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 free-lance 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 gowing 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?"
"B
y 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—free-lance 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.
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