A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 5

In the heat and bustle of the noonday crowd, no one took any particular notice of another brown-robed monk with a butcher’s apprentice at his elbow.

“Not far now,” the apprentice muttered. “We’ll be at the beginning of the downgrade in a moment. The arena lies below us.”

Dirk peered out of the brown wool hood. “I’ll be glad to get there, strange as that may sound. This sack itches like an army of fleas.”

They came to the rim of the hill, and Dirk stopped, appraising the stadium with an eye to a quick escape route.

Offhand, he didn’t see any. He looked through an iron-barred door in a ten-foot cellucrete wall, and stared down—a long way down. The Lords had been thrifty; they’d built their local coliseum in a natural bowl between the hilltop that held the town and the higher hill that held the King’s castle. Tier upon tier of seats fell away in a beige giant’s staircase, to a circle of white sand a hundred yards across and twenty feet down from the innermost tier of seats. That wall—and the whole stadium for that matter—was cellucrete: an unholy molecular alliance between cellulose and silicon, tough as armor, hard as tool steel, and slick as glass. A grappling hook might get a purchase on granite, but not on this stuff. Once a man was down in the circle of sand, he was there to stay. Oh, there were doors in its walls—a set that led to the Cages, and another set that led to freedom—but only the Lords passed through those last.

“No churl has ever escaped from there,” his guide informed him.

“Pleasant thought, isn’t it?” Dirk turned away. “Well, I always did want to set a precedent. Shall we go?”

They wound their way down to the bottom of the hill, where the street opened out into a cobble-stoned plaza before a huge iron door in the cellucrete wall. It was for wholesale transactions; it could be cranked up to admit a whole cartload of convicts, and often was. For the retail trade, there was a smaller, hinged door set into it.

The butcher’s apprentice ambled up to it, and on by, leaving Dirk standing by it in contemplation, like a moraine deposited by a glacier.

The ice, at the moment, was in Dirk’s feet. He folded his arms to keep his hands from trembling and propped his chin on his chest, reflecting that it was one thing to contemplate a damn-fool risk, but another to take it. But—the die was cast, and Dirk should’ve had his head thumped.

He glanced up at the sun just about high noon. Something was supposed to happen about now. Just what, the Guildmaster hadn’t informed him—but something, any minute …

Suddenly, through the small iron gate in the door, he heard a melee of bellowing, screaming, and the clash of steel. Then the lock growled, the door slammed open, and a brawny arm shot out to yank Dirk inside. The door crashed shut behind him—not that Dirk could hear; the fight was much louder in here.

He found himself facing a Soldier tastefully attired in crossed leather belts and breechcloth. Without a word, he yanked Dirk’s robe off, almost taking his arms with it. Dirk had to grind his teeth against pain—and to keep them from chattering; it was cold in here! After all, all he was wearing was a breechcloth, himself!

The guard grabbed him by the shoulder and hustled him away, shot a key into a lock, slammed open a door, and shoved him through. The door boomed shut behind him, and Dirk was in.

He immediately wished he wasn’t. By wavering torchlight, he saw a near-naked crowd of yowling devils battering at a wall of bars. Shrill whistle blasts answered them, and spears started poking through the bars. Strangely, each man seemed to step just a little aside a split-second before the barbed head came through.

Then—suddenly—the howling slackened, groaned, and ground to a halt, like a record shutoff halfway through. The prisoners turned away, shuffling toward Dirk, muttering. On the far side of the bars, the guards relaxed and strolled away, growling to one another.

“What made ‘em go like that?”

“Happens all the time …”

Dirk’s ears pricked up. “Happens all the time?” What illicit operations were the prisoners covering up?

Then he saw the earthenware bowls they were all shuffling back toward, saw the thin gruel they contained, and understood. Not covering up anything. Just a food riot.

The prisoners were sitting down on the filthstrewn floor and taking up their bowls. Dirk’s gaze zeroed in on the huge bulk of one man still standing—Gar! Dirk started toward him.

The steel door crashed open, and a monolithic guard strolled in, absentmindedly flicking a bullwhip. “All right, you hoghounds! You hate your grub so much, we won’t make you eat it! Line up and file out—we’ll start the afternoon session a little bit early.”

The prisoners bellowed profanity with one voice and rose up, arms swinging back with bowls poised.

The bullwhip cracked like a gunshot, building echoes into a cannonade.

When the echoes faded, the prisoners were standing slack, facing the guard.

“You’ll all be dead in less than a week. What difference does it make if you go a little early?” The bullwhip twitched.

The prisoners were silent, eyes glued to the flicking tip.

The guard nodded, satisfied., “All right, then. Line up.”

They put their bowls down and queued up in a silent, dispirited line. Gar waited till the others had shuffled into position, then tailed onto the end of the line.

He would, Dirk thought. He couldn’t have said why, but it seemed in keeping with Gar’s character.

Dirk moved out of the shadows and slid up behind Gar. He reached up and tapped the giant’s shoulder. Gar turned around with a slight smile of polite amusement—and froze, staring down in disbelief.

Dirk had to press his lips tight to squelch a laugh. It felt good to be one up on the big guy for a change.

Gar recovered, and smoothed the urbane smile back on. “Delightful. I trust you’ll explain how you managed it?”

Dirk frowned. “Managed what?”

“Being so nimble. You must remember that, when I saw you last, you were scarcely in any condition to be walking about. In fact, if I remember it rightly, you weren’t even in condition to breathe.”

“Oh.” Dirk pursed his lips. “Well, I don’t know. Matter of fact, I was hoping you could tell me.”

He saw the flicker in Gar’s eyes and knew he’d struck pay dirt. But then why the look of shock when Gar saw him?

Acting, of course—and not a bad job, either. But why? What was the big guy trying to hide? “How did you manage my ‘death’?” Dirk murmured.

“I?” Gar’s eyebrows shot up in mock horror. “My dear fellow, how could I have had anything to do with it?”

“I was hoping you’d explain that.”

Gar frowned, but just then they came up to the door, and he had to cut off the conversation to turn and file through. Dirk stepped through right behind him; and a pair of boxing gloves slapped him in the midriff. His belly sucked in with the slap, and he looked up into the eyes of the guard who had let him in. There was a grim warning in the man’s eyes. Dirk straightened up and shuffled ahead.

“Put them on,” Gar muttered over his shoulder. “These are just for practice; they tell us we’ll get really nice ones for the big day—lined with lead and faced with iron.”

“Glorified brass knuckles,” Dirk growled, slipping the boxing gloves on.

They filed through a second door into a vast, slant-roofed room. The other churls had already paired off, trading half-hearted swipes.

“Not brass knuckles, really.” Gar turned to face Dirk; bringing up his gloves. “Cestas—the iron boxing gloves the Roman gladiators wore.”

Dirk nodded. “Probably straight out of a history book. They have a penchant for that kind of thing.” He eyed Gar’s huge, leather-covered fists and brought his own up warily. A corner of his mind wondered why Gar was being so very polite. Defense mechanism, certainly—but what was Gar hiding?

Then a leather-covered cannonball drove at his face, and he had to stop thinking to slap it aside. It didn’t slap too well. In fact, it drove right on through and slammed the side of his head. Dirk staggered back, shaking his head to clear the distorted glass that had suddenly come between him and the world.

“Sorry,” Gar muttered, “but we have to make it look halfway good, or they’re on us with the whips.”

Dirk glanced at the guards strolling around the edge of the room, bullwhips snaking lazily behind them. “Perfectly all right. I just haven’t quite gotten into the spirit of the thing.” If that was Gar’s idea of halfway good, Dirk was definitely going to have to go all out.

He jabbed at Gar’s face. The giant blocked it, moving so quickly Dirk scarcely saw it. Then the leather cannonball was in his face again. He threw all his strength into a block and was partly successful; the glove whistled past his ear. But Gar’s left was already hooking up. Dirk rolled back by pure reflex, just barely in time.

“Nothing wrong with your coordination.” He came back with his guard up.

Gar smiled. “Yes, that’s the mistake people usually make—because I’m so big, they expect me to be clumsy. But you’re not bad, yourself—you’re the only one here I haven’t been able to hit when I wanted to.”

Startled, Dirk stared, then glanced quickly at the other prisoners. A few of them were taller than he was, well-muscled and lithe.

“It seems they don’t know much about boxing,” Gar explained. “Only what they’ve learned since they’ve been here.”

Dirk nodded. “Of course. The Lords won’t allow churls to learn or teach anything to do with combat, even the unarmed kind. Anyone caught trying to work out a system on his own …”

“… is sent here,” Gar finished grimly. “Yes, I know. I’ve had some highly elucidating conversations in the last few days. Surprisingly good, really—they all show an amazing degree of intelligence.”

Dirk gave him a malicious smile. “Feeling inferior?”

Gar’s smile became a glare.

One of the guides caught sight of them and started over, gathering in his whip.

“Too much talk and not enough action,” Gar growled and swung a haymaker.

It was easy to block, and for the hell of it, Dirk tried. He caught Gar’s swing, all right, just before it caught him. But he did have the satisfaction of seeing the guard turn away, mollified. He saw it from a very low angle, with sand against his cheek and a ringing in his ears.

He pulled himself to his feet, shaking his head, and found Gar gazing at him in consternation.

Dirk’s lips thinned. “Now you’re going to try and tell me that wasn’t full strength.”

“It wasn’t. I’m sorry; I guess I’d better pull my punches a bit more.”

Dirk just stared at him. Then he nodded. “Yes. Please do. If you expect me to be any use to you at all.”

“Use?” Gar frowned, jabbing lightly.

Dirk ducked—no more of this blocking nonsense. “Yes, use. I came in here to help you break out. What’d you think I was doing—taking a break from a busy schedule?” He tried an uppercut.

Gar blocked it absentmindedly. “I took it for granted they’d caught you. Well—my thanks.”

Dirk smiled sardonically. “Did you think we were going to leave you in here to get killed?”

“Frankly, yes. I’m not exactly a key figure in your plans, you know. I didn’t suspect you of so much sentiment.”

Dirk’s smile turned sour. “I wouldn’t call loyalty a sentiment.”

“But I would.” Gar glanced at their local efficiency expert and threw a punch. Dirk leaned back from it, but not far enough. As he picked himself up off the sand, he heard Gar muttering, “If revolutionaries take time for luxuries like loyalty, they lose.”

“Not always. Sometimes they save a valuable man.” Dirk lashed out with all his strength.

Gar batted it aside impatiently. “Only by risking another one—or several. I don’t know how elaborate this scheme of yours is. In addition to which, it tips off the opposition.” He swung another haymaker.

Dirk dropped to a squat and felt the breeze as Gar’s fist went by. “It’s nice of you to be so concerned; but don’t worry, we’ll try to make it look like a plain, ordinary, everyday riot that got out of hand.” He lifted his fist and drove up like a ramrod.

Gar caught his wrist and lifted; Dirk’s face hovered in front of his. “How often do riots happen at these Games?”

“Never,” Dirk admitted, “but we feel obliged to go out of our way for a visitor.”

“So thoughtful of you,” Gar murmured, and let go.

Dirk landed in a crouch and danced around Gar, weaving in and out.

“Be careful,” Gar admonished, turning to follow him. “You’ll make me feel like a VI.P.”

“Well, there is something to that. We do feel a certain responsibility for you.”

“Of course,” Gar murmured. “You wouldn’t want my father to feel you’d been careless with me.”

“That, too.” Dirk leaped in, feinting with his right. Gar blocked it, and Dirk hooked with the left, caught him under the chin. Gar’s head snapped back and Dirk bounced out, feeling a warm, glow of accomplishment spreading through him.

Then he bounced—period. He shook his head and saw Gar looking sheepish, but he couldn’t hear what the big man was saying. His ears were ringing too loudly.

“… just a natural reaction,” Gar apologized, as the ringing faded.

Dirk nodded, though groggily. “That’s okay—we all have our conditioned responses. And judging from yours, we should find you very useful.”

Gar shook his head. “Not enough to justify the first escape from the Games in your history. I’m just another fighter, albeit a good one.” His smile was tinged with irony. “As to my father—do you even know who he is?”

“Only that he’s rich enough to give you your own space yacht, and has time to go bumming around the galaxy—unless there’s some truth to that line you fed Core.”

Gar’s eyebrows shot up. “Your intelligence system isn’t too bad. And yes, there’s some truth to it. I am a d‘ Armand, but have you ever even heard of Maxima?”

Dirk scowled. “Yes, some. That’s the robot house, isn’t it?”

“Well,” Gar said judiciously, “the automated factories there do make very good robots. But I wouldn’t say that was a tremendous distinction.”

“Enough.” Dirk hid a smile. “I should imagine it’s a very lucrative trade.”

“Somewhat,” Gar admitted. “Enough for everyone there to live in some luxury—but not enough for private yachts.” He jabbed halfheartedly.

Dirk leaned aside from it. “Where did you get the money?”

“On my own.” Gar wore a puckered smile. “There are certain kinds of salvage that pay very high figures—especially if you’re a good cyberneticist.”

“Salvage?” Dirk hoped his dismay didn’t show. But it did. Gar’s smile went flat. “Salvage. Yes. I’m a junkman. So you see, your whole charade is a waste.”

“No,” Dirk said slowly, looking straight into his eyes, “I think it’ll prove to be very much worth it. You’re still you; you know.”

Gar’s gaze held steady, but his face drained. Sandals slapped earth, and the guard came toward them. Gar glanced at him, irritated; then his fist lashed out, blocking the world, and Dirk had the rest of the afternoon off.

So it went—boxing practice all morning and all afternoon, with brief breaks for meals; then doused torches and deep, almost-drugged sleep. The prisoners gained some skill, but they made up for it in increasing exhaustion.

“If they keep this up, they’ll be easy meat for a pussycat,” Gar growled over his evening bit of porridge.

Dirk nodded, swallowing. “I think the Lords’re aware of that.”

“But we’ll look excellent for ten minutes,” the Butler next to Dirk said brightly.

“Yes indeed.” A Tradesman finished licking his bowl and lay flat on his back in front of them. “For the first ten minutes, our good brother churls will see a real battle. Then we’ll weaken, and the young Lords’ll gain an advantage, then more and more—and our kinsmen will see the Lords triumph slowly but surely, as men of their birth must inevitably do.”

“Yes.” The Merchant on Gar’s far side rubbed his knuckles, smiling softly. “But those first ten minutes … Who knows? I might even cave in a helmet.”

“Never happen.” A Farmer ambled up, shaking his head. “No man’s strong enough, by the time they get you to the games.”

“No ordinary man.” The Tradesman cocked an eyebrow at Gar. “But we’re counting on you, friend.”

Gar gazed at him a moment; then he smiled wolfishly. “I think I may give you some slight satisfaction.”

The words induced a prickle of warning in Dirk. What did the big man have in mind?

“ ‘May?’ ” A lantern jawed Fisher sat on his heels between the Merchant’s and the Tradesman’s feet. “Only ‘may’? Is that the best you can offer us?”

Gar leaned his head back against the wall, smiling lazily. “What did you have in mind?”

The Fisher suggested, “A mild massacre, perhaps. Fifteen or twenty Lords would do.”

“Twenty! My two poor fists against plate armor and swords? Twenty?”

“Your two poor fists will be leaded and steelshod,” a Woodsman pointed out, joining in. “And, too, I think we could promise you something of a diversion, allowing you ample time to develop a deep and meaningful relationship with any one opponent.”

Gar sighed, gazing up at the ceiling. “It’s tempting, gentlemen. Almost, I could let myself be persuaded to it. But there’s a small matter: my conscience. It’d be needless bloodshed.”

“Conscience!” The Woodsman snorted, and a Hostler scowled. “Needless? How can you think that?”

Dirk glanced up and saw, with a shock of surprise, that most of the prisoners had gathered around them, and the last few stragglers were coming up.

Gar laced his forgers behind his head. “If what you say is true, we’ll all die anyway, but all the lordlings will live. So, if we kill any one of them, it’s a death that needn’t have happened.”

“There is a need for it,” the Butler assured him grimly; and the Hostler said, in a voice soft as flame, “We have a need for it, Outlander. Great need. We cannot accept death tamely; we cannot accept having our lives count for nothing.”

Gar lifted an eyebrow. “So that’s how you manage to stay so cheerful. I was wondering.”

The Farmer grinned like a bandsaw. “What would be gained by moping and trembling?”

But the Tradesman laughed and rolled up on one elbow. “Do not think we are so courageous as that, Outlander. When I came here nearly a year ago, I was so sick with fear I could scarcely hold water. But after a time, I began to see that I would have died young in any case, even if I had not been caught out.”

The Merchant nodded. “Only Lords die old, here.”

“I know the day of my death now; and that is all that has changed,” the Tradesman continued. “I might have had a day or two more otherwise, perhaps a year…” For a moment, his face bleached to bleak; then he shrugged it off and grinned. “But never much longer—and I would have died with no purpose, with nothing accomplished, nothing changed by my life so the world could look and say, ‘Here! Here is the sign that a man lived!’ But now, here … I have purpose now, a chance to kill a lord. Only a chance, perhaps, and a poor one—only steel gloves against sword and plate armor, with the sun in my eyes—but my chance nonetheless! Any chance at all is more than I had before—and perhaps…” His voice sank low, caressing; he brought a hand up, clenching it slowly. “Just possibly, I might, by some wild freak of chance, kill myself one of them…” His fist clenched in a spasm; he nodded, eyes glistening. “Yes. That is worth a death—even a certain one.”

Gar had lost his smile. His gaze held on the Tradesman, very steadily.

The Tradesman brayed laughter and threw himself flat on his back again. “Why, Nuncle! Do I amaze you?” He rolled a droll eye at Gar. “I think you know nothing of hate.”

“I thought I did,” Gar said slowly.

“Welcome to school,” said the Hostler, amused. Gar turned his head slowly from side to side, unbelieving. “You’re incredible. A band of men, eagerly awaiting certain death, for the minuscule chance it brings of chopping down a few minor enemies.” The Farmer shrugged elaborately. “We are not particular. Any of them will do.”

Gar still shook his head, smiling now. “If I had an army of men like you, I could conquer a world.”

“Why, here is your army,” the Tradesman said lightly, but his gaze held Gar’s. “Where is this world you would conquer?”

There was a silence then, stretched out like the skin of a war drum.

Then Gar laughed. “It is outside the walls of this jail, coz. Shall we stroll down to the river? Or perhaps you know a tavern where we might sit down to discuss fates of kingdoms.”

The Tradesman’s mouth pulled slowly into a sour smile, against his will.

One by one, the other men smiled, too; but the sudden disappointment weighted the dank air of the prison.

The Tradesman rolled to his feet. “We waste time in chatter. We should sleep; it behooves us to be as fit as we may in four days.”

The other men rumbled agreement, they slowly moved off to find filthy straw pallets against the walls.

Gar watched them go by the wavering light of the single torch outside the bars.

“I think you almost had a revolution going there,” Dirk pointed out.

“Yes.” Gar nodded, eyes shining. “And I think I could have it again, anytime I called.” Then, very softly; “They’re amazing. You expect to find brutes in a prison, not men of wit.”

“They are brutes, in a way,” Dirk said slowly. “Each of them thinks only of killing.”

“ ‘Think?’ ” Gar turned to him, nodding. “Yes, they do, don’t they? I always thought myself an intelligent man—but I had a good education, and they’ve had none. Am I the lowest intelligence in the room?”

“I think not,” Dirk mused. “You strike me as having no shortage of brains. But you certainly find yourself in congenial company.”

Gar nodded. “What kind of anomaly is this planet? Do only the brains turn to theft?”

“They aren’t thieves,” Dirk said softly. “Not a one of them.”

“What, then?”

Dirk looked up into his eyes. “You really haven’t figured it out yet? The whole purpose behind this gladiator’s charade?”

Gar frowned down at him a moment, then rolled his head back against the wall, lips pursed in thought. “I’ve figured out that the purpose of it is to cull out the brainy ones—but I haven’t gone too deeply into the mechanism. This is one place where you don’t ask a man about his background. Why are they here?”

“They’re rebels. Any man who’s here was overheard speaking against the Lords—maybe just a joke, or a drunken curse. Or both. And most of them have good senses of humor—they would’ve pulled a large audience.”

“Including Soldiers?”

Dirk nodded. “And didn’t particularly care. Because, of course, there was a lot of anger behind them—to make them lose their heads that way.”

“I’m surprised all they did was talk.”

“If they’d actually done anything, they wouldn’t be here. If they’d tried to kill a Lord, or stake out the local squire with a set of sickles, they’d have been strung up by the heels and beheaded right there. No, this place is for the ones with sharp wits and hot blood—too smart to do something instantly fatal, too hot-tempered to be able to hide their anger and hatred.”

“It comes to the same thing,” Gar said slowly. “Instantly fatal, or fatal within the year—what of it? Dead is dead. There must be some with more brains and cooler blood.”

Dirk shrugged. “If a man looks intelligent but doesn’t make waves, they put a robe around him and call him a priest. They have to have a few churls who can read or write, after all—and who can preach resignation and humility to the masses.”

Gar raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got a religion?”

“Oh yes. Eighteenth-century Christianity, with all the trimmings. The Lords thought of everything. And they preach patience, all right—but the Lords don’t know that, with most of them, the patience they preach is just a matter of waiting for DeCade to come back to life. They’re the focal points of the communities-priests always have been. But the Lords don’t know what they’re focusing the churls on.”

Gar nodded slowly. “And, of course, they have to be celibate.”

Dirk nodded. “The penalty for fornication is death—for both parties. And any children born of it.”

Gar scowled, nodding. “So the hot-tempered intelligent ones get killed off in the Games, and the cool-tempered intelligent ones don’t pass on their genes. Either way, smart genes get filtered out—but only the ones smart enough to be troublesome, of course. Couldn’t have a population of idiots… Yes, very neat.”

“Not completely. These berserkers may be smart enough to stay unmarried, but they are passionate. They’ve usually passed on a gene or two before they got caught.”

“So,” Gar said slowly, “the filtering never ends. It’s got to be continual, a regular event.”

“Yes, and they do make quite an event of it. They gather all the available churls together to watch it.”

“That should have a very salutary effect.”

“Oh, it does,” Dirk said softly, “but not quite the one they expect. The whole mob comes away every year, more determined than ever to turn out for a bloodbath”—his mouth twisted—“as soon as DeCade rises again.”

“Yes, there is that little problem,” Gar mused. “How do you plan to start the revolution if DeCade doesn’t rise?”

“We haven’t quite got that one figured out yet,” Dirk admitted.

“And who’s going to figure it out?” Gar smiled wryly. “By your account, all the brains get killed off or culled out.”

“No,” Dirk said slowly, “not all. Not the really smart ones, no.”

Gar frowned, puzzled; then his face cleared, with something like shock. “Of course. The really intelligent ones would be smart enough to hide it—successfully. They’d never be caught or found out.”

Dirk nodded. “All we’re left with is geniuses. And, with the kind of inbreeding we’ve got, there’re a lot of them—almost as many as there are idiots. The Wizard was no accident.”

“Yes. The Wizard.” Gar chewed at his cheek, thoughtfully. “Most of your boys—the spacers—made it off-planet because they had to leave their homes rather suddenly, didn’t they?”

“Most of us, yes. Which means we were found out while we were still very young. So, in answer to the question you’re polite enough not to ask, surprisingly. No. We don’t consider ourselves geniuses. Smart, yes, most of us—but not that smart.”

Gar nodded. “So where do you find them?”

“A few in the forests, with the outlaws—they got sick of pretending. But most of them are in the cities, in the secret organization.”

“The secret society.” Gar’s eyes widened; he nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. It has a long and honorable history.”

“Well, not exactly honorable; I can think of quite a few that weren’t. But, shall we say, effective?”

“Let us hope so, in this case.” Gar raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And just how do these geniuses of yours plan to start the revolution without DeCade?”

“I don’t know,” Dirk said slowly, “and I’m not sure they do, either.”