"Just a minute, sir," Riddell said obsequiously. He fumbled beneath his cloak, drew forth his wallet. "Here you are."
The guard peered close as Riddell flipped through his wallet, ostensibly looking for the permit. "Hurry it up," the guard said. "You ought to know better than to go outside the walls."
"Dreadfully sorry, sir. Oh, there it is."
He sent a slip of paper fluttering to the ground. Involuntarily, the guard turned to see what it was. "Hey, that's no perm—"
Sorry, Riddell thought. He ripped upward with a crashing right, followed with a left pounded into the guard's stomach. The man staggered backward. Riddell grabbed him by the collar, hit him twice across the face, and he folded.
Riddell let the unconscious man sag to the ground. Then he looked around.
No one had seen the encounter. The quiet farm-houses remained quiet, the cows in the field ignored the incident, and the cloudless skies did not seem to care.
Hastily, Riddell dragged the guard off the road into a thick clump of underbrush and stripped the man's uniform off. It was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze into it. He tore his own cloak into strips, tied it around the guard's arms and legs, and adjusted his clothing.
Then he drew out the guard's wallet and examined it. He was now Corporal Edmund Calder of the Army of Northburg.
The new corporal Calder straightened up, cast a backward glance at the unconscious man in the shrubbery, and started walking towards the walls of the city of Northburg.