Thaler sat up with a groan. "He wasn't unarmed, Lieutenant."
The lieutenant glanced at Rod's sword and rolled his eyes up. "That oversized toothpick? Don't be ridiculous, man! Report to your quarters until your hearing!"
Thaler blanched, but he managed to keep looking belligerent as he struggled to his feet and turned to go. As he passed by, he gave Rod a quick glare of hatred. Rod watched his retreating back, deciding that he always wanted to know when Thaler was around.
He turned back to the lieutenant, relaxing a little. Thaler's resentment was what he'd have expected from any sergeant talking to a fuzz-cheeked lieutenant—but this lieutenant wasn't extremely young anymore, and he bore himself with the self-confidence that can only come with experience. There was something about him, the way he held himself, that said he didn't need to rely on military rank to enforce his orders.
"My apologies, Sir and Madam." He bowed courteously to Rod, and a bit more courteously to Gwen. "I beg you to pardon that outburst. Please be assured of your welcome, regardless of what you have witnessed here."
"Why, thank you." Rod inclined his head in return, wondering why the lieutenant hadn't stopped the fight. Maybe because it didn't look as though anyone was apt to be killed.
"Thou art most considerate." Gwen dropped a small curtsy.
The lieutenant's eye held a gleam, but he buried it quickly. Rod gave him points for self-discipline—and wondered if it was really from self. "May I have your names, sir and madam?"
"Rodney Gallowglass." He was tempted to use his real name, "d'Armand," but decided against it. He caught Gwen's hand. "And this is my wife, Gwendylon."
Gwen looked up at him in surprise, and he heard her unspoken thought: Wherefore didst thou not use thy title?
Other countries, other customs, he answered silently. People like this are as likely to resent a lord as to honor him.
"Lieutenant Corrigan, at your service." The young officer clicked his heels and bobbed his head. "Now, Citizen Gallowglass, I would appreciate your explaining to me the presence of our honored antagonists." He nodded toward the outside of the main gate. Rod looked down, and saw a crowd of Wolmen, chanting the same word over and over again. With a shock, Rod realized it was, "Justice! Justice! Justice! Justice!"
"Not that they're unwelcome, you understand," Stuart explained, "but I would like to know the issue I'm going to be discussing."
"I'm afraid I don't really know," Rod confessed. "We were just standing there in the middle of the plain, minding our own business, when they came up over the ridge and started chasing us."
"Ah." The Lieutenant nodded. "A simple question of remuneration, no doubt. If you'll excuse me, I'll go discuss the issue with them." He bowed slightly with a click of the heels, and turned away.
Gwen's voice sounded in Rod's mind: Is he noble, then?
No, Rod answered. I don't think anyone here is. But
someone has to do the jobs that the lords would do, if they were here—and he's been given that kind of authority. About as much as a knight.
By what right did he claim it?
Training, Rod answered, knowledge and intelligence. Sometimes even experience.
The great gates swung open, and the young officer stepped out to confront the wild savages.
He crossed both arms, fingertips touching his shoulders, and bowed slightly. One of the yellow-green men stepped forward, and returned the gesture.
"I think it's a salute," Rod muttered.
The lieutenant's words carried clearly. "I greet you, Scouting-Master."
The Scouting-Master returned the salute. "Have-um sun-filled day, Lieutenant."
"The sentiments are appreciated." The lieutenant's voice switched into crispness. "But though I am honored by your presence, I also wonder at it. For how long have noble warriors been attacking civilians?"
"Them not so civil. Them flew!"
"As I would, if I saw your valiant warriors pursuing me. Why did they?"
The Scouting-Master grinned, and his warriors chuckled. "Not for real. Just good fun."
"Fun!" Gwen gasped.
"Well, be fair." Rod shrugged. "It was, kinda, wasn't it?"
"Indeed?" The lieutenant's voice had become distinctly chilly.
The Scouting-Master's grin widened. "We could see-um was couple greenhorns. Why not have good time with-um?"
The lieutenant gave a wintry smile. "No harm intended, eh?"
"None." The Scouting-Master frowned. "But them have no business outside Wall! Them not traders!"
"A point well-taken, I must admit. Still, I cannot help but think your mode of contact was something less than honorable."
The natives scowled, muttering to one another, but the Scouting-Master only shrugged. "Could've done much worse, within-um rights. Could Shacklar gainsay?"
The lieutenant was silent a moment, then heaved a sigh. "The General-Governor would say that no lasting harm was done, so no hard feelings should last."
Rod frowned. 'General-Governor?' Didn't they have that the wrong way around?
"Even so." The Scouting-Master's forefinger stabbed upward, and his smile vanished. "Agreements hold. Me file-um complaint—formal! For trespassing!"
The lieutenant stood still for a moment, then sighed, pulled out a pad and began writing. "If you must. However, these two are civilians. That will necessitate a meeting with the General-Governor."
"Sound great." The Scouting-Master grinned. "Him always serve good coffee." He turned to his warriors, making shooing motions. "Go patrol again!"
"Boring," one of the warriors grumbled.
"Want-um soldiers stamp-um all over planet?" the Scouting-Master snapped. "Besides—good for-um! Build-um character!"
The warrior sighed, and the troops turned away. The Scouting-Master turned back, a grin spreading over his face again. "We go see Shacklar now, hm?"
The lieutenant ushered them into a thirty-by-thirty office with large windows (outside, Rod had noticed steel shutters), a desk at one end, and several padded armchairs at the other. All the furniture had a rough-and-ready look about it, as though it had been built out of local materials by an amateur carpenter. But it was made out of real wood. Rod thought that implied status, until he remembered that wood was cheaper than plastic on a frontier world. The floor was polished wood, too, most of it covered by a plaid carpet, woven of orange, purple, chartreuse, and magenta fibers. Rod winced.
The man who sat behind the desk seemed out of place. He was in full uniform, bent over paperwork, but was surprisingly young to be top kick; he couldn't have been much more than forty. He was lean, lanky, brown-haired, and the face that looked up at them as they came in was mild and quizzical, with a gentle smile. There was some indefinable air of sophistication about him, though, that made him seem incongruous with his rough surroundings.
He is a lord, Gwen thought.
She just might be right, Rod realized. Maybe a younger son of a younger son?
"General Shacklar," the lieutenant informed them, "the Governor."
Well. That explained the inverted title.
The General rose with a smile of welcome, and came around his desk toward them. The lieutenant snapped to attention and saluted. The General returned his salute and stopped in front of the native, crossing his arms and bowing. "May your day be sun-filled, Scouting-Master."
"And yours," the native grinned. "Coffee?"
"Of course! Lieutenant, will you serve, please?" But, as the young officer turned away, the General stopped him with an upheld palm. "A moment—introductions?"
"Certainly, sir." The lieutenant turned back to them. "Master Rod Gallowglass and his lady, Gwendylon."
"Charmed." The General took Gwen's hand and bowed. She smiled, pleased.
The lieutenant stepped away toward the coffeepot.
"I don't remember your arrival." The General gave Rod a keen glance.
Rod had a notion this man knew every single person who arrived on his planet—especially if he was, well, b
asically, warden. Of a planet-wide prison. And Rod and Gwen weren't exactly inconspicuous. "We were, uh, stranded, General. Landed out in the middle of the plains. No way to get back home."
Shacklar frowned. "I don't recall any report of a distress signal."
"We couldn't transmit." So far, Rod hadn't really told any lies. He hoped it would last.
It did. Shacklar gave him the keen glance again; he was definitely aware of the holes in the explanation; but he wasn't about to push them. "My sympathies. Just this morning, was it?"
"Soon after dawn," Gwen explained. "We had scarcely collected ourselves when these…"
She hesitated, and Shacklar supplied, "Wolmen. That's what they call themselves. Their ancestors were counterculture romantics, who fled Terra to live the life of the Noble Savage. They invented their own version of aboriginal culture, based largely on novels and screenplays."
Well. That explained some of the more bizarre aspects.
"I take it they discovered you almost immediately, and began to chase you?"
"Aye. We did fly from them."
Rod stiffened. Did she have to be so literal?
Yes, she did, now that he thought of it. When the Wolman talked about them flying, now, Schacklar would assume he was speaking metaphorically. Very clever, his lady. He glowed with pride.
Fortunately, the General didn't notice. He shook his head sadly. "Most unfortunate! My deepest regrets. But really, you see, by the terms of our agreement with the Wolmen, no colonist is supposed to be outside the Wall unless he's on official or commercial business, so you can understand why they would react in so precipitous a manner. And, truly, they did no harm—only enforced their rights under our treaty."
"Aye, that is easily understood." Gwen shrugged. "I cannot truly blame them."
"Most excellent." Shacklar beamed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must hear what the Scouting-Master wishes to say."
He turned away. Gwen turned to Rod, speaking softly. "Doth he say that these people but play at being savages, my lord?"
"No—but their ancestors did, so now they're stuck with it. But I get the feeling there was a real war when the Terran government decided to use this planet for a prison. Apparently they didn't consult the Wolmen first—and they resented it. Forcibly." He shrugged. "Can you blame them?"
The General had turned now, facing them again. "The Scouting-Master understands your predicament, but nonetheless charges you with trespassing." He sighed. "Actually, he's shown a considerable amount of forbearance in this matter. He could have taken any number of more or less lethal measures against you, rather than merely herding you to the Wall, as he did."
Herding?
Gwen, did you know we were being herded?
Nay—yet now, I can see it clearly enough.
The General frowned, concerned. "What's the matter, old man? Hadn't you guessed you were being driven?"
"As a matter of fact, I hadn't." Rod found himself smiling back in spite of himself. "Uh, ah—General, please convey my apologies and great thanks to the Scouting-Master."
"Oh, you may convey them yourself, in just a moment! But, ah—" Shacklar looked down at the carpet, rubbing the tip of his nose with a forefinger. "I wouldn't truly recommend it. A simple apology and expression of thanks—no, the Scouting-Master would take it as a sign of weakness."
"Oh." Rod pursed his lips. "I see. Exactly what form should the apology take?"
"Precisely, Master Gallowglass." The General smiled warmly. "It's always a pleasure to deal with a man who understands the true nature of diplomacy!"
"Does he want his diplomacy in gold, or Terran bills?"
"Gold would be pleasant, but I'm sure I.D.E. kwaher bills will suffice." The General smiled sadly. "However, I'm afraid P.E.S.T. bills would not be acceptable; the Wolmen don't have much faith in them."
"I understand." Rod smiled. "Primitive cultures tend to be conservative."
"Indeed." The keen glance again. "Well! In this case, the apology should consist of, ah…" Shacklar slipped a small leather-bound pad out of his pocket and flipped it open. "… five hundred kwahers."
Rod stared. "Five… hundred…"
Is the amount so great, my lord?
Not unless you don't have it. How are you at turning lead into gold, dear?
A sudden, faraway look came into Gwen's eyes.
The General was watching them carefully, but with his gentle smile. "I take it you find yourselves temporarily embarrassed?" The General smiled. "We can certainly arrange a temporary, interest-free loan, Master Gallowglass. There is a Bank of Wolmar, and it's solvent at the moment."
"Oh, no! Money's never a problem with us. Uh—is it, Gwen?" Rod reached into the purse that hung at his belt. It held only a few Gramarye coins. The silver in them would be perfectly negotiable, but it might be a little difficult to explain Tuan's and Catharine's portraits.
"Nay, money was never our care," Gwen agreed, giving him a sidelong glance. "Indeed, it hath been so long since I have seen it, that I quite forget the look of it!"
Rod froze.
He swallowed, hugely. Of course, Gwen couldn't know what I.D.E. bills looked like; she had never seen any money but Gramarye's.
Come to think of it, Rod didn't know what they looked like, either. The I.D.E. government had fallen five hundred years before he was born. "On second thought, General, I think I will take you up on that offer. Could you let me have, say, a twenty-kwaher bill for, oh, about two minutes?"
The General frowned, but reached for his wallet. "At least the interest won't be prohibitive." He passed Rod the bill.
"Thanks very." Rod handed it to Gwen. "Yes, money. That's money, dear."
Gwen stared, thunderstruck. "Paper, my lord? This is money?"
"Uh, yes, dear." Gwen had never seen anything but coins, of course, medieval cultures having a rather elemental view of economics. "That's money. Here, anyway." Rod forced a grin. "Uh, sorry, General. We're not used to, ah, using cash, you know how it is."
"Credit cards." The General nodded with understanding. Rod would've hated to shatter his illusions.
"Now, I just had some, right here." Rod fumbled in the purse again; it was still mostly empty.
"My lord," Gwen murmured, "I cannot…"
"That's okay, dear, just try." Rod patted her hand. "Never know just how much you can do, until you give it a try… I know… I had…" Rod dug in the purse as though it were a ten-mile pit, a bead of cold sweat trickling down his brow.
Something rustled.
His fingers touched paper. Lots of paper.
He drew it out slowly, with a grin of relief. "There we are, General, twenty-five twenty-kwaher bills." He plucked the original from Gwen's numbed fingers. "Oh, and the one you loaned us, of course."
The General's eyes widened slightly, but he accepted the cash without comment.
"I don't like to carry large denominations," Rod explained.
"But I thought you said…" Shacklar clamped his lips shut. "No, really. Not my affair at all…" He gave Rod the keen glance again. "Don't you find it troublesome to carry so many bills about?"
"Well, yes," Rod admitted, "but there wasn't time to have them changed."
The General squared the bills into a neat stack. "I take it you left home in a bit of a hurry."
"You might say that, yes."
The General turned to step over to the lieutenant and the Scouting-Master, who broke out in an ear-to-ear grin and hurried over to seize Rod's hand, pumping it. "Glad you one of the good guys!"
"Oh, my pleasure," Rod murmured. "Thanks for understanding."
"Sure, sure! Come outside Wall again, anytime!" The Scouting-Master crossed his arms and bowed, then turned away to the door the lieutenant was holding, licking his thumb and counting the bills. "Nice chasing you!"
"Anytime." Rod waved, feeling slightly numb.
The lieutenant closed the door behind him with relief.
Rod turned back to the General, shaking his head. "Funny how under
developed societies always learn the same aspect of our culture first, isn't it?"
"Quite." The General turned away, going back to his desk. "Well! At least that's done!"
"Yeah. Nice to have it over with, isn't it?" Rod grabbed Gwen's arm and made for the door. "Thanks for straightening things out for us, General. If there's anything we can ever do for you…"
"As a matter of fact," Shacklar murmured, "you could answer a few questions…"
Rod's body jerked as his feet stopped and his shoulders tried to keep going. He glared at Gwen.
"We must observe the rules of courtesy, my lord."
"Next time just stop me with a word, okay?" Rod turned back. "Why, sure, General. What kind of questions did you have in mind?"
The General's mouth was pinched at the corners with hidden amusement.
Rod frowned, noticing something he'd missed before. He stepped up to the General's desk, peering at Shacklar's corps insignia. It was the staff of Aesculapius. "You're a doctor!"
"Psychiatrist, actually." The General smiled. "Surely that is an appropriate profession for the chief administrative officer of a former correctional colony?"
"Uh… yeah, I guess it is." Rod frowned. "I just wasn't expecting anything so logical."
"I'm not certain it was, in its genesis." Shacklar's smile hardened. "But I do think it's worked out for the best. I've quite a sense of purpose here."
"Yeah, I can see that you would have." Rod straightened, clearing his throat. "Well! About those questions, General…"
"Yes, indeed. Would you mind telling me how you came to be shipwrecked on Wolmar?"
"No, not at all." If I can think of it.
Shacklar looked up over steepled fingers. "Touch of amnesia?"
"Oh, no, no," Rod said quickly. "Not amnesia, really; it's just that, uh…" He took a deep breath and began improvising at top speed. "Uh, I know this is going to sound strange, but, uh… we were on our way to a costume ball, aboard a passenger liner from, uh…" He tried to remember a ship that had disappeared without a trace, about the end of the I.D.E. era. He could only think of the most famous one, and cursed mentally, then followed it with a quick thought-apology to Gwen. "We were on the, uh, Alfreda, outbound from Fido—you know, Beta Canis Minor's fourth planet—on our way to Tuonela, the fifth planet of 61 Cygni…"
The Warlock Wandering Page 3
