151

Christopher Stasheff

“Why, thank you, Sergeant, and a good day to you!”

The wagon began to move again, and all four hidden passengers let out a silent sigh of relief. Magnus began to realize just how solid a base Master Oswald had established here, if he was so well-known and trusted that the guards at the city gate would let him pass without the slightest search—and he realized from that, that Master Oswald had been taking something of a risk in calling for additional agents.

What did he really know about them, after all? Only that if SCENT had accepted them, they must be trustworthy—and Magnus knew, from his own reservations, what kind of limits there might be to that.

The wagon turned corners twice. Then the rumble of the wheels changed timbre, from the grating of cobblestones to the hollow rumble of wood. They came to a stop; then the tarpaulin was pulled back, and they sat up, breathing deeply of the fresh air—

well, relatively fresh; it was redolent of hay and horses and their by-products, but it was still a pleasant change.

“Out with you, and down.” Oswald pointed to a dark stairway at the side of the stables.

They sighed, jumped down, and filed into the hole.

Wooden steps led down six feet, to Allouene, who was lighting a lantern. Its light showed them a cellar, walled with fieldstone and floored with earth. Sec-tions of tree trunk held up wooden beams seven feet overhead; Magnus almost had to stoop. Casks lined one wall, bottles another.

Oswald came down and saw the direction of their/p>

gaze. He grinned. “I’m a draper, but I do a little tav-ern trade on the side, with a room or two to let out by the night. It’s a convenient cover to have people coming and going.”

“Going where?” Lancorn asked, but Oswald only shook his head. “Not out here. Come along.” He led them through a timber door and into another room. Magnus noticed that the door was four inches thick, and solid. He looked up and saw a wooden ceiling. “Is that as thick as the door?”

Master Oswald nodded. “Four inches thick, with the beams closely fitted—and even if there were a gap or two from shrinkage, it wouldn’t matter; that’s only a pantry above us, and the cook and scullery maids don’t linger long in it.”

Footsteps sounded overhead, and they all fell silent, looking up—but the footsteps crossed the ceiling, then crossed back, and they heard a door closing.

Master Oswald looked back down at them, grinning. “See? This room is secure.” He stepped around a large table that held a sheaf of papers, a large leather-bound book, and an abacus. “This is my tav-ern office, if we need an excuse.” He pulled out a drawer and drew out a large roll of parchment. He unrolled it across the top of the desk, set paper-weights on the corners, and they found themselves looking at a map of the continent. “Now,” said Master Oswald, “I’d like the five of you to wander about the city—in pairs or threes, mind—just to get the feel of things, and make sure your dialect matches one of the ones you’ll hear. Then, when you’releeling secure, I’ll send each of you on a trading mission, so/p>

you can get the lay of the land and come up with ideas for tactics. But I’ll tell you the broad strategy.”

He put a finger on the map, near the large blue amoe-boid of the inland sea. “This is where we are—

Orthoville, the capital city. The King’s here, not that anyone ever sees much of him, and it’s the natural place to spread ideas.” He traced boundary lines with his fingers, and pointed to large dots. “These are the duchies, and the dukes’ capitals. The roads run out as rays, from Orthoville to the dukes’ seats.”

“Convenient,” Ragnar muttered.

Oswald nodded. “Everything is for the lords’

convenience—and protection; those roads follow the high ground, and give the King a quick way to send a strike force to reinforce any lord who’s having trouble—not that this particular king seems about to do much. So any ideas we can plant in a lord’s reti-nue, will go right out to the country with him.”

“Are there no roads that connect town to town?”

Silfot asked.

“Yes, dirt roads, only wide enough for one cart at a time. But I see your meaning, friend, yes.” Oswald nodded. “Your best bet is to go from village to village, singing for your supper. Let’s get together on the lyrics, though, eh?”

Siflot smiled and ducked his head in answer. It was their first reminder that Oswald was in charge, and that whatever they were going to do, they were going to do it his way.

“So much for Propaganda of the Word,” Oswald said. “We’ll plant ideas, in conversation or in stories or, best of all, songs. People will repeat the message 154

A WIZABD IN ABSENTIA

more often if we can hit upon a tune that catches on—and they’ll repeat it with less distortion,,because of the rhyme. In fact, I’ve worked out a few variations on popular songs already—if we change them as they circulate, we’ll get across some basic ideas of human rights.”

“I could redo Robin Hood so that his band voted on decisions,” Siflot offered.

Master Oswald nodded. “Good idea, but not yet.

Right now, just having Robin Hood at all, is enough.

Same idea for Propaganda of the Deed—no terror-ism, no bombings, just helping serfs escape and teaching them how to defend themselves in their hideouts. If we can build up a few bands of free men, word will spread, and other people will get the idea.”

Magnus frowned. “But if they gain too much fame, the lords will send armies to wipe them out.”

“Unfortunate, but probably unavoidable,” Oswald agreed. “If they make a gallant last stand, though, it will fire the minds and hearts of serfs everywhere—if we make sure they hear about it.”

Magnus stood immobile, telling himself that Master Oswald couldn’t really have meant that to be as cold-blooded as it sounded.

“But if we can build up large enough bands,”

Ragnar objected, “couldn’t they strike back at the lords?”

“I said, not yet.” Oswald held up a hand. “We’re not after a revolution here—that’s standard SCENT

policy. If we overthrew the lords right now, who would take their place? Just peasants who were rougher and tougher than average—and the first 155

thing you know, you’d have the same system in place all over again, but with different masters.

Only this time, they’d know what to watch out for, and they’d be even tougher to overthrow. No, we’ll work the fundamental concepts of democracy into their culture first, then move toward a new system one change at a time. That way, when the lords are finally kicked out, they’ll stay out, and government by the people will have a chance.”

“All right,” Lancorn said. “Technological determinism. We introduce a technological innovation—

say, the printing press—and it will cause a change in the economy, which will cause a change in the social structure, making the middle class dominant. That will cause a change in the political structure, making them move toward parliamentary government—and that would change the value structure.”

This time both Allouene and Oswald shook their heads, and Allouene said, “No major technological innovations—that’s the cornerstone of SCENT policy. Bring in earthshaking inventions like that, and the social change will be an explosion, not normal growth. The society will tear itself apart trying to re-adjust, and thousands of people will be maimed and killed in the process. The English Civil War was a mild example—but ‘mild’ only because the technological innovations had been imported two hundred years before. Even with that much time, the society still couldn’t adapt fast enough to avoid war.”

“Besides,” Oswald said, “technological innovations don’t come just one at a time. The printing/p>

press wouldn’t make much difference without the rise of a literate merchant class to read the books.”

“And the middle class rose because of better ships and better navigation equipment, such as the astro-labe and the pendulum clock.” Lancorn nodded, cha-grined. “You can’t take just one.”

“Not even in a culture that doesn’t know anything about modern technology,” Master Oswald confirmed. “But here, the lords do know about the astro-labe, the compass, the pendulum clock, and the printing press—and they know about the English Civil War, too. Worse, they know about the French Revolution, when the social changes had been dammed up too long and broke loose in a flood. So they’re very wary, very watchful—and at the slightest sign there was a printing press around, they’d track it down, break it to splinters, and kill the printer.”

“I thought you were a merchant,” Ragnar said, frowning. “Can’t you justify new and improved transportation?”

“Such as the steam engine?” Oswald shook his head. “They’d be onto me in a minute. I do my trading by ox-cart and wagon. It’s enough to keep a merchant prosperous, and keep the necessary minimum of trade going. But any sign of improvements, the lords would eliminate instantly—I’ve seen it happen. One merchant started building his own roads, going places the lords didn’t want—and he disappeared in the middle of the night, was never heard from again. Another one started to set up an exchange network with other merchants—and they all disappeared. No, the aristocrats know what new in-Christopher Stasheff

ventions and new systems mean, and they make sure they don’t happen.”

“Well, won’t they stop our songs?” Lancorn asked.

“They can’t, even if they outlaw them—people will just sing them in secret, and that by itself will stimulate the spirit of defiance. But more importantly, you need to come up with stories and songs that the lords themselves will like, and that are such good fun, and seem so innocent, that any aristocrat who starts analyzing them for messages will be pooh-poohed by his fellows.”

“How can we do that?” Lancorn asked.

“Try,” Oswald suggested. “The Robin Hood bal-lads were just as popular in the medieval courts as they were in the peasant villages. Nobody wants to identify with the bad guy, after all. Technological determinism ends with a new political system developing a new value-system, and that means the pyramid can be worked in reverse—change the value system, and you can change the political structure.”

Magnus shook his head. “They will not allow it.

These lords are firmly entrenched, from what you say; only war will rid the serfs of their yoke. The lords have the monopoly on violence, after all.”

“True,” Oswald admitted, “but if we do the groundwork well enough, we can keep it down to a series of skirmishes. We have to prepare for that outbreak, or you’ll have nothing but an abortive rebellion with an awful lot of dead peasants, and nothing but worse oppression for the survivors.”

They were all quiet, looking at one another, recognizing the truth in Oswald’s words.