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“Don’t worry, I’ll give him the thrashing for you,” the bailiff said grimly. “No idea which way he went, then?”

“No—but if he sent us east, I’d guess he’d have gone west.” Gar pointed out across the fields.

“Likely enough.” The bailiff looked off toward the outcrop of woods, frowning. “How’d he disguise his trail from the hounds, though?”

“Remember that fish I told you of?” Gar asked. “Well, I suspect he dragged it behind him. It’s quite dead by now, and in the sun, it’s probably giving off far more odor than he is.”

“Yes, probably enough,” the bailiff growled. “Cunning rogue! All right, men, set your hounds to questing west!” Then, to Dirk and Gar, “Thanks for your information, guardsmen!”

“Our pleasure—and thanks for telling us where to find horses.” Dirk raised a hand in farewell, then remembered to stiffen it into the salute he’d learned the day before.

The bailiff imitated the gesture, then hurried off after his foresters. Gar and Dirk started off toward the northeast.

Miles sagged, and lay back against the boards with his heart thumping. He’d never heard such adroit lying in his life.

But how would Gar and Dirk come back for him?

Time enough to think that through later. For now, he needed to catch his breath—and let his body stop screaming at him to run.

He was almost calm when he heard their voices as they came into the barn. “Well, yes,” Gar was saying, “they did seem to have the hunting down to a routine. But that could be from being drilled in it, not from practice.”

“Yeah, and I might be good at speaking Standard because I studied it in a book,” Dirk retorted. “Of course, it could also be from having spoken it all my life.”

“Well, we’ll let Miles tell us.” Gar smiled up at the wide-eyed peasant. “Come down, Miles. I don’t think you’ll need to worry about that official for a while.”

“The bailiff?” Miles asked, round-eyed. “Do you really think he’ll stay away?”

“No,” Dirk told him. “He’ll be back in half an hour or so, when he finds his dogs don’t strike any trace.”

“I expect they’ll give them a dead fish to smell,” Gar added, “but when they can’t find that, the bailiff will come storming back, looking for blood. We’d better start hiking.”

Miles scrambled down the ladder, and they set off toward the woods along the stream. “Where are we going?” he asked. “To Farmer Landry’s, first,” Gar replied. “The bailiff and his men will be at least half an hour on their wild-goose chase, more likely an hour. We can have three miles’ lead on them in that time.”

“Time enough to buy horses and be gone before they catch us,” Dirk said. “By the way, Miles, settle an argument for us. Were those guys good at hunting because they’ve been trained in it, or because they’ve done it so often?”

“Not ‘often,’ I would say, sir,” Miles said slowly, “no more than two or three times a year.”

Dirk looked up, startled, and Gar’s face became a mask. “So you’ve met some other people running from the bailiff?”

“Only before they ran, sir,” Miles said, “or after they were punished. Not a year goes by without some young fellow giving in to the temptation of poaching, and I know most of them.”

“They don’t get away, then?”

Miles shook his head. “None from my village. I’ve heard rumors of highwaymen and forest outlaws, but I’ve never seen them myself.”

“But knowing they might be there ready to pounce, makes you think twice about running away,” Dirk said with irony, “and the punishments are enough to make you think three or four times.”

“They are indeed, sir, and I don’t know of any other runaways who are free. Even the bandits and highwaymen are caught by the reeve’s men sooner or later.”

Gar frowned down at him. “You must really feel strongly about not marrying Salina, to dare all those dangers—especially since you seem to be sure you’ll be caught sooner or later.”

“Killed, I hope, sir.” Miles shuddered. “But I’d rather face death than a life of misery with a woman who hates me—and hates me all the more because I make her miserable, too. But yes, I am sure that if I don’t fight to the death, they’ll catch me. They all get caught, all the runaways I’ve known. The watchmen or the foresters bring them back.” He shuddered again. “The flogging and the forced labor aren’t pretty, and the shunning must be torture.”

“But they make you watch them, all the same,” Dirk inferred. “That they do.”

“Doesn’t anybody ever get angry at the bailiffs, or the Protector?” Gar asked.

“No,” Miles said very quickly. “Anyone foolish enough to let others know he’s angry at the Protector, or even the magistrate or the reeve, disappears very quickly, never to be seen again. Old Jory—well, he loved his wife, but when she died, the magistrate ruled he must marry again. He didn’t even say to whom—but Jory got drunk that night and swore they were all a pack of bullies and thieves, the magistrates and their bailiffs and watchmen, even the Protector himself—before he passed out. But the next morning he was gone, simply gone in the night, and no one ever saw him again.” He shuddered. “Horrible,” Dirk said, eyes wide. “How old was he, by the way?”

“Old enough, sir—in his forties, at least.”

“Your magistrate doesn’t seem to have heard of common decency,” Dirk growled.

Miles shrugged. “I suppose he felt that if the Protector made him marry so many times, he should make a widower marry again, too, sir.”

“So many?” Dirk looked up. “Have to marry? Why?”

“Because the Protector won’t let a magistrate stay in one town more than five years, sir,” Miles said, surprised they should even ask. “Part of an official’s job is to marry and beget sons who may become magistrates in their own turn—but when he is sent on to his next town, the marriage is dissolved, and he must marry again.”

“Practical, anyway,” Dirk said with a shudder. “What does his ex-wife do for a living?”

“Oh, the Protector sees that she and her children are well-housed, well-clothed, and well-fed, sir—or the reeve, I should say, doing it for the Protector.”

“Yes, I can see that might make a man want to inflict marriage on other people,” Gar said, “especially if he fell in love with a wife he’d had to leave.”

Farmer Landry was quite willing to sell them horses, even though their gold was only in little bars, not in coins. His eyes went huge when he saw them, and Miles elbowed Dirk and gave his head a little shake to tell him the price was far too high—but Dirk only winked and gave him a reassuring smile. Miles shrugged his shoulders and stood back to watch his friends be cheated, then walked beside them, feeling helpless, as they rode off on their new mounts.

But as soon as they were out of sight of the farmer’s hut, they reined in, and Gar said, “We’ll never outrun the bailiff if you keep walking, Miles. Up and ride, now!” He seized the peasant’s arm and swung him up on the horse’s rump. Miles clung for dear life, his stomach turning as he looked at the ground, so far below. It had never looked so hard.

“Now for a hiding place,” Gar said. “Is there some wild land where nobody lives, Miles?”

“You must be from far away indeed, sir,” Miles said, “not to know that the Badlands are only four days’ journey from here.”

“Probably only a day and a half, on horseback. Hold tight, Miles.” Gar clucked to his horse, then urged it into a fast walk. Miles clung, swaying and staring—and gradually, the fear subsided. In half an hour, he was surprised to realize he was actually enjoying it.

All that time, Gar and Dirk had been talking, alternating between things that were so obvious he would have thought they were half-wits, and matters that sounded very complicated, but which Miles couldn’t even begin to understand.