by Pam Uphoff
"Damn Travelers, you steal anything around here, we'll spit you like pigs and roast you for dinner."
Damien got his mouth shut and gulped a bit. But didn't stop the horses.
"Let's get off the main road." Mike was in the back of the wagon with the fabric curtains closed. "The sats show a road to the south branching off in half a kilometer. There's a little village there, maybe we can buy some local produce, get a feel for the ordinary people."
Some of the other soldiers looked them over. Some curious, some with dislike. No one questioned their passage, though, and Damien swung the team up the rough road to the south. Dust rose from the dirt and graveled surface, and Damien looked around at the dry hills. "Looks a bit like a fire hazard, this time of year, doesn't it?"
Allie Torrance climbed out to sit beside him. "I can see hiding the women, well woman, while around soldiers, but surely this village has women in it. I'll try to talk to them."
The vid records had given them a good sampling of the local garb. They each had several versions packed away, and were wearing what seemed to be the standard for working class. In Allie's case, that meant a mid-calf cotton shift with a long sleeveless vest and a decorated cloth belt around it all. Plain leather shoes, no stockings, and something like boxers as underwear. Damien hoped the remotes had gotten that from laundry lines, not by looking up women's skirts.
They approached the village late in the afternoon. Damien stiffened as he saw the group of horsemen swerve to intercept them. "Could be trouble."
Allie squinted. "No, it's a batch of kids."
Damien eyed them and relaxed. "Yeah. Exactly what we need."
The kids thundered to a dusty halt beside them. "Hi, are you going to put on a show?"
"Can you do that belly dance thing?"
"Why don't you wear brighter colors?"
Damien filed the comments and called out, "Do you know where we can camp?"
"The other side of town—where the cold stream crosses is best, it's a good stream, no sulfur."
"Ah, that's what I'm smelling." Allie said.
"It's from the hot springs." The blonde girl said. Three of the kids were obviously related, black haired with brown eyes so light they were nearly a golden yellow. Then two redheaded boys and the blonde girl. They all had tanned complexions; the over all impression was Southern European olive to Mexican or Amerind red-tan.
"Are you going to dance?" One of the black haired boys asked. "The last Travelers did, and played music, too."
"No, we're just passing through." Damien decided to jump straight in. "Do you know where I could sell some gold and buy some food?"
"Oh, Harry will buy the gold." The other black haired boy.
His sister nodded. "At the Tavern, Harry owns it. And Brock has food for sale. Unless you mean dinner, then Harry will feed you, too."
Then they all galloped off, presumably to pass all the information on to the other villagers.
Allie looked down at her clothes. "Brighter colors? Are we this World's equivalent of Gypsies?"
"Gypsies?"
"Yes. An interesting subculture. They didn't have permanent homes, they were nomadic, and sort of fit into the industrializing larger culture as roaming entertainers, to put it politely. Dancing, gambling, prostitution and theft, in actuality. They had a bad name, and were forcibly integrated with the rest of society after World War Seven."
"Yeah, with the Amerinds and the Hillbillies. I remember it from school, now that you've jogged my memory." Damien peeked behind the curtain. "If you've got anything colorful, you might want to put it on. Fit the stereotype a bit closer."
With the cavalcade of youngsters gone, the silence fell again. Damien looked around and spotted some women and more children out in the fields, exclusively blondes and redheads. Damien noted the dry goods and groceries store at this end of the village. There were some good looking veggies on display out front. There was something he guessed was a school up the first cross road. The second, and last cross road was at The Fire Mountain Inn. Presumably the tavern referred to, and he pulled in and halted in front. A young man popped out the door. "Hi, are you staying? Want the horses put up?"
"No, we're going to camp—a kid told us you bought gold?"
"Oh sure, but not in huge amounts, for that you have to go to Karista. You just come in from over the mountains? I heard the strike was a big one."
Damien waffled a bit. "We just picked up a few little nuggets where we camped."
"Whoa! That easy? Umm, want to picket your horses first? Want help?"
"No, we'll do it. Be back in a bit." Damien picked up the reins.
"People sure are helpful. I guess it's a matter of living in the country, with no fast transportation for evil doers." Allie sniffed, then hopped down. "Something smells good. Permission to go talk to the cook, sir?"
Mike nodded. "Tread carefully."
By the time the horses were pegged out for grazing, and Mike told off Max and Carl for guard duty, Allie was chatting away with two women, predictably a blonde and a redhead, over some heavenly smelling roast beef.
Yet another young man produced scales and a printed sheet of prices. They drank some excellent but warm ale while he weighed and calculated, and handed over a large amount of coinage. Looking at the list of prices, Damien recognized the writing. It was even closer to Merican than the spoken dialect, and the numbers were the same except for the eight laying over like an infinity sign and what, by default must be a five looked, he decided like a back slanted F.
"Are you Veronian? You sound a bit foreign. Do you know our money? Ten pennies to a crown, ten crowns to a royal. How about some dinner on the house?"
After smelling that roast, and what had to be fresh bread, they were all easy to persuade. The taste lived up to their expectations.
Allie sampled the gravy with a concentrated look. "Julie and Fava said a lot of the women in the village trade off cooking, that it's become a bit of a contest."
Joe sighed with repletion, and still found room for peach pie. "Is this far enough? Can we integrate ourselves into this society?"
Mike snorted. "Unfortunately, no. We'll need to get to this Karista of theirs that they all assume must be where we're headed. I suspect we can find some good cooks there as well."
Brock's Dry Goods sold them milled oatmeal, honey in a big crock, fresh bell peppers and a couple of colorful shirts. The young man who was apparently the Brock who owned the store, was happy to chatter about how much things cost and how they sold in 'the City'. Damien parted with more money, so they carried a useful selection of trade goods down the road to the stream. Max was juggling to entertain the kids they'd met earlier. Carl muttered that they'd figured this would keep the kids from poking into the wagons. Allie refused to do any dancing, but when pressed managed some cartwheels and back flips.
"I used to be a pretty good gymnast." She brushed her hair back into order and watched the kids follow Max and Carl toward the Tavern.
Tony chuckled. "Guess I should have brought my guitar. Instead of disappearing into the woodwork as working folk, we could stand out as the scruffy performers."
"I don't think so." Mike poked into the wagon. "The researchers had a ton of suggestions, based on other cultures at about this level. We'll need to find out about guilds and so forth. And perhaps carry more of Brock's goods with us into the City. Would you guys mind being cramped for the rest of the trip?"
They moved on in the morning, the weather warming pleasantly as they drove steadily along. First stop, Brock's Dry Goods, for some sacks of last year’s wheat and two small bales of a fine soft wool. The big horses could easily swing along at six kilometers an hour for hours, and by trotting only on the gentle down slopes they made fifty kilometers easily. Three days got them to the town of Wallenton, where their wagons again earned them dirty looks and suspicion. They bought fruit and meat, and followed the road to Karista.
They had company on the road now, generally open wagons, whose drivers eyed t
hem suspiciously, and occasionally verbally protested their right to share the public camping spots scattered along the roads. A few wagons were similar to theirs, but not painted, or painted white, some with the names of companies on them. They bought white paint at the next town sizable enough to have what they needed. They camped an extra day to scrape down the wagons and paint them, and dress a bit more drably. The pinto horses were still a liability, though. Villages and towns got closer together and they finally came to the City.
Karista was more or less in the position of San Francisco in this contorted version of North America.
They'd chatted with their fellow travelers over the last few days, and had picked up a general knowledge of where things were in the city. Mike took the teams out with their smallest instruments to quarter the city for signs of the Oners presence. Damien became the de facto merchant. Their wheat sold quickly for a tidy profit, and the wool sold for double what they'd paid for it. Damien was feeling quite the successful businessman until he offered a small cut synthetic ruby. He retreated under threats of calling the city guards, damn Travelers, nothing but thieves and murderers . . .
"Once we're established as honest businessmen we can try that again." Damien scowled. "We're definitely going to have to work for our money.
Then they inquired about the cost of renting a place to stay. Bear squad remained in town while the rest of them left the City late in the day and made the weary horses backtrack to their last camping spot.
"Well, San Francisco is one of the most expensive places to live on our World too." Rich Covey grimaced at his own joke. "So . . . what about the suburbs? I'd prefer that to the slums."
Mike nodded. "We'll look around, say, halfway from here to there. See what we can find."
After three days of gradually lowering their requirements, they became the proud tenants of a half acre pasture with an open shed. Six months rent in advance, no doubt because of the pinto horses. The two wagons full of electronics were backed up to the shed, which they used for their living quarters, giving them adequate space.
Bear squad reported that freight hauling appeared to be reasonably lucrative, and would get them all over the City to check for the presence of the One. Damien scraped together the last of their mostly counterfeit funds for an open wagon, and headed for town with one team.
The dock foreman eyed the pinto horses and scowled up at Damien. "I'll send my men with you to unload. Can't afford for any of this to go missing from here to there. Your nephews can lend a hand around here until you get back."
Tony, Max and Carl scowled back. "Certainly." Damien jumped in, forestalling argument. "I'm not real familiar with town, so having your fellows along will work out fine."
That got another scowl. And bellows for Murph, Wale and Beezo.
Murph had foul breath and directed Damien through a maze of streets to an anonymous back door in an alley. They made short work of unloading. Damien got down long enough to see the store's back room and peek through at the front, before he drove back to the docks, taking more main streets.
Murph grinned. "So you weren't that lost, eh?"
"Close enough." Damien admitted.
Four deliveries up and down the hills of the city later, he and the horses were all dragging and ready to quit. The foreman shook his head. "Pity, got plenty more if your horses were fit to work."
Damien straightened his back. "I have another team. I could switch and come back?"
"Good." The foreman grinned. "Those nephews of yours know how to work, got any more of them?"
"Two more, actually."
"Bring them along."
Mike and Allie both gave him stern looks as he hauled the other soldiers off. "Remember we aren't here to get rich, and the teams need to get around town."
"Once we're established, and I know the town, they'll be coming along with me on deliveries. All over town, for legitimate reasons, and no one looking twice."
They delivered through increasingly empty streets. Their last delivery was on their own, three small boxes, well after midnight. Joe and Richie laid down in the back swearing to never be rude to longshoremen again, while Damien got lost without a native guide. The watchers must have thought he was alone. One fellow crossed the street just ahead of the horses. Macy tossed her head and stopped as the man waved an arm in her face. Four more figures raced up and vaulted into the back of the wagon. A variety of surprised yells and three left faster than they'd come. Joe held up the last one.
"Want him?"
"Only if he can tell me how to find Finnie Street." Damien eyed the leggy bundle of rags. "How about it, kid? You get me to where I'm trying to go, and earn an honest penny?"
"I'm not a kid!" The high voice belied the claim. After another suspended moment, "You need to go right three blocks."
Three blocks later he turned onto an unmarked street, and four blocks later found a store with a Finnie street address painted on the front door. Two more blocks and he was handing over the boxes to a grumbling jeweler who thought tomorrow would have been fine for delivery.
"I think the bargemen were in a hurry to get away, and paying for warehouse space for a few hours is silly, not to mention just begging for thieves." Damien ignored the jeweler's glance at the pintos, and bid him a good night.
The kid got a penny, and Joe and Richie were snoring within a block.
That set the routine for the next two weeks, including the bundle of rags hiring out to give directions. Damien quickly learned to bring lots of extra food, the kid was a bottomless pit. Code knew the gossip about half the people they were delivering to, and a cheap tavern with good ale, and a passable cook for the occasional lunch. It was a good place to meet to swap teams. The Sooty Duck had little else to recommend it. The prostitutes were over-aged and filthy. This World apparently had some reasonably effective contraceptives, as only one of the whores had a baby.
"Handy, that." Damien muttered, fending off the attentions of three women, probably in their forties, but looking older. They apparently rented a room jointly and rotated. At the moment they were bored and dangerous. He really hoped the guys would hurry up with the other two mares. Tony and Carl had left with the morning team, leaving him helpless in the claws of these women, who, old or not, were female and it had been too damn long . . . "I don't do that. Can't."
Sussy snickered. "Like I can't tell what's going on in your pants? Hey, Barto, you got any Havwee temple water? Got a boy here that needs it bad!"
Damien shuddered. He wasn't even sure what Barto's gender was. His, her or its age was considerable. The old creature snickered. "Wine. You gotta keep the water in wine or it goes bad, it does." The three whores flocked over to it, chattering away and Damien finished his sandwich in peace. He drained his ale and set the tankard down as they flocked back.
"Try this. We'll see if the stories are true." Norma giggled hideously. They filled it a quarter with something that looked more or less like red wine, and then started passing the bottle around between the three of them.
Damien winced to think of wine poured into a mug with the dregs of ale, but took a sip anyway. Damn! Where'd that old wreck find good wine. He savored the rest of it, and wondered if he could buy a bottle . . . except that he wasn't carrying much money, in as much as he was saving every penny for decent quarters. "Sorry ladies, even after that fine wine I haven't much money . . . " he staggered up and they grabbed him. He vaguely thought he was awfully drunk for one ale and a little bit of wine, then the beautiful ladies were steering him into their room and he was working off about six month's celibacy in as many minutes, no, not worked off yet . . . Some interminable amount of time later he'd worked off every second of frustration in his adult life, and paid forward a good ways as well. He finally managed to pull himself out of the pile of happily complaining women, find his clothes and escape.
He found Mike and Max just backing the mares into the traces and climbed up onto the wagon. "Note to self. Avoid the wine they have around here."
> "Not good, eh?" Mike looked him over and grinned. "Or is it merely uninhibiting?"
"'Merely' is the wrong word to use anywhere in the vicinity of that wine. They called it Havwee temple water." He clicked his tongue at Blue and Sombrero, and tried to look repentant. He felt great. He pretended he didn't see the others heading inside.
Allie caught a radio message. From a DONA Agent, of all things. In the City.
"I thought the Colonel corralled them." Tony shook his head. "Just sending away, barely coded, happy little idiots talking to the Government."
"All it says is that they've delivered the Council's reply to the king." Allie snorted. "I suppose they're good cover for us."
Mike nodded. "Oner bait. We'll just see how long the idiots last."
"They said they'd told the king they'd wait two weeks for his reply. So maybe they'll go away quickly."
A week later they intercepted the DONA agents' relay of the king's reply. It was brief and negative, but apparently the agents were staying to talk to the diplomats from the other nations.
They had managed to accumulate a respectable sum of money. "We can even afford to rent an actual house, at this rate. Do you want to wait until you've picked up at least a general location? We could look for a place close to the Oners."
"Exactly." Mike glanced back at the team wagons. "Once we locate them, we'll shift most of the equipment inside, and monitor them around the clock. So I hope you aren't planning on keeping the guys."
Damien nodded reluctantly. "I'll keep that in mind, when renting. But well located or not, we'll need better quarters for next winter."
"We know the One World has agents in town. They must have a presence here. However damn well shielded."
Chapter Fourteen
1361 Southern Hemisphere Fall /Northern Spring