“Everyone knows that’s courting disaster,” one woman declared.
That gave Alea back her poise. She smiled and said, “I’m afraid stories are often started by the mistakes people make, good woman.”
“Oh.” The woman frowned, turning thoughtful. “I hadn’t thought of that but now that you mention it, I suppose there’s some truth in it.”
Alea sighed with relief, ready to plough ahead. “Well, telling stories is her work in the world,” another woman pointed out. “But it’s so obvious a mistake, dearie! Didn’t the rest of the villagers warn them and try to talk them out of it?”
“Well … um … they thought it was none of their business,” Alea answered.
“There’s some sense in that,” a man allowed with an uneasy glance at another man. “Didn’t the priestesses tell the father it was wrong?”
“Aye, and the other priests, too!” said an old man. It struck Gar as an odd but auspicious beginning—and an excellent distraction. As Alea talked, he shifted his weight, taking a step backward—then another and another, until he was at the back of the crowd. There he strolled away with the mildly bored look of one who has heard the tale too often—strolled to the collection box, managed to pick the lock and fish out the white scrap.
It was birch bark with a name scrawled on it in the rough, clumsy letters of someone just learning to read, or who had never troubled to practice writing much. Gar was interested to discover that these peasants could at least read and write one another’s names. Beneath the name was the word “bully.” Gar wondered if it was a title or an accusation. He slipped the bark back into the box, fastened the crude lock, then went back to listen to the end of Alea’s story.
He was just in time to hear her say, “So the priest’s son and Cinderella fell in love and bonded.” The adults frowned at one another, obviously feeling something was wrong, but the children burst into a dozen questions.
“Where did they live, though?”
“Did they have children?”
“How long did they stay bonded?”
“They didn’t live in the temple, did they?” Several grim adult faces were nodding, agreeing with the children. Alea guessed at which comment they were nodding and hoped she was right. “Of course the prince called his friends together to build Cinderella her own house,” she said.
The grim adult faces cleared as the children cheered.
Alea decided to quit while she was ahead. “So they went into their new house hand in hand—and what they did after that was nobody’s business but their own.”
The grown-ups laughed and applauded, but the children looked resentful, as though they’d had a sweet taken away.
Gar had to admit that Alea had done a masterful job of adaptation to a local culture.
On the way out of town the next morning, Gar stiffened and muttered, “Watch that man!”
Alea glanced out of the corner of her eye so she wouldn’t seem to be staring. She saw a man in his doorway bending to pick up a scrap of something white that lay on his threshold. Straightening, he studied the scrap, then tore it up angrily and strode off toward the fields, his face flaming.
“What was that all about?” Alea asked out of the side of her mouth.
“I don’t know,” Gar answered, “but I’d love to find out.” As they passed the cottage, he stooped and scooped up the pieces in a single deft motion. “When we’re out of town,” he muttered, “we’ll see how we do with a jigsaw puzzle.”
A mile past the town’s fields, they stopped, laid out the pieces on a flat rock, and fitted them together.
Alea frowned. “What does it mean?”
“Well, for one thing, our peasant can’t read or write very well.” Gar pointed to the name that had been very crudely drawn. “I saw the man slip this into the postbox on the common yesterday. Somebody seems to have collected it during the night and given him an answer.” He indicated the second set of words, printed much more clearly. They read, “Not a bully. Give one bushel of wheat to the next feast.”
“It’s a fine,” Alea said, frowning, “but for what?”
“False accusation, I’d say.” Gar pursed his lips. “I think our peasant was trying to make trouble for an enemy by accusing him.”
“He could have simply told the other villagers!”
“Yes, but they would have known if he was right or wrong,” Gar said, “and might like the other man well enough to insist on really clear proof. I think our peasant tried to call in people who wouldn’t know the facts and wouldn’t take sides, but they outsmarted him and learned the truth—very quickly, too.”
Alea frowned. “Then who was his judge?”
“The hidden government that I’m sure must be here somewhere!” Gar rose with a tight, intense smile, eyes gleaming. “Perhaps we’ll find it at the next village. Let’s go!”
Exasperated, Alea watched him stride away. Then she shook her head and started after him.
By midafternoon, they had come out of the flatlands into hilly terrain. The road wound between high banks that rose farther into small mountains.
Gar suddenly stiffened. “Patrol coming!”
Alea stopped, gazing off into space and opening her mind, trying to catch the thoughts he was perceiving.
There they were, and how could she have missed them? They were talking and laughing, but their laughter had a cruel undertone, and they were discussing how they would beat the idiot and amuse themselves with his sister.
“You’re getting a reputation,” she told Gar.
“I’ve always wanted to be famous,” he answered, “but not this way. It’s time for the better part of valor.”
“You mean run?” Alea looked about her, baffled. “Where? Those hills will make slow going, and they’ll see us a mile away!”
“There are trees on that hillside.” Gar pointed to the left.
“If you want to call them that,” Alea said sourly. “They’re big enough to hide us, if we bend low,” Gar maintained. “It’s better than waiting here to try to knock over a dozen well-armed riders with quarterstaves. Let’s go while we can!”
10
The roadside brush gave way to low trees quickly. Fortunately, what they lacked in height, they made up in width and density. Gar and Alea had to crouch to stay under the canopy of needles and had to thread their way between gnarled and twisted trunks, but they were hidden.
Then, though, they had to cross an open space between two stands of yew, and heard a shout behind and below them. Alea took a quick glance back and was amazed to see how high they had come already. Below, though, she could see soldiers dismounting, leaving one of their number to hold the horses while the rest dashed into the underbrush to follow the fugitives.
“They’re coming,” she grated.
“I know.” Gar panted. “But … no faster than … us.” That wasn’t much reassurance, but it was better than nothing. Alea forged ahead, breath rasping in her throat—this hillside was steep. Nonetheless, she tried to hurry—but needled branches and twisted roots conspired to slow her down.
Then the trees gave way to grass in a soil so hard underfoot that Alea was amazed anything could grow. There was a shout behind them but she didn’t bother to look—she knew the soldiers had seen them.
“They’re riders,” Gar wheezed. “They’re … not in shape … for climbing.”
“Neither are you,” Alea snapped, but had to admit she wasn’t, either. She wondered if anyone could ever get used to plowing up hillsides this way. She listened to the patrol’s thoughts and found them winded, having to force themselves to keep climbing. Then one said to the others, “That man … with her … he’s old!”