A Wizard In Absentia

by Christopher Stasheff

  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 airwell, 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?" Silfot 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 aristocra
ts 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.

  "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.

  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.

  CHAPTER 8

  The house seemed magnificent to Ian. It was two stories high with a gable above the second story, and half-timbered—the walls outside were very rough plaster, with the great wooden beams of the houseframe showing clearly. The windows were divided into twelve little squares, each filled with glass, real glass, and the door had a metal lock as well as a barlatch. The shop was open, though it was barely past sunrise, so Gar and Ian went right in, and stepped into a heady scent of dye and cloth.

  Inside, the house was divided into two rooms. The front was huge, as wide as the house, and square. It was filled with tables, upon which were piled bolts of cloth in all manner of colors and textures. There were velvets, satins, even silks, as well as common broadcloth and monk's c
loth. Gar's friend was a draper, a cloth-merchant.

  The back room, in which they met the merchant Oswald, was much smaller, only twelve feet deep and half the width of the house. It was still quite large to Ian's eyes, and was Master Oswald's office. He had a great wooden table for a desk with a counting-frame propped up at an angle, and his most precious bolts of cloth locked in great wooden chests with huge iron padlocks. Master Oswald looked up, surprised, when Gar walked in. Then he saw Ian, coming in behind Gar, and stared, astonished—and, yes, alarmed. He recovered quickly, though, and stood up, arms open in greeting and smiling. "So, you are back so soon, Gar!"

  "It was this young fellow who speeded me, Oswald." Gar clapped Ian's shoulder. "Meet my new apprentice. His name is Ian Tobinson, and he has agreed to bear my shield, should I have one, and to cook my meals and pitch my tent."

  Ian looked about him, wondering. He had hoped for a home for a little while—but he had scarcely imagined something so grand as this!

  "Well, well!" Master Oswald's gaze swiveled to the boy. "And young enough to have no brand, I see! We shall have to dress him as befits his station." He frowned. "You've apprenticed yourself to a hard trade, my boy."

  Ian felt obliged to say something. He thought quickly and forced out the words: "I am thankful to Master Gar for taking me, sir."

  Oswald smiled, amused, and nodded. "So you should be, my boy. Days of strife are coming for this land. It will be well for a man to know how to use a sword, and you could have no better teacher than Captain Pike."