“Well, sure, I heard that.” Lancorn frowned. “But I thought it just meant a tax haven.”
“That’s what we all thought,” Allouene said grimly. “But when the D.D.T. revitalized the Interplanetary Police and expanded them to interstellar, one of the first things they did was to assign someone to go through all the dead files, looking for unfinished business. Fifteen years ago, she found the mention of Taxhaven. Ten years ago, SCENT finally worked through its agenda far enough to start searching for the planet. They assigned Oswald Majorca to the job—and five years ago, he found it. Last year, he finally admitted that he wasn’t going to be able to handle it by himself and called for help.”
“And we’re it.” Lancorn looked somber. “Just five of us and him, against a whole planet.”
“Not the whole planet.” Siflot looked pained. “Just a few thousand aristocrats.”
“Seven thousand six hundred forty-two, as closely as we can count,” Allouene said, “but you have to remember that there are about twenty thousand gentlemen and gentlewomen, who will side with the lords.”
“I should think they could be made to see the advantages of democracy,” Magnus murmured.
“Yes! Precisely, Gar!” Allouene beamed at him, and he felt it all the way to his toes. “If we can just make them see that they can be the ones who run things under a democracy, they’ll start pushing for representation in councils!”
Magnus swam upstream against his yearning and said, “Then they will be the ones who oppress the serfs.”
“Not if they’re basing their democracy on universal principles.” Allouene shook her head, and Magnus held his breath. “If they appeal for a voice in the government on the basis of basic human rights, they’ll have to honor those same rights for the serfs. We just have to make sure they shift to that basis.”
“So.” Magnus frowned, suddenly freed from her spell by the grip of the problem confronting them. “Our strategy is to spread rumors about human rights. How are we to do that without subjecting anyone who mentions it to arrest and imprisonment?”
“By hiding it in a joke, or a story,” Siflot answered, “so that the lords themselves are the ones who first spread it.”
Allouene nodded. “Excellent idea. You were planning to be a strolling entertainer anyway, weren’t you, Siflot?”
“All my life,” the slender man murmured.
“I applaud you,” Magnus said to Siflot, “but I am not suited to such tactics.”
“You can repeat his stories and jokes, though, and tell them to other people,” Allouene pointed out. “What kind of role can you find for yourself, in this kind of society?”
Magnus had been thinking that one over. “A mercenary Lieutenant—a soldier of fortune.”
“Good.” Allouene nodded. “You can get close to the gentry that way—freelance soldiers are all gentry and they’re hired as officers. You’ll be in an ideal position to spread ideas, and even to get them up to the lords. But it’s risky, you know.”
Magnus nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Surely the woman must know the effect she had on his hormones, must know that she had supercharged him with the need for action! But, equally surely, she would show no sign of it. Yes, he might die, might be maimed—but he had to have action now, and he didn’t see any way he could avoid the risk. “I’ll call for help, if I need it,” he promised.
Allouene nodded; she knew he was talking about the golden ship that was following them. She turned to Ragnar. “What role have you decided on, Ragnar?”
“A merchant.” Ragnar shrugged. “I might as well make a few pieces of silver, while I’m at it.”
“You’ll work through Master Oswald, at first, then,” Allouene said. She turned to Lancorn, and her voice became a little too casual. “What were you thinking of, Lancorn?”
“A gypsy,” the woman said, staring levelly at the lieutenant. “The reports indicate that there are a few bands. The lords tolerate them for amusement.”
“Descended from escaped serfs, probably,” Allouene agreed, “but as you say, tolerated. A good idea.”
“Ten minutes till we begin approach,” the pilot’s, voice said from the intercom.
Allouene clapped her hands. “Enough! Ready or not, here we go! We’ll land in the inland sea at night, on a bleak stretch of coastline. We’ll row ashore, then strike out overland for Master Oswald’s. He’ll be there with a wagon and a cargo of trade goods. Lancorn, Siflot, and I will be merchants until we get to Master Oswald’s; Ragnar and Gar will be our hired guards. Go pack your last few personal items, and web in!”
The landing craft was twice as good as its name—it brought them down in the water, then moved toward the shore with no sound other than the rippling of its wake, soon lost in the surf. When its bottom grated against sand, the forward hatch opened and the gangplank extruded. The five agents walked ashore without even getting their feet wet. Then the gangplank withdrew, the hatch closed, and the landing craft turned away and was lost in the night.
They turned and looked after it, somber, tense.
Siflot had the good sense not to try to relieve the tension.
Then a new star shot up from the sea and climbed into the sky. They watched it shrink, then disappear, trying to hold off the apprehension, the feeling of loneliness. They were committed now.
Then a golden star winked overhead and sailed by like a meteor—only it didn’t fall, just kept on going. Magnus’s heart warmed; before they had departed, Allouene had asked him to have his ship park in orbit, rather than trying to hide it on the surface. Magnus had given Herkimer instructions by radio—not that they were needed; Fess had already taught the robot about human thought-frequencies, modulation modes, and encoding, so Herkimer could hear his owner easily, if he thought hard enough. The reverse applied, too, of course, but Magnus didn’t really think it would be necessary.
“We’re here to stay, folks.” Allouene turned to them, her grim face shadowed in the starlight. “From now on, our only help is each other.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of sexual allure about her now.
Then Siflot said, “I don’t know how we’ll ever last, all cooped up together on this planet.”
The shout of laughter was much louder than the joke deserved, because it had been badly needed. The absurdity of their grating on each other’s nerves with a whole planet to roam, compared to living in each other’s laps as they had for the last two weeks, was hilarious—under the circumstances.
“Very good,” Allouene said, smiling as they quieted. “But from now on we keep silent, until dawn. Let’s go.”
They trudged up the beach toward the boulders and marsh grass at its top. As they came up, a shadow detached itself from the rocks, and they all stopped, tensing, hands on their weapons.
“Good thing I’m on your side,” the shadow said. “With that kind of noise, any guardsman within five kilometers could have heard you.”
Allouene relaxed. “You gave me a start, Oswald. Agents, meet your Chief of Mission—Captain Oswald Majorca.”
“Master Oswald, when any locals might be listening,” the man said, extending a hand. He was short and very stocky—fat at first appearance, until you realized how much of it was muscle—and balding, with black hair around the sides. His face was round and snub-nosed, with quick, alert eyes. He clasped Lancorn’s hand. “And you are Mistress …?”
“Madame,” Lancorn said, her voice brittle, but she took his hand. “Sheila Lancorn.”
“Not ‘Madame,’ ” Majorca corrected. “That’s only for married female gentry, here. Aristocrats are addressed as ‘milady.’ Unmarried gentry, such as you are from now on, are ‘Mistress.’ Anything else, and you’ll have the guardsmen on you for breaking the sumptuary laws.” He released her hand and turned to Siflot. “And you are Master …?”