MacKinnie smiled pleasantly. “A great deal more than I thought I would when I was first invited here.”

Dougal nodded. “There have been others who did not enjoy their stay in this building at all.” He dismissed the guards with a wave, then turned back to Nathan. “The subterfuge starts this instant, Trader MacKinnie. We will use your proper name, although we will change your first to Jameson. MacKinnie’s common enough in Haven, and there is a great Trader family by that name.”

“Are you sure the Imperials won’t recognize me?”

“Reasonably. Besides, they aren’t looking for a dead man. Colonel Nathan MacKinnie was killed at Lechfeld. Died of his wounds a few weeks after the battle. Tough old soldier, too proud to say anything when he turned over his sword to the Haven General Staff. The records already show that.”

“But there was a young officer who interviewed me … and the paymaster will know my pension has been paid for months. Then there’s the landlady at our flop.”

“There were these people, Trader. Unfortunately, they all died last night in a series of tragic accidents. The Blue Bottle had another accident, I’m afraid. It burned to the ground, everyone in it killed shortly after the Imperial Navy men had left. Nothing the Watch could do, the fire was so fierce. It almost seems as if someone deliberately set it, but I’m sure His Majesty’s Police will catch the scoundrels if that’s true. More chickeest?”

“And my men? My former officers?”

“They’re being recruited for an expedition to the Archipelago, with offers so generous I’m sure no one will turn them down. If anyone does, well, Traders’ expeditions have been known to have reluctant members in the past.”

Before MacKinnie could reply, the corporal arrived with their food, and Dougal insisted that they eat before resuming the conversation. When they had finished, the policeman signaled, and the corporal brought MacKinnie a pipe. It was one of his own from the rooms where he and Stark had been living. It did not seem necessary to comment on it.

“You haven’t been very active since you left the Service,” Dougal said. “It won’t be difficult to cover your tracks, at least enough to keep the Imperials from looking too closely at you.”

“All right, what’s the drill for today?” MacKinnie asked.

“Mind your aphorisms, Trader. We wouldn’t want your military background to show through, although we will have your records show that you served honorably as a company commander in His Majesty’s Home Guard during the Theberian War. You won’t have to play a part for long; I intend that you leave as soon as possible. We’ll send for the other members of the expedition now. Remember, this is a trading mission, and you are Trader MacKinnie. You’ve met none of them before. Here.” Dougal held out a small box. On opening it, MacKinnie found it full of rings, brooches, and other personal jewelry, all in good taste and the kind of thing he might have worn if the military habit were not so strong in him. He selected a ring, brooch, and earring and put them on.

“Now you look more like a Trader. I have more for your man.” Dougal held out gaudier jewelry, flashier but less expensive than Nathan’s, and waited until Stark had put it on before beckoning to the corporal.

As the others approached, MacKinnie asked quickly, “What are you to these people?”

“A high officer of the secret police. They are all trustworthy servants of the crown, but they do not know the real purpose of this expedition.” Dougal stood, smiling expansively. “Welcome, gentleman, freelady. This is Trader MacKinnie, who will manage King David’s shares of this expedition. He has financed much of it, I might add. Trader, here are your crew and advisors.”

They sorted themselves out and stood expectantly, waiting to be presented. The first was broad-shouldered, of medium height, and stood stiffly erect. Dougal said, “Trader, this is Shipmaster MacLean of the Royal Merchant Service. He is qualified in both sail and motor vessels.”

“Honored,” MacLean mumbled, looking straight ahead. His grip was firm, testing MacKinnie’s, and Nathan was pleased to note the surprise in the officer’s eyes before he let go. The man was so obviously from the Haven Navy that MacKinnie could not understand how the Imperials would be expected to be deceived, but he said nothing.

“And this is Academician Longway, who studies social organization and primitive cultures as well as ancient history.” MacKinnie studied him closely. The man was broad and short, typical of the people of Prince Samual’s World, dark hair and light eyes, and could have been a miner if it were not for the thick spectacles. His kilt was scholarly, dark with a thin red stripe, but the grip was firm and the voice steady.

“Honored to meet you, Trader, and I must say, pleased to be selected for an expedition as important — important and rare — as this. It’s not often a scholar gets the chance to visit a really strange culture. I’ve been to the Archipelago, to many of the islands there, but of course it isn’t the same. I can’t say how pleased I am to be going with you. It’s an historic event.”

“Let’s hope you feel that way when we return,” MacKinnie said. He kept his voice as pleasant as possible, and found that easier than he had thought it would be. He had never liked men who chattered, but the enthusiastic friendliness of the scholar was infectious all the same. Longway motioned to the man who stood behind him.

The man was young, not more than twenty local years. He stood shuffling his feet nervously, his long gangling arms hanging loosely at his sides. He was of very slight build and stood with a stoop that made him seem even shorter than he was. He also wore thick spectacles, and his kilt was plain, smudged with ink and foodstains. He carried a large book under his left arm, and the end of a bulky notebook protruded from his pouch.

“This is my assistant, Scholar-Bachelor Kleinst,” Longway said. “Most brilliant student at the University, I might add. Does very good work.”

“Honored, Trader,” Kleinst mumbled, holding his hand out perfunctorily and withdrawing it limply as soon as possible. His voice matched his appearance, and MacKinnie instantly disliked him. Nathan turned expectantly to the last member of the group.

“Allow me to present Freelady Mary Graham,” Dougal said. “She will serve as your assistant and secretary. I might add that she is a graduate of the University.”

MacKinnie hid his surprise. There were few women in the universities, and fewer still graduated.

He had seen lovelier girls, the city of Haven being noted for the beauty of its women, but there was nothing wrong with Mary Graham’s appearance. She had the typical brown hair and light eyes of the Haven population, but she was considerably smaller than most of the city women; not so small as to be tiny, and well formed for her height. She wore rather severely tailored clothes which did not quite hide a pleasing figure, and Nathan noted that she stood attentively, waiting for him to speak, her nervousness betrayed only by a slight motion of her fingers drumming against her skirt. Nathan guessed her age at something more than twenty, but almost certainly below twenty-five.

“Honored, freelady,” he said, nodding slightly.

“My honor, Trader.”

Her voice was not unpleasant, MacKinnie decided. But her presence annoyed him. There was no need for women in an expedition as important as this, and he was surprised that Dougal would suggest it. In Nathan’s world women were divided into two groups: freeladies to be protected, and camp followers who served no less useful a purpose but who were more or less expendable. Mary Graham did not seem to fit into either category.

He was certain that he was again being tested, because a more unlikely group for saving the state would be hard to imagine. Dougal had explained the night before why MacKinnie himself should command the expedition. The Imperials were likely to know of any of Haven’s really competent officers, yet a military background seemed required if anything were to be accomplished on Makassar. Still, MacKinnie did not look or act exactly like a Trader, and the crew assembled here contained an obvious naval officer, a talkative scholar of uncertain abilities, a weakling of almost effeminate appearance, and a girl. Surely, he thought, the Imperials would suspect — but even if they did not, what would be gained by sending this group to Makassar?