A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 12

When the sun was setting on a village far to the south, the churl “elder” (he was in his fifties) was leading his work gang home from the fields. As they came, they sang a slow ballad with a heavy rhythm—a work song that any listening Lord would have thought was pure nonsense. Even the numbers didn’t make sense.

As they sang, another churl in a dust-stained tunic exactly like theirs stepped out of a thicket by the roadway and fell in with them. No one seemed to notice, but the air about them was suddenly charged with tension.

The newcomer eased his way up to the headman. The “elder” glanced at the garnet ring on the stranger’s hand, and looked away. “What word, Sky-man?”

“The bell is rungen. Bring down your Lords at midnight; then send men to Albemarle.”

The “elder” nodded thoughtfully and fell in with the song again. The gang wound on home as though nothing had happened; and, where an outcrop of forest touched the path near the village, the stranger slipped away.

The men went on into the circle of thatched huts as though it were any other evening. Each went to his own house, but with a stony look on his face. Then the village proceeded to supper, and gossip in the doorways, and mending tools and clothes, as it always did, while the sun finished setting and the first stars came out. When the light was gone, each family went back in within doors, and the village slept—a little more than ninety souls.

A little later, young men began slipping out of huts, one by one, and out to the fields. When they came to open ground, they struck out running—the easy, regular lope of long distances. There were perhaps nine of them in all, each striking out in a different direction.

The elder of a nearby village woke in the velvet darkness, frowning. It came again—a quiet, steady knocking. The elder’s face went blank; he climbed out of his pallet.

He opened the door to see a tall young churl with the light behind him, breathing heavily. The elder scowled. “Jaques Farmer-of-Thierry’s son,” he growled; there was little love lost between his own village and its nearest neighbor, on the next estate. “More foolish than I thought, to run about at night.”

“ ‘DeCade has rungen the Bell,’ ” the youth panted. “ ‘Bring down your Lord at midnight; then send men to Albemarle.’ ”

The elder’s face went blank again. Then he turned aside, murmuring kindly, “Come in. You must take food and drink, poor lad.”

The lad went in, smiling his thanks; the door closed behind him.

A little later, the elder’s son slipped out and went from door to door.

Not long after, nine young men struck out running into the fields, each in a different direction. By the time the courier set off on his way home, eighty-one villages had been informed, and each had sent out nine more runners.

DeCade’s band slipped through the darkened forest with no more noise than a brisk breeze makes—except for Dirk. He was feeling highly embarrassed; he didn’t seem to be able to take a step without snapping a twig. He was indulging himself in feeling mortified when a tiny buzz sounded, no louder than a cricket.

DeCade stopped just before him and scowled back over his shoulder.

Dirk pried the stone from the ring, set it to his ear, and tapped an acknowledgment on the frayed end of his rope belt.

“All agents have reported back,” the Captain’s voice informed him. “Each has alerted at least one village—fifty villages in each province, a thousand in all.”

Dirk frowned as he tapped acknowledgment; that didn’t sound like much, out of 250,000 square miles. “Our agents have alerted fifty villages in each province,” he informed DeCade.

Near them, Lapin nodded in satisfaction. “And each has told nine other villages; each of those has told nine more. I doubted, Dirk Dulain, but you spoke truth—they will all rise by midnight.”

“It does rather look that way.” Dirk was numb; somehow the scope of the whole thing hadn’t hit him before.

“I cannot believe it has truly begun,” Madelon breathed.

DeCade grunted. “You will when you see the blood.”

Suddenly a low, deep thrumming filled the air. All heads snapped up, craning back their necks to watch the stars being blotted out in an expanding ellipse. A mutter of fear and awe swept through them, their eyes bulging; then the blot on the sky was gone, and a black ship’s gig pressed down on the meadow grass near them. The thrumming stopped; the churls stood, awed and staring.

Then a whispered cheer hissed from their throats, and they leaped forward, running toward the ship. As they came up, a rectangular section of the side dropped forward and out; bright light cut a swath across the clearing. The churls stopped, uncertain, prickling with superstitious fear, muttering.

A tall, lean figure in tight-fitting black appeared against the light, surveyed them, then stepped out into the meadow. Behind him, another appeared with a cube about a foot and a half on a side. He set it down and turned back to take another like it from a third man, who appeared in the hatch.

The first man wrenched open the crate and lifted out a laser pistol. He held it out, butt first, to the churl nearest him. Hesitantly, the churl took it, and the sky-man lifted out another.

With a moan of delight, the churls pressed in.

The churls from all the villages on the estates of Louvrais had gathered, muttering and shifting nervously about, in a great meadow surrounded by woodlots, just below the Lord’s castle. Now and again, they glanced anxiously at the sky; but the moon hid its face, and the stars watched, uncaring.

Two hundred miles away, Lord Propin finished with his concubine for the evening and rolled over on his side to sleep. The girl lay, keeping her face carefully neutral, listening. Even after she heard the deep, even breathing of sleep, she waited; but her beautiful face slowly contorted with hate and disgust. Finally, sure the Lord was deeply asleep, she rose, glided to his wardrobe, and slid a jeweled dagger from its sheath on an embossed leather belt. She glided back through a single shaft of moonlight to his bedside, and stood looking down at him. Slowly she smiled as she raised the dagger and plunged it home.

To the south, in Lord Ubiquii’s tall, moated castle, two guards stood leaning on their pikes outside the Lord’s bedroom door.

A Butler came discreetly down the hall and stopped to murmur in the ear of the older guard. The guard’s face turned grim; he nodded shortly. The Butler bowed courteously and moved away.

The younger man frowned. “What was that about?”

“It could be trouble,” the older guard said slowly, “but not enough to trouble His Lordship. Go to the guardroom and tell Sergeant Garstang to come here with five picked men.”

The younger man cocked his head to one side, frowning.

“Go!” the older man barked. “Do as you are bid!”

The younger man turned away, still watching his companion out of the corner of his eye.

The elder waited till the younger man had passed from sight, waited till his footsteps had faded away. Then he turned, opened the door he guarded, and went in to murder his Lord.

In Château Grenoble, the kitchen drudge came to the head Butler, murmuring quietly to him. He listened thoughtfully, nodding; she turned away. Then the Butler told one of his footmen to bear a message to a certain Sergeant of Guards. As the footman went, the Butler passed among the other servants, murmuring briefly to each; one by one, they finished what they were doing and went to the kitchens, where they took up knives and cleavers.

They marched up the great stairs toward the chamber where their Lord and Lady lay sleeping, each of them remembering many humiliations, injuries, and loved ones lost. On a landing they met a troop of guardsmen. The sergeant and the Butler exchanged glances, then marched on up the stairs, side by side. Fifty Soldiers and servants followed them.

The castle of Miltrait had a lord with a nasty, suspicious mind; he’d always made sure he kept a good standing army handy within the walls of his keep, and a squad of young lordlings (mostly his own) to stand behind the Soldiers with lasers. The lordlings had stood night watch in the barracks; which was why, though the house churls had opened the gate, the rebel army wasn’t making much headway.

The courtyard was a frenzy of torchlight, hoarse screams, bellows of rage, winking laser beams, and the clatter of steel. At its center stood the Lord, armor bolted over his nightshirt, hewing and hacking about him, bellowing, “On, my bullies, on! Force them out through the gate; free this castle of vermin!” And slowly, bit by bit, the churls were being pushed back to the wall.

But, silent and unseen above them, a huge black egg drifted down, hovering over the battlements. One of its turrets swiveled downward, lining up on the Lord.

He happened to glance upward, saw the dark blot against the stars, and realized what was happening. He sprang backward with a bellow of warning—but the turret tracked him, and a rod of red fire sizzled out, strafing the long line of lordlings.

The Lord died in an instant. Some of his men survived long enough for the knives of the churls to reach them.

Lady Pomgrain fled back through the keep. Behind her, in the great hall, the air danced with laser bolts. Steel clashed on steel. Her husband fought like a maniac with the handful of gentlemen left to him, guarding her line of escape, but the churls pressed them hard; as soon as one was dispatched, another popped up in his place.

The Lady threw open a door on a spiral stair, stepped in, and bolted the door behind her. Up and up she climbed, panting heavily, till she came to a door at the roof of the tower. She leaned against it, gasping till she’d recovered a little of her strength; then, fumbling her keys in her fear, she unlocked it. The door swung open; she all but fell in.

The room was empty and clean, as immaculate as gray stone can be, except for a large metal console with a viewscreen in its center, at the far side of the small room. The Lady staggered over to it, pushed a button, and jewel-lights glowed into life. She threw a key and spoke into a grid on the console’s face: “Alarm, alarm, emergency! The churls have risen on the estates of Pomgrain! They have taken the castle; they are slaying the nobles! Send help; let all men guard their own!”

The message rolled out from her castle in a huge, expanding globe. It touched castle after castle; and where it touched, receiving sets woke into life.

DeCade and Dirk had donned outlaw clothing against the chill of the dark predawn hours, but Dirk still wore the rope belt, and the garnet in his ear.

The garnet buzzed; Dirk tapped recognition on the end of the rope/transmitter. He listened for a few minutes, frowning, then tapped an acknowledgment and turned to DeCade. “The word is out; the churls of Pomgrain took their Lady too late. She sent out an alarm with her communicator. As I understand it, any incoming signal on the emergency frequency automatically turns the receivers on. All the Lords will know it by now.”

“I think they knew it already, from sources closer to home,” DeCade said thoughtfully.

The alarm rattled from communicators all over the land; but in most castles, they spoke to empty air; there was no one near them. Some heard, but also heard the pounding at the door.

In the King’s castle at Albemarle, a young lord jerked up out of a doze, listened a moment, appalled, then dashed from the room, to bear the word to Lord Core.

Core had just ridden in, covered with dust, choleric and choking. He listened incredulously; then he slashed out at the young Lord with the back of his hand, snarling. The lordling leaped back adroitly and was about to take offense when he realized Core was already gone, angrily pacing away, bellowing orders.

Ten minutes later, a fleet of small sentry boats with large laser cannon lifted off the roof of the palace, streaking away to all points of the compass.

The King did not hear. The King did nothing. The small silvery boats sped out across the countryside, so high up that the first few rays of dawn turned their hulls to rose.

As they sailed, tiny black specks appeared above them, swelling suddenly into squat black ship’s gigs bristling with turrets. They fell like stones flung by giants. Too late, the silvery boats detected them and swung about, to bring their single lasers to bear. Rays of fire spat, and the silvery boats fell out of the sky, burning in glory.

Occasionally the black boat would fall, and the silver would speed on alone; another black speck would appear, high above it.

On the estate of Milord Megrin, the churls from all the villages converged on the castle, scythes and flails in hand. Atop the wall, sentries saw them and cried out in alarm. A corporal came running to each of them—and sapped them neatly behind the ear.

As the churls marched up to the great gate, it swung open, and they strode on in, to be met by servants, and not a few guardsmen. Silently, the Butler led them into the great hall, where they formed a semicircle, facing the great central archway. There they waited.

Suddenly Lord Megrin, with his wife and three children, came stumbling through the archway in their nightclothes. Behind them came a score of grim-faced Soldiers, their pikes at the ready. The Lord and his family stumbled to a stop, staring about them in the torchlight, dazed. Then the Lord cried out in indignation, “What means this! Why have you gathered here without my leave!” But there was an echo of dread in his voice.

The Butler stepped forward, his face politely grave. “DeCade has risen, Lord; his Bell is rungen. Throughout the land, churls are rising to strike down their Lords.”

The Lord blanched, and his wife gasped, burying her face in her hands. Then she fell to one knee and clutched her children to her.

“Have I been so evil to you, then,” he said quietly, “that you must serve me in like fashion?”

“You have not, milord, and well you know it. You have ruled well and wisely over us; we have been fortunate indeed. Your punishments have always been just, and never harsh; you have never been cruel, nor taken advantage of our bodies. You have always seen that no man starved or froze, even if your family and yourself had to eat Lenten rations in the Christmastide to do it. Your wife has nursed us in our illness; you have cared for us and protected us. And, as you have served us, so shall we serve you now.”

The Lord heaved a huge sigh of relief and relaxed; his wife looked up, unbelieving. Then tears of joy filled her eyes.

“But you must understand,” the Butler said more gravely, “that what has happened now, must happen; too many of our brethren have dwelt in torture and abasement. The wheel has turned; the churls must rule. You may no longer be Lord of this manor.”

The Lord stood stiffly, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he bowed his head.

“Yet credit us with sense,” the Butler said more gently. “We doubt that any one among us could administer this manor half so well as your good self; we own it now, in common, but we wish you still to oversee the running of it, to instruct us and direct us.”

The Lord stared, unbelieving. Then he cocked his head to the side, frowning. “Let me be sure I understand you. You tell me that I am your servant now, but that the service you require of me is your governing.”

The Butler nodded, relief evident in his face before he brought it under control again. “Save only this: you are no more a servant than any other here. All here are now members of the community, and servants of it.”

The Lord pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That is more than justice. If the churls have risen, as you say, you do me and mine much mercy.”

“Only yours returned, milord. As you have cared for us, so we shall care for you.”

“But will they let you?” the Lord demanded. “Will not DeCade, or whoever rises to rule the churls, demand our blood?”

His wife looked up, alarmed.

“They may,” the Butler said grimly, “but only if they kill each one of us to reach you. You are our Lord, and not a man shall touch a hair of your head!”

A rumble of agreement passed through the crowd.

The Lord stood a moment, trembling; then his eyes filled with tears.

DeCade led his army out of the forest into a meadow. Dirk’s head suddenly snapped up; he listened for a moment, then put out a hand to DeCade. “Tell them to wait.”

DeCade frowned, but raised a hand, signaling for a halt. The outlaws and other churls stopped, watching him, frowning.

Then they heard the low thrumming filling the air.

All eyes snapped up as the big black ship’s gig floated down out of darkness. It touched earth; hatches opened, and a gang of black-clothed figures started hauling out crates.

“Your weapons, DeCade,” Dirk said, pokerfaced. “Handle with care.”

DeCade’s eyes flamed. He swung his arm over his head, and the churls charged up to the ship with a ragged cheer. As the sky-men handed out pistols, grinning, five more ship’s gigs came to land.

The army paused for instruction and target practice, on the each-one-teach-one system. Then they moved on toward Albemarle, singing softly, like a wind of destruction.

Moonlight painted swaths across the floor of the barracks room in the Lord de Breton’s castle. The Soldiers snored on their pallets, a double row of gray-blanketed mounds.

A stocky figure in footman’s livery appeared in the doorway.

Silently, it padded down the alleyway between the pallets and stopped next to a sergeant. He placed a hand on the Soldier’s shoulder and squeezed; the sergeant sat bolt upright, instantly awake. The liveried figure whispered in his ear, then stood back; quickly and silently, the sergeant came to his feet. He took down his harness from a peg on the wall and strapped on his weapons. Then he padded down the alleyway, stopping here and there beside a sleeping Soldier. Wherever he stopped, he lifted a small bludgeon, and, remembering the Lord’s rape of his sister on her wedding night, struck the sleeping man behind the ear. The Soldier grunted and went limp. The sergeant bound each one with his own harness, gagged him, and moved on to the next who might possibly be loyal to the Lord. When he had finished with the last suspect comrade, he straightened, surveyed the room for a moment, then prowled down along the alley again, shaking the remaining soldiers awake, whispering in their ears. They came to their feet, one by one, and dressed for war—chain mail and steel helmets—and picked up swords and crossbows. The sergeant stood surveying them as they drew up in formation; then he nodded, and turned to lead the way out the door.

As they marched, he beckoned to one Soldier and murmured in his ear; the man turned away, to slip across the courtyard to the gate tower.

The gatekeeper sat his post, drowsing off to sleep. The Soldier’s blade chopped down, and the gatekeeper slept very well indeed. The Soldier took the windlass, cranking it carefully. Slowly, the great drawbridge came down, thumped home. A horde of churls materialized from the shadows and swept in through the gate in almost military order, with scythe-blades fixed to knife-handles, and here and there the gleam of an old, but very-well-cared-for sword.

They moved in silently, divided into Tradesmen and Farmers, each village following its elder.

At the doors to the keep, the servants waited. As the churls came up, the servants turned away and strode into the castle. The army broke up into squadrons, each following a servant.

The castle woke to torchlight, shrieks, and cries. Half the Lord’s Gentlemen ran from their bedrooms, buckling on swords. The other half would never wake again; the sergeant and his Soldiers had seen to that.

The remaining Gentlemen pulled together quickly and turned to fight the horde that pressed them; but the scythe-blades were sharp and the arms strong. Only the gentlemen in the front rank could use their lasers, and the hall was narrow. Churls screamed and died on lances of light, but their cousins behind them chopped off the arms that held the pistols. The Gentlemen fell back, retreating further and further upward, to their Lord’s bedchamber.

The Lord stood in the doorway, beckoning. Quickly, the Gentlemen filed into the room, and the huge door boomed shut behind them. A moment later, the churls filled the corridor, bellowing for blood. Two Soldiers shouldered their way to the fore, attacking the oak with battle-axes.

Inside the Lord swung back a section of wall and stood back while his family and all his Gentlemen filed down a hidden spiral staircase. The Lord waited till the last man was past him, then sealed the wall behind him. When the Soldiers broke into the room, it was empty.

Half an hour later and a mile away, the Lord and his retinue filed out of a hidden tunnel mouth. The churls were gone from the village; they had no trouble stealing horses. They mounted and rode away, cantering through the night.

Dirk marched with the garnet in his ear, now; the reports were beginning to come in quickly. He looked about him and saw only darkened woodland. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of an outlaw sliding through a moonbeam, and there was always the dark bulk of DeCade a little in front of him, and Madelon, Father Fletcher, and Lapin behind; but that small band could almost have been walking alone through the forest.

And they weren’t showing any sign of slackening. Dirk wasn’t, either, but it was only good acting; his legs felt like noodles. It had been three hours since DeCade had called a rest.

His earphone buzzed; Dirk lowered his head, frowning. “Dulain here.” He listened silently, then nodded. “Received, with thanks. Keep me informed.” Then he looked up at the giant. “DeCade! Most of the castles have fallen; only a handful still fight—the ones where we had none of the Soldiers.”

DeCade nodded. “As expected. Those few will fight well into tomorrow, and some may need a full siege. No matter; we should have men to send them in plenty, by this hour tomorrow.”

Dirk frowned; the giant didn’t even seem to conceive of failure anymore. It could be a good thing, but … “In many of the castles, the Lords escaped.”

DeCade nodded again. “Of course. Let them ride through the night till they come to Albemarle. Let them ride.”

It didn’t seem like good tactics; why go against any stronger a garrison then they had to, at the King’s castle? But Dirk shrugged, and, with a sigh, relayed the order on up, then looked up at DeCade, frowning thoughtfully. “Uh … some of the agents saw the fighting. They were flabbergasted by its smoothness.”

“Were they?”

Dirk bit down on a surge of irritation, then let it pass. “Yes. You must admit it looks a little strange—a horde of peasants who’ve never had any military training, falling in like the best-disciplined army, each man doing exactly what he’s supposed to, without question, with perfect coordination, perfect timing.”

“Why should this surprise you?” DeCade countered. “You saw it at the arena.”

“Well, yes. But I didn’t understand it then, either.”

“Even though you felt it well enough to act on it.” DeCade smiled tightly. “Still, you wish the names for it.”

Dirk nodded. “We sky-men are peculiar that way, yes.” Suddenly, bitterly, he felt his isolation from these people again.

DeCade sighed and came to a stop. He pressed a hand to his forehead, muttering, “I must have your words.” He stood a moment in silence, stiffened. Lapin, Madelon, and the priest stared in alarm. Dirk gave them what he hoped was a reassuring nod and turned back to DeCade.

The giant lifted his head, took a long breath, then nodded and strode forward once again. “Well enough. You know our people are descended from a mere dozen, each of whom was multiplied by magic—‘cloned,’ you call it—into many thousands.”

Dirk nodded.

“Seven hundred years go by,” DeCade went on. “The blood of those twelve has mingled again and again, but with no more mingling between types than the Lords could possibly help. There are now twelve clans—but each member of each clan is as like to every other as peas in a pod.”

“Genetically identical,” Dirk murmured. DeCade nodded. “That is your term. It takes sharp looking to tell one Tradesman from another. And the mode of living the Lords enforce for each clan makes all homes alike. At first each set of parents was somewhat different, probably; but as time went on, the differences damped out; within each clan, the people of each generation behaved more and more like one another. Each person had the same heredity; and, since parents and lifestyle are nearly identical, each person has an environment virtually the same. A Tradesman’s house is different from a Farmer’s, and a country Tradesman’s house is different from a town Tradesman’s—but town Tradesmen live in town, and have for several hundred years. Where your grandfather was born, so were you.”

“Yes,” Dirk murmured, remembering the family traditions his father had taught him. “For seven hundred years.”

“Well, there you have it.” DeCade shrugged. “Within each clan, heredity and environment are identical for every person.”

Dirk stopped as though he’d run into a brick wall.

DeCade stopped, too, nodding down at him, brooding. “You told it to this body; did you realize what it meant? If heredity and environment are identical, behavior must be identical, too. Give any Tradesman a stimulus, and he will react like any other Tradesman. We know this; we feel it; and so we know what each of our clansmen will do. All know each other’s actions before they do them; each knows what must be done. However, there is still enough of human caution in any group so that no man will move until another does. But give them one man to walk before them, and all will walk behind him, do as he does—for they know, in any set of circumstances, everything that must be done.”

“And the leader could be any one of them.” Dirk flashed the mental picture of the caterpillars crawling around and around the rim of the flowerpot again, and shuddered. He shook his head quickly to rid himself of it. “But some clans would have natural reactions that wouldn’t fit the situation.”

DeCade nodded, turned away, and began walking again. “They must be made to understand that silence is necessary till the battle’s joined, or you lose all advantage of surprise. So the Wizard sent directions down the ages; he set his battle-plan to rhyme and tune and gave it piecemeal to the churls to sing. Fathers teach these songs to sons, mothers to daughters—and they become a part of the environment. With those songs echoing in mind tonight, each verse called up as events cued it, no churl could set foot wrong.”

“A natural army,” Dirk breathed, “bred that way for seven hundred years.” He had a sudden terrifying vision of what his cousins could do if they were ever unleashed upon the galaxy.

DeCade nodded. “And thus the Lords made certain their own downfall. They planned this world well and thoroughly, and made it adhere to that plan down through the centuries. But no plan can include all factors because the factors change, and no man can read the future till it’s done. The human creature is perverse, is it not? We always find the road the intellect did not see, nor want.”

Dirk thought of Finagle and held his peace.

The Lord de Breton galloped through the night with his family and his entourage; their hooves rumbled like cannon wheels through the moonlight.

As they came to a crossroads, another troop came galloping out, nearly colliding with them. The Lord swore, sawing back on the reins; men cursed and women screamed. Horses slewed to a stop with stiffened legs, churning up dust. The Lord grabbed at his sword; then he froze, staring at the brightly dressed figure at the head of the strangers, recognizing the Lord Montpasse.

The two troops stared at one another for a long, frozen moment; then the two troops mingled, with loud laughter of relief and friendly insults.

A few minutes later, a single, stronger band trotted through the night, with two Lords at its head. Five miles later, they caught up with another doubled band; then another, and another. Soon a thousand horses rumbled down the King’s Highway, bound for Albemarle.

Dirk’s earphone clicked. He frowned and tapped out an acknowledgment. He listened for a few minutes, then pulled himself to his feet and threaded his way through the packed bodies in the huge clearing, elbowing his way toward DeCade.

It was dawn, and DeCade had finally declared a rest. It was needed. Their numbers had kept growing through the night; they’d been joined by small bands of outlaws and churls at every mile. It was a huge motley army, and it needed sorting out—by clans, of course.

It was also a very weary army. Dirk had worried about that, until the word had started circulating that they’d be at Albemarle by noon—no wonder, the way DeCade had been pushing the pace. Dirk was relieved. Okay, they’d hit Albemarle bone-tired but everyone could get at least six hours’ sleep before they had to get organized for a night attack.

DeCade looked up as Dirk snaked his way through to the giant and flopped down beside him. “What word?”

“The Lords ride,” Dirk answered. “The ones who escaped are riding down the main roads toward Albemarle. And they’re joining up with each other: some of the bands are several thousand strong.”

DeCade nodded. “As it should be. Send word to let them ride, but not let them rest. Pick off the stragglers and outriders; that will keep them fearful and running.”

Dirk frowned. “Sure you want to do that? They’ll double the size of the garrison, at least.”

“More, by far.” DeCade smiled, gloating. “There should be at least three thousand of them come to their King for sanctuary—probably five—and the castle was built for a thousand only. The King won’t need to go outside his own house to find chaos.”

“Not that he ever does, anyway.” Dirk pursed his lips. “Doesn’t it bother you that they’ll triple their fighting strength?”

DeCade shook his head. “Better to have all the rats in one nest and destroy them at one blow.” Dirk thought of a nice, tidy little tactical bomb dropping down on the packed castle, and he shuddered. “You sure you—”

“Send the word,” DeCade snapped. “This, too, the Wizard planned, Dirk Dulain.”

Dirk frowned up at him, wondering if there was anything of Gar left at all in the huge body. Then he met DeCade’s flinty stare and decided not. He stood up and wormed his way through to a clear space, and sent the message. Could’ve done it there, with DeCade, of course; but somehow he just didn’t want to be near the big man right now…

“He is a wonder, is he not?”

Dirk looked down toward the voice and saw Madelon. Instantly, his face lost all expression. “I suppose so,” he said slowly, “but not quite a miracle, if that’s what you mean. Not quite.” She glared up at him. “How can you say that? Surely it is a miracle for a man to come alive again in another’s body!”

“Not when the ‘miracle’ is helped a little by machines.”

“Machines! What machines were there, in DeCade’s great cave?”

“His staff.” Dirk ignored her shocked stare and sat down beside her. “I took a look at it while it was still broken. There are tiny wires inside it, and each of them is a string of circuits-off-world magic. I didn’t know what kind of machine it was, but now I think I do.”

“Oh? And what, may I ask, would it be?”

“A psionic recorder and amplifier. When DeCade held that staff five hundred years ago, it recorded his thoughts through the brass bands on it. So there they lay, for five hundred years, waiting for somebody to grab hold of the conductors and put the two broken ends together, completing the circuit. Apparently three ordinary men tried—and it poured DeCade’s memories into them through their hands. Their nervous systems couldn’t take two personalities at once; the men died from shock.”

Madelon’s eyes widened. “But did you not tell me Gar was a psycha-psychometter …”

“A psychometrist. Yes. He could’ve picked up DeCade’s memories just from touching the staff, even without a recorder.”

“So when he did touch the staff …” she whispered.

Dirk nodded. “He got the whole thing. Not just DeCade’s memories added to his own—he got DeCade. All of him—the whole personality.”

“He became DeCade,” she breathed. Then she frowned. “But if he is this thought-reader you speak of, would not the staff have killed him more surely than the others?”

Dirk nodded. “Ordinarily, yes. But he wasn’t in his ordinary state at the time, you see—his mind had withdrawn into some remote corner of his brain. His whole nervous system was clear for DeCade to charge into. He found a mind like a blank sheet of paper—so he wrote on it.”

“And came alive again.” She turned to look at DeCade, where he sat on a log across the clearing, occasionally visible through the weaving bodies. “But—Gar’s mind is still in him?”

“Oh yes. You’ve heard him say it—that he has the memories of the man who owned the body. But more than that—he’s got the personality, too, probably still walled off in its corner—and every now and then, I think it tries to get out. When he turns silent and just stands there, scowling as though he’s got a headache, I think Gar’s trying to come through. From what I’ve heard of DeCade, he’s pretty much of a hothead—act first and think later. But Gar goes at it the other way around—when the time comes for action, he’s got it all thought out and ready. No, he’s still there—and, at a guess, he’s accepting the whole thing—for now, anyway. He knows this is his one chance to get a revolution going on this planet and that it won’t succeed without his thinking backing up DeCade’s actions.”

Madelon stared at him, scandalized by heresy; then she frowned thoughtfully and turned to gaze at the giant where he sat, head bowed, hands on the brass bands of the staff laid across his thighs. “Are they speaking to one another now, inside his head, where none can see or hear them? Are they working out a plan together—or warring?”

“I don’t know,” Dirk frowned down at her, noting the look in her eyes—awed, worshipful—and realized he’d made his own case worse. DeCade alone she might worship, but she’d never have thought of touching him; you don’t try for an affair with a god. But now Dirk had put the thought in her head that DeCade wasn’t quite infallible—and, worse, that there was an ordinary, accessible mortal inside his body. And one, moreover, that she’d been extremely interested in, anyway. Resentment tightened into resolution; Dirk stood up. “I don’t know,” he said again, “but I think I’ll find out.” And he strode away across the clearing; ignoring her startled protest.

DeCade still sat silent, frowning in concentration. Dirk hesitated as he came up to the giant, then sat down slowly and waited.

After a time, DeCade shook his head and closed his eyes. Then he opened them and looked up at Dirk. “What troubles your mind; Outlander?”

Dirk frowned back at him thoughtfully, trying to find a place to begin. What did you say to a man of two minds? “Hi, there! Can I speak with your better half?”

“You are not sure of me, are you?” DeCade said suddenly.

Dirk stared for a moment, taken aback. Then he smiled slowly. “No more than you are of me, DeCade—and you aren’t, or you wouldn’t call me ‘Outlander.’ ”

DeCade held his gaze a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yet you would not deny that you are an outlander.”

Dirk shook his head. “I’m a churl born, like the rest of you. From my tenth year I’ve lived among the sky-men, true; but I’m still a churl.”

DeCade shook his head, too. “Not like the rest of us, no. You know the secrets of the sky-men, and you have known freedom. You are apart from us, Dirk Dulain—no matter your birth and your childhood.”

Dirk bit down on his anger. He knew the cause: DeCade was right.

“So much for yourself.” DeCade stared intently into his eyes. “Why do you doubt me?”

“Oh, I don’t. I believe you’re DeCade—but…” He pursed his lips, staring back into the giant’s eyes. “Did you sleep well?”

DeCade shrugged impatiently. “What is a sleep? The light goes; then it comes again and you wake. There were no dreams, Dulain—only three spots of light, down the centuries: Fools—petty, ambitious, grasping fools—who took up my staff in hopes of becoming kings. They were small men, and weak; they could not contain me within them.”

“But this man—Gar—can,” Dirk said softly.

DeCade nodded. “He is truly a man, as great as ever I was.” A shadow of doubt crossed his face. “Perhaps greater …” He shrugged, irritated. “No matter. We are two strong men; we have two sources of strength to guide this people now.” His eyes had become compelling, almost hypnotizing. “We are both here, you see—both in this body. I speak now, my will rules—but only because this fellow—Gar, as you call him—is wholly behind me and with me.”

Dirk heaved a sigh of relief, which surprised him; he hadn’t realized he was that uncertain about Gar’s survival. “Well … I’m glad you two worked things out between you …”

DeCade grinned. “Oh, there was something of trouble at first—a few seconds only, to you, but hours to us. Both of us were startled, alarmed—and very ready to fight. Your friend came boiling out of his hole to crush the invader, and we locked horns almost eagerly, and strained, feinted, countered and struck—till, from the wrangle, he realized whom he was fighting and why I was with him. I shocked him out of a sleep, too, you see; but presently he knew me.”

“Yes,” Dirk said slowly, “he would be good at reading people, wouldn’t he?”

DeCade frowned. “How much did you know of this man?”

“A lot—though I didn’t realize it soon enough. I figured out he was a mindreader, and a man who read minds from their artefacts—but only when it was too late… So you’re both there, both within the same body, both still alive?”

DeCade nodded. “Yes. And because of that, I trust you more than any of these others.”

Dirk frowned. “Would you mind explaining that?” DeCade turned, looking out over the camp. “I know I can trust them, in that they will do whatever I say; the Wizard did his work well—better than he promised me. But they are loyal to a legend, a rumor, to a thing greater than human that the Wizard’s songs have built down the centuries. Theirs is blind, unquestioning obedience and faith—and the part of me that is like them is warm with their love and trusting. But …” His eyes swung back to Dirk. “There is another part of me now, with memories I never lived through; and that part is like you: an outlander.”

Dirk nodded slowly. “And that part knows that I’m loyal not out of faith, but from reason.”

DeCade grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. Dirk picked himself up off the ground and looked up at the giant, whose face had turned grim. “The others will do as I say, blindly, unthinking. But you will question me if I may be wrong.”

Dirk nodded. “Oh yes. You can bet on that. I know a little about the Lords that they don’t, you see.”

DeCade nodded. “Yes. You have studied these Lords from the sky since I died, have you not?” His brows drew down. “Question me indeed, if you think I am wrong—but do not do it at the wrong time.”

Dirk stared up into the burning eyes, and felt a chill down his back.

The Lords and their Gentlemen rode up to Albemarle, their women and children in their center. As they came near the town, they watched the roadsides in fear and suspicion; they trotted their horses, ready to break into a gallop at the first cry of alarm. They clumped together in the center of the highway; the shoulders had become very treacherous.

But they began to mutter to one another as they rode out of the forest; they had ridden through two miles ideal for ambush, and no deadly hail of arrows had come. Only an occasional man disappeared from their fringe. And that made them even more fearful and uncertain; why would the churls let them ride unmolested? The more contemptuous among them put it down to cowardice—the churls would not attack them now, when they were awake, clad in armor, mounted, ready for battle. Others suggested the peasants had sickened of battle already and gone home to their cottages. Only a few of the older, grimmer hearts were seized with foreboding; they knew some excellent military head had planned the assaults on the castles, and if that tactician were letting them gather together all in one place, what did he plan? But there was nothing else to do; if they scattered to strong places, the churls would cut them down one by one.

So they rode to Albemarle.

But these realists were few. Most spirits began to rise as they rode out of the forest, across the river and up the road that wound up the hill to high Albemarle. As they climbed, they began to sing; some began to joke and laugh. This slackened as they rode through the King’s Town, eyeing the shuttered houses and shops warily. Then one man began to sing a battle song; others joined in, and, as they rode through the high gate beneath the grim portcullis, they began to believe they might yet put down this rebellion.

So they came into Albemarle in bands of hundreds, the tattered remnants of thousands; but they came into Albemarle with laughter and song.

But there was song in the forests, too, where renegade Soldiers and freed churls, outlaws and Guildsmen sat around their fires, chanting the Lay of DeCade.