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did not consider himself an imposing figure. He was plump, round-faced, altogether too jolly looking to inspire fear or respect. But he tried. He stood, drew himself up straight. “But?”
    Paul raised his eyes, but could not look directly at George. “I . . . I have to think of my soul,” he said. “I'm a good Christian. If I protested, I could be condemned myself. My wife . . . my children . . .” He fell silent, licked his lips.
    George rubbed his face. His headache had grown worse. “Thank you, Paul. I'll say good-bye now. I trust that our bond will be enough for you not to say anything of our talk to Bishop Cranby. Or to Roger of Aurverelle.”
    Paul stared. “Roger of— How did you know?”
    “How does anyone know anything int his damned city?” George snapped. “The wind . . . the dogs . . . the farting of birds . . . Suffice it to say that I know. All right?”
    “I won't say anything,” said Paul. “It would be dangerous for me to admit that I even met with you at all.”
    “Good. Thank you. God be with you, Paul.” George bowed without shaking hands, found his own way down the stairs and out into the street.
    “Pasties! Good hot pasties!”
    He was not hungry.

Chapter Three
    “What's this?”
    The soldier leaned over the side of the cart. Mika turned around and nearly gasped: she had thought Miriam completely hidden, but the healer had obviously thrashed about enough that her coverings had been dislodged.
    The soldier looked up inquiringly. The cold wind caught the red scarf about his neck and whipped it out straight. Belroi glittered in the bright, morning sun, and the waters of River Malvern were deep and cold.
    “My daughter,” explained the midwife. “She's been ill.”
    “Sure.” The soldier glanced at Miriam again. “Doesn't look a thing like you.”
    “She took after her father.”
    “Sure.” The man did not look so much suspicious as lecherous.
    Mika sat up in her seat. Prostituting an injured girl for a ride across the river was not what she had in mind this morning. “Is there some problem, m'lord?” She addressed him in the tone of a mother, with an edge to the rising inflection.
    “No problem at all, unless you want to make one.” He sounded unimpressed. “You're just two women and you got no men with you. Now, I'm a man who could use a little comfort this cold morning. Do you want to get across this river?”
    His words were not without threat: Belroi lay on a tongue of land south of the juncture of two great rivers, Malvern and Bergren, and its ferry was the only crossing for several leagues. To the south of Belroi was open land, and another day's journey to Furze, where Mika kept her house. But first the river had to be crossed.
    “Of course I want to get across this river,” said the midwife tartly. “I have a sick daughter, and she needs to come home and be tended. I've given you the three-penny toll, and you have no reason to keep us from our journey.”
    The soldier looked at Miriam again, “Scrawny,” he said with some distaste.
    “Consumption does that to people.”
    The man blinked. “Consumption?” He looked a little shaken.
    “Yes,” said Mika. “We were visiting our folk around Lake Onella, and the air of the marshes is not good. The fog comes up at night.”
    His mouth tightened. “I was born near Lake Onella,” he said flatly. “There aren't any marshes there.”
    Mother of Mercy, thought Mika. Just let us over. “What do you want?”
    “Wake her up.”
    “She's ill.”
    “Consumption, eh?”
    Behind Mika, a dark man with a cartful of geese shouted angrily: “Will you hurry up? I have a market to get to!”
    The soldier looked at him. “You won't get to anything quick if you don't shut up.” He turned back to Mika. “Wake her up.”
    Miriam stirred.
    “I'll report you,” said Mika. She felt sick. There was nothing she could do. The soldier was correct: two commoner women without patronage or defense had no recourse. She could cause a