.”

Ian stumbled after him, sodden with fatigue, but with his heart lightened. Gar had proved that he had indeed spoken with a man who had been inside an Old Ones’ place—for how else could he have known what lordly meals the guardian spirits prepared there?

Indeed, Magnus had spoken only the truth, though the man he had spoken of had been a merchant, not a soldier—Oswald Majorca. It had been one of the many anecdotes Master Oswald had related, to break the ice with his new agents while giving them some idea of the culture that had grown up on this outpost of inhumanity. But he had heard of the Safety Bases before that, from Allouene. She had finished up the briefing aboard ship—even in H-space, it took two weeks to reach Taxhaven.

That was two weeks together, with no one else to buffer personality clashes, and the cracks in the unit began to show. Ragnar was growing impatient with Allouene’s occasional flirtations, especially since she never let him follow up, but always kept a wall of formality between them. Magnus kept the same kind of wall up from his side, too, so she spent larger portions of allure on him, the more so since, to all appearances, he wasn’t responding—at least, not as much as she wanted.

Inside, though, he was, and it was driving him crazy, and by that, he knew her for a flawed leader. She was trying to bind her male agents to her by sexual attraction, not stopping to realize that she was creating rivalries that must sooner or later tear the group apart.

She was certainly tearing Magnus apart. He had to get away from the woman for a while—either that, or become very much closer; but whenever he thought about that last, something would slam shut within him, leaving him distanced from all emotions.

Lancorn was alert to every flirtation, every nuance, and resented it more and more with every day. Relations with her commander became very strained; they started being coldly polite to one another.

In short, Magnus expected them to be at each other’s throats by the time they reached Taxhaven—as they probably would have, if it hadn’t been for Siflot.

He always had a kind word for everyone, a comment that would make them all suddenly feel absurd to have been resentful, some quip or antic that would make tension explode in a burst of laughter. Siflot was the buffer, Siflot was the peacemaker—but by the time they dropped back into normal space and Taxhaven showed a discernible disk, even he was beginning to look frazzled. Magnus wasn’t surprised—the chafing of others’ emotions must have left him seriously abraded.

Siflot took refuge in playing his flute—a slender stalk that he carried hidden somewhere in his clothing. He hid himself away, either because it was a very private thing or because he knew that the lilting notes, sometimes shrill, could grate on others’ nerves. Presumably he played in the privacy of his own cabin—no one would have known; the walls were soundproofed—but their cubicles were claustrophobic, so Magnus wasn’t surprised, in his rambles through the bowels of the ship, to hear flute music drifting out of a darkened corridor now and again.

He rambled for the same reason that Siflot played music—to release tension, and to get away from the others for a little. He was sure Siflot felt the same needs, so whenever he heard the skipping notes coming out of the dark, he turned aside.

But as the disk that was Taxhaven swelled in their viewscreens, the thought of taking on a whole world began to make their personal conflicts seem unimportant, and they settled down for the last of the briefing.

“Why hasn’t the D.D.T. done something about this place before now?” Lancorn demanded. “They’ve had more than a hundred years since they killed off PEST!”

“The Taxhaveners got to liking their life as petty tyrants,” Allouene explained, “and as the economy of PEST ground down under its reactionary, isolationist policies, the lords sold off all their Terran Sphere assets and moved everything to Taxhaven. The last few out did a very thorough job of burying the records—not hard to do, considering that there had been no official communication for five hundred years. The Interplanetary Police Force knew there was some kind of smuggling going on, but they were very firmly discouraged from pursuing it, so Taxhaven stayed buried in their files. The only trace of it was a standing joke that you’ve all probably heard growing up—‘I’ll get so rich that I’ll move to Taxhaven!’ ”

“Well, sure, I heard that.” Lancorn frowned. “But I thought it just meant a tax haven.”

“That’s what we all thought,” Allouene said grimly. “But when the D.D.T. revitalized the Interplanetary Police and expanded them to interstellar, one of the first things they did was to assign someone to go through all the dead files, looking for unfinished business. Fifteen years ago, she found the mention of Taxhaven. Ten years ago, SCENT finally worked through its agenda far enough to start searching for the planet. They assigned Oswald Majorca to the job—and five years ago, he found it. Last year, he finally admitted that he wasn’t going to be able to handle it by himself and called for help.”

“And we’re it.” Lancorn looked somber. “Just five of us and him, against a whole planet.”

“Not the whole planet.” Siflot looked pained. “Just a few thousand aristocrats.”

“Seven thousand six hundred forty-two, as closely as we can count,” Allouene said, “but you have to remember that there are about twenty thousand gentlemen and gentlewomen, who will side with the lords.”

“I should think they could be made to see the advantages of democracy,” Magnus murmured.

“Yes! Precisely, Gar!” Allouene beamed at him, and he felt it all the way to his toes. “If we can just make them see that they can be the ones who run things under a democracy, they’ll start pushing for representation in councils!”

Magnus swam upstream against his yearning and said, “Then they will be the ones who oppress the serfs.”

“Not if they’re basing their democracy on universal principles.” Allouene shook her head, and Magnus held his breath. “If they appeal for a voice in the government on the basis of basic human rights, they’ll have to honor those same rights for the serfs. We just have to make sure they shift to that basis.”

“So.” Magnus frowned, suddenly freed from her spell by the grip of the problem confronting them. “Our strategy is to spread rumors about human rights. How are we to do that without subjecting anyone who mentions it to arrest and imprisonment?”

“By hiding it in a joke, or a story,” Siflot answered, “so that the lords themselves are the ones who first spread it.”

Allouene nodded. “Excellent idea. You were planning to be a strolling entertainer anyway, weren’t you, Siflot?”

“All my life,” the slender man murmured.

“I applaud you,” Magnus said to Siflot, “but I am not suited to such tactics.”

“You can repeat his stories and jokes, though, and tell them to other people,” Allouene pointed out. “What kind of role can you find for yourself, in this kind of society?”

Magnus had been thinking that one over. “A mercenary Lieutenant—a soldier of fortune.”

“Good.” Allouene nodded. “You can get close to the gentry that way—freelance soldiers are all gentry and they’re hired as officers. You’ll be in an ideal position to spread ideas, and even to get them up to the lords. But it’s risky, you know.”

Magnus nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Surely the woman must know the effect she had on his hormones, must know that she had supercharged him with the need for action! But, equally surely, she would show no sign of it. Yes, he might die, might be maimed—but he had to have action now, and he didn’t see any way he could avoid the risk. “I’ll call for help, if I need it,” he promised.

Allouene nodded; she knew he was talking about the golden ship that was following them. She turned to Ragnar. “What role have you decided on, Ragnar?”

“A merchant.” Ragnar shrugged. “I might as well make a few pieces of silver, while I’m at it.”

“You’ll work through Master Oswald, at first, then,” Allouene said. She turned to Lancorn, and her voice became a little too casual. “What were you thinking of, Lancorn?”

“A gypsy,” the woman said, staring levelly at the lieutenant. “The reports indicate that there are a few bands. The lords tolerate them for amusement.”

“Descended from escaped serfs, probably,” Allouene agreed, “but as you say, tolerated. A good idea.”

“Ten minutes till we begin approach,” the pilot’s, voice said from the intercom.

Allouene clapped her hands. “Enough! Ready or not, here we go! We’ll land in the inland sea at night, on a bleak stretch of coastline. We’ll row ashore, then strike out overland for Master Oswald’s. He’ll be there with a wagon and a cargo of trade goods. Lancorn, Siflot, and I will be merchants until we get to Master Oswald’s; Ragnar and Gar will be our hired guards. Go pack your last few personal items, and web in!”

The landing craft was twice as good as its name—it brought them down in the water, then moved toward the shore with no sound other than the rippling of its wake, soon lost in the surf. When its bottom grated against sand, the forward hatch opened and the gangplank extruded. The five agents walked ashore without even getting their feet wet. Then the gangplank withdrew, the hatch closed, and the landing craft turned away and was lost in the night.

They turned and looked after it, somber, tense.

Siflot had the good sense not to try to relieve the tension.

Then a new star shot up from the sea and climbed into the sky. They watched it shrink, then disappear, trying to hold off the apprehension, the feeling of loneliness. They were committed now.

Then a golden star winked overhead and sailed by like a meteor—only it didn’t fall, just kept on going. Magnus’s heart warmed; before they had departed, Allouene had asked him to have his ship park in orbit, rather than trying to hide it on the surface. Magnus had given Herkimer instructions by radio—not that they were needed; Fess had already taught the robot about human thought-frequencies, modulation modes, and encoding, so Herkimer could hear his owner easily, if he thought hard enough. The reverse applied, too, of course, but Magnus didn’t really think it would be necessary.

“We’re here to stay, folks.” Allouene turned to them, her grim face shadowed in the starlight. “From now on, our only help is each other.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of sexual allure about her now.

Then Siflot said, “I don’t know how we’ll ever last, all cooped up together on this planet.”

The shout of laughter was much louder than the joke deserved, because it had been badly needed. The absurdity of their grating on each other’s nerves with a whole planet to roam, compared to living in each other’s laps as they had for the last two weeks, was hilarious—under the circumstances.

“Very good,” Allouene said, smiling as they quieted. “But from now on we keep silent, until dawn. Let’s go.”

They trudged up the beach toward the boulders and marsh grass at its top. As they came up, a shadow detached itself from the rocks, and they all stopped, tensing, hands on their weapons.

“Good thing I’m on your side,” the shadow said. “With that kind of noise, any guardsman within five kilometers could have heard you.”

Allouene relaxed. “You gave me a start, Oswald. Agents, meet your Chief of Mission—Captain Oswald Majorca.”

“Master Oswald, when any locals might be listening,” the man said, extending a hand. He was short and very stocky—fat at first appearance, until you realized how much of it was muscle—and balding, with black hair around the sides. His face was round and snub-nosed, with quick, alert eyes. He clasped Lancorn’s hand. “And you are Mistress …?”

“Madame,” Lancorn said, her voice brittle, but she took his hand. “Sheila Lancorn.”

“Not ‘Madame,’ ” Majorca corrected. “That’s only for married female gentry, here. Aristocrats are addressed as ‘milady.’ Unmarried gentry, such as you are from now on, are ‘Mistress.’ Anything else, and you’ll have the guardsmen on you for breaking the sumptuary laws.” He released her hand and turned to Siflot. “And you are Master …?”

“Siflot,” the lean and lively one said, clasping his hand. “Do they call vagabonds ‘Master’ here?”

“A good point.” Oswald looked him up and down in a quick glance. “And a travelling entertainer is an excellent cover—but it’s risky; serfs of any kind can be clapped into prison at any moment, no reason given. You might want to have a gentleman-identity ready to hand. And you, Master …?” He held his hand out to Ragnar.

“Ragnar Haldt,” the big man said, returning the clasp, “and this is Gar Pike.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Master Gar Pike.” Oswald clasped Magnus’s hand—and so it was fixed; Gar Pike he was, and Gar Pike he would remain.

“I’ve a wagon waiting. You can bunk in with a load of cloth.” Oswald waved them on. “I piled it high around the edges and put muslin over the bales on the bottom, in case you wanted to sleep.”

It was a tempting offer, but everybody was too tense—and too eager for a sight of their new world. They sat down among the bales, craning their necks to get a look at the night-veiled countryside as they passed. There wasn’t much to see, since the moons had already set, but they could make out hedges, and the usual crazy-quilt pattern of fields of a medieval society, with the occasional dark blots that were peasant villages, and once, high up on a hilltop, a palace—but one that was surrounded by a curtain wall with crenellated towers. The thread of excited, whispered conversation ceased as they passed under the threat of that grim combination of pleasure and oppression—until Siflot murmured, “Could they be uncertain of the loyalty of their serfs?”

There was only a chuckle or two, until Magnus answered, “You’ve made your Marx.” Then a real laugh sounded, though kept low, and conversation began again as they passed out of the shadow of the lord. They came within sight of the town gate as the sun was sending in an advance guard of crimson rays. Master Oswald reined in his team and turned back to his passengers. “Down, now, all of you—I might be able to pass one of you off as a new factor and get him through the gates, but not a whole throng. I’m afraid it’s going to be a while—fifteen minutes at least, then another fifteen from the gate to my shop. Stay low, and when the wagon starts to move again, don’t breathe a word.”

They lay down with some grumbling, and Allouene helped Oswald spread the tarpaulin over them and tie it down. After that, the conversation was muted, and restricted to such comments as, “Would you get your knee out of my ribs, Ragnar?” and “I never noticed what a lovely boot-sole you have, Pike!”

“How come Allouene gets to stay out in the fresh air?”

“Privileges of rank…”

Suddenly the wagon jerked into motion, and they all fell silent. The tension mounted as the wagon rolled.

Then they heard voices. “Ah, good morning, Master Oswald! Back from your journey, eh?”

“And what a lovely prize you’ve brought! Who would you be, Mistress, eh?”

“Mistress Allouene de Ville,” Allouene answered, her voice slow, rich, and amused.

In the dim light under the tarp, Lancorn glowered, and Magnus realized that it wasn’t just rank that had kept Allouene out in the open air. She could distract the gate-guards well enough so that they might not think to inspect the cargo.

“De Ville! Ah, have you brought back a devil, Master Oswald?”

“Best not to find out, Corporal,” Oswald counselled. “She could set fire to more than your heart, I assure you.”

The gate-guards’ laughter was coarse and heavy. “You sound as though you know, Master Oswald!”

“Well, I’ve seen the damage she’s left behind her. The woman has a sharp mind, Sergeant, and a sharp tongue to match it; be wary of her. I’ll have no worry about trusting her to take my cloth out for trading, I assure you.”

“A gentlewoman?” The soldier sounded outraged. “Alone?”

“Oh, I’ll hire a bodyguard or two to go with her, and another gentlewoman to help her, never fear.”

“Ho! Four, in place of yourself alone? What profit’s in that, Master Oswald?”

“Quite a bit,” Allouene said in her most musical tones. “I drive a hard bargain, soldier.”

They whooped, and the sergeant bantered with her, a few gibes about the worth of her goods—but Magnus realized that the corporal was silent. They respected class barriers, indeed—only gentry could flirt with gentry.

Finally, the sergeant said, “Well, there’s no reason to search your wagon, Master Oswald, and we’ve a serf with a cart coming up behind you. Be off with you now, and good trading to you!”

“Why, thank you, Sergeant, and a good day to you!”

The wagon began to move again, and all four hidden passengers let out a silent sigh of relief. Magnus began to realize just how solid a base Master Oswald had established here, if he was so well-known and trusted that the guards at the city gate would let him pass without the slightest search—and he realized from that, that Master Oswald had been taking something of a risk in calling for additional agents. What did he really know about them, after all? Only that if SCENT had accepted them, they must be trustworthy—and Magnus knew, from his own reservations, what kind of limits there might be to that.

The wagon turned corners twice. Then the rumble of the wheels changed timbre, from the grating of cobblestones to the hollow rumble of wood. They came to a stop; then the tarpaulin was pulled back, and they sat up, breathing deeply of the fresh air—well, relatively fresh; it was redolent of hay and horses and their by-products, but it was still a pleasant change.

“Out with you, and down.” Oswald pointed to a dark stairway at the side of the stables.

They sighed, jumped down, and filed into the hole. Wooden steps led down six feet, to Allouene, who was lighting a lantern. Its light showed them a cellar, walled with fieldstone and floored with earth. Sections of tree trunk held up wooden beams seven feet overhead; Magnus almost had to stoop. Casks lined one wall, bottles another.

Oswald came down and saw the direction of their gaze. He grinned. “I’m a draper, but I do a little tavern trade on the side, with a room or two to let out by the night. It’s a convenient cover to have people coming and going.”

“Going where?” Lancorn asked, but Oswald only shook his head. “Not out here. Come along.” He led them through a timber door and into another room. Magnus noticed that the door was four inches thick, and solid. He looked up and saw a wooden ceiling. “Is that as thick as the door?”

Master Oswald nodded. “Four inches thick, with the beams closely fitted—and even if there were a gap or two from shrinkage, it wouldn’t matter; that’s only a pantry above us, and the cook and scullery maids don’t linger long in it.”

Footsteps sounded overhead, and they all fell silent, looking up—but the footsteps crossed the ceiling, then crossed back, and they heard a door closing.

Master Oswald looked back down at them, grinning. “See? This room is secure.” He stepped around a large table that held a sheaf of papers, a large leather-bound book, and an abacus. “This is my tavern office, if we need an excuse.” He pulled out a drawer and drew out a large roll of parchment. He unrolled it across the top of the desk, set paperweights on the corners, and they found themselves looking at a map of the continent. “Now,” said Master Oswald, “I’d like the five of you to wander about the city—in pairs or threes, mind—just to get the feel of things, and make sure your dialect matches one of the ones you’ll hear. Then, when you’re feeling secure, I’ll send each of you on a trading mission, so you can get the lay of the land and come up with ideas for tactics. But I’ll tell you the broad strategy.” He put a finger on the map, near the large blue amoeboid of the inland sea. “This is where we are—Orthoville, the capital city. The King’s here, not that anyone ever sees much of him, and it’s the natural place to spread ideas.” He traced boundary lines with his fingers, and pointed to large dots. “These are the duchies, and the dukes’ capitals. The roads run out as rays, from Orthoville to the dukes’ seats.”

“Convenient,” Ragnar muttered.

Oswald nodded. “Everything is for the lords’ convenience—and protection; those roads follow the high ground, and give the King a quick way to send a strike force to reinforce any lord who’s having trouble—not that this particular king seems about to do much. So any ideas we can plant in a lord’s retinue, will go right out to the country with him.”

“Are there no roads that connect town to town?” Siflot asked.

“Yes, dirt roads, only wide enough for one cart at a time. But I see your meaning, friend, yes.” Oswald nodded. “Your best bet is to go from village to village, singing for your supper. Let’s get together on the lyrics, though, eh?”

Siflot smiled and ducked his head in answer. It was their first reminder that Oswald was in charge, and that whatever they were going to do, they were going to do it his way.

“So much for Propaganda of the Word,” Oswald said. “We’ll plant ideas, in conversation or in stories or, best of all, songs. People will repeat the message more often if we can hit upon a tune that catches on—and they’ll repeat it with less distortion, because of the rhyme. In fact, I’ve worked out a few variations on popular songs already—if we change them as they circulate, we’ll get across some basic ideas of human rights.”

“I could redo Robin Hood so that his band voted on decisions,” Siflot offered.

Master Oswald nodded. “Good idea, but not yet. Right now, just having Robin Hood at all, is enough. Same idea for Propaganda of the Deed—no terrorism, no bombings, just helping serfs escape and teaching them how to defend themselves in their hideouts. If we can build up a few bands of free men, word will spread, and other people will get the idea.”

Magnus frowned. “But if they gain too much fame, the lords will send armies to wipe them out.”

“Unfortunate, but probably unavoidable,” Oswald agreed. “If they make a gallant last stand, though, it will fire the minds and hearts of serfs everywhere—if we make sure they hear about it.”

Magnus stood immobile, telling himself that Master Oswald couldn’t really have meant that to be as cold-blooded as it sounded.

“But if we can build up large enough bands,” Ragnar objected, “couldn’t they strike back at the lords?”

“I said, not yet.” Oswald held up a hand. “We’re not after a revolution here—that’s standard SCENT policy. If we overthrew the lords right now, who would take their place? Just peasants who were rougher and tougher than average—and the first thing you know, you’d have the same system in place all over again, but with different masters. Only this time, they’d know what to watch out for, and they’d be even tougher to overthrow. No, we’ll work the fundamental concepts of democracy into their culture first, then move toward a new system one change at a time. That way, when the lords are finally kicked out, they’ll stay out, and government by the people will have a chance.”

“All right,” Lancorn said. “Technological determinism. We introduce a technological innovation—say, the printing press—and it will cause a change in the economy, which will cause a change in the social structure, making the middle class dominant. That will cause a change in the political structure, making them move toward parliamentary government-and that would change the value structure.”

This time both Allouene and Oswald shook their heads, and Allouene said, “No major technological innovations—that’s the cornerstone of SCENT policy. Bring in earthshaking inventions like that, and the social change will be an explosion, not normal growth. The society will tear itself apart trying to readjust, and thousands of people will be maimed and killed in the process. The English Civil War was a mild example—but ‘mild’ only because the technological innovations had been imported two hundred years before. Even with that much time, the society still couldn’t adapt fast enough to avoid war.”

“Besides,” Oswald said, “technological innovations don’t come just one at a time. The printing press wouldn’t make much difference without the rise of a literate merchant class to read the books.”

“And the middle class rose because of better ships and better navigation equipment, such as the astrolabe and the pendulum clock.” Lancorn nodded, chagrined. “You can’t take just one.”

“Not even in a culture that doesn’t know anything about modern technology,” Master Oswald confirmed. “But here, the lords do know about the astrolabe, the compass, the pendulum clock, and the printing press—and they know about the English Civil War, too. Worse, they know about the French Revolution, when the social changes had been dammed up too long and broke loose in a flood. So they’re very wary, very watchful—and at the slightest sign there was a printing press around, they’d track it down, break it to splinters, and kill the printer.”

“I thought you were a merchant,” Ragnar said, frowning. “Can’t you justify new and improved transportation?”

“Such as the steam engine?” Oswald shook his head. “They’d be onto me in a minute. I do my trading by ox-cart and wagon. It’s enough to keep a merchant prosperous, and keep the necessary minimum of trade going. But any sign of improvements, the lords would eliminate instantly—I’ve seen it happen. One merchant started building his own roads, going places the lords didn’t want—and he disappeared in the middle of the night, was never heard from again. Another one started to set up an exchange network with other merchants—and they all disappeared. No, the aristocrats know what new inventions and new systems mean, and they make sure they don’t happen.”

“Well, won’t they stop our songs?” Lancorn asked. “They can’t, even if they outlaw them—people will just sing them in secret, and that by itself will stimulate the spirit of defiance. But more importantly, you need to come up with stories and songs that the lords themselves will like, and that are such good fun, and seem so innocent, that any aristocrat who starts analyzing them for messages will be pooh-poohed by his fellows.”

“How can we do that?” Lancorn asked.

“Try,” Oswald suggested. “The Robin Hood ballads were just as popular in the medieval courts as they were in the peasant villages. Nobody wants to identify with the bad guy, after all. Technological determinism ends with a new political system developing a new value-system, and that means the pyramid can be worked in reverse—change the value system, and you can change the political structure.”

Magnus shook his head. “They will not allow it. These lords are firmly entrenched, from what you say; only war will rid the serfs of their yoke. The lords have the monopoly on violence, after all.”

“True,” Oswald admitted, “but if we do the groundwork well enough, we can keep it down to a series of skirmishes. We have to prepare for that outbreak, or you’ll have nothing but an abortive rebellion with an awful lot of dead peasants, and nothing but worse oppression for the survivors.”

They were all quiet, looking at one another, recognizing the truth in Oswald’s words.

“For now, breakfast.” Oswald rolled up the map. “Then you can start roaming the city—and looking for weak spots in the social wall.”

The day passed quickly, in a dizzying kaleidoscope of dialects and locations—markets, workshops, churches, prison. Before long, Siflot was juggling in front of an audience, then demonstrating his expertise as an acrobat, which none of his team had known about. He brought home quite a haul in copper coins, too.

The others didn’t trust themselves to say much, especially Magnus, who stood tall enough to stand out horribly, and drew suspicious looks from guardsmen all around town. He was challenged on more than one occasion, but the guards seemed satisfied with his explanation that he was a new bodyguard from a small village, hired by Master Oswald to protect his shipments of cloth.

It made Magnus realize how strong the police presence was.

Ragnar found out, too, by pretending to get drunk and picking a few fights. The guardsmen were there very quickly, though they just stood and watched.

“Three fights, and not a single criminal contacted me,” he told the rest of them that night, in disgust. “Don’t they have any crime here?”

“Only as much as the aristocrats want,” Oswald assured him. “The vices flourish, because the lords like to take advantage of them now and then—but theft and violence are squashed at the first sign; they don’t want to take any chances that serfs might learn to fight back. They don’t waste criminals, of course—they just send them to the mines, or the galleys.”

Magnus shuddered; there was something inhuman in back of it all.

The days passed quickly, and before he knew it, he and Ragnar were out riding guard for a pair of wagons driven by husky serfs, with Lancorn and Allouene to take care of the goods and do the buying and selling. Siflot disappeared about the same time, to go wandering from village to village and eventually castle to castle, singing songs, doing gymnastics, carrying news—and spreading hints that serfs were fully human, not a subspecies. He surfaced every few weeks, either at Master Oswald’s, or just “coincidentally” showing up in the same village the others were staying in for the night—at which time, they exchanged news of a different order from Siflot’s stock in trade.

“I always wanted to be a journalist,” he confided to Magnus one evening.

Magnus, however, had not always wanted to be a bodyguard. Two trips riding shotgun for Lancorn and Allouene, and Master Oswald officially discharged him from his service, sending him out to look for employment on his own. Magnus found that his size made him very desirable to other merchants, and even for one lord who wanted a larger-than-usual troop to march around his estates for a week, to overawe his serfs. Magnus was glad there was no offer of permanent employment; he wasn’t anxious to be tied down to one lord just yet.

There actually was a battle; two lords had a boundary dispute, and let the serfs fight it out for them. Magnus found himself in the position of temporary lieutenant, trying to train and command a bunch of plowboys. He devoted himself to trying to get as many of them as possible through the skirmish alive. His tactics worked in more ways than one—he lost only two, and his side won; a quick victory was the easiest way to save lives. The other officers were suspicious of him, knowing he’d had a great deal more to do with the victory than he should have, but unable to say why—so they were very glad when the lord discharged him and sent him on his way.

So was Magnus; the oppression of the serfs was beginning to sicken him, and seeing men toss away their lives just to settle a lord’s argument was the worst yet.

In between, as he rode the dusty roads looking for work, he studied the other travellers he saw—clerics and merchants, couriers and farmers with carts, lords with their entourages, vagabonds and, yes, madmen—or, at least, very simple-minded beggars. No one gave them much money, but no one paid them much attention, either—and Magnus began to realize that he had another cover available, if ever he needed one.

All through it, he waited impatiently for an escaped serf to rescue, or even to hear of one—but there was never a word. Apparently, no matter how oppressed they were, the serfs knew better than to try to flee.

Finally, though, a troop of soldiers stepped out from a tree and stopped him with raised pikes. Magnus stopped, but did not raise his hands, only frowning down at the men.

But he had, and Ian was hiking by his side now, safe unless Lord Murthren could recognize every single one of his serfs. All in all, Magnus felt fairly secure.

“State your name and business!” the sergeant barked.

“Gar Pike, and I am a mercenary looking for work.” Magnus took him in at a glance. “From the look of you, I’d say you could use my services.”

“We’ll do well enough without any strangers!” the sergeant barked. “You know the law—say if you’ve seen a serf boy fleeing.”

Inside, Magnus’s heart sang, but he didn’t let it show in his face. “Not a trace.”

“If you do, Milord Murthren will pay you five pounds of silver for him,” the sergeant growled. “Three pounds, if he’s dead.”

Magnus gave him a wolfish smile. “I’ll see what I can find.” Two more pounds, alive! What information did the boy have that the lord wanted?

“Watch carefully,” the sergeant warned. “He’s only ten, and not yet branded.” That by itself was something of a shock. Magnus had never yet seen a serf without the telltale brand on the back of one hand—a gothic letter S, for “serf.” He hadn’t known there was an age limit.

He nodded, and assured the sergeant, “I’ll bring in anything I can find.” But he didn’t say to what destination he would bring the boy. ’ He hunted, and eavesdropped telepathically—so, although he hadn’t heard the Safety Base’s radio beacon himself, he read Lord Murthren’s thoughts and learned of it. It was going to be a race, he knew—to see if he could get there before the soldiers did.