"Yes, like your auntie with the cluttered bedroom—it runs in your family, so you said. Let it stand that I want to marry you in spite of your obvious faults."

"But—"

"Star, you talk too much."

"Yes, milord," she said meekly.

"We're getting married. How do we do it? Is the local lord also justice of the peace? If he is, there will be no droit du seigneur; we haven't time for frivolities." "Each squire is the local justice," Star agreed thoughtfully, "and does perform marriages, although most Nevians don't bother. But—Well, yes, he would expect droit du seigneur and, as you pointed out, we haven't time to waste."

"Nor is that my idea of a honeymoon. Star—look at me. I don't expect to keep you in a cage; I know you weren't raised that way. But we won't look up the squire. What's the local brand of preacher? A celibate brand, by choice."

"But the squire is the priest, too. Not that religion is an engrossing matter in Nevia; fertility rites are all they bother with. Milord love, the simplest way is to jump over your sword."

"Is that a marriage ceremony where you come from, Star?"

"No, it's from your world:

‘Leap rogue, and jump whore,

‘And married be forevermore—‘

"—it's very old."

"Mmm—I don't care for the marriage lines. I may be a rogue but I know what you think of whores. What other chances are there?"

"Let me see. There's a rumormonger in a village we pass through soon after lunch. They sometimes marry townies who want it known far and wide; the service includes spreading the news."

"What sort of service?"

"I don't know. And I don't care, milord love. Married we will be!"

"That's the spirit! We won't stop for lunch."

"No, milord," she said firmly, "if wife I am to be, I shall be a good wife and not permit you to skip meals."

"Henpecking already. I think I'll beat you."

"As you will, milord. But you must eat, you are going to need your strength—"

"I certainly will!'

"—for fighting. For now I am ten times as anxious that we both live through it. Here is a place for lunch." She turned Vita Brevis off the road; Ars Longa followed. Star looked back over her shoulder and dimpled. "Have I told you today that you are beautiful...my love!"

Chapter 11

Rufo's longhorse followed us onto the grassy verge Star picked for picnicking. He was still limp as a wet sock and snoring. I would have let him sleep but Star was shaking him.

He came awake fast, reaching for his sword and shouting, "A moi! M'aidez! Les vaches!" Fortunately some friend had stored his sword and belt out of reach on the baggage rack aft, along with bow, quiver, and our new foldbox.

Then he shook his head and said, "How many were there?"

"Down from there, old friend," Star said cheerfully. "We've stopped to eat."

"Eat!" Rufo gulped and shuddered. "Please, milady. No obscenity." He fumbled at his seat belt and fell out of his saddle; I steadied him.

Star was searching through her pouch; she pulled out a vial and offered it to Rufo. He shied back. "Milady!"

"Shall I hold your nose?" she said sweetly.

"I'll be all right. Just give me a moment...and the hair of the dog."

"Certainly you'll be all right. Shall I ask milord Oscar to pin your arms?"

Rufo glanced at me appealingly; Star opened the little bottle. It fizzed and fumes rolled out and down. "Now!"

Rufo shuddered, held his nose, tossed it down.

I won't say smoke shot out of his ears. But he flapped like torn canvas in a gale and horrible noises came out.

Then he came into focus as suddenly as a TV picture. He appeared heavier and inches taller and had finned out. His skin was a rosy glow instead of death pallor. "Thank you, milady," he said cheerfully, his voice resonant and virile. "Someday I hope to return the favor."

"When the Greeks reckon time by the kalends," she agreed.

Rufo led the longhorses aside and fed them, opening the foldbox and digging out haunches of bloody meat. Ars Longa ate a hundredweight and Vita Brevis and Mors Profunda even more; on the road these beasts need a high-protein diet. That done, he whistled as he set up table and chairs for Star and myself.

"Sugar pie," I said to Star, "what's in that pick-me-up?"

"An old family recipe:

‘Eye of newt and toe of frog,

‘Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

‘Adders fork and blind-worm's sting,

‘Lizard's leg and howlet's wing—‘ "

"Shakespeare!" I said. "Macbeth."

" ‘Cool it with a baboon's blood—‘ No, Will got it from me, milord love. That's the way with writers; they'll steal anything, file off the serial numbers, and claim it for their own. I got it from my aunt—another aunt—who was a professor of internal medicine. The rhyme is a mnemonic for the real ingredients which are much more complicated—never can tell when you'll need a hangover cure. I compounded it last night, knowing that Rufo, for the sake of our skins, would need to be at his sharpest today—two doses, in fact, in case you needed one. But you surprised me, my love; you break out with nobility at the oddest times."

"A family weakness. I can't help it."

"Luncheon is served, milady."

I offered Star my arm. Hot foods were hot, cold ones chilled; this new foldbox, in Lincoln green embossed with the Doral chop, had equipment that the lost box lacked. Everything was delicious and the wines were superb.

Rufo ate heartily from his serving board while keeping an eye on our needs. He had come over to pour the wine for the salad when I broke the news. "Rufo old comrade, milady Star and I are getting married today. I want you to be my best man and help prop me up."

He dropped the bottle.

Then he was busy wiping me and mopping the table. When at last he spoke, it was to Star. "Milady," he said tightly, "I have put up with much, uncomplaining, for reasons I need not state. But this is going too far. I won't let—"

"Hold your tongue!"

"Yes," I agreed, "hold it while I cut it out. Will you have it fried? Or boiled?"

Rufo looked at me and breathed heavily. Then he left abruptly, withdrawing beyond the serving board. Star said softly, "Milord love, I am sorry."

"What twisted his tail?" I said wonderingly. Then I thought of the obvious. "Star! Is Rufo jealous?"

She looked astounded, started to laugh and chopped it off. "No, no, darling! It's not that at all. Rufo—Well, Rufo has his foibles but he is utterly dependable where it counts. And we need him. Ignore it. Please, milord."

"As you say. It would take more than that to make me unhappy today."

Rufo came back, face impassive, and finished serving. He repacked without speaking and we hit the road.

The road skirted the village green; we left Rufo there and sought out the rumormonger. His shop, a crooked lane away, was easy to spot; an apprentice was beating a drum in front of it and shouting teasers of gossip to a crowd of locals. We pushed through and went inside.

The master rumormonger was reading something in each hand with a third scroll propped against his feet on a desk. He looked, dropped feet to floor, jumped up and made a leg while waving us to seats.

"Come in, come in, my gentles!" be sang out. "You do me great honor, my day is made! And yet if I may say so you have come to the right place whatever your problem whatever your need you have only to speak good news bad news every sort but sad news reputations restored events embellished history rewritten great deeds sung and all work guaranteed by the oldest established news agency in all Nevia news from all worlds all universes propaganda planted or uprooted offset or rechanneled satisfaction guaranteed honesty is the best policy but the client is always right don't tell me I know I know I have spies in every kitchen ears in every bedroom the Hero Gordon without a doubt and your fame needs no heralds milord but honored am I that you should seek me out a biography perhaps to match your matchless deeds complete with old nurse who recalls in her thin and ancient and oh so persuasive voice the signs and portents at your birth—"