At Swords' Point by Andre Norton Page A

cap, the scar-dimple on the left cheek could never be forgotten. That was Corny Smits, one of the men van Norreys had deemed important for him to recognize.
    Dirk looked at his watch. “On time,” he commented mildly.
    Joris nodded. “As always. And a good run to him!”
    Quinn asked no questions. But he was doubly sure now that those he sailed with were linked with the organization represented in Dordrecht by the Jonkvrouw and Mijnheer van t'Zelfde. He was, the American concluded, in good hands and could allow himself to be borne along without struggling — even as the river was taking them to the town with the tongue-twisting name.
    Gorinchem was in sight, and Kemp loaded his film — shooting some feet of the trees waving in a thin spring sheen of green from the tops of the ancient bastions above a harbor crowded with small ships.
    â€œScenic tour,” Dirk broke the silence some time later. “If you will turn your eyes to port, my American friend, you will see just beyond that row of poplars an authentic castle — Loevestein.”
    â€œIt should be of particular interest to a scholar,” Joris added his bit, “since it was from there that Hugo Grotius, the founder of international law, made his escape in the seventeenth century — immured in a case of books —”
    â€œOnly good use for a library that I ever heard of,” was Baumgarde's comment. “Kind of rough traveling I would say — books can't make the easiest of beds.”
    Quinn dutifully regarded the distant view of Loevestein. His cold germs had stepped up their attack, and he was secretly glad he was not required to go ashore formore formal sightseeing.
    In time the Polite Policeman took itself through the lock at Andel. They ate and slept. Kemp shook his head over the unrewarding side vistas of dikes with villages perched on them, pieces of flood land choked with fantastic willow growths, and the low red roofs of factories, each over-topped with a towering chimney. Empty and loaded sand barges chugged by them constantly.
    Then came a second fortified city with tree-grown walls — Heusden — and again Kemp was busy with film. Another lock gate at Bokhoven brought them into the River Dieze and so to s'Hertogenbosch.
    There the party broke up. Kemp and his camera, and a very badly tied bundle of personal effects about which he seemed to care very little, went off with the methodical Baumgarde who had donned before parting both a meticulously tailored suit and the manner of a captain of industry who had been the chairman of the board at least five years. But their farewell to their companions was a casual one.
    Quinn was left to suspect that there might have been more to the voyage of the Polite Policeman than he had seen on the surface. The four rather ill-assorted shipmates had those easy manners with each other which come only from shared past campaigns.
    Joris Maartens shouldered ashore a battered bag and a briefcase which bore little kinship to the piece of similar luggage which was Quinn's property. But van der Horne carried nothing at all but Quinn's bags. They found a car waiting for them on the wharf, and the driver saluted Dirk.
    â€œYou will like the chateau.” Joris kicked aside his briefcase to make room for his feet, now sensibly shod in thick soled, rather clumsy looking shoes. “Do not hesitate to display to Anders the oubliette, Dirk. Of course it is no longer connected with the moat, but that should notin any way deprive it of its historical value —”
    â€œMy father,” Dirk supplied, “will undoubtedly look upon you as the rarest find I have yet brought Horne. He is writing a history of the van der Hornes and, to my certain knowledge, is still caught fast in the tangle of the fourteenth century, a time when our forefathers appear to have held extremely odd ideas concerning their rights over the persons and property of less well-armed neighbors.