“Sure is.” Dirk mounted his horse. “Jump up behind, Miles. I think we’re ready to ride through that town.”
Miles caught his hand and swung up on the horse’s rump, trying to suppress his fear of being so high. Not of horses, of course—he’d been harnessing and currying plowhorses most of his life, and even riding them when the magistrate wasn’t looking—but guardsmen’s mounts were a different matter entirely, and much taller. Dirk clucked to the beast, and Miles clung for dear life. “I wish we could go around the town.”
“Yes, but if we did, that would be as good as putting up a banner announcing that we’re trying to hide something,” Dirk pointed out. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to brazen it out, Miles.”
It was a real village—half a dozen streets branching off from the high road, a small courthouse, half a dozen shops, even an inn. The people glanced up at the sound of hooves, then glanced quickly away.
Dirk frowned. “What’re they afraid of?”
“Us,” Miles told him, “or rather, you.” He had overcome his surprise at two such shrewd men being so ignorant about small, everyday things.
“Because we’re dressed like soldiers, you mean? Look out—official.”
The man with the hip-length robe stepped out from the gateway of the courthouse and raised his staff—in greeting, Miles hoped. The villagers automatically shied away, looking suddenly wary as he approached.
“Bailiff,” Miles muttered.
“Good day, guardsmen!” The bailiff’s eyes were small in a broad face, broad because he had let himself go to fat—but Dirk saw quite a bit of muscle beneath it.
“Good day, bailiff,” Dirk said, reining in his horse. “I trust all is peaceful.”
“It is indeed, guardsmen.” The bailiff held out his hand. “But you know the Protector’s law. I must ask to see your travel permits.”
“Of course.” Dirk handed his down; so did Gar.
The bailiff looked from one to the other, frowning. “This isn’t the regular form.”
“It wasn’t our business to ask,” Dirk told him, while Gar just sat by with a half-smile, looking menacing. “Privately, though, I think my magistrate was rather angry at losing two men.”
“Yes, I can see that, and I suppose these will do.” The bailiff looked up with a gleam in his eye. “I’ll take them to our magistrate!” He swept an arm toward the two-story building a hundred yards down from the courthouse. “Dine at our inn, sirs, on the Protector’s coin—this may take some time, as the magistrate is deep in his books over a knotty point of law.”
“It sounds quite uncomfortable,” Gar said sympathetically. The bailiff looked up sharply—and with confusion; he didn’t recognize humor, at least not in regard to his duties. “No, our inn is quite well appointed, guardsmen. Rest you there.” He turned away, started toward the courthouse, then stopped, frowning, at the sight of two women standing in the street and chatting. He started toward them, calling, “What’re you doing, wasting the daylight in idle gossip? Get along with you now, back to your housework!”
The women didn’t even wait for him to finish his sentence, didn’t even say good-bye—they scurried away, heads down. Gar frowned.
“Yes, I think dinner at an inn sounds very pleasant, don’t you?” Dirk said, with an edge to his voice.
“Undoubtedly,” Gar said, and kicked his heels to start his horse toward the inn—but his eyes stayed on the bailiff as he strode into the courthouse.
They came up to one of the women who had been chatting, still hurrying down the street. A man fell in beside her and snapped, “I told you not to gossip where the bailiff might see you!”
“He had those strangers to think about,” the woman retorted. “If you had any worth as a husband, you’d have gone to ask him a question, and given us time to say good-bye!”
“If you were a decent wife, you’d never embarrass me by calling down the bailiff’s notice!” Gar rode on by, his face hard.
“What of all that big talk when we married?” another woman railed at the portly man beside her as they came out of a shop. “You were going to learn to read, you were going to study! You were going to become a bailiff yourself, if not a magistrate!”
“When did I have time?” the man snarled. “Not once I was married, with you expecting me to dance attendance on you as soon as you were with child!”
“Oh, so I’m to blame for giving you children, am I!”
“Do all your married couples quarrel?” Dirk asked as they passed the argument.
Miles shrugged. “Most, sir, yes.”
“What would you expect, if you had to marry whatever woman a judge ordered you to?” Gar said harshly.
Dirk ignored the question and asked Miles, “Is there a lot of infidelity? People having affairs with somebody else’s wife or husband?”
“Oh, no, sir!” Miles said, shocked. “Surprising.” Gar frowned.
“Not considering the punishment, sir.”
“Which is?”
“Amputation.”
“Of what?” Gar raised a hand. “Never mind—I don’t think I want to know. The same thing applies with unmarried people, I assume.”
“Oh, not if they go on to marry,” Miles assured him. “Great,” Dirk said sourly. “So all a girl has to do is con a man into bedding her, and he has to marry her—and they can spend the rest of their lives fighting and hating each other. Or a boy who really wants to marry a girl, manages to get her drunk and into bed. Then they have to get married, and spend the rest of their lives making each other miserable. Really great system, yeah.”
“I wonder if it has that much worse a track record than people who choose their own mates by falling in love,” Gar sighed.
Miles looked up, staring in amazement. People choose their own mates? By love? It was true that there were always a few who fell in love before the reeve could tell them who to marry—but only a few.
“Yeah, they used to say that marriage is like buying a pig in a poke,” Dirk growled. “You never knew whether you had a mangy scruffian or a prize specimen until after you got it home and opened the poke sack.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Gar mused, “heard that you never really know what kind of person you’ve married until after the wedding, when the two people no longer have to impress each other, and drop all pretense. Surely they mean ‘after the honeymoon.’ ”
“I hear that sometimes it starts on the wedding night.” Dirk shook his head. “If that’s what marriage is like, I’ll stay single all my life!”
Miles stared even harder, scandalized and thrilled. What a wonderful thought, not to marry at all!
They tied their horses and stepped into the inn. Gloom enfolded them after the glare of the sunlight; Gar and Dirk stood still, waiting for their sight to clear. The aromas of an inn surrounded Miles, and he sniffed eagerly. Straw and wood polish, ale, and the heavenly scent of roasting pork! Surely guardsmen lived well, if they were given meat every day! He had been in an inn before, but only when business had taken him to the reeve’s town—four times in his life. It was a rare and thrilling experience.
“Your pleasure, guardsmen?”
Miles looked up, startled. The landlord was taller than Dirk, six feet or so, and with only a small paunch. A fringe of pale yellow hair surrounded his bald scalp, and he was wiping his hands on his apron.
“Ale and meat, goodman,” Dirk said, “and a table by a window.”
The innkeeper nodded. “I’ll have the flowing bowl to you directly, guardsmen.” He swept a hand toward the common room. “Choose what table you will.” Then he turned away to the kitchen, calling, “Guests, my dear! Meat for the guardsmen and their choreboy, if you will!”
“Indeed, my love!” caroled a voice from the kitchen. “The roast is almost done.”