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in his purse, a gold royal concealed in the heel of each boot, an eating knife and the clothes that he was wearing. Clink.
    "Blessings of the Deity on your house."
    Clink
    Three coppers, collected in as many minutes. Admittedly that had been during the rush after the shift change in a nearby bakery, yet three coppers would probably buy a cut of bread. This was certainly easier than hunting possums in the forests. The weather was mild, and he could probably crawl into the stables at the university and sleep on the straw.
    He started off for the university, displaying a limp and hunching
    his shoulders over. Before long a line of riders appeared ahead, escorting five covered wagons. Rangen cowered against a building as they passed, noting the faint, muffled sounds from the wagons as they passed. Gagged people would sound like that. Gagged people trying to attract attention before they reached the gates of Libris and vanished from sight forever.
    When Rangen reached the university his worst fears were exceeded. Groups of students were huddled together, whispering, while cloaked editors scuttled between buildings as if afraid to be seen in the open. The doors to the Department of Mathematics stood open, and the latch had been smashed from the wood. Rangen looked longingly at his college dormitory, but he dared not enter it to claim the clothes, books, border papers, oddments, and money that were all his. Two mounted Dragon Librarians were observing the scene from near the gates, and more would surely be lurking about in disguise.
    Rangen knew that without the protection of the Beggars' Guild he could be beaten up and robbed by any bully boy who thought that he might carry the price of a pint of ale, but to gain membership of the guild he had to be inspected by a medician. That was out of the question. He limped toward the laundaric and rapped timidly at the open door. The turbaned head of the washerman bobbed up from beneath the counter.
    "Off, going away, out!" he shouted. "No beggarings!"
    "Please, noble Fras, Fse wantin' work, like," replied Rangen.
    "No beggarings. Out!"
    "I can stoke tubs a-night, Fse lame, not weak."
    The washerman of the laundaric pointed and opened his mouth again, but now Rangen was pointing—directly at him.
    "Just a moment, now," he said, letting his new accent slip. "Northmoor sash tied up like an Alspring turban, a Kalgoorlie kaftan, and a very unconvincing Southmoor accent."
    "I am Kamis bal-Krees, laundaric master from the distant may-orate of North—argh!"
    Rangen had struck off his makeshift turban with his crutch.
    "All the way from your father's estate in Rutherglen, by the look of your hairstyle."
    "I surrender, I surrender!" the washerman cried, raising his hands. "Grand and merciful Dragon Librarian, master of disguise—"
    "Shut up and keep your bloody voice down!" hissed Rangen, as he pulled the door closed. "Now, who are you—really?"
    "I—I am Rhyn Ponsington-Taraven, student of general studies and youngest son of Lord Ponsington-Taraven, in the mayorate of Rutherglen."
    "Ponsington-Taraven, ah yes, I have heard your name spoken among the mathematics editors. You took five years to pass some subject like Basic Arithmetic for Very Stupid People with Very Rich Fathers."
    "I say, that's being a bit harsh. It was Introductory Mathematics and Commercial Methods ... or was it Introduction to Commercial Mathematics and, ah, er—"
    "And my bet is that you dashed in here when the Dragon Librarians arrived to abduct anyone who could count more than their allocation of fingers and toes, noted that the washerman had already been carted away, and tried to take his place."
    "Why, how did you—"
    "Have you a razor here?"
    "A razor? Why, yes. The former washerman's effects were left behind when he was carried away."
    Rangen hurriedly sorted through a rack of clothing.
    "Take this, this, and this, shave your head, then come back here. You are now Bandilsi ba'Krees, a refugee Southmoor eunuch."
    "I