“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.”