So they rode to Amiens together, after purchasing oats from the head man of the village. Jack bought enough to fill Turk's belly, and Monsieur Arlanc bought the rest of the year's harvest (he would send wagons later to take delivery). Jack told no lies – just lounged on the rim of the town well, looking like a Volunteer, as the local deserters and highwaymen were called. After that it was a good stiff ride to Amiens, where there was a large establishment throttling a crossroads: livery stables nearly buried in hay, and paddocks crowded with oxen; queues of empty wagons lining the road (some soon to be hired by M. Arlanc); several smithys, some geared for shoeing horses, others for putting rims on wagon-wheels. As well, harness-shops, and various carpenters specializing in wheels, ox-yokes, cart-frames, and barrel-making. Trains of harvest-laden carts filling the roadway, waiting to be inspected, and to pay tolls. Somewhere, a lodging for traders and travelers that accounted for its being called an Inn. From a distance, it was a great dark smoking knot, clearly recognizable as not Jack's sort of place – he unbelted his sword, slid it back into its concealment in the crutch-pole, and began winding it up again.