“I see the services aren’t just boring talk, to you,” the innkeeper said with a tone of respect. “I must confess, guardsmen, that I was surprised that you actually wanted to attend services—but I’m impressed, though, with your desire to learn. You must be born to magistrates’ lives, or better.”
“Why, thank you,” Dirk said with a smile, “though you’re no slouch yourself, when it comes to an interest in learning.”
“My love!” his wife cried across the room, exasperated. “Are you talking philosophy again? We have customers!”
“At once, my dear!” the innkeeper called. Then to Gar, Dirk, and Miles, “If you’ll excuse me, guardsmen…”
“Of course! Don’t let us keep you from your business.”
The innkeeper bustled off, and Gar turned back to them with a very thoughtful look. “So magistrates preach political ideas, rather than having ministers preach morality. The Religion of the State, you might call it.”
“Not too far from a state religion,” Dirk said with a sarcastic smile. “Probably mixed in with some real philosophy to keep people from plunging into despair.”
“But ‘the State’ means ‘the Protector’ in practical terms,” Gar pointed out, “so in effect, the Protector has no rival for the people’s loyalty.”
“Of course—he couldn’t stand the competition.” Dirk turned to frown at Miles. “You can go if you want to—you’re not a slave, at least not to us. But we’re not really as crazy as we sound.”
“I-I didn’t think you were.” Miles was plastered back in his chair, sweat beading his forehead. “But I beg you, sirs, speak softly! If the bailiff or one of his watchmen were to hear you, we’d be clapped in irons and thrown in the gaol in a moment!”
“We’ll try to keep it down,” Dirk promised.
The innkeeper hurried back. “My common room is nearly filled, guardsmen. Would you mind if a few others shared your table?”
“No, not at all,” Dirk said quickly.
Miles tried to shrink into the wood of the chair.
Four peasants in work-stained clothes sat down between Gar and Dirk on the one side, and to Miles’s left and right on the other. They eyed Dirk and Gar warily as they sat, giving the impression that they would rather be at any other table in the inn—but this was the last one left with any room. “Good day, guardsmen!” one cried, trying to be cheerful. “What news?”
“Nothing worth noticing,” Gar grunted. “The Protector still takes half your crops, tells you who to marry, and won’t let you have a sword to defend yourself. What could be good?”
The peasants stared at him in alarm. So did Miles—but Dirk glared at him in warning.
“Why, the magistrates tell us when to rise, when to sleep, and when to eat!” Gar grumbled.
The peasants began to edge away from him.
“I’ve been lucky enough to escape three shrews,” Gar boasted, “because the Protector transferred me from reeve to reeve just in time. A man needs a woman, though! All right, I’m glad it wasn’t the wrong woman—but couldn’t the reeves hurry up and find me the right one? Have they no insight, no caring?”
Miles felt as though he had melted and was sliding out of his chair—or at least wished he were.
“It will be a hot afternoon, I think, Corin!” one peasant said, very loudly.
“Educated, do they call themselves?” Gar growled.
“Aye, Merkin, but I see clouds piling up in the west,” Corin called back. “I dare hope for rain by nightfall!”
“They know less about people than a plowman!” Gar snapped.
“Rain tonight would be good indeed,” Corin projected. “The crops need it—and so do I!”
Dirk tried to lean around the man between himself and Gar. “Oh, am I in your way?” the man said brightly. “Excuse me—I’ll find another seat!”
“And I!”
“And I!”
“And I!” That quickly, they were alone.
“I don’t think the bait drew any hawks,” Dirk said, thin-lipped. “Master Gar,” Miles gasped, “if you wanted the table to yourself, why didn’t you just say so?”
“That’s not what he wanted,” Dirk said, standing, “but I think we’d better leave the table to them.” He headed for the door. Gar, looking disgusted, thrust himself to his feet and followed. So did Miles, with frightened glances to left and right. Maybe he should find other road companions…
“Charge it to the magistrate,” Dirk told the innkeeper, and the man nodded, not quite able to hide his relief at seeing them walk out the door.
As they came out, Miles breathed a long, shaky sigh of relief. “I had thought we were dead men—or at least ones clapped in irons!”
“Listen to the man on the scene,” Dirk advised Gar. “I know we need a place to spend the night, but the jail isn’t it.”
Even on the verge of panic, Miles noticed that Dirk had a strange way of saying “gaol.” He made it all one sound, “jail,” instead of two, the way Miles said it: “jay-yul.”
“All right, so it was a good idea that didn’t work,” Gar growled. “Maybe nobody else is willing to admit their discontent that openly—but if we could stay the night, I’ll bet one or two would come up and ask me if I was angry enough to do anything about my complaints.”
Miles began to tremble. Dirk noticed and asked, “Do you think anyone would ask that, Miles?”
“No, sir,” Miles said fervently. “They’re too much afraid of the Protector’s punishments, and too fond of life. Besides, they’d fear you might be a Protector’s spy, trying to tempt them into treason!”
“An agent provocateur?” Gar nodded heavily. “I shouldn’t be surprised that they use them.” He turned toward the courthouse.
Miles gasped and hung back. “You can’t think of going in there! Not after what you’ve been saying!”
“Why not?” Gar countered. “They probably haven’t heard, and even if they have, I’ll just tell them I’m one of the Protector’s spies you were worried about. Come along, Miles—we have to have our travel permits approved, don’t we?”
As they rode out of town an hour later, Gar nodded with satisfaction. “Sometimes a man who insists everything be done by the book can be useful.”
“I never dreamed he would insist on giving us proper permits!” Miles was still dazed.
“At least he gave us the originals back,” Dirk said, “so we can safely burn them. We shouldn’t have any trouble with guardsmen trying to stop us now.”
“It can be useful, the bureaucracy of a police state,” Gar admitted.
“Police state?” Dirk looked up, interested. “You think it’s that bad, huh?”
Gar shrugged. “There’s a very elaborate apparatus to catch fugitives, and the punishments for breaking the law, or even disobeying authority, are quick, severe, and public, to serve as a warning to would-be lawbreakers. Certainly that constitutes a police state. Besides, can you doubt it, after the way those peasants reacted to my complaining?”
“No, not really,” Dirk sighed. “So we’re dealing with a dictatorship, a police state headed by a Protector commanding a legion of reeves, who in their own turn command magistrates, who give orders to bailiffs, who boss a small army of foresters and watchmen. In addition, the Protector has his own personal army, and the reeves each have their own troop of guards. I haven’t counted, but I suspect that, if you mobilized all those policemen and soldiers, you’d have a total army that would be overwhelming.”
“Certainly enough to overwhelm any rebellions that might crop up,” Gar said, “not that they’d get the chance, with secret police everywhere. On the positive side, though, the Protector’s job isn’t hereditary. None of the official positions are.”
“No, but they might as well be. Sure, the system is supposed to be open to anybody who’s smart and able—but in practice, the children of the officials are the only ones able to pass the exams. No free public schools, so most people can’t afford to read and write, which incidentally makes them easier for the Protector to control. The few who do manage to scrape together the money to go to school, mysteriously fail the exams.”