“A little bit of everything,” Svenson interpreted, “all rolled together into a system that can take on any of them—which is just what I’m teaching you. No, cancel that—what I’m teaching the rest of these would-be heroes. Maybe I oughta have you join the teaching staff.”
Magnus picked his words with care. “By your leave, sir, that might be damaging to morale.” Svenson gave him an approving glance. “Yes, it might, and it might set them all against you, too. Good point, Gar Pike. We’ll just keep on as we’re going, shall we? With you pretending you don’t know anything—and who knows, you might pick up a few new techniques.”
“Yes, sir,” Magnus agreed. “I’ll try to be a bit more clumsy from now on.”
He wasn’t the only one who already knew martial arts, but the other had much better sense than to let it show. His name was Siflot, and he was wiry and nimble, but pretended to be clumsy. He had a marvelous sense of humor, though, and every trip, every stumble, brought laughter from those around him. Siflot always came up grinning, which Magnus at first ascribed to good sportsmanship, but eventually realized was satisfaction—Siflot had intended to get a laugh, and was grinning because he had succeeded. During the first evening, though, he stepped aside from the campfire, took three balls out of his pockets, and began to juggle. Conversation gradually stilled as the other recruits watched him, waiting for a fumble, a dropped ball—but it never came. Finally, Siflot caught all three balls and tucked them away, turning back to the campfire—and noticed all eyes on him. He laughed, embarrassed. “I have to practice every day, that’s all, or I’ll lose my touch.” He sat down by the fire.
“I can see why you’d want to keep it, a skill like that,” Ragnar said.
“That could be useful in a medieval society,” Lancorn added.
“It’s an old skill,” Siflot admitted, smiling at her. She smiled back with a slumbrous look, but it seemed to go right past Siflot; he turned back to the fire, asking Ragnar, “What tricks do the jugglers do, in your home?”
The conversation picked up again, but Magnus gazed at Siflot, weighing him. He certainly had intended his mates to notice his skill, though Magnus didn’t doubt he did need to stay in practice—and if he could juggle like that, he certainly couldn’t be as clumsy as he pretended. No, more—deliberately taking pratfalls like his required a great deal of skill and control over his body. Why, Magnus wondered, was he playing the fool?
He had his answer in the others’ reactions to Siflot. Within days, everyone liked him—and were a little condescending. Everyone knew that Siflot could never be a threat—which meant that if he ever did need to fight one of them, he would have the advantage of tremendous surprise. In the meantime, he had become everyone’s friend and everyone’s confidant—there was no one who didn’t trust Siflot. Why not? He could never hurt them.
But Magnus had a different notion of the matter, and the second day, he managed to pair up with Siflot in unarmed combat class. True to his promise to Svenson, he did his best to be clumsy, stumbling as often as Siflot and falling down in the middle of a throw just as he did. The climax of the day came when they both kicked at each other at the same moment, and both missed. Siflot laughed, and Magnus grinned, then stepped in for a hip-throw and stumbled, giving Siflot the perfect opportunity to pin him with an elbow-lock, which the juggler dutifully did—then skidded in his own turn, and landed right beside Magnus, who looked over at him, grinned, and said with all the sarcasm he could muster, “White belt, sure.”
A wary look flickered over Siflot’s face, then was swallowed in an impish grin. “Why, Gar Pike, how could I be anything else?”
Svenson stamped up to spare Magnus an answer. “If you two clowns are through with the circus now, we might get on with the lesson.”
“Oh yes, Sir! Yes, Sir!” Siflot rolled up to his feet, nodding—no, bobbing. “It was the hip-throw, wasn’t it, sir?” And he grabbed Magnus and executed the move perfectly—except that when Magnus was at the top of the arc, Siflot collapsed. Magnus couldn’t help it—he burst into laughter as he rolled off Siflot, then caught the smaller man’s shoulder, asking, “Are you all right?”
Siflot came up grinning. “Why, of course, friend Pike—you landed as a feather would.” Then, to Svenson, “I’m learning, sir.”
“Sure are,” Svenson growled. “Pretty soon, maybe you won’t fall until he hits the ground. A little more effort and a little less humor, Siflot.” He turned away, fighting to keep his face straight.
They faced off again. Siflot asked, “And how old were you when you took your black belt, friend Pike?”
“I never did,” Magnus answered. “We don’t use them.”
“Ah. Suspenders, no doubt.”
“No, garters. Think you can stay on your feet this time, friend Siflot?”
“No, friend Pike, but I might stay on yours.” They all called him “Pike” by the third day, following Svenson’s lead. Ragnar claimed the name suited him.
Siflot kept the classes from being boring, with his mock clumsiness and wide-eyed innocence that led him to ask the most hilarious questions. Still, Svenson was only teaching Magnus what he already knew, and he had to summon all his patience to take them with good grace.
But the acculturation classes were another matter, partly because it was material he didn’t know at all—the background, social system, and customs of the world he was being sent to—and partly because Allouene was teaching them. Soaking up the history, dialect, and laws of a new planet was fascinating, and watching Allouene was a pleasure that Magnus felt to his marrow, even though she was all business as she paced before the class, with nothing seductive or alluring in her manner. But the honey of her hair still shone, her eyes flashed as she told them about the inequities of the aristocratic system, and her movements were poetry.
Apparently, Magnus’s heart was not locked up quite as tightly as he had thought—but even if it had been, the rest of his body was not. Watching Allouene roused physical sensations that permeated Magnus’s whole body, even though his emotions stirred only slightly.
Of course, he feigned a relaxed posture and kept his face impassive, showing none of what he felt. “We’ll begin by telling you why we’re going,” she said, “and the answer is that the agent in charge has called for help.”
“I thought SCENT didn’t like to send in lots of agents,” Ragnar said.
Allouene nodded, making her hair sway around her face in a way that Magnus found enchanting. “SCENT rules are very strict about disrupting indigenous cultures, and the fewer agents involved, the less the chance of disruption. The ideal is to send in one agent only, and have him put the planet on the road to democracy single-handed—but that almost never happens.”
The words transfixed Magnus—for that was exactly what his father had done: come to Gramarye as an agent of SCENT and set it on the road to democracy, single-handed. Well, not by himself, no, but without calling in any other SCENT agents. He made do with local talent—very welclass="underline" he married one, and raised some others.
Of course, that was unjust. Magnus knew quite well that Rod Gallowglass had stayed on Gramarye because he had fallen in love with Magnus’s mother. He knew it not just from his parents’ report, but from several others of the older generation who had witnessed it—including Fess. And anything the children had done had been incidental.
Until now.
“Usually the scout agent calls for help,” Allouene went on, “just as he has in this case. His name is Oswald Majorca, and he has set up a thriving business as a merchant, which allows him to travel anywhere he wants, even to other continents. It also gives him an excuse to send his own agents to any other city, and they might ‘just happen’ to stop over at any place in between. He has situated himself admirably, and given us a great start. It’s up to us not to blow it for him.”