A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 3

He was drifting through infinite blackness. Somewhere far away, there were stars—he knew that just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there.

A tiny pinpoint of light … There! He’d known he had eyes! And the pinpoint grew, swelling, no, it was rushing closer, it was a head, or a face, anyway, framed with white, floating hair, and it had eyes—great, luminous blue eyes, or turquoise, anyway; what matter if the rest of the face was too blurred to see, it was a good face, he knew it, he had to have faith …

“Little out of your depth, aren’t you?” it asked. It had a voice like a brazen gong; only it wasn’t sound, really …

“Dunno,” Dirk said astutely. “How deep is it here?”

“Up to your clavicles,” the face answered, “and it’s rising. Don’t you think you ought to back off and just float with the tide?”

That jarred, somehow; comfortable though it was here, there was the feeling of seduction, of somebody trying to get him to do something pleasant that he knew was wrong, that he didn’t want to do.

Dirk shook his metaphorical head. “No, I mean, you’re a great guy, and all that, but … Well, how do I know it’ll flow? I mean, somebody’s got to make the tide move.”

“Let somebody else do it,” the face suggested.

Dirk considered that. It was tempting … Tempting! That jarred. No, if it was tempting, it had to be wrong. He shook his head stubbornly. “No thanks. I’ll stand pat.”

The face shrugged somehow. “Your choice. You should remember the option, though.” The eyes frowned, peering. “But I see you’re almost back. Well, remember.” And it turned away.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Dirk felt suddenly clearheaded.

The face turned back patiently. “Yes?”

“Who are you?”

“The Wizard of the Far Tower,” the face said. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

It turned away and shrank, going fast, and winked out.

And Dirk felt himself sinking, felt the blackness closing in over him. He fought it, fighting to rise, to move upward, pushing against the weight of it, the weight of his eyelids, they were heavy, all his strength did no good, he couldn’t direct it, couldn’t channel it to the eyelids, couldn’t release it, he needed the valve, just turn it to release strength, the valve—word—any word—but his tongue and lips were swollen, heavy with a ton of inertia, he couldn’t release strength to them, either. He fought, straining, to part his lips just enough to release breath, to move the slug-tongue, no matter how little …

He felt it; he’d managed it, and it moved easier now, strength flooded through, “Puhleeeze …” And he felt his body about him again, felt grass against his back, arms, and legs, heard a sibilance of breeze, far-off birdsong, saw the red of light through closed eyelids.

He moved an arm, rolling toward it, thrust with all the strength in his body, and levered himself up on one elbow. He opened his eyes, looked around, saw grass, tree trunks, leaves, and a tow-headed boy, wide and squat, his mouth open in shock.

Dirk frowned and floundered, pulling himself up to a sitting position. “Hey, kid … What …” The boy’s mouth snapped shut, terrified.

Then he turned and leaped, crashing through the underbrush. Gone.

Dirk stared numbly after him, feeling sluggish and fuzzy.

His eyes wandered; he saw a body lying beside him, bright full skirt and bare back, with one wavy line of dried blood across it, shoulders shrouded in dark hair.

Madelon! He shook his head, trying to clear it, and the whole fight came back.

Her head stirred; she forced herself halfway up on her elbows. Her head turned, the face tilted up to him, pale, wide-eyed, puzzled, and—yes, a little afraid.

Small wonder. He wasn’t exactly feeling bold, himself.

She gave her head a shake, squeezing her eyes shut, then forced herself up to a sitting position and pressed a hand to her forehead with a little moan.

Her blouse—or what was left of it-stayed behind on the ground. For a moment, all Dirk saw was her round, full breasts, the nipples like half-ripe cherries; all else seemed dim. He stiffened, galvanized even through the pain of his headache; then he forced his eyes up to her face.

She bowed her head forward, fingertips pressed against her forehead; black hair tumbled forward to hide her body. Dirk exhaled in relief.

She looked up at him, blinking, frowning against the pain. “How … what …?”

Dirk forced his lethargy down and threw on rationality like a cloak. “I’d like to know, myself. The last thing I remember is a pike butt hitting me between the eyes. But why didn’t the Squire take us in as prisoners?”

She nodded, then winced. “Yes … And where’s your friend?”

Dirk shrugged. “They probably did take him in. That means … I’ll have to find a way to get him out.”

“Yes.” She frowned. “How much does he know?”

Dirk shrugged. “Not much, for sure. All he knows about the rebellion is meeting the two of us.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Just what is he?”

Dirk sat very still for a moment. So much for his story about Gar being a churl.

“A tourist,” he said slowly. “A man who goes visiting places just to see what they’re like. Probably a rich man’s son, looking for someplace where he can Do Good.”

“Then he is not a churl.” Her tone was a frosted dagger.

Dirk shook his head.

Her voice trembled with rage. “Why did you bring him?”

“I didn’t.” Dirk looked into her eyes. “He brought himself here, and just latched onto me. For my part, I thought it was better to have him where I could watch him, than to take a chance on his joining the Lords.”

She glared back at him; then her lips twisted wryly, and she nodded reluctantly. “Yes. I suppose you’re right… But now the Lords have him.”

Dirk nodded. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

“Can he be trusted not to tell what he knows?”

“As to that,” Dirk said slowly, “we should be finding out very soon now… I think he can.”

“Why should he? This is not his fight!”

“He’s made it his. And there’s something about him …”

Her frown turned to brooding. “Yes. He is strange.”

“He’s no novice with the quarterstaff,” Dirk said slowly. “You don’t expect a rich man’s son to be skilled with a churl’s weapon. And he claims to have been here for a month; surely a Sniffer would’ve found him out in that much time.”

“How did he escape them?”

“Yes.” Dirk leaned back on one elbow, slowly and carefully. “And how did he just happen to be near here when I, uh, came down from the sky? Sure, given that he was around here, I can understand how he could’ve figured out where to find me—but why was he here, and not fifty miles away?”

Her brooding sharpened into suspicion. “This is a strange visitor you have taken up with, skyman.”

“Dirk,” he said absently, turning to look at her. Then he smiled bleakly. “You might want to make yourself decent.”

She looked down. Her eyes widened. She caught up the remains of her blouse and pressed them to her.

But Dirk wasn’t watching; he was frowning, looking off into the leaves. “I had a strange dream while I was out…”

“I trust I wasn’t in it.” She knotted the ends of the rags around her neck.

Dirk shook his head. “Just a huge white face, with blue-green eyes and floating white hair. He said he was the Wizard of the Far Tower.” Madelon froze, her eyes widening.

“Yes.” Dirk turned to her, nodding gravely. “DeCade’s Wizard.”

“Who shall return,” she whispered, “when the time has come to tear down the Lords!”

They were both silent, the words of the Lay running through their minds:

For when my far towers drop down from the skies, And DeCade calls you out, then all churls, arise!

Dirk shrugged off the mood. “Only a dream. We can’t hope for magical help; we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

“Per—” Her voice broke; she moistened her lips. “Perhaps not. There have been rumors—”

“Of what? You’re not going to try to tell me the Wizard’s been seen; he’s been dead for five hundred years! I should know. His name was Nathaniel Carlsen, he founded our company, and—” He broke off, his eyes widening. “Of course! ‘For when my far towers drop down from the skies … Towers from far away, dropping down—our gigs and ships! Flareships dropping down from the skies!”

“You see,” she whispered, “the rumors are true! He is moving again!”

“Only his spirit,” Dirk said irritably, “his Dream and his Plan. The man himself is dead!”

“But rumor says he walks again among us. And DeCade is dead, too; but he shall rise again, to lead us.”

Dirk clenched his jaw in anger; it gave him the strength to force himself to his feet in spite of the pain. “Your living, human leaders are quite capable of running a successful rebellion by themselves, without supernatural aid—and it’s my job to find them and find out what they want us to do!”

Madelon started to answer, but the underbrush rustled, and they both whirled around.

A Farmer stepped out from the leaves, broad and massive—but with a lurking apprehension in his eyes, and something like awe. “You were dead,” he whispered.

Dirk stared.

Then he leaned back on his staff, head cocked to the side. “Oh, were we, now? Seems nobody bothered to tell us!”

“The Soldiers felt for your pulse; they held the feather to your lips,” the Farmer said doggedly. “You were dead.”

Dirk suddenly got the point. “But Gar—the big man who was with us—he was alive?”

The Farmer nodded. “Alive, and awake—though he was bleeding badly. They took him away to the castle, and the Soldiers bade us throw your bodies on the dunghill. But we did not. We bore you away to the forest, here, to come back and bury you properly, at night …”

Madelon nodded. “That was fortunate for us. You did well.”

“Very,” Dirk agreed. “And thanks for the offer, but we don’t really need the burial.”

“But your friend must be rescued.” Madelon stood, turned to the Farmer. “How can we get into the castle?”

The Farmer stood impassive, only his eyes widening at the impudence of her words, and the danger.

Then he nodded slowly. “My sister’s husband’s cousin’s son is a Butler; he is a footman there. I shall ask a man who shall ask.”

Madelon nodded curtly. Then she remembered her manners and gave him a dazzling smile. “Do so.”

The Farmer nodded, turned away.

“And good Farmer—” She boosted the smile a few degrees Kelvin—“Thank you.”

The Farmer looked back, nodded. “The word shall run,” he whispered. “It has begun. The dead have come alive …”

Then he was gone. Dirk stood staring after him, stupefied.

Then he turned angrily on Madelon. “There! You see how rumors begin? In two days it’ll be all over the kingdom as some sort of supernatural miracle! And all it was, was …”

Madelon raised her eyebrows politely, waiting. “Just a simple case of suspended animation,” Dirk finished weakly. “Uh … Just that …”

“And pray, sir, how was this done?”

Dirk turned away with a snarl.

“You dreamed of the Wizard,” she reminded.

“Coincidence,” Dirk snapped.

She watched him a moment, then turned away, smiling gently.

But Dirk didn’t notice; he was carefully avoiding her eyes.

Damn it, there was no reason for him to feel like a fool! Suspended animation was a common phenomenon; it happened to billions of animals every winter! It even happened to people occasionally; they called it “catalepsy,” or something like that.

But it didn’t happen to two people at the same time in the same place—did it?

He shrugged it off. It was just a coincidence—but why did that word have a superstitious ring to it, suddenly?

Somehow, without any reason for it, he had a hunch Gar would answer that question.

The Farmer came back as dusk was blurring the forest. “He is in the dungeons,” he explained, “and had not yet been harmed, an hour ago. The Question waits for a visiting lord.”

Dirk frowned; that had a very ominous ring. “You mean they won’t start till the guest gets there?” The Farmer nodded.

“Lord Core,” Dirk said thickly. “Name your odds—it’s Lord Core.”

Madelon frowned. “Why should it be?”

Dirk shrugged. “He’s Privy Councillor—and he was at the field where the sky-ships land, warning us not to try dropping anyone—meaning me. It stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

“Of a sort,” she agreed dubiously and turned to the Farmer. “Can you get us in?”

The Farmer nodded. “I shall lead you to a man who shall lead you. Come.”

They went the way messages went among the churls—from hand to hand, and surprisingly quickly. The Farmer took them into the village again, where a second Farmer was waiting near the common. He fell into step beside them; their first guide disappeared into the darkness.

“I am Oliver,” the new guide said. “I bear word from Felice.”

Madelon nodded. “Is she safe?”

Oliver nodded. “She looked back once, to see her house in flames, and never looked back again. She and all her children are safe with the outlaws. Word was brought to her husband while you still were fighting; he laid down his hoe and went straight to the forest. He is with them now.”

Dirk kept his face carefully impassive; but he was, as always, floored by the efficiency of his own people. They each knew what to do in any given situation, and did it, without question or hesitation. Inbreeding couldn’t account for it; he wasn’t sure what could.

Oliver led them up to the castle and around to the side. Dirk looked up at the frowning granite pile, looked down at the slimy green of the moat, and felt his own grim dedication renewed. Eighteenth-century France—the culture the Lords imitated—had favored châteaus of the elegant-palace sort, not medieval fortresses. Of course, they hadn’t had radio, or radar, or laser pistols, either. The Lords made a few concessions here and there; they seemed to be very much aware where the loyalties of their subjects really lay.

Oliver fumbled next to the bank, came up with a rope, and yanked on it. A log floated out from the bankside toward them. Oliver lifted its bark off, revealing a long, narrow canoe. He gestured; they climbed in, carefully. Oliver took up a paddle and sent them across the sixty feet of moat with five slow, even strokes. He turned the canoe broadside and grappled the bank while Dirk and Madelon climbed out, and a postern gate opened in the shadows. Madelon went toward it, and Dirk turned to thank Oliver; but he was already halfway back across the moat.

Chills chased each other up Dirk’s back as he turned back to the gate. They acted like parts of a machine, with perfect timing and perfect coordination—and in a situation like this, it was a fair bet they hadn’t had much rehearsal.

He stepped through the postern, and it closed behind him as a hand closed on his arm. The pressure was gone as quickly as it had come, and a slender, liveried silhouette was moving away from them. Dirk followed, and glanced down to see Madelon cloaked in a black, hooded robe. Again the sense of eeriness shimmered over him; they thought of everything.

They moved silently across a courtyard in the shadow of the wall. When they reached the keep, their guide opened another shadowed door; they stepped through into darkness, and the door closed behind them. Then Dirk heard the chink of flint on steel, and light flared in a tinderbox, revealing a young, fine-boned face under a powdered wig. The footman took a candle-stub from his pocket, lit it, and handed it to Madelon while he doused the tinderbox. The candle wavered, and strengthened as Madelon cupped a palm around it.

The footman slipped the tinderbox back into his waistcoat. Over it he wore a pinch-waisted, burgundy, velvet coat-dark enough to blend into shadow. “We can speak here, in whispers, while we go down the stair—but then you must be silent as the dead.” He took the candle and started down the steps.

Madelon followed him; Dirk brought up the rear. “Where is our friend? In the dungeons?”

The footman nodded. “Of course.”

“Has the other Lord arrived?”

“Nearly an hour agone. He dined quickly and lightly, and went to the dungeons. They have been putting him to the Question for perhaps fifteen minutes.”

Dirk swallowed. He knew these Soldier torturers; they could do a lot of damage in that much time.

“How shall we rescue him?” Madelon murmured.

“That I shall tell,” hissed a voice from below. Dirk froze; the harsh accents were those of a Soldier. Then he reminded himself sternly that anyone helping them was laying his neck on the line. All right, it was a Soldier—but they could trust him.

Which, Dirk decided, was something decidedly new. He started walking again.

The bobbing pool of candlelight picked out the gleam of a steel helmet and the chain mail beneath it. A few steps more, and it showed them the face—rough-hewn and scarred, with a mouth like a snapping turtle. Even if he was an ally, Dirk didn’t like meeting him in a dark alley.

The footman stepped to the side, let Dirk and Madelon step past him, then turned back up the stairway, taking the light with him. Dirk fought down the panic of being alone with a Soldier in a dark hole, and hissed, “What do we do?”

“There is an alcove off the torture chamber, with a squinthole and a door,” the Soldier muttered. “The Lords can rest there if they wish to watch the torturing without being seen.”

“They are not using it now?” Madelon demanded.

“They are not,” the Soldier confirmed. “No lord has, for many years. The door-latch is rusted. But I have brought oil. It will take some time to work, and then we must use main force to open it. Then I will leave you. I must remain, trusted, until DeCade calls.”

Dirk swallowed a surge of annoyance at the superstition. “I did not know Soldiers would fight for the rebels.”

The stairwell was frighteningly quiet for a moment, and Dirk cursed himself mentally, bracing his hands on his quarterstaff.

“We, too, are churls,” the Soldier growled, and somebody breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Dirk wondered if it was himself.

But he couldn’t let it rest. “How many of you will rise when … when DeCade calls?” The words tasted bad; but he had to use their idiom. The Soldier hesitated. “No man may be sure. All other churls hate us; how we will fare if they win, none can know. Nor can any know if they will win; so each Soldier’s thoughts are hidden, even from his brothers. Each man must decide for himself—when DeCade calls.”

“We waste time,” Madelon hissed. Immediately there was a slight grating noise, and light speared in as a door cracked. The Soldier oozed around it and was gone; a moment later, his hand came back, beckoning.

Dirk bit down on his courage, narrowly missing his tongue, and followed Madelon out.

The Soldier was moving away in the wavering torchlight. They followed, as silently as they could, heading for a grated door fifty feet away.

A hoarse bellow of pain and rage cut the stillness.

Dirk froze, eyes automatically leaping toward a grated door a little way behind him.

Then the jangle of mail sounded, faintly, far down the corridor. The Soldier beckoned frantically, and Dirk leaped forward to him and through the barred door.

The Soldier slipped in behind him, pulled the door to; a few moments later, steel clashed and jangled outside as a sentry walked past.

A strained whine of agony lanced through the chamber. A man trying to hide pain. Madelon turned away from the squint-hole; by its pale light, Dirk saw her face, white and bloodless.

Silently, he stepped up to look. Behind him, the Soldier moved silently to force oil into the latch. Two torches flared on the far wall, and fire leaped in a brazier in front of them. It lit Gar’s huge form, stripped except for a breech cloth, chained to a reclining board. Two muscle-bound figures, alike enough to be twins, shaved bald and stripped to the waist, stood near him, one of them watching him with arms folded. The other lifted a glowing iron from the brazier, inspected it, and, satisfied, turned back to Gar.

Between Dirk and the brazier, silhouetted against the fire; were two men, in velvet coats and powdered wigs. One was short and stocky, the other tall and slender.

Dirk’s breath hissed in; he recognized the taller man’s aquiline profile—Lord Core!

“So, then,” Core mused, “you have had a taste of our banquet. Would you like to progress beyond the hors d’oeuvres? Or would you prefer to tell us what we wish to know?”

“If I know the answers, I’ll tell them,” Gar rasped.

Behind Dirk, Madelon gasped. Dirk tensed. Core inclined his head in polite surprise. “I must confess I did not look for such ready cooperation. May I inquire the reason?”

“Certainly.” Gar gave him a sardonic smile. “I am quite certain that I know nothing—or at least, nothing you don’t already.”

Core was still a moment; then he turned to Lord Cochon. “Perhaps I mistake his tone, but I think the words smack of insolence.”

“Remind him to whom he speaks,” Cochon answered, in a voice like a gravel-crusher.

The glowing iron came down against Gar’s bicep. His body arched; his jaws clenched with the effort of suppressing a scream. Core gestured and the iron came away.

Dirk’s jaw tightened.

“A mild taste only,” Core murmured. “There are far more sensitive portions of the body.”

Gar relaxed convulsively, gasping and wild-eyed, glaring at Core. But he didn’t speak. “Well enough, then,” the Lord said easily. “Now I believe we may begin …”

“Where is your King?” Gar demanded, gasping. “Does he care nothing for his people’s suffering?”

The torturer turned for a fresh iron, but Core held up a hand, staying him. “Your words betray you; anyone native to this planet would not need to ask.”

Gar shrugged impatiently. “All right, I’m from off-planet. I should think that was obvious.”

“But it is of interest to me to have it confirmed.” Core’s eyes had become gimlets. “What is your birth and your station?”

“Noble,” Gar snapped. Core stood immobile.

In the alcove, Dirk whirled to Madelon. They stared at one another, appalled.

“Of what house and line?” Core snapped.

“A d’Armand, of Maxima.” The sardonic smile was back on Gar’s face.

Core relaxed visibly. “I know of Maxima. It is a miserable asteroid, and all who live there claim to be noble.”

“They are, and more noble than you!” Gar barked. “They do not enslave men for their servants—they build robots!”

They? Dirk pursed his lips, musing.

Core’s smile was a thin sneer. “The essence of nobility is power over others, child of innocence—as I now have power over you.” He glanced at the second torturer and motioned; the man bent to crank a huge wheel. The chains on Gar’s wrists and ankles tightened; he gave a whining, agonized grunt.

Core strolled over beside him, fully into the light. “I believe you will find this posture more conducive to our current discussion.”

Dirk frowned; Core hadn’t caught the “they.” Apparently Gar didn’t think of himself as a member of Maxima society. Dirk settled himself for an instructive example of the art of speculative fabrication.

“Who sent you?” Core demanded.

“No one,” Gar snarled. “I came on my own. And don’t bother asking the next question; here’s the answer: I’ve been bumming around this star sector for a couple of years, trying to find a cause I could devote myself to—something worth any sacrifice. Even my life, if necessary.” He glared defiance.

Core’s lip twisted with contempt; he nodded at the torturer. The man held a pair of thumbscrews before Gar’s eyes.

“The truth, please,” Core purred.

“That is the truth. Don’t you recognize the symptoms?”

That gave Core pause. He stood, glowering down at Gar. Then he spoke through drawn lips. “I do. It is a deplorable condition of the young—even our young. We must go to great pains to root it out.”

The Games! Dirk’s belly twisted. Core was right—they did go to great pains. But the Lords weren’t the ones who were hurting.

“But you are well past your teens.” Core frowned, perplexed. “Surely you have lived a grown man’s life long enough to be done with children’s games of ideal and reform. Why do you stoop to it?”

Gar shrugged. “Ennui.”

Core stared. Then he turned away, seething, but he did not call for the torturers.

Dirk began to wonder if Gar might not be noble after all. He certainly knew what to tell a Lord in order to be believed.

Dirk turned, glancing at the Soldier. Very gently, the man put pressure on the latch; then he relaxed, shaking his head.

Dirk pressed his lips tight and turned back to the torture chamber.

Core was turning back to Gar. “There could be truth in what you say. But we are reasonably certain that the freight company that serves our planet landed a man near here last night, and we have reason to think that man is a rebel.”

“I already told you I was after a Cause.” Core’s eyes burned, but he restrained himself with visible effort.

“If you are the man who was landed, then you can tell me: how deeply are the spacers involved with the rebels?”

“Not at all,” Gar said promptly. “I had to pay through the nose to get them to do it.”

Dirk turned to Madelon, eyes wide in surprise. So were hers; she gave a slow nod of approval. Core’s lip writhed with contempt. “So, of course, you would have no idea about their activities.”

“Of course.” Gar watched him as though he was a cobra.

“And the fellow who traveled with you—I suppose he, too, was merely a tourist?”

“No, he was a local. When I heard a search party coming after me, I ducked into the nearest cover, a ruined hut. He was in there, hiding, too.”

Core smiled in polite skepticism. “Didn’t you wonder why he was hiding?”

“No.” Gar smiled. “With that kind of racket behind us, it didn’t seem at all out of line.”

Core frowned, pursing his lips. “So you decided to travel together.”

“No, I hired him for a guide.”

Core was silent for a moment, eyes narrowing. “What did he tell you about the rebels?”

“Nothing.” Gar’s smile turned sardonic. “But he did give me a lot of very interesting background information about your society.”

Core froze and Dirk took a deep breath. Sure, it was a good way to get Core’s mind off the investigation—but wasn’t it a little risky?

Core straightened slowly, eyes hooded.

“He cannot let a stranger leave the planet with such knowledge!” Madelon’s whisper shook.

Core lifted his hand, and the torturer turned toward a huge cutlass hanging on the wall.

The Soldier tested the latch, caught Dirk’s eye, and nodded.

“I think not,” Core murmured.

The Soldier started, staring toward the Lord’s voice, the whites showing around his eyes.

But Dirk gave his head a quick, tight shake, held up a cautioning palm, suddenly realizing that, if Core realized Dirk was alive, it’d mean more torture all around.

On the other hand, if the torturer took down that oversized switchblade …

But the torturer was turning back empty-handed, scowling, disappointed.

“No, I think we will have some amusement from him.” Core’s smile returned. “Since he wishes to learn our ways, we would be most ungracious if we did not afford him every opportunity.”

Gar frowned, puzzled, and Dirk braced himself while foreboding twined around his spine.

“We will let him participate in the Games.” Core gave Gar a warm smile. “I’m sure you will find the experience instructive.”

Fingers bit into Dirk’s arm; he looked down into Madelon’s appalled face. He glanced back through the squint-hole; the torturers, disgusted, were unchaining Gar while Core murmured softly to Lord Cochon.

Dirk turned back to Madelon, shaking his head, and stepped back into the most shadowed corner of the alcove.

Madelon stared at him, unbelieving. Then anger kindled in her eyes, and she stepped up to him. Dirk clapped a hand over her mouth and breathed into her ear. “If we charged in their right now, we might win, but we’d probably lose. Either way, the Lords get tipped off by a latent rebellion turning active. More to the point, if they win, Core realizes we’re still alive, and he’ll want a few more answers—and not just from us.”

The anger in Madelon’s eyes faded. Dirk lifted his hand from her mouth. She turned away, biting her lip.

“Gar handled him beautifully,” Dirk breathed. “Let well enough alone.”

Madelon stood unmoving; then, reluctantly, she nodded.

Dirk looked up at the Soldier, who stood waiting, impassive. Dirk shook his head. The Soldier nodded once and withdrew his hand from the latch.

Dirk drifted up to the squint-hole again. The torturers were hustling Gar through a door in the far wall, while Core and Cochon turned, still talking, to the door to the corridor.

Dirk nodded, satisfied, and stepped back into the shadows, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, to wait until the way was clear.

He heard one door boom shut, then another. Madelon darted to the squint-hole, looked out, and swung back. “They’re gone—we can talk.”

Dirk nodded. “How soon till the Games?”

“Perhaps a week,” the Soldier rumbled.

Dirk scowled. “He can’t learn a whole new style of fighting in a week. They’ll slaughter him.”

“That might be what they intend,” Madelon said dourly.

The Soldier frowned. “It is always slaughter. What difference how well he can fight?”

Dirk bit his lip. “Yes. Of course. You’ll have to pardon me—I’ve gotten used to a polite fiction called a ‘sporting chance.’ … All right, how do we work it?”

The Soldier scowled. “Work what?”

“Rescue, of course. He stood by us, we stand by him—especially since he might still prove useful.”

Madelon nodded. “A point. If Core wants him dead, he must be an advantage to us.”

The Soldier nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, how do we do it?” Dirk demanded.

“Talk to the outlaws, arrange a small ambush,” Madelon retorted.

Dirk shook his head. “That’s like hanging out a sign saying, ‘Watch this space for further news of that great, new, once-in-a-lifetime peasant rebellion! Due at your castle wall any day!’ Maybe I’m just a cynical pessimist, but I do think the situation calls for something a little more subtle.”

Madelon bit her lip. “I think you have reason … Very well: one in the cages, to show him the way out.”

“What way out? That place is kept tighter than a husband with a paranoid wife!”

She tossed her head impatiently. “We have no chance at all till the day of the Games, of course. Then one in the cages, to tell him the plan, and one in the stands, to show him the way.”

Dirk chewed it over and found it palatable. “Of course, that’s going to be a teensy bit chancy all around. The one in the stands is as likely to get caught as the one who’s trying to break out.”

“Neither will be caught, if they know what they’re doing! It’s all but impossible to get a woman into the cages, so the stands are my place.”

Every protective instinct in Dirk reared back up bellowing; but reason won out, sour though it might be. “If there were any choice …”

“But there’s not.”

Dirk sighed; he knew a losing hand when he held one. “Okay. How do we go about getting me into the cages?”