“They may have better capabilities than we’ve seen so far,” Master Oswald growled. “If they have scanners, they may have blast-cannon, and fliers. Besides, there’s that slender, very well-contained offplanet trade. What’s to stop them from hiring a merchant captain to land on Castlerock, and burn everyone to cinders with his exhaust?”
“Nothing but his conscience,” Gar said grimly. “Are our men working on the captains?”
“We’re making some progress there…” And Master Oswald was off into a sea of terms that Ian didn’t understand, words like “capital” and “interest” and “extension of terms.”
Actually, there had been so many of those that he had only barely been able to grasp the gist of what they had said. What was a “scanner,” he wondered, and a “distress beacon” and a “machine gun”? He grasped the general idea, though: when he had accidentally pressed that circle on the table in the Stone Egg, it had somehow sent out a message that had called in Lord Murthren. Fortunately, though, Gar seemed to have heard it, too, and had come and saved him.
The nobles had magical things—everyone knew that…
Except, perhaps, Gar and Master Oswald? They had been talking as though these magical talismans were news to them, as though they had just discovered something that they had only suspected before. And, since everyone in the kingdom knew about the talismans, these two men must be from a foreign country.
Spies!
Ian’s blood chilled, sending a shiver through him. He lay there wondering, dread pooling in him… Then he remembered—they had spoken of Castlerock, spoken of it as though they had something to do with it. They were helping Castlerock, then! Helping serfs, like himself! They were on his side, to protect him against the lords, against Lord Murthren. He relaxed again, smiling—his judgement of Gar had been right—the man was good …
And Castlerock was real.
Ian closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep in spite of the murmuring voices from beneath the floor. He would go to Castlerock, and be free!
Ian woke after sunset. He came out of the pantry, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Matilda peered at him. “Eh! It’s you, is it? Slept well enough, did you?” She pointed a finger at a chair by the wall. “There be your new clothes. Into them quickly, and don’t be long about it, for your new master…” (and for some reason Ian could not understand, she giggled at this) “…your new master has a wish to be up and away right soon. You’re to be setting out for the north tonight, the both of you.”
The north! Ian’s heart leaped. Yes, he would certainly be dressed quickly!
He turned toward the chair to pick up the clothing, then stood still, frozen in amazement. “But—these cannot be for me!” There on the chair were not a serf’s rough tunic and leggins and cross-gartered sandals, but a jerkin and hose, such as a gentleman’s son might wear, though they were made out of plain broadcloth—a green jerkin and brown hose, and real leather boots! And hanging over the back of the chair was a sword, a real sword—boy-sized, but real for all that!
Matilda gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, they’re for you, manikin. Not what you’re used to, I’ll wager. But your new master is a man of means, and you’ll have to get used to it.” She brandished her big wooden ladle in a mock threat. “Get along with you, now, for there’s no time to waste!”
Ian gathered up the clothes and ducked back into the pantry. He came out a few minutes later, feeling like a prince in his finery.
“Sit ye down, now,” Matilda said, jabbing her spoon at the table. “Don’t bother about what you’re eating, and be quick about it, for you must travel long and far tonight, and you can’t manage it on too full a stomach.”
Ian stared at the plate of beef for a moment. Then he shook himself and sat down at the table. He wondered if he would get used to having meat so often.
He was just finishing when Gar came in, with Master Oswald behind him. He grinned at Ian. “Well, then! Finished, are you?” He sat down at the other side of the table. “Still, take your time. We’ve quite a bit to tell you before we set out for the north. We must look as though we’re only going for a short stroll in the moonlight.”
Ian swallowed and stood up. “I’m ready now, sir.”
“I’m not.” Gar tapped the table with a forefinger. “I’ve much to tell you, as I said. Matilda! Some tea, if you have it!”
“If I have it?” The old cook snorted in indignation. “When was the day that there wasn’t a simmering kettle on the stove in this house, and a pot of tea ready to brew! If I have it, indeed!” And in very short order, there were mugs of tea before each of them. There was a third cup at the side of the table where Master Oswald was just sitting down. “Now, then, Matilda!” he chuckled. “I do imagine the captain had no idea.”
“Live like animals, that’s what,” Matilda snorted. “Now don’t bother me, silly menfolk! We’ve dishes to wash and pots to scour, and a kitchen to get in order.”
Ian sipped at his hot, strong tea, marvelling at its flavor while Gar explained their journey. “A lord in the north has need of troops, Ian, for he is beset by his rival noblemen. They haven’t marched on him yet, but they will soon, or I mistake the news completely.”
“He is a most worthy lord,” Master Oswald rumbled. “He treats his serfs well. They say that when one of them dies, he weeps as though at the death of a kinsman.”
Or a favorite dog, Ian thought—but he didn’t say so.
“They die mostly of old age, or disease,” Gar put in.
“Only diseases that can’t be cured,” Master Oswald said, nodding. “He keeps three doctors on his estates, besides his own personal physician. If one of his serfs falls sick, he—or his lady, while she lived—goes out to look after that one, themselves.”
“So they die on his estates only rarely,” Gar said. “You may have heard of him—Lord Aran.”
He caught Ian with tea in his mouth; he swallowed convulsively, and almost choked on it. He coughed; Master Oswald leaned over and thumped him on the back, grinning. “Ah, yes—I’d say you’ve heard of him, lad.”
Ian looked up, wiping his streaming eyes, and nodded. He had heard tales of Count Aran’s estates—was there a serf in his village who hadn’t? They said he treated his serfs as though they were free men, with respect and honor. “They say,” he said, “that serfs are whipped on his estates only rarely—and then only for harsh offenses, such as striking another man who is weaker than he, or stealing.”
“But stealing from another serf.” Master Oswald nodded. “He doubles the number of strokes if they steal from a gentleman, and triples it for a nobleman—but the punishment is the same. It is the crime he punishes, not its object.”
“But even so, they are never flogged more than forty lashes,” Gar said. “Ten for a serf, twenty for a gentleman or a serf woman, thirty for a nobleman or a gentlewoman, forty for a noblewoman. That is his code. Beyond that, it is death for murder or rape.”
Master Oswald nodded. “His justice is famous. He treats his serfs as men, not as animals who are his property.”
“He is a man I could fight for with a good conscience.” Gar winked at Oswald and sipped from his cup.
Ian wondered about the wink.
Master Oswald said, with sarcasm, “Good conscience—and I understand he pays well, too.”
“Aye, that is one thing about good treatment of serfs.” Gar leaned forward, suddenly serious. “His land produces much more than that of his neighbors.”
Master Oswald spread his hands. “What can you expect? He gives each serf a plot of land and says, ‘This is your own, for as long as I am lord here. You must give me half of your harvest, but the rest is yours to do with as you will. Keep it, or sell it—and if you sell it, the money is yours.’ Will not the serfs, then, labor harder on the land, to produce more?”