A Wizard in Peace

CHAPTER 7

That’s what I thought.” Dirk waved to the innkeeper. The man looked up over a double fistful of tankards to give Dirk a quick nod, then turned away to another table, distributed bumpers of ale, and came back to Dirk, wiping his hands on his apron again. “Your pleasure, guardsmen?”

“Our hearts are in need of uplifting, mine host,” Dirk said. “When and where can we find services?”

The innkeeper looked surprised, but said, “Ah, you’re in luck, sir! The magistrate will lead the philosophy discussion tomorrow night! He’ll remind everyone of the basic ideas of their duties to the State, and its to them, for half an hour, then go on to more advanced ideas for those who want to stay.”

“Bad fortune!” Gar said. “I would very much like to hear that—but we’ll be on our way before nightfall, or surely tomorrow morning.”

Miles devoutly hoped they’d be out of town long before then.

“That’s the trouble with being assigned to travel,” Dirk agreed. “It keeps us from attending discussions as frequently as we’d like.”

“Indeed,” Gar agreed. “Why, we haven’t been to a single session since that one a month ago.” He turned to Dirk. “The one about the falseness of religion, wasn’t it? I wanted to learn more.”

The innkeeper looked interested. “What does ‘religion’ mean? We’ve never heard of it at our services.”

“The magistrate didn’t quite make it clear,” Gar admitted. “No wonder you wanted to hear more! It’s a refreshing change from hearing the same ideas again and again every few years. One grows hungry to learn more—but I know we have to be constantly reminded of the need for government and the logical reasons why a people need a Protector to shield them from the worst excesses of human nature.”

“Yes,” Gar agreed, “and the need for that Protector to have weapons to use against the wicked, so he can prevent them from hurting the good folk.”

“As you guardsmen do,” the innkeeper agreed, “but that’s why we common folk mustn’t have swords or pikes ourselves, for the wicked mustn’t be able to win against the Protector of the good folk.”

“So that the number of the wicked will always grow smaller,” Dirk said, “which is why people need to strive for good and righteous behavior.”

“I see the services aren’t just boring talk, to you,” the innkeeper said with a tone of respect. “I must confess, guardsmen, that I was surprised that you actually wanted to attend services—but I’m impressed, though, with your desire to learn. You must be born to magistrates’ lives, or better.”

“Why, thank you,” Dirk said with a smile, “though you’re no slouch yourself, when it comes to an interest in learning.”

“My love!” his wife cried across the room, exasperated. “Are you talking philosophy again? We have customers!”

“At once, my dear!” the innkeeper called. Then to Gar, Dirk, and Miles, “If you’ll excuse me, guardsmen…”

“Of course! Don’t let us keep you from your business.”

The innkeeper bustled off, and Gar turned back to them with a very thoughtful look. “So magistrates preach political ideas, rather than having ministers preach morality. The Religion of the State, you might call it.”

“Not too far from a state religion,” Dirk said with a sarcastic smile. “Probably mixed in with some real philosophy to keep people from plunging into despair.”

“But ‘the State’ means ‘the Protector’ in practical terms,” Gar pointed out, “so in effect, the Protector has no rival for the people’s loyalty.”

“Of course—he couldn’t stand the competition.” Dirk turned to frown at Miles. “You can go if you want to—you’re not a slave, at least not to us. But we’re not really as crazy as we sound.”

“I-I didn’t think you were.” Miles was plastered back in his chair, sweat beading his forehead. “But I beg you, sirs, speak softly! If the bailiff or one of his watchmen were to hear you, we’d be clapped in irons and thrown in the gaol in a moment!”

“We’ll try to keep it down,” Dirk promised.

The innkeeper hurried back. “My common room is nearly filled, guardsmen. Would you mind if a few others shared your table?”

“No, not at all,” Dirk said quickly.

Miles tried to shrink into the wood of the chair.

Four peasants in work-stained clothes sat down between Gar and Dirk on the one side, and to Miles’s left and right on the other. They eyed Dirk and Gar warily as they sat, giving the impression that they would rather be at any other table in the inn—but this was the last one left with any room. “Good day, guardsmen!” one cried, trying to be cheerful. “What news?”

“Nothing worth noticing,” Gar grunted. “The Protector still takes half your crops, tells you who to marry, and won’t let you have a sword to defend yourself. What could be good?”

The peasants stared at him in alarm. So did Miles—but Dirk glared at him in warning.

“Why, the magistrates tell us when to rise, when to sleep, and when to eat!” Gar grumbled.

The peasants began to edge away from him.

“I’ve been lucky enough to escape three shrews,” Gar boasted, “because the Protector transferred me from reeve to reeve just in time. A man needs a woman, though! All right, I’m glad it wasn’t the wrong woman—but couldn’t the reeves hurry up and find me the right one? Have they no insight, no caring?”

Miles felt as though he had melted and was sliding out of his chair—or at least wished he were.

“It will be a hot afternoon, I think, Corin!” one peasant said, very loudly.

“Educated, do they call themselves?” Gar growled.

“Aye, Merkin, but I see clouds piling up in the west,” Corin called back. “I dare hope for rain by nightfall!”

“They know less about people than a plowman!” Gar snapped.

“Rain tonight would be good indeed,” Corin projected. “The crops need it—and so do I!”

Dirk tried to lean around the man between himself and Gar. “Oh, am I in your way?” the man said brightly. “Excuse me—I’ll find another seat!”

“And I!”

“And I!”

“And I!” That quickly, they were alone.

“I don’t think the bait drew any hawks,” Dirk said, thin-lipped. “Master Gar,” Miles gasped, “if you wanted the table to yourself, why didn’t you just say so?”

“That’s not what he wanted,” Dirk said, standing, “but I think we’d better leave the table to them.” He headed for the door. Gar, looking disgusted, thrust himself to his feet and followed. So did Miles, with frightened glances to left and right. Maybe he should find other road companions…

“Charge it to the magistrate,” Dirk told the innkeeper, and the man nodded, not quite able to hide his relief at seeing them walk out the door.

As they came out, Miles breathed a long, shaky sigh of relief. “I had thought we were dead men—or at least ones clapped in irons!”

“Listen to the man on the scene,” Dirk advised Gar. “I know we need a place to spend the night, but the jail isn’t it.”

Even on the verge of panic, Miles noticed that Dirk had a strange way of saying “gaol.” He made it all one sound, “jail,” instead of two, the way Miles said it: “jay-yul.”

“All right, so it was a good idea that didn’t work,” Gar growled. “Maybe nobody else is willing to admit their discontent that openly—but if we could stay the night, I’ll bet one or two would come up and ask me if I was angry enough to do anything about my complaints.”

Miles began to tremble. Dirk noticed and asked, “Do you think anyone would ask that, Miles?”

“No, sir,” Miles said fervently. “They’re too much afraid of the Protector’s punishments, and too fond of life. Besides, they’d fear you might be a Protector’s spy, trying to tempt them into treason!”

“An agent provocateur?” Gar nodded heavily. “I shouldn’t be surprised that they use them.” He turned toward the courthouse.

Miles gasped and hung back. “You can’t think of going in there! Not after what you’ve been saying!”

“Why not?” Gar countered. “They probably haven’t heard, and even if they have, I’ll just tell them I’m one of the Protector’s spies you were worried about. Come along, Miles—we have to have our travel permits approved, don’t we?”

As they rode out of town an hour later, Gar nodded with satisfaction. “Sometimes a man who insists everything be done by the book can be useful.”

“I never dreamed he would insist on giving us proper permits!” Miles was still dazed.

“At least he gave us the originals back,” Dirk said, “so we can safely burn them. We shouldn’t have any trouble with guardsmen trying to stop us now.”

“It can be useful, the bureaucracy of a police state,” Gar admitted.

“Police state?” Dirk looked up, interested. “You think it’s that bad, huh?”

Gar shrugged. “There’s a very elaborate apparatus to catch fugitives, and the punishments for breaking the law, or even disobeying authority, are quick, severe, and public, to serve as a warning to would-be lawbreakers. Certainly that constitutes a police state. Besides, can you doubt it, after the way those peasants reacted to my complaining?”

“No, not really,” Dirk sighed. “So we’re dealing with a dictatorship, a police state headed by a Protector commanding a legion of reeves, who in their own turn command magistrates, who give orders to bailiffs, who boss a small army of foresters and watchmen. In addition, the Protector has his own personal army, and the reeves each have their own troop of guards. I haven’t counted, but I suspect that, if you mobilized all those policemen and soldiers, you’d have a total army that would be overwhelming.”

“Certainly enough to overwhelm any rebellions that might crop up,” Gar said, “not that they’d get the chance, with secret police everywhere. On the positive side, though, the Protector’s job isn’t hereditary. None of the official positions are.”

“No, but they might as well be. Sure, the system is supposed to be open to anybody who’s smart and able—but in practice, the children of the officials are the only ones able to pass the exams. No free public schools, so most people can’t afford to read and write, which incidentally makes them easier for the Protector to control. The few who do manage to scrape together the money to go to school, mysteriously fail the exams.”

“It could be that their educations aren’t as good as the teaching the officials’ sons get,” Gar pointed out. “Yes—‘sons.’ ” Dirk’s mouth twisted wryly. “So you’ve noticed there aren’t any female officials, huh? And yes, it could be that the sons of magistrates get superior educations, because the Protector provides it—but it could also be that all the officials in a district learn who each other are, and who their children are, in spite of that five-year rotation. They’d feel it’s their duty to the last man who held the post to take care of his children, so they’d learn who all the officials’ children are in their district—and when it came time for the exams, they’d make sure they didn’t pass anyone else’s son.”

Miles managed to pull himself up from the depths of horror long enough to say, “There are a few farmers’ sons who do pass the examinations-always a few.”

“Yes, the ones who are so brilliant that the officials would be taking too much of a chance to let them slip through the net,” Gar agreed. “There are those inspector-generals roving about in secret, after all. An examination board wouldn’t want one to talk to a few townsfolk, then examine their records and find indisputable evidence of corruption.”

“Right—it has to be disputable,” Dirk agreed. “So okay, no son inherits his father’s position—but he does get into the ranks of the officials, and proceeds to rise.”

“Many don’t ever become reeves,” Miles objected.

“Sure. If your father never got beyond magistrate, he can’t pull strings to have you promoted. The only sons who would get promoted to reeve, are the ones whose fathers made it to the top rank.”

“So the Protectorship really is won by merit,” Gar inferred, “at least the merit of backroom politicking and influence-peddling.”

“Yeah, that does prove some ability at manipulating people, and that’s a large part of running a police state,” Dirk agreed. He shook his head in wonder. “How do you suppose these people ever dreamed up such a system?”

“I don’t,” Gar said. “I suspect the first Protector inherited a civil service from the colonial days. Bureaucracies are like living creatures, after all—they fight to survive no matter what happens. When Terra cut off the outer colony planets, and they couldn’t get high-tech equipment or outside funding anymore, the bureaucracy found it was in danger of becoming extinct, since it no longer had Terra’s laws and proclamations to enforce.”

“So it developed its own boss,” Dirk concluded, and nodded bitterly. “Yeah, that makes sense. A period of chaos, with the civil service desperately trying to maintain order in a sudden, drastic depression, skilled people having to become farmers, and reinventing the horse-drawn plow because the machines ran out of fuel—sure, a strong man would rise and conquer town after town until the rest realized they’d better join him voluntarily. Then he’d march into the capitol, and the bureaucrats would shout for joy because somebody had come to give them orders to carry out, and keep their jobs going.”

“And everyone was so happy to have the chaos over with that they welcomed any government, no matter how severe,” Gar said. “But give the system its due—it does provide a very orderly society, and no one seems to starve.”

“Yeah, all the body-needs are met,” Dirk agreed, “food, fuel, shelter, safety—but the emotional needs aren’t, and people get twisted inside trying to satisfy cravings they’re told they shouldn’t even have.”

“Yes—love, support, self-fulfillment.” Gar nodded. “No system can provide those, though, Dirk.”

Miles wondered why his face suddenly seemed so hungry, his eyes so despairing.

“No, but they can at least give you a hunting license,” Dirk answered. “Some systems do give you the right to try to be happy, at least to the point of letting you stay single if you don’t fall in love. But that requires a minimal amount of freedom, and here there’s so little personal liberty that only the lucky are happy.”

“Yes, by sheer chance,” Gar said, “when they should have the choice of striving for happiness themselves.” He sighed. “I suppose we do owe them that much, don’t we?”

“No,” Dirk said, “but we’re going to give it to them anyway.”

“Be welcome among us,” the duke said, extending a hand, his manner courtly and gracious.

Orgoru clasped his hand and rose, overawed. “I-I thank Your Grace,” he stammered, “but how did you know me for what I was?”

“Your nobility fairly shines from you,” said a beautiful older lady, coming up to stand by the duke. “How could we mistake it?”

“Still, we needed some proof,” the duke said. “You have shown it to us.”

Orgoru turned to look where the voice had come from—and stood, frozen. She was young, she was graceful, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—and she was praising him! “Your respect for the city, refusing even to darken its stone with the smoke of your fire, and your mercy in sparing the life of the rabbit who might have made your dinner, show the nobility of your spirit!”

“Come, join our revelry,” the duke bade him, and the brilliantly dressed men and women closed ranks around him. “Sound, music!” the duke commanded, and a harmony of flutes, sackbuts, hautboys, and viols sprang up around them. Orgoru looked about with quick glances, but saw no musician. A chill enveloped him, the chill of fear of the supernatural—until he remembered that these lords and ladies were so noble that even the spirits themselves would delight in pleasing them. The apprehension vanished, and he walked in their midst, giddy with pleasure as they sang a song of welcome. The beautiful maiden caught his eye; she cast him a roguish glance, then turned away, head high, making a point of ignoring him.

Orgoru grinned, understanding the game and, for the first time in his life, beginning to enjoy it.

They paraded to the center of the city, and the younger lords and ladies began to dance and cavort in their joy at discovering one more of their number. The moon had come out and turned all the buildings to silver, set against the midnight blue of the sky. They danced down streets of glowing pavement between walls adorned with bas-reliefs and mosaics toward a vast circular plaza. There, where all the grand boulevards met, a great hill rose with one grand broad way climbing its side. At its top stood a tall, round building of alabaster, its dome gleaming in the night, its portals thrown wide, light streaming out, light and music. The glad crowd swept into it, and Orgoru gazed about him in wonder renewed, for all the walls were inlaid with precious stones, all the panels of the dome were painted with scenes from stories he had heard as a small child, told as fairy tales, but which he had realized held a great significance in themselves. Surely that was Venus with Adonis, that Cupid stealing upon the sleeping Psyche, that Narcissus in love with his own reflection!

But it was to a flat wall that they led him, an alcove at one side of the great curving wall that was decorated with curlicues of gold about a mosaic of jewels, a mosaic that showed no picture of a living creature, but only curves and lines in a composition that took his breath with its beauty.

Then a voice reverberated from it. “Good evening, my lords and ladies. Who is this visitor you have brought me?”

Orgoru stared, frozen in shock. His hair tried to stand on end.

The beautiful maiden seemed to understand; she clasped his arm and whispered, “Our Guardian seems rather fearsome when first you meet him, but he is our mainstay and our comfort, our guard and our provider.”

Orgoru didn’t quite understand what manner of spirit spoke to him, or could live inside a wall—but he did know that he didn’t dare appear frightened in front of so beautiful a damsel. He squared his shoulders and gave what he hoped was a gentle, reassuring smile with a bit of gratitude thrown in—and more than a hint of awe at her beauty. He must have succeeded in some measure, for she blushed and turned away.

“Our visitor has come to live among us, Guardian,” the duke said. “He tells us that he is the Prince of Paradime—but we must ask that you cloak him in the glory that suits his rank.”

“Certainly,” the Guardian agreed.

“Step into the booth,” the beautiful damsel told him. “You will feel nothing, but the spirit will take your measure and give you fresh clothing to replace the rags of your disguise.”

“I will do whatever you ask,” Orgoru said, looking deeply into her eyes, “if you will only tell me your name.” Where had they come from, such words, such courtly phrases? Orgoru had never had a way with girls!

But this was no mere girl—she was a lady born, perhaps even a princess! He found that nothing tied his tongue, that he knew how to address a woman who deserved the title of lady; he found that her gaze on him was admiring as well as flirtatious, and perhaps it was that which unbound his tongue.

She blushed and lowered her eyes, but she said, “I am the Countess Gilda d’Alexi, Prince. May I know your name?”

“I am Orgoru,” he said simply, then stepped into the booth fearlessly—or seeming to be; his heart hammered within his breast.

He felt no touch, he heard no sound, but in a minute’s time, the Guardian said, “Your day’s attire waits in the closet in your suite, O Prince—the Azure Rooms in the east wing. Go forth to rejoice.”

Orgoru obeyed, feeling that he had missed something somewhere—but he stepped out of the booth, and the Guardian’s voice sounded all about him: “It is even as you have guessed, my lord Duke. He is indeed one of your own kind, and belongs among you in this city.”

The countess’s eyes glowed, the duke cried with delight, and all the lords and ladies cheered. They set off toward the east wing with Orgoru in their midst, singing with joy.