To be safe he had to be sick in a special way-still able to work, but so sick as to be unable to do anything but the least strenuous sort of labor. He thought for a while longer, and then Gord had his plan.

The turnkey came at dawn as usual, heralded by the sound of his huge iron key grating in the massive lock, while the waiting guard thumped his truncheon against the oaken door. Everyone would be awake when the portal swung open and food was doled out. A large man carried the water butt, while a crone parceled out the bread from the sack she toted. Nobody noticed Gord, the last in line, until he came near the trustees. The old woman lurched back with a shriek, and the water-bearer looked pale at the sight of the boy. Gord’s eyes were red-rimmed and watering. He sniveled and wiped absently at the mucus dripping from his nose. His face, body, and extremities were marked by scabby sores.

“The little bugger’s got the plague!” the hag screeched.

“Keep ’im away from me!”

The turnkey and the guard looked at Gord, who smiled weakly at them, shrugging, then looked at each other. Yarm, the turnkey, scratched his head and offered a diagnosis. “It do look kinda like bloodpox, Clyde, but he ain’t wobblin’ an’ twitchin’ like they do.” He scratched his head again, knocking his steel cap awry.

“C’mere, boy!” commanded Clyde, the guard. He watched Gord approach hesitantly. Gord was careful not to wobble or twitch, because bloodpox was a serious malady indeed-too serious for his purpose. He advanced slowly to within a couple of paces of the men. Without touching him, both guard and turnkey looked closely at him. Now, Yarm was stumped.