Act of Will by A. J. Hartley Read Free Book Online Page A

like conquerors. Orgos and the rest of them scared me, but in a different way. They still seemed human, I suppose. I looked at the steel-clad guards by the gate, their weapons ready and their eyes concealed by the shade of their faceless helms, and I saw them as the myriad blades of some vast mincing machine. They stood immaculate and motionless before us: soullessly disciplined. One glance at their iron at such close quarters illumined tracts of land, towns, and peoples ground beneath a regulated, even march. Suddenly they didn’t look like the kind of people I wanted to help. In a purely subjective moment, the decision was made.
    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