A Wizard in Peace

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?”

“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.”

“Your mouth is open,” Gar informed his friend.

“What …? Oh! Yeah!” Dirk turned away, reddening. “Sorry. Just kind of strange to hear ‘dear’ and ‘my love’ after what we’ve been seeing.”

Only two groups of men sat at table; Gar and Dirk had a wide choice—so why did they choose the corner farthest from the door? True, they were by a window—but why did they sit with their backs to the corner, instead of facing the panes? Even more mystifying, they went on with their talk as they sat, not even seeming to think about what they did. Strange indeed!

The landlord came up with a tray, three bowls on it. “Your ale, gentlemen. I’m sorry it’s an old brewing, but the reeve hasn’t sent me my ration of barley and hops yet. It was a bad harvest last year, of course, but his clerk says it will come any day now. As to your food, my wife will have—”

“Your meat, guardsmen! One side, husband!”

The innkeeper stepped aside quickly, then took the plates from his wife’s tray and set them before the men. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as he turned away, hurrying back to the door, where two more men were just coming in.

Dirk stared, stunned, and Gar said, “You seem fortunate in your marriage, goodwoman.”

“Aye, sir.” The landlady, pretty even in her mid-forties and her plumpness, blushed a little. “He has been a good husband to me these twenty-seven years, thanks to kind fortune.”

“Or to a good match. You seem to have been as good to him, and as loving.”

“How could I be less, with so gentle and affectionate a man?” she said, keeping her voice low and her gaze downcast. “I haven’t seen very many couples as happy as you two,” Dirk said. “In fact, none.”

“It’s so strange.” The woman shook her head. “We seem to be such ordinary people, but when I hear what other folk have to bear, I realize we’re rare indeed.” “How did you do it?” Gar asked.

The wife shrugged. “We’ve done our best to be kind to one another, sir, but that hasn’t been very hard. I was lucky enough to fall in love with the man the reeve chose for me, and luckier still that he fell in love with me.”

“Maybe the reeve knew you well enough to choose wisely,” Dirk suggested.

“No, it couldn’t have been that. We hadn’t met the reeve very often, only the usual ceremonies, when each of us had to stand before him at seven and again at fourteen, that he might witness we were well and thriving, and his clerk register that we had passed from infant to child and again from child to adult. And the man who appointed us to wed one another was the fourth reeve we’d known.”

Dirk shivered. Miles wondered why—surely the custom couldn’t be strange to him. After all, it was the law.

“But the reeve knows all about everyone in his county,” the landlady went on, “and chose us wisely, by our good fortune. You did want bread with your meat, did you not?”

“Of course,” Gar said politely, and took the dark brown loaf she held out. “Thank you, goodwoman.”

“Oh, I love to watch folk enjoy the food I’ve cooked, sir! Call if you need anything else!” She turned and swept back to the kitchen.

“Two very lucky people,” Gar said, watching her go.

“And you think it’s sheer luck, huh?” Dirk asked, watching his face. “Of course, it could be keen insight into character and good record-keeping.”

“Then why’re so many of them so miserable with each other?” Gar turned back to the table and shrugged. “The net of probability occasionally scoops up a treasure. If a few marriages are absolutely deplorable, the bell curve balances them with another few that are heavenly.”

“But most of them are varying degrees of the mixture of good and bad? Yes, I think so.” Dirk shrugged. “Just hope I draw one that’s closer to the happy end than the miserable one.” His face darkened. “Come to think of it, I won’t get married if it’s not.”

“And you’re the one who said we can only guess!” Gar said, with a hard smile.

Dirk shrugged. “If you’re both head over heels in love, you’re starting with all the advantages you can have—if both people are being as honest about themselves as they can be.”

“Even then, it’s a gamble.” Gar warned.

“I know, but at least you’re playing with better odds. No, I won’t settle for anything less than head over heels.”

Listening wide-eared, Miles thought privately that Dirk would never marry, then—but he was scandalized that the man seemed to think he had a choice. Had he fallen in with a couple of madmen?

“So their happy marriage is just good fortune,” Gar summarized.

“No, it took a lot of effort, too,” Dirk corrected. “You heard her—they both tried as hard as they could to be kind to one another.”

“They’re good people,” Miles murmured, frightened at himself for intruding.

Dirk nodded. “Yes. That helps. Still, I’d have to say it was mostly luck—or Providence.”

Gar frowned, his gaze suddenly keen. “Come to think of it, they didn’t mention Providence, did they? Or the saints, or God.”

Miles wondered what the unfamiliar words meant.

“No,” Dirk said slowly, “and now that you mention it, even here on the ground we definitely haven’t seen anything resembling a church.” He turned to Miles. “Have we?”

Miles stared, completely at a loss. “What”s a church?”