“If you’re in trouble with the law, lad, you may be just what we’re looking for,” the giant rumbled, looking down at him with compassion. “My friend and I aren’t quite what we seem—in fact, we’re not soldiers at all.”
“If you’re running for the right reason, we’ll be your friends,” the smaller man said—smaller, but a good head taller than Miles himself. “Call me Dirk. Why’re you fleeing?”
“I won’t marry Salina!” Miles panted. “I’d rather hang!”
“They’re going to force you to marry a woman you don’t love?” Dirk stared. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing! But she doesn’t want me, and I don’t want her!”
“So they ordered the two of you to marry anyway?” The giant frowned. “Who ordered you?”
“Our magistrate, of course! If he catches me, he’ll drive me to hard labor until my spirit’s broken and I marry Salina anyway!”
“Even though she doesn’t want it, either,” Dirk said grimly. He nodded at his huge companion. “This is Gar.”
“I-I am Miles, sir,” Miles stammered. “Only Miles?” Gar asked. “No last name?”
“Of course not, sir.” Miles was astounded that the man should even ask—everyone had a public name, but only magistrates and their families had private names, and only other magistrates knew them.
“How close are the ones who are chasing you?” Dirk demanded.
“Listen! You can hear them!”
The two false soldiers stood still, heads cocked, eyes blank, listening.
“Hounds,” Gar pronounced, “but still far away. That gives us time. Are you sure they’re after you, though, lad?”
“Who else?” Miles asked, honestly bewildered. Gar shrugged. “Anyone breaking the law.”
“Who would be so desperate as me?”
“You don’t have to be really desperate to break the law,” Dirk pointed out.
Miles just stared at him as though he were insane. Hadn’t he seen men punished, flogged to bloody meat, only for a barbed joke about the magistrate?
“All right, so you do have to be desperate,” Dirk said impatiently, “but are we really close enough to your home for those hounds to know you? Okay, their noses would, but how about their handlers?”
“What matter? Whether they recognize me or not, I have no travel permit. They’d know me for a criminal by that alone, and hold me while they sent messengers to all the magistrates in the county.”
“Travel permit, huh?” Dirk exchanged a glance with Gar, then turned back to Miles. “They don’t exactly leave you a sporting chance, do they?”
“Sporting?” Miles was amazed that he could still laugh, no matter how bitterly. “Yes, it’s sport for the bailiff and his men, all right. Not for me.”
“Oh, I think it could be a great deal of fun, losing yourself so thoroughly that they can’t find you.” Gar caught Miles about the shoulders and turned him away, toward a barn a hundred feet off the road. “Come, lad.”
“A whole village uses that!” Miles protested. “They’ll see us for sure!”
“Not a soul will notice,” Gar promised. “Dirk, did you bring the brandy?”
“On this early a world? Of course!” Dirk pulled a bottle out of his pouch and turned to walk backward after them, sprinkling the ground where they had walked.
“The dogs…” Miles warned.
“Believe me, once they sniff that brandy, they won’t notice your spoor at all,” Gar assured him.
A breeze blew Miles a sample, and he saw the truth of what Gar said. It smelled sweet and strong, of almonds and summer. Sweaty as Miles was, he didn’t think the dogs would notice anything but that lovely scent. He led the two strangers toward the barn.
They followed Miles, having a silent conversation—for although Dirk could not read minds, he knew that Gar could. He stared at the giant and tapped the side of his head to show he was giving Gar permission to read his thoughts. Gar gave an infinitesimal nod, the silent equivalent of Receiving. Go ahead.
Aloud, Dirk said, “I’m tired of stewed jerky. Think we can catch something fresh for dinner?” Silently, he thought, We’ve caught us a fish—but can we trust him?
Gar gave another abbreviated nod while he said, “I think there’s time. Of course, we don’t know what’s in the streams around here. You can’t tell if a fish is any good until you eat it.”
You can’t tell either, huh?
“I’m willing to try a new fish,” Gar said, “if it seems to have all the qualities we need. After all, if it’s the same kind of fish you’ve caught before, it’s probably just as good. Bass are bass.”
Yeah, we’ve teamed up with peasants on the run before, and they’ve proved trustworthy, Dirk thought back, and this one does seem to have the qualities we’re looking for—enough courage to run away on a matter of principle, and enough intelligence to avoid capture. No way to say if he can be a good leader, of course, except by watching him. But trustworthy? We can’t know until we’ve tried him—and after all, I suppose he’s wondering the same thing about us.
Gar smiled and nodded again. “Fish should never trust anglers.”
Right now, we’re the best thing that could have happened to him, Dirk mused. Pure self-interest will keep him looking out for us.
“Trusting or not, the fish still gives in to temptation and strikes at the bait,” Gar said. “Selfishness is very predictable.” But you can never be sure what an altruist will do, huh? Well, you should know. But it goes beyond that—I get the overall feeling that he’s a good man, solid and dependable, and on the wrong side of the law only because his bosses pushed him too far.
Gar’s nod was emphatic.
You thought so, too, huh? Well, I always did consider myself a good judge of character. In fact, I had a course in it—kind of necessary, when you’re trained as a spy.
“But when you’re fishing, you read only physical signs,”
Gar said, “the rock where a fish might hide, the branch shadowing a deep pool.”
Or when the fish is human, the look in the eyes, the twist of the mouth, the set of the shoulders and spine. Nonverbal language, huh? But you can read thoughts. Thought you didn’t do that without permission, or a really pressing need.
Gar only smiled at him.
Oh, Dirk thought. Sizing up potential allies is a pressing need, huh? Of course, but how deeply do you read him?
“I always did enjoy watching the play of the light upon the water,” Gar told him, “but I like to watch the fish that move beneath the surface too. Of course, the water is rarely so clear that you can see the bottom without effort.”
So you go past the surface thoughts to what the person’s really thinking, but you don’t probe down to the intimate secrets and the buried memories that make them what they are? Dirk nodded. Well, I suppose that’s deep enough to figure out whether or not a man’s a police spy—unless he’s deliberately trying to deceive you.
“We really should stop talking and start baiting a hook,” Gar told him. “Grilled trout, perhaps. Plain, simple, honest fare is sometimes best.”
Okay, I get the point, Dirk thought. Miles looks to be a plain, simple, honest farm boy. But I’ve known some farm boys who were very good at looking honest when they were really devious, Gar. Aloud, he said, “The only honest trout is a grilled trout.”