Andrew Hartley - Act of Will

Another pair of the foot patrolmen appeared and emptied the family out of the cart in front of us with a couple of rough orders and a poke with the butt of a short spear. They spilled out and huddled together. A little boy began to cry, and one of the women drew him to her and folded him into her robes: comforting and silencing in one frightened movement. The guards picked scornfully over the poor cart and then started on the people, their questions randomly mixed with insults. I felt Orgos stir fractionally as a guard pushed close to one of the women and threw some lewd remark to his companion. I gave Orgos a quick look and saw with horror that his right hand had strayed towards the gold basketwork hilt of his rapier. I prayed it wouldn’t move any closer.

It didn’t. The soldiers, bored with their harassment, contemptuously urged the cart through the open gate and turned to us.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Orgos beamed as we drew up to the gatehouse. From here you could see through the arch with its raised portcullis and broad outer doors, through twenty feet of city wall and past the grim, motionless infantrymen, out to the road and freedom.

The patrolmen gathered about the wagon and I tried to smile calmly, though my face sort of froze in the process. I looked down at the crossbow in my lap and figured it was best to put it down.

In contrast to the way they had just treated the people in the bullock cart, the guards were, in their imperious way, polite: almost deferential.

“Names, identification papers, and destination, please,” said the duty officer.

I looked with muted alarm at Orgos; the mechanics of our escape had not really occurred to me and we hadn’t discussed such details. Orgos produced a pair of neatly rolled parchments and answered, with a Cherrati hand gesture, “I am Alberro Spirant and this is my apprentice, Geoffrey. We deal in silks, satin, velvet, cambric, lace, fine cotton, and other costly fabrics. Perhaps you’d care to see our wares?”

“We’ll take a quick look in the back if you don’t mind,” answered the soldier patiently. Orgos drew out a small key and passed it to me.

“Show the gentlemen inside, Geoffrey,” he said casually. I regarded him for a moment, my mental alarm bells clanging fiercely, and then clambered down to the wet and muddy gravel. Two soldiers followed me to the rear of the wagon. As my fingers fumbled madly at the latch on the tail flap, I could hear Orgos’s precise Cherrat accent complimenting the young captain on his town and telling him of our planned route to Bowescroft via Oakhill. It sounded credible to me. I hoped they thought so.

I got the back open and stood clear as one of the guards clambered in and began poking around. There were various large boxes and crates piled high with clothes and rolls of material. He picked at a couple but obviously wasn’t interested in effecting a real search.

“How’s business?” said the guard at my elbow without warning. I jumped slightly and forced my voice out with an effort, only at the last second remembering to switch on that ludicrous accent.

“Not bad, my friend, not bad.” I shrugged expansively. “But we’re hoping for more success in-” Blood and sand, where had Orgos said we were going? “-Bowescroft and Oakhill. As you can see, there is an awful lot of merchandise to clear yet and they are rather, how might I put it, luxurious items. Not for just anyone, don’t you know? The Cresdon folk were not as ready as we had hoped to invest in such quality.”

How was that? It had sounded all right to me. I had acted myself stupid with all those arm and shoulder movements, finished with that excessive, slow Cherrati frown of thoughtful doubt, and waited for him to respond.

He merely nodded and looked away, bored. Fantastic! I was hit by a wave of elation at my success and turned to address the other guard, who was getting out of the wagon looking as apathetic as his comrade.

“Did you come across anything that caught your eye, eh, my friend? There is some fine stuff, very fine. No Thrusian cotton in there my friend, certainly not. But silk and taffeta gowns for the ladies, eh? We carry only the best. Now, you, sir, young, handsome, and strong as you are, must have some nice young lady to buy for?”

“Not today, no thanks,” said the first guard, backing off. I, warming to my role, pushed him further, speaking through my nose and waggling my hands about. “But I can give you a very good price. What size would it be? We can cut and make to measure for no extra charge. The ladies love to be pampered, my friends, oh yes. Here,” I said, grabbing some fabric out of the back at random and thrusting it into his hands, “feel the thickness. See how it glows with color. Notice the deep lustrous finish. Examine the detail so lovingly hand-embroidered by the twelve virgin priestesses-”

“No, really, thanks,” he stammered, slightly embarrassed. The second guard was already in retreat, hands raised and mouthing polite rejections. I was about to push them still harder when Orgos called from the front.

“Geoffrey,” he shouted, a definite hint of irritation showing through the blanket of his Cherrat accent. “We are ready to pass through now. Put the cloth back in the wagon, and come back here at once. You hear me, Geoffrey?”

I couldn’t remember what he had called himself to the guards so I just did as he said. He seemed to be making apologies to the guards on my behalf, but they shrugged the incident off. In a minute I was back up at the front and the guards were waving us through. Then a shout from behind made me turn with panic. Hurrying along the street towards the gate was Rufus Ramsbottom with about eight patrolmen and an officer.

Now we had a problem. I flashed a glance at Orgos and he started the horses moving. I bent low in my seat as the officer came up alongside us and addressed the gate commanders.

“Trouble in the streets by C Garrison. A rebel called Hawthorne escaped from a patrol this morning. He’s been concealed by sympathizers. Fights broke out when known rebel taverns were searched and we may have a full-scale riot on our hands in Sector Six. The high command wants no traffic in or out until the fighting is brought under control and the culprits are in custody. Close the gates.”

I closed my eyes tightly and tried not to scream with frustration.

The gatehouse soldiers looked at each other and sighed. After the briefest of consultations, two troopers marched swiftly over to the stairway that would take them up to the mechanism used to close the im mense gates. I looked back to Orgos, who was maintaining his role as Cherrati merchant, slightly exasperated by the proceedings. Glancing backwards, I could see Rufus with his back to us, waving his clumsy hands about and shouting. I turned away fast enough to break my neck and stared ahead at the infantrymen that stood in the shade of the archway, their eyes glinting through the holes in their helms.

“May we proceed, Officer?” inquired Orgos smoothly.

“We’ve got trouble in another sector,” replied the guard. “We’re going to have to close the gate. Sorry, sir.”

He turned away, distracted by the sound of feet on the steps, and watched as about thirty soldiers filed down from the walls above, their shields and spears shouldered. The staircase was narrow. While the troops came down, the two men sent to close the gates had to wait at the bottom. I counted slowly to ten in my head and waited for Rufus to see me. The staircase was still jammed with descending soldiers.

“We were hoping to make Oakhill by nightfall,” I ventured carefully, “and we would really prefer not to stay here with our merchandise if there is likely to be some form of civil unrest.”