“That’s so, sir.” Why did Gar have to state things that everyone knew?
“And each magistrate has his own squad of soldiers, only he calls them ‘watchmen’ and ‘foresters,’ and has a bailiff to command them.”
“I suppose you could call them that, yes,” Miles said slowly, “though we usually think of only the reeve’s guards as soldiers—and the Protector’s Own Army, of course.”
“So he has an army, does he? And none of his ministers do?”
“No, sir, although each of them can call up his reeves and their guards, if he needs to.”
“But if he did, the Protector’s Army would crush them.” Gar nodded slowly. “What do they usually do, these Protector’s soldiers?”
“He sends them against highwaymen and bandits, sir, if they’ve grown too many for a reeve to tackle.”
“Enough duty to keep them more or less in shape, not enough to take them away from him for very long,” Dirk summarized. “Of course none of the ministers would dare to defy him.”
Miles stared, scandalized at the very thought of someone fighting the Protector!
“So the civil service starts with magistrates…”
Miles interrupted. “By your leave, sir, the first examination makes a man a clerk. Many never get past that; they spend their lives running a village for magistrate after magistrate.”
“They get to stay put, huh?” Dirk., looked up keenly. “And get to stay with the same wife, too. I’ll bet a lot of them never even try for the second exam.”
“If they do, though, they become magistrates?” Gar asked. “Yes, sir—and the third examination makes a man a reeve, though he has to have done very good work as a magistrate before he’s offered the chance.”
“A system designed to operate on merit alone,” Gar said thoughtfully, “and apparently open to anyone who can pass the examinations—but the sons of the officials are always better trained, and far more likely to score high.”
“More to the point,” Dirk said, “the examiners probably know those sons or knew their fathers’ friends, and pass them while they flunk applicants who don’t have connections.”
“You’re judging by Terran history,” Gar said, “but I do have to admit that most methods of corruption were invented on old Earth. In practice, the system is open to new blood only if some of the old blood dies out.”
“And I expect there are quite a few peasants who’d be more than willing to help it die.”
Miles looked up, scandalized again. Would these two never be done speaking treason?
But it did make a man think…
CHAPTER 6
Orgoru stole down the weed-choked lanes, looking about him in quick glances, marveling at the golden glow the sunset drew from the stone all about him—stone, every building stone, some white, some bluish, most gray, some even rosy. Wherever roofs were level, grass and trees sprang, some so thick they must have been a century old or more. Here and there, a building had tumbled, strewing blocks across the road—a full, wide road! inside a town!—but no other stones had fallen. Most of the buildings still stood, tall and proud, and completely intact.
Still, there was something unearthly, something weird and eldritch, for so vast a place, built for so many people, to be so completely empty; Orgoru hadn’t seen a single living being larger than a fox, and that in spite of his calling out again and again, “Hello! I am Orgoru, Prince of Paradime! Will no one bid me welcome?” For so he knew men of royal station must speak.
But no one answered.
After a few hours, Orgoru began to feel a little foolish. As the dusk gathered, he was feeling very glum. He gathered some scraps of wood, started to lay a fire next to a wall, then realized that the smoke would char the stone and took up his sticks again, walking around the building until it blocked the wind from him. There he laid his sticks a few feet from the wall, took flint and steel, and kindled a fire. Its glow cheered him a little, especially since chill was wrapping about him with the gathering night. He folded his legs and sat, gazing into the flames, sad and. morose. So there weren’t any glorious noble people after all! But if not, where were they? For he knew he was one of their own kind! And what could have made the noises the man had heard?
Ghosts …
Orgoru shivered and glanced about him, feeling the first thin tendrils of fear. He told himself that ghosts who laugh and make music aren’t apt to hurt people, but the thought didn’t convince him.
A small gray form appeared out of the darkness, bounding toward him. For a moment, Orgoru’s heart jammed in his throat. Ghosts …
Then it passed through the light from his fire, and he stared after it. Only a rabbit! The sight of it waked sudden, ravenous hunger; his fist closed around a pebble—but he had never been a poacher, and threw the stone away with disgust. A prince, hunt rabbits? Prey upon the weak and defenseless? Never! A boar perhaps, a wolf certainly, but not something so small and harmless. He watched the rabbit bounding away into the night while his stomach scolded him, and knew he would have to find some food. With a sigh, he rose, and went seeking in the shadows, where wind-blown soil had gathered in the angles of buildings, to find leaves that he knew, and dug up their roots and tubers. He brought an armful back to his fire and tossed them in to roast, keeping a few that didn’t need to be cooked to begin his meal. Teeth crunched into a carrot, and he reflected wryly that such grubbing in the dirt was scarcely fitting for a prince—but what could he do? Even princes must eat, and he remembered an old tale about a king hiding from his enemies in a farmer’s cottage because he had just lost a battle. His imagination instantly raised the picture of the end of the story—the king casting off his forester’s tunic and hood, appearing in golden brocade and ermine…
Something moved in the shadows.
Orgoru spun about, dropping the carrot, heart hammering. They came forth from an archway between mounds of tumbled stone blocks, tall and lean, graceful and slender, caparisoned in garments of rare and costly cloth—brocade and damask, silk and lawn, ruby and amethyst and gold and royal blue and silver and emerald, glittering with jewels, their hair held by coronets and tiaras, a dozen lords and ladies in clothing whose modesty and economy of line bespoke breeding and elegance. At their head paced a tall, proud man in blue and silver, his raven hair bound with the coronet of a duke—and Orgoru couldn’t believe it, couldn’t comprehend the fact that at last, at long last, he was hearing the words, “Welcome, fellow of our kind. Welcome, noble man and nobleman. I am the Duke of Darambay. Will you favor, us with your own name and station?”
“See, now? It pays to wear your locks long!” Dirk finished smoothing the false moustache down and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “If you hadn’t had hair to spare, we couldn’t have made you such a natural-looking moustache!”
“Skilled work.” Gar nodded critical approval. “Between the moustache, and everyone remembering you as wearing your hair down past your collar, you’ll stand very little chance of being recognized, even if your magistrate has sent couriers to all the nearby villages.”
“But my clothes,” Miles objected.
Gar coughed into his fist, and Dirk said delicately, “I hate to have to be the one to tell you, Miles, but your tunic and trousers aren’t exactly unique.”
Miles frowned up at Gar. “What does he mean?”
“He means that all the men your age wear pretty much the same clothing,” Gar said. “I’m afraid there really isn’t all that much that’s individual about yours, Miles.”
“Oh:” Miles looked down at his body, surprised that he had never noticed. “Well, that’s lucky now, isn’t it?”