The others didn’t trust themselves to say much, especially Magnus, who stood tall enough to stand out horribly, and drew suspicious looks from guardsmen all around town. He was challenged on more than one occasion, but the guards seemed satisfied with his explanation that he was a new bodyguard from a small village, hired by Master Oswald to protect his shipments of cloth.
It made Magnus realize how strong the police presence was.
Ragnar found out, too, by pretending to get drunk and picking a few fights. The guardsmen were there very quickly, though they just stood and watched.
“Three fights, and not a single criminal contacted me,” he told the rest of them that night, in disgust. “Don’t they have any crime here?”
“Only as much as the aristocrats want,” Oswald assured him. “The vices flourish, because the lords like to take advantage of them now and then—but theft and violence are squashed at the first sign; they don’t want to take any chances that serfs might learn to fight back. They don’t waste criminals, of course—they just send them to the mines, or the galleys.”
Magnus shuddered; there was something inhuman in back of it all.
The days passed quickly, and before he knew it, he and Ragnar were out riding guard for a pair of wagons driven by husky serfs, with Lancorn and Allouene to take care of the goods and do the buying and selling. Siflot disappeared about the same time, to go wandering from village to village and eventually castle to castle, singing songs, doing gymnastics, carrying news—and spreading hints that serfs were fully human, not a subspecies. He surfaced every few weeks, either at Master Oswald’s, or just “coincidentally” showing up in the same village the others were staying in for the night—at which time, they exchanged news of a different order from Siflot’s stock in trade.
“I always wanted to be a journalist,” he confided to Magnus one evening.
Magnus, however, had not always wanted to be a bodyguard. Two trips riding shotgun for Lancorn and Allouene, and Master Oswald officially discharged him from his service, sending him out to look for employment on his own. Magnus found that his size made him very desirable to other merchants, and even for one lord who wanted a larger-than-usual troop to march around his estates for a week, to overawe his serfs. Magnus was glad there was no offer of permanent employment; he wasn’t anxious to be tied down to one lord just yet.
There actually was a battle; two lords had a boundary dispute, and let the serfs fight it out for them. Magnus found himself in the position of temporary lieutenant, trying to train and command a bunch of plowboys. He devoted himself to trying to get as many of them as possible through the skirmish alive. His tactics worked in more ways than one—he lost only two, and his side won; a quick victory was the easiest way to save lives. The other officers were suspicious of him, knowing he’d had a great deal more to do with the victory than he should have, but unable to say why—so they were very glad when the lord discharged him and sent him on his way.
So was Magnus; the oppression of the serfs was beginning to sicken him, and seeing men toss away their lives just to settle a lord’s argument was the worst yet.
In between, as he rode the dusty roads looking for work, he studied the other travellers he saw—clerics and merchants, couriers and farmers with carts, lords with their entourages, vagabonds and, yes, madmen—or, at least, very simple-minded beggars. No one gave them much money, but no one paid them much attention, either—and Magnus began to realize that he had another cover available, if ever he needed one.
All through it, he waited impatiently for an escaped serf to rescue, or even to hear of one—but there was never a word. Apparently, no matter how oppressed they were, the serfs knew better than to try to flee.
Finally, though, a troop of soldiers stepped out from a tree and stopped him with raised pikes. Magnus stopped, but did not raise his hands, only frowning down at the men.
But he had, and Ian was hiking by his side now, safe unless Lord Murthren could recognize every single one of his serfs. All in all, Magnus felt fairly secure.
“State your name and business!” the sergeant barked.
“Gar Pike, and I am a mercenary looking for work.” Magnus took him in at a glance. “From the look of you, I’d say you could use my services.”
“We’ll do well enough without any strangers!” the sergeant barked. “You know the law—say if you’ve seen a serf boy fleeing.”
Inside, Magnus’s heart sang, but he didn’t let it show in his face. “Not a trace.”
“If you do, Milord Murthren will pay you five pounds of silver for him,” the sergeant growled. “Three pounds, if he’s dead.”
Magnus gave him a wolfish smile. “I’ll see what I can find.” Two more pounds, alive! What information did the boy have that the lord wanted?
“Watch carefully,” the sergeant warned. “He’s only ten, and not yet branded.” That by itself was something of a shock. Magnus had never yet seen a serf without the telltale brand on the back of one hand—a gothic letter S, for “serf.” He hadn’t known there was an age limit.
He nodded, and assured the sergeant, “I’ll bring in anything I can find.” But he didn’t say to what destination he would bring the boy. ’ He hunted, and eavesdropped telepathically—so, although he hadn’t heard the Safety Base’s radio beacon himself, he read Lord Murthren’s thoughts and learned of it. It was going to be a race, he knew—to see if he could get there before the soldiers did.
CHAPTER 8
The house seemed magnificent to Ian. It was two stories high with a gable above the second story, and half-timbered—the walls outside were very rough plaster, with the great wooden beams of the houseframe showing clearly. The windows were divided into twelve little squares, each filled with glass, real glass, and the door had a metal lock as well as a barlatch. The shop was open, though it was barely past sunrise, so Gar and Ian went right in, and stepped into a heady scent of dye and cloth.
Inside, the house was divided into two rooms. The front was huge, as wide as the house, and square. It was filled with tables, upon which were piled bolts of cloth in all manner of colors and textures. There were velvets, satins, even silks, as well as common broadcloth and monk’s cloth. Gar’s friend was a draper, a cloth-merchant.
The back room, in which they met the merchant Oswald, was much smaller, only twelve feet deep and half the width of the house. It was still quite large to Ian’s eyes, and was Master Oswald’s office. He had a great wooden table for a desk with a counting-frame propped up at an angle, and his most precious bolts of cloth locked in great wooden chests with huge iron padlocks. Master Oswald looked up, surprised, when Gar walked in. Then he saw Ian, coming in behind Gar, and stared, astonished—and, yes, alarmed. He recovered quickly, though, and stood up, arms open in greeting and smiling. “So, you are back so soon, Gar!”
“It was this young fellow who speeded me, Oswald.” Gar clapped Ian’s shoulder. “Meet my new apprentice. His name is Ian Tobinson, and he has agreed to bear my shield, should I have one, and to cook my meals and pitch my tent.”
Ian looked about him, wondering. He had hoped for a home for a little while—but he had scarcely imagined something so grand as this!
“Well, well!” Master Oswald’s gaze swiveled to the boy. “And young enough to have no brand, I see! We shall have to dress him as befits his station.” He frowned. “You’ve apprenticed yourself to a hard trade, my boy.”
Ian felt obliged to say something. He thought quickly and forced out the words: “I am thankful to Master Gar for taking me, sir.”