He strode to the door, feeling ready to take his rightful place among the glittering people.
When the sun neared the horizon, Gar turned off the road into a small woodlot. “Time to think of camping, my friends.”
“It does look like the best shelter we’re apt to find,” Dirk sighed. “Of course, there might be an inn at the next village…”
Miles shuddered. “By your leave, sirs, I’d rather not stay at an inn. I know it’s foolish of me, but I feel as though if I stay a whole night within reach of the Watch, they’re more likely to catch me.” Again, he was amazed at his own temerity in speaking to gentlemen before he was spoken to.
But they didn’t seem to notice. “I can understand that all too well,” Dirk said, “and I’d have to say you’re smart. Sure, staying in the woods for a whole night is considerably safer—fewer faces to see us, and much less chance of a forester happening by.”
“Especially the foresters who’re chasing us,” Gar agreed. Fifty yards from the road, the underbrush tapered away, leaving large patches of clear ground under thirty-foot spruce trees; their lower branches were bare. Gar drew rein. “This will do for a campsite. Miles, would you go seek wood, please, while Dirk and I pitch the tent?”
“S-surely, Master Gar.” Miles went, amazed that the big man had asked, rather than commanded.
However, he had begun to become as much afraid of traveling with them as of traveling alone. The way Master Gar was talking, he’d have the Protector’s spies down on him in a week or less, with the guardsmen in tow—and the punishments for speaking treason were every bit as bad as those for refusing to marry. Worse in immediate pain, just as bad in ruining a man’s life—what little was left of it would be spent in the Protector’s mines. So Miles began to gather wood, then gathered more and more, working his way farther and farther from the campsite. He was careful to hold on to his armload of sticks, though—if Gar or Dirk came looking for him, he would rather seem to be too stupid to know when he had enough kindling, than to have them realize he was trying to escape.
Of course, there was no reason for him not to leave-they had said, more than once, that he wasn’t a prisoner, that he was free to go whenever he wanted. They might not even chase him—but Miles didn’t want to take chances.
“Ho!” A hard hand clapped down on his shoulder. Miles cried out and twisted, excuses coming to his lips—and saw not Dirk’s face, but a stranger’s, under a forester’s green cap with the red feather showing he commanded a band. Two more hands seized his arms from behind, and the firewood flew clattering.
“Light,” the forester commanded, and someone unshuttered a dark lantern. Several other shapes loomed near, and Miles’s heart sank. How he wished he had stayed with Gar and Dirk now!
Gar and Dirk … He remembered how they had played with the minds of the men who had stopped them. Maybe he could talk his way out of this, convince them he was a traveler whose permit had been stolen, lost now, and hungry …
Then a figure with a hip-length robe and chain of office stepped into the lantern-light and, though shadows made the face grotesque, Miles recognized the bailiff of his village. His stomach hollowed; lying would do no good now.
“Is this your man?” asked the chief forester.
The bailiff shook his head. “Mine was clean-shaven and long-haired; he might have trimmed his mop, but he could never have grown so thick a—No, wait!” He squinted, then reached out and yanked the moustache loose.
Miles cried out with pain.
“By the Protector, it is you!” the bailiff cried. “Thought you’d be smart to cut the hair from your head and glue it onto your face, did you?”
“No, actually,” said a deep but mild voice. “That was my idea.”
The bailiff whirled, startled—then looked up, and up, to Gar’s face. He took an involuntary step back, overwhelmed—and Miles saw his chance. He stuck out a foot; the bailiff went sprawling. The foresters cried out, and the hands on Miles’s arms loosened. He tore himself free, spun, and stuck out a foot again as he shoved with all his might. The forester who’d been. holding him howled as he fell. The bailiff looked up, saw Miles leaping toward the darkness, and shouted with anger. Then his voice choked off as Gar lifted him by the back of his collar, holding him out at arm’s length.
As one, the foresters turned on Gar. Dirk lashed out a kick, and one man fell; Gar threw the bailiff into two more, but three others drew swords and charged him, shouting.
Safe in the dark, Miles swerved and spun about. These men had saved him once, and had just done it again. He couldn’t leave them to fight his fights for him. He caught up his heaviest stick of firewood and ran back, just as Gar’s huge fist sent two men sprawling. The bailiff was struggling to his feet, lugging out his own sword. Miles struck with the club, and the bailiff fell senseless. Miles felt a moment’s anguish; he had known the man since childhood, and he’d often been kind. Then panic surged, for Miles had struck an officer, and knew he’d hang if he was ever caught.
Better not to be. He turned to see the last forester slashing at Gar; the big man caught his blade on a knife big enough to be a short sword. Miles shouted; the forester whirled about, startled, and Miles swung his stick. The man fell, but three more foresters were struggling back to their feet. They all fell on Dirk as the smaller of the two targets.
Gar yanked two of them off the ground by the scruffs of their necks. Dirk blocked the third’s swing with his own sword and slammed a fist into the other man’s chin. He fell, unconscious.
“What about you two?” Gar held them up so their faces were level with his. “I know you have to report what you’ve just seen, but if I let you go, will you promise to take the rest of the night getting home?”
The men both glanced at the bailiff and the chief forester, and saw they were out cold.
“You could say you’ve been lamed and had to limp,” Dirk suggested helpfully. “We could even make it true.”
“No, no! We’ll manage to lean on one another!” one man choked out. “Only let us free!”
Gar set them down gently. They pulled their necklines free of their larynxes and took deep, rattling breaths.
“Of course, we’ll keep your swords,” Dirk said.
They glanced at one another, not at all happy about it, then held out their weapons, hilts first.
Dirk took them and passed one to Miles. “Be off with you now.”
The two foresters limped off into the night, leaning on one another, doing a very convincing job of looking maimed. “They’ll bear word,” Miles warned.
“So will the others, when they come to,” Dirk told him. “And we’re not about to kill men who’re only trying to do their jobs and be loyal to their ruler.” Gar rubbed a sore arm. “Ouch! That ‘holding ‘em at arm’s length’ stunt is impressive, but it hurts.”
“You … you saved me again,” Miles stammered. Dirk shrugged it off. “What are friends for?”
Miles felt as though he were about to drown in guilt. Here he had been trying to run away from them, and they had fought for him!
“Well, we’re outlaws now, too,” Dirk told him. “Of course, we were outlaws before, but the bailiffs didn’t know that.”
“And those foresters you let go will bring the reeve’s guards down upon us!”
“Can’t be helped,” Gar said. “We’ll have to hide now, like any other outlaws, and I’m afraid we can’t wait to reach these Badlands of yours. What’s the best hiding place that’s close?”