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Siflot had the good sense not to try to relieve the tension.

Then a new star shot up from the sea and climbed into the sky. They watched it shrink, then disappear, trying to hold off the apprehension, the feeling of loneliness. They were committed now.

Then a golden star winked overhead and sailed by like a meteor—only it didn’t fall, just kept on going.

Magnus’s heart warmed; before they had departed, Allouene had asked him to have his ship park in orbit, rather than trying to hide it on the surface. Magnus had given Herkimer instructions by radio—not that they were needed; Fess had already taught the robot about human thought-frequencies, modula-tion modes, and encoding, so Herkimer could hear his owner easily, if he thought hard enough. The reverse applied, too, of course, but Magnus didn’t really think it would be necessary.

“We’re here to stay, folks.” Allouene turned to them, her grim face shadowed in the starlight. “From now on, our only help is each other.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of sexual allure about her now.

Then Siflot said, “I don’t know how we’ll ever last, all cooped up together on this planet.”

The shout of laughter was much louder than the joke deserved, because it had been badly needed. The absurdity of their grating on each other’s nerves with a whole planet to roam, compared to living in each other’s laps as they had for the last two weeks, was hilarious—under the circumstances.

“Very good,” Allouene said, smiling as they qui-147

eted. “But from now on we keep silent, until dawn.

Let’s go.”

They trudged up the beach toward the boulders and marsh grass at its top. As they came up, a shadow detached itself from the rocks, and they all stopped, tensing, hands on their weapons.

“Good thing I’m on your side,” the shadow said.

“With that kind of noise, any guardsman within five kilometers could have heard you.”

Allouene relaxed. “You gave me a start, Oswald.

Agents, meet your Chief of Mission—Captain Oswald Majorca.”

“Master Oswald, when any locals might be listening,” the man said, extending a hand. He was short and very stocky—fat at first appearance, until you realized how much of it was muscle—and balding, with black hair around the sides. His face was round and snub-nosed, with quick, alert eyes. He clasped Lancorn’s hand. “And you are Mistress … ?”

“Madame,” Lancorn said, her voice brittle, but she took his hand. “Sheila Lancorn.”

“Not ‘Madame,’ ” Majorca corrected. “That’s only for married female gentry, here. Aristocrats are addressed as ‘milady.’ Unmarried gentry, such as you are from now on, are ‘Mistress.’ Anything else, and you’ll have the guardsmen on you for breaking the sumptuary laws.” He released her hand and turned to Siflot. “And you are Master… ?”

“Siflot,” the lean and lively one said, clasping his hand. “Do they call vagabonds ‘Master’ here?”

“A good point.” Oswald looked him up and down in a quick glance. “And a travelling entertainer is an/p>

excellent cover—but it’s risky; serfs of any kind can be clapped into prison at any moment, no reason given. You might want to have a gentleman-identity ready to hand. And you, Master … ?” He held his hand out to Ragnar.

“Ragnar Haldt,” the big man said, returning the clasp, “and this is Gar Pike.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Master Gar Pike.” Oswald clasped Magnus’s hand—and so it was fixed; Gar Pike he was, and Gar Pike he would remain.

“I’ve a wagon waiting. You can bunk in with a load of cloth.” Oswald waved them on. “I piled it high around the edges and put muslin over the bales on the bottom, in case you wanted to sleep.”

It was a tempting offer, but everybody was too tense—and too eager for a sight of their new world.

They sat down among the bales, craning their necks to get a look at the night-veiled countryside as they passed. There wasn’t much to see, since the moons had already set, but they could make out hedges, and the usual crazy-quilt pattern of fields of a medieval society, with the occasional dark blots that were peasant villages, and once, high up on a hilltop, a palace—but one that was surrounded by a curtain wall with crenellated towers. The thread of excited, whispered conversation ceased as they passed under the threat of that grim combination of pleasure and oppression—until Siflot murmured, “Could they be uncertain of the loyalty of their serfs?”

There was only a chuckle or two, until Magnus answered, “You’ve made your Marx.” Then a real laugh/p>

sounded, though kept low, and conversation began again as they passed out of the shadow of the lord.

They came within sight of the town gate as the sun was sending in an advance guard of crimson rays.

Master Oswald reined in his team and turned back to his passengers. “Down, now, all of you—I might be able to pass one of you off as a new factor and get him through the gates, but not a whole throng. I’m afraid it’s going to be a while—fifteen minutes at least, then another fifteen from the gate to my shop. Stay low, and when the wagon starts to move again, don’t breathe a word.”

They lay down with some grumbling, and Allouene helped Oswald spread the tarpaulin over them and tie it down. After that, the conversation was muted, and restricted to such comments as,

“Would you get your knee out of my ribs, Ragnar?”

and “I never noticed what a lovely boot-sole you have, Pike!” “How come Allouene gets to stay out in the fresh air?” “Privileges of rank …”

Suddenly the wagon jerked into motion, and they all fell silent. The tension mounted as the wagon rolled.

Then they heard voices. “Ah, good morning, Master Oswald! Back from your journey, eh?”

“And what a lovely prize you’ve brought! Who would you be, Mistress, eh?”

“Mistress Allouene de Ville,” Allouene answered, her voice slow, rich, and amused.

In the dim light under the tarp, Lancorn glowered, and Magnus realized that it wasn’t just rank that had kept Allouene out in the open air. She could distract 150

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the gate-guards well enough so that they might not think to inspect the cargo.

“De Ville! Ah, have you brought back a devil, Master Oswald?”

“Best not to find out. Corporal,” Oswald counselled. “She could set fire to more than your heart, I assure you.”

The gate-guards’ laughter was coarse and heavy.

“You sound as though you know, Master Oswald!”

“Well, I’ve seen the damage she’s left behind her.

The woman has a sharp mind. Sergeant, and a sharp tongue to match it; be wary of her. I’ll have no worry about trusting her to take my cloth out for trading, I assure you.”

“A gentlewoman?” The soldier sounded outraged.

“Alone?”

“Oh, I’ll hire a bodyguard or two to go with her, and another gentlewoman to help her, never fear.”

“Ho! Four, in place of yourself alone? What profit’s in that, Master Oswald?”

“Quite a bit,” Allouene said in her most musical tones. “I drive a hard bargain, soldier.”

They whooped, and the sergeant bantered with her, a few gibes about the worth of her goods—but Magnus realized that the corporal was silent. They respected class barriers, indeed—only gentry could flirt with gentry.

Finally, the sergeant said, “Well, there’s no reason to search your wagon. Master Oswald, and we’ve a serf with a cart coming up behind you. Be off with you now, and good trading to you!”