A Wizard In Peace

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Not yet," Gar assured him. "I've been studying during my free hours, and haven't' taken the examinations. I was about to, I'll admit, and my reeve encouraged me-but this order came a week before I was set to go."

  The guard turned away, his mouth working, and swallowed hard-to keep curses in, Miles guessed, and felt sorry for the man; those curses would fester, and ruin his health. When he turned back, his face was grim. "You must have been sorely disappointed, sir."

  "Not altogether." Gar smiled easily. "There are examination stations in Milton, after all."

  The guard stared, then burst into laughter. As it eased, he nodded, wiping his eyes. "Oh, yes, there are, many examination stations indeed! What a surprise you'll hand them, on your first leave!" He sobered suddenly. "You don't suppose your reeve reported your training to the minister, and he ordered you to Milton so you'd be handy for assignment when you passed your examinations?"

  "That would be pleasant," Gar said, straight-faced, "but surely it would be too much to hope for. Still, friend, if I've done it, you can, too-and do it again and again until you finally pass."

  "Yes, they can't keep me from taking the examinations, can they?" The guard's voice grew hard. "An inspector-general might come by in disguise, talk to the townsfolk, then demand to see the examiners' records, and if he found a man had come to take the examinations and been turned away, he'd report it to the Protector himself-and the Protector would fly into a rage if he heard of it. Yes, thank you, sir. There is still hope, isn't there?"

  "A great deal," Gar said. "Back to the books with you! Go study!"

  "That I will! Pass, sir, and good luck to you!"

  "And to you," Gar returned, and rode on.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Miles let out a very long breath.

  "It wasn't that hard to fake this time, Miles," Gar told him, "not once he told me about the examinations, and thought I was a magistrate because I knew enough to pass them."

  "You surely do!" Miles exclaimed. "You mean that was all guesswork? You sounded as though you knew!"

  "I didn't actually lie about anything except my imaginary reeve-and the rest wasn't hard to guess. Besides, I've given him hope."

  "Hope that will be dashed, sir," Miles said bitterly. "Unless you're really brilliant, there's no chance that the magistrates will let you pass the examinations and do one of their own sons out of a place."

  Dirk looked up, surprised. "Is that a fact?" Miles shrugged. "Everybody knows it, sir."

  "It could be just a rumor," Gar said slowly, "started by a few failures making excuses."

  "Or it could be true," Dirk countered. "Nepotism will out. It wouldn't be the first time civil-service officials have made sure that only their own sons would succeed them."

  "The human drive to protect and foster their children is a very good thing, within limits," Gar protested. "It's just that it goes beyond those limits very easily." He turned to Miles. "So you're governed by a Protector who makes all the laws and orders his ministers to enforce them-and each minister gives orders to his own set of reeves, who each commands a few hundred magistrates."

  "That's so, sir." Why did Gar have to state things that everyone knew?

  "And each magistrate has his own squad of soldiers, only he calls them `watchmen' and `foresters,' and has a bailiff to command them."

  "I suppose you could call them that, yes," Miles said slowly, "though we usually think of only the reeve's guards as soldiers-and the Protector's Own Army, of course."

  "So he has an army, does he? And none of his ministers do?"

  "No, sir, although each of them can call up his reeves and their guards, if he needs to."

  "But if he did, the Protector's Army would crush them." Gar nodded slowly. "What do they usually do, these Protector's soldiers?"

  "He sends them against highwaymen and bandits, sir, if they've grown too many for a reeve to tackle."

  "Enough duty to keep them more or less in shape, not enough to take them away from him for very long," Dirk summarized. "Of course none of the ministers would dare to defy him."

  Miles stared, scandalized at the very thought of someone fighting the Protector!

  "So the civil service starts with magistrates . . ."

  Miles interrupted. "By your leave, sir, the first examination makes a man a clerk. Many never get past that; they spend their lives running a village for magistrate after magistrate."

  "They get to stay put, huh?" Dirk., looked up keenly. "And get to stay with the same wife, too. I'll bet a lot of them never even try for the second exam."

  "If they do, though, they become magistrates?" Gar asked. "Yes, sir-and the third examination makes a man a reeve, though he has to have done very good work as a magistrate before he's offered the chance."

  "A system designed to operate on merit alone," Gar said thoughtfully, "and apparently open to anyone who can pass the examinations-but the sons of the officials are always better trained, and far more likely to score high."

  "More to the point," Dirk said, "the examiners probably know those sons or knew their fathers' friends, and pass them while they flunk applicants who don't have connections."

  "You're judging by Terran history," Gar said, "but I do have to admit that most methods of corruption were invented on old Earth. In practice, the system is open to new blood only if some of the old blood dies out."

  "And I expect there are quite a few peasants who'd be more than willing to help it die."

  Miles looked up, scandalized again. Would these two never be done speaking treason?

  But it did make a man think....

  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 himstone, 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 k
new 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."