Bob Shaw: The Wooden Spaceships

Toller closed the telescope and put it away, frowning as he contemplated the fact that crime was virtually unknown on Overland. There was too much work to be done, few people had anything worth stealing, and the sparseness of the population made it difficult for wrongdoers to hide.

His curiosity now aroused, Toller increased his speed and reached the intersection with the highway shortly ahead of the slow-moving group. He brought his steed to a halt and studied the approaching men. Green gauntlet emblems on the breasts of the riders told him they were private soldiers in the employ of Baron Panvarl. The lightly built man stumbling along at the centre of a square formed by the four bluehorns was about thirty and was dressed like an ordinary farmer. His wrists were bound in front of him and lines of dried blood reaching down from his matted black hair showed that he had been roughly handled.

Toller had already decided that he had no liking for the soldiers when he saw the prisoner’s eyes lock on him and widen in recognition, an event which in turn stimulated Toller’s memory. He had failed to identify the man right away because of his dishevelled appearance, but now he knew him to be Oaslit Spennel, a fruit farmer whose plot was some four miles to the south. Spennel occasionally supplied berries for the Maraquine household, and his reputation was that of a quiet, industrious man of good character. Toller’s initial dislike for the soldiers hardened into straightforward antagonism.

“Good foreday, Oaslit,” he called out, advancing his bluehorn to block the road. “It surprises me to find you in such dubious company.”

Spennel held out his bound wrists. “I have been placed under false arrest, my…”

“Silence, dung-eater!” The sergeant leading the company made a threatening gesture at Spennel, then turned baleful eyes on Toller. He was a barrel-chested man, somewhat old for his rank, with coarse features and the glowering expression of one who had seen a great deal of life without benefiting from the experience. His gaze zigzagged over Toller, who watched impassively, knowing that the sergeant was trying to relate the plainness of his garb to the fact that he rode a bluehorn which sported the finest quality tack.

“Get out of the way,” the sergeant said finally.

Toller shook his head. “I demand to hear the nature of the charges against this man.”

“You demand a great deal—” The sergeant glanced at his three companions and they responded with grins. “—for one who ventures abroad unarmed.”

“I have no need of weapons in these parts,” Toller said. “I am Lord Toller Maraquine—perhaps you have heard of me.”

“Everybody has heard of the Kingslayer,” the sergeant muttered,, augmenting the disrespect in his tone by delaying the correct form of address. “My lord.”

Toller smiled as he memorised the sergeant’s face. “What are the charges against your prisoner?”

“The swine is guilty of treason—and will face the executioner today in Prad.”

Toller dismounted, moving slowly to give himself time to assimilate the news, and went to Spennel. “What’s this I hear, Oaslit?”

“It’s all lies, my lord.” Spennel spoke quickly in a low, frightened monotone. “I swear to you I am totally without blame. I offered no insult to the baron.”

“Do you mean Panvarl? How does he come into this?”

Spennel looked nervously at the soldiers before replying. “My farm adjoins the baron’s estate, my lord. The spring which waters my trees drains down on to his land and…” Spennel’s voice faded and he shook his head, momentarily unable to continue.

“Go on, man,” Toller said. “I can’t help you unless I know the whole story.”

Spennel swallowed audibly. “The water lies in a basin and makes the land swampy at a place where the baron likes to exercise his bluehorns. Two days ago he came to my house and ordered me to block the spring off with boulders and cement. I told him I needed the water for my livelihood and offered to channel it away from his land. He became angry and told me to begin blocking the spring without further delay. I told him there was little point in doing so, because the water would find another way to the surface… and it was… it was then that he accused me of insulting him. He rode off vowing that he would obtain a warrant from the King for my… for my arrest and execution on a charge of treason.”

“All this over a patch of muddy ground!” Toller pinched his lower lip in bafflement. “Panvarl must be losing his reason.”

Spennel managed a lop-sided travesty of a smile. “Hardly, my lord. Other farmers have forfeited their land to him.”

“So that’s the way of it,” Toller said in a low hard voice, feeling a return of the disillusionment which at times had almost made him a recluse. There had been a period immediately following the arrival of mankind on Overland when he had genuinely believed that the race had made a new start. Those had been the heady years of the exploration and settlement of the green continent which girdled the planet, when it had seemed that all men could be equal and that their old wasteful ways would be abandoned. He had clung to his hopes even when the realities of the situation had begun to become obtrusive, but eventually he had reached the point of having to ask himself if the journey between the worlds had been an exercise in futility…

“Have no fear,” he said to Spennel. “You’re not going to die on account of Panvarl. You have my word on that.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you…” Spennel glanced again at the soldiers and lowered his voice to a whisper. “My lord, is it in your power to free me now?”

Toller had to shake his head. “For me to go against the King’s warrant would prejudice your case even further. Besides, it is more in accord with our purpose if you continue to Prad on foot—that way I can be there well ahead of you and will have ample time in which to speak to the King.”

“Thank you again, my lord, from the bottom of my…” Spennel paused, looking oddly ashamed of himself, like a merchant pressing for an advantage which even he conceded was unfiar. “If anything should befall me, my lord, would you be so… would you inform my wife and daughter, and see to their…?”

“Nothing untoward is going to happen to you,” Toller said, almost sharply. “Now be at your ease as far as is possible and leave the rest of this sorry business to me.”

He turned, walked casually to his bluehorn and hoisted himself into the saddle, feeling some concern over the fact that Spennel, regardless of the guarantees he had been given, still half-expected to die. It was a sign of the times, an indication that not only was he no longer in favour with the King, but that his fall from favour had been widely noted. Personally he cared little about such things, but it would be serious indeed if he found himself unable to help a man in Spennel’s predicament.

He nudged his bluehorn closer to the sergeant and said, “What is your name?”

“What concern is that of yours?” the sergeant countered. “My lord.”

To his surprise Toller experienced that flickering of redness at the edges of his vision which had always accompanied the most reckless rages of his youth. He leaned forward, stabbing with his eyes, and saw the challenging expression fade from the other man’s face.

“I will ask you but one more time, sergeant,” he said. “What is your name?”

The sergeant hesitated only briefly. “Gnapperl.”

Toller gave him a broad smile. “Very well, Gnapperl—now we know each other and can all be good friends together. I am on my way to Prad for a private audience with the King, and the first thing I will do is ensure that Oaslit Spennel receives a full pardon for his imaginary crime. For the present I am placing him under my personal protection, and—I dislike mentioning this now that we have become good friends—if any misfortune were to befall him you would soon be overtaken by an even greater misfortune. I trust my meaning is clear…”