A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 8

The guide led them to a guide who led them to a guide, also incidentally leading them through a route laid out by a drunken snake in a moment of ecstatic delirium, through a maze of cellars and finally down a long, dank tunnel which, logically, should have run under the city walls. Since it was logical, Dirk was faintly surprised when they straggled out into daylight and moist, knee-high grass, and, turning to look back, he saw the city walls in the distance. It seemed strange, somehow; things weren’t supposed to work out logically on this planet.

“One will come shortly to find you,” the latest guide informed them. Then he turned and was gone. Dirk stared after him, at the brush and grass disguising the hole in the side of a hummock, feeling strangely removed from the whole thing; it seemed vaguely unreal.

“So Core lives.” Gar dropped down to a seat in the grass, leaning back against the hummock. “And he’ll be out after us with a troop of Soldiers.”

“No, not too quickly.” Hugh sat on his heels in front of Gar, grinning. “The town will be merry chaos for quite a time, I think. Lord Core and his fellows’ll have their hands full.”

Gar pursed his lips. “Yes, it will be a little confused, won’t it?”

“The churls will be in turmoil.” Madelon shivered. “Small wonder. I almost ran, myself, when that great golden ball came dropping down.”

“Oh yes, that.” Dirk smiled whimsically. “Yours, I presume?”

Gar looked up, too quickly. “My ship, yes… Does it matter?”

Dirk shrugged. “Probably not. Just wondering why you didn’t climb aboard—that’s all.”

Gar frowned. “There was a small matter of fifty churls to try to save. I’m not in the habit of deserting my fellows.”

“Aye, and good for us you didn’t,” Hugh said soberly. He cracked his fingers thoughtfully. “I’d have liked to kill a few more—but all in all, I’d rather be alive.”

His handful of Tradesmen muttered agreement. “That thing was yours?” one of them said, awed.

Gar suddenly seemed wary. “What matter?”

“I’d thought it was the Wizard’s tower, dropping down,” another answered, staring at Gar as though he were something supernatural.

Gar smiled feebly. “Just the thing to start a riot.”

“And a riot’s just the thing to bring the Soldiers out in force,” Dirk chirped, “guarding every byway and highway.”

Madelon gave him a black look. “Yes, of course. We’ll have to be careful.”

“Why?” Hugh asked, staring at Gar. “We’ve our own wizard with us, now.”

“Belay that!” Gar surged to his feet, paced out toward the forest wall. “He said the new guide would come soon! Where is he?”

Dirk watched him, marveling. Why be upset? It wasn’t real, anyway. He pointed to the lip of a trail poking out into the clearing. “If you’re really all that eager, there’s an exit off that way.”

Gar’s head swung about, eyes riveted to the trail.

Madelon glanced at him, then at the trail, back at Gar, looking worried.

“Why not?” Gar grinned, shrugging. “Our new guide must know the woods. He shouldn’t have any trouble finding us.”

Madelon still looked worried, and so did the churls. “There are times when personal initiative is singularly inappropriate,” Hugh pointed out.

But Gar only laughed and strode toward the trail.

Dirk shrugged and shoved himself away from the hummock, following. Why not?

The churls followed automatically, but also slowly.

Madelon stared after them, shocked. Then she pressed her lips tight in exasperation, and ran after them.

As he came in under the leaves, Dirk glanced back toward the city. The sun was touching the tops of the towers, coloring the whole landscape rose and magenta. Dirk pursed his lips; the day’s carnival had taken more time then he’d realized. “Night’s coming down, Gar. Any idea where we sleep tonight?”

“Why, with us,” said a voice from the shrubbery.

The whole party stretched to a halt. “Who said that?” Gar asked carefully.

Everyone looked at Dirk. Dirk looked at the bushes. “It didn’t sound like a man’s voice—and it certainly wasn’t Madelon’s.”

“I’m rather aware of that,” Gar said sourly. “Now, mind you, I’m not one to turn down an invitation—but I do like to have a look at its source.”

“Look, then,” the contralto answered, and a huge tub of a woman waded out of the underbrush with two archers to either side of her. Gleaming chestnut hair fell unbound to her shoulders. Her eyes were small, almost hidden in folds of fat, as was her mouth. She had a pug nose, scarcely noticeable. She wore a hooded robe, the color of walnut juice, over a beige tent of a dress. But her step was firm, and she spoke with the authority of a general. Her archers wore brown leather jerkins and tan hose, plus well-stocked quivers and longbows-nocked, at the moment.

The woman stopped a few feet from Gar and searched his face, frowning. Then she nodded, satisfied. “I am Lapin. You are welcome to our poor hospitality, though I’d rather you’d waited our coming.”

“So would Lord Core,” Gar said sourly.

“Gar, be still!” Madelon hissed. But Lapin’s eyes turned hard and opaque. She turned her head toward Dirk. “I believe I should resent that.”

Dirk stared back, at a loss for words; but a voice behind him said, “No need, Mother Lapin,” and Hugh stepped toward the huge woman, grinning. “Forgive him; he is an outlander and knows little of manners. But he is a good man for all that, and has brought me back to you whole, with several worthy recruits.”

Gar frowned. “My thanks, Hugh—but I have a tongue of my own.”

“It is so rude you had better not use it,” Lapin retorted. “I think you have need of an advocate, and you could scarcely ask for a better one than my own fellow captain.”

Dirk and Gar stared, poleaxed.

Hugh smiled at them, amused. “Come now, fellows. You knew I was not in the Cages for the theft of a chicken.”

Hugh saw them outfitted when they reached the outlaw camp. It didn’t do much for the handy collection of thorn scratches they’d picked up on the way, but it was definitely warmer than the cold night air of the forest. They wore sparrow-brown tunics, rather thin at the elbows, with a few major tears, and breeches of the same ilk. Hugh came back about the time they were done dressing—transfigured. Now he wore leather jerkin and tan hose, like the rest of the forest outlaws, and a grin a mile wide. “It is good to be back to mine own place to bide,” he confessed, slinging an arm around each of them. “Now for some honest feeding.”

He led them out of the bushes toward a large fire in the center of the forest clearing, with a spitted carcass roasting over it. Dirk sniffed, recognized venison, and wondered about the “honest” part. His stomach, however, informed him that the issue was academic. Hugh gave him a wooden plate, an outlaw turned around from the fire to slap a steaming, rare slab of meat on the plate. Dirk stepped back, found a convenient log, sat down, and tore into the food.

After the fourth bite, when his mind had room for other matters, he looked up and surveyed the camp, chewing thoughtfully. The huge fire was the only light, aside from a sprinkling of starshine. The outlaws were gathered around the huge blaze in groups of four or six, fletching arrows with crow feathers, making bows, sharpening arrowheads; and the women, scraping hides, patching garments, grinding meal—or, men and women alike, simply sitting and gossiping, while a few children ran about with bubbling laughter and joyful shrieks.

Beside him, Hugh was explaining to Gar. “Lapin escaped from the Houses some years ago and came here alone. The few outlaws in the wood gathered about her—then a few more, and a few more; there are always a few who escape the Estates. But, about a year ago, they began to come in greater numbers, and more frequently, till now we have twelve-score here in our pleasant forest hideaway.”

Dirk frowned. “How come the sudden increase? Did they say?”

Hugh turned to him, grinning. “Oh aye; it was they who brought us the news—that the Wizard is abroad in the land again, to bid all churls to make ready.”

Dirk choked on a piece of gristle.

“The life is not easy,” Hugh went on explaining to Gar while he pounded Dirk on the back. “There is constant toil, and always the danger of Soldiers. But there is no need to bend our backs to any man. And, though there is little enough to feed on, we all share equally in what we have; no man holds back the bulk for himself, as the Lords do. No one starves.”

Gar nodded slowly. “Then no one owns anything, but all of you own everything.”

Dirk glanced at him, irritated, and Hugh looked puzzled. “Why, what nonsense is this? Every man owns his clothes and his weapons; each woman her clothes and the goods of her household. These they have made for themselves; who is to gainsay them? Do you think we are lordlings?”

At least Gar had the grace to look embarrassed.

But he plowed on: “The women own the goods of the household? Not the men?”

Hugh cocked his head to the side. “How could they? Would they know how to care for such things? I do not understand your questions, Outlander.”

But Dirk suddenly did. The outlaws were a free churl society, the only one on the planet. Their economy and social organization would be the template for whatever grew up after the Lords were thrown out. Of course Gar was curious.

And, come to think of it, so was Dirk. Let’s see—economy, a form of socialism. Sex roles clearly defined, but with equal rights under custom—which would, presumably, grow into law.

But what about government?

Suddenly Dirk was very curious about the power structure in this outlaw band.

“I notice everybody seems to take orders from Lapin,” he said slowly.

Hugh turned to him, more puzzled than ever. “She is Keeper here, aye.”

“I thought you said no one bent their backs to anyone else.”

For a moment, he thought Hugh was going to hit him.

But the big Tradesman set his jaw and visibly forced himself to unclench his fists. He took a deep breath, turning his face toward the fire. “Lapin governs, but only by the approval of the whole band. When they do not like what she wishes them to do, they complain and protest, bitterly and loudly—and if enough join in the protest, Lapin gives way, and forgoes her wish.”

Dirk nodded, and Gar rumbled, “What if enough of them wished someone else to lead?”

“There are those who have wanted to lead,” Hugh said slowly, “and the band has discussed it, and wrangled, and argued; but in the end, all but a few called for Lapin.”

“But if it went the other way around?” Dirk pressed.

“It has not happened.” Hugh gave him a very cold stare. “But I believe in Lapin. She would step down.”

“Would she have a choice?”

Hugh watched for a moment. Then he began to smile, shaking his head slowly. “Perhaps not. As I said, none here bow their backs.”

“And I’ll wager they are on the watch, to be certain no man asks them to.” Gar put down his plate, still chewing, and rose, wiping his hands with a tuft of grass. “I have a sudden desire to speak with this paragon of yours, Hugh. Take me to her, if you will.”

The big Tradesman looked up, startled. Then he grinned, and rose. “Aye, gladly! This should be worth the watching—if you seek to match wits with Lapin!” He looked back at Dirk. “Will you come?”

“No,” Dirk said slowly, “I don’t think I’d learn anything new.”

Hugh frowned. “How’s that again?”

“Nothing. But tell me this, Hugh … from whom does Lapin take orders?”

“Why, no one.” Hugh grinned. “Till DeCade arises.”

Dirk nodded sardonically. “That’s what I’d thought, somehow. No, I think you can get by without me.”

Hugh shrugged. “As you wish.” He turned away and led Gar off around the fire.

Dirk sat watching them go, chewing the last mouthful. There was no point in talking to Lapin; he was looking for the top rebel leader; and she wasn’t it. No one was.

Except DeCade …

“Good evening, Outlander.” Dirk looked up, instantly wary.

A lean old man with a tonsure and a monk’s robe sat down beside him, turning a friendly smile toward him. In spite of himself, Dirk smiled back. “A good evening it is. But I’m not an outlander.”

The smile was still friendly, but the monk shook his head with certainty. “There is the touch of the alien in the way you say your words, in the way you bear yourself—a thousand small things. Any man can see it—you are not completely one of us.”

Dirk bit down on bile and nodded reluctantly. “You’re right. I’m a churl—but I’m a churl from the skies.”

“Ah.” The old man nodded, satisfied. “From the Wizard’s towers. Yes, there would be strangeness in the way you say your words—and the words themselves strange, I should think.”

“Strange words?” Dirk frowned. “Oh—you mean words like ‘molecular circuit,’ ‘monofilament,’ ‘nuclear fusion.’ ”

“Exactly.” The old man smiled, pleased, but there was a watchful look in his eyes. “Words of wizardry, I fancy. Surely you who have followed the Wizard into the skies would have far more such surface wisdom than any others of our people.”

Dirk frowned. “ ‘Surface’ wisdom? How do you mean?”

“No doubt these words give you great powers.” The old man smiled gently. “But will that help you live your life more fully and happily, my friend? To understand the Riddle of Life?”

“I suppose not,” Dirk said slowly. “I take it any other kind of wisdom is ‘surface’?”

The monk shrugged. “By my beliefs, at least.”

“And you may have a point,” Dirk admitted. “At least, that kind of wisdom is about all that could let these people stand to live at all, let alone happily. I was wondering how a guerrilla army could manage having children around, when they have to be ready to split up and run any minute.” The monk nodded. “But the children understand it as a fact of their life and dismiss it as easily as the adults do—more easily perhaps.”

“When they have to run, they do. Till then, they don’t think about it.”

“Quite so,” the monk agreed. “So they have no need to worry for their children. The mothers carry the infants, the babes ride their fathers’ shoulders—and all the others can go to ground and stay hidden as well as any rabbit.”

“Oh.” Dirk’s eyes widened. “So that’s why the top banana calls herself ‘Lapin.’ I was wondering why they called their chief ‘Rabbit.’ ”

“Of course.” The old man smiled, amused. “They have great respect for rabbits, I assure you. In fact, they surpass them when it comes to hiding and lying still till the King’s hunters have passed them. But these rabbits have teeth, and very sharp ones.”

“I believe it.” Dirk’s eyes strayed to an outlaw who sat near the fire, making arrows. “Didn’t I notice you playing that game with them earlier, Father?”

The old man glanced at the arrowmakers, then nodded. “Aye, I must admit I have some skill at it. For that reason, they call me ‘Father Fletcher.’ ”

Dirk frowned at the chagrin in the old man’s voice. “That bothers you, eh? A man of the cloth, making weapons of war?”

“Somewhat,” the old man admitted. “But Our Lord said to love our enemies and forgive them; He did not say we should not fight them.”

Dirk cranked his head around to try to swallow that one, but found he couldn’t. “I—ah—don’t quite think that’s—uh—an accurate reflection of the—ah—gist of His preaching.”

The old priest tried to shrug, but it bowed his shoulders. “We do what we must, Dirk Dulain; and if my conscience wakes me in the night with screaming, that is my concern and no one else’s.”

But Dirk had suddenly lost interest in the topic. “You know my name.”

“Aye.” A smile touched the old priest’s lips again. “So does the whole of the camp, by now. None ever escaped the arena before; you are men of some moment.”

“I’m overcome by the honor,” Dirk said dryly. “Are you chaplain to this merry army, Father?”

“Only a wandering guest, like yourself.” The old man looked out over the camp, and Dirk thought he saw a certain yearning in the lined and weary face. “I am a hedge priest, my friend—a clergyman without a parish or a flock, wandering wind-tossed over the earth, bringing words of hope to all the people.”

“ ‘All …’ ” Dirk rolled the word over his tongue, wondering whether he liked its flavor. “How many bands like this are there, Father?”

“A dozen more within this forest, and at least another dozen in every other forest in the kingdom. After that, who knows? There’s scarce a woodlot in Mélange without its score or more of outlaws.”

Dirk nodded. “Seven major forests—that’s eighty-four bands right there. And each Lord has his hunting park. Figure fifty people per band on average … about five thousand archers, trained and armed, and ready …”

“You’re quite the pessimist,” the priest assured him. “I’d estimate at least twelve thousand.” Dirk nodded. “And which is the largest band?”

“Why, this one.” The priest smiled, amused. “Would you not expect it, nearest the King’s own town?”

“Ordinary outlaws, no,” Dirk said judiciously. “But people with a folklore culture aching for guerrilla warfare revolution … Yes, of course. Should I ask who all these bands take orders from?”

“No, you’ve guessed it.” Father Fletcher’s mouth crinkled at the corners. “All acknowledge suzerainty of this band.”

“And that means of Lapin.” Dirk heaved a sigh. “Quite an army to bring against the Lords, if DeCade ever calls.”

“When DeCade calls,” the priest corrected serenely.

Dirk felt a sudden, sinking certainty that he’d never find a way to kick this patient peasant army into motion.

A sudden piercing whistle shattered the calm of the night.

The outlaws leaped to their feet, staring toward the east, where the whistle had come from. Murmurs rose and fell like surf, with a subtle undertone of rattling wood, as men and women strapped on quivers, caught up bows.

A runner came bounding into the firelight, glanced about him wildly. “Lapin!”

The leader moved into the firelight like a creasing bow wave. “Speak! What moves?”

“A hundred Soldiers, at least,” the runner cried, whirling toward her. “And at their head—Lord Core himself!”

“Core!” Hugh spat, and the outlaws took up the word, passing it about from mouth to mouth, like a swollen porcupine involved in a dispute about its ownership.

“Why comes he here, himself?” Lapin rumbled.

“Why else?” Gar shouldered up beside her. “From all I hear, escape from the Games isn’t exactly a move calculated to make the authorities lose interest.” He looked up at Dirk. “I think we might consider a change of climate.”

“We all must,” Lapin said sourly, and the whole army turned to gather up its belongings.

“No, wait!” Madelon stepped up. “There’s only a hundred of them; we are twice their number. Why not take them?”

“Aye!” Hugh cried. “Disperse, but only to the borders of this clearing. Then let them all come in, and when the last is here within the clearing—let fly the arrows. Cut them down!”

“Rifles,” Father Fletcher murmured, but Hugh waved the objection away. “They won’t have time.”

“Why not?” Madelon cried. “If we take them—Lord Core! At a stroke, we’ve stricken out our harshest hunter!”

“Devoutly to be wished,” Father Fletcher admitted. “Still, it lacks the taste of wisdom.”

“Why?” Hugh bellowed. “We’d take them all; not a one could live to run! No one would learn of it. No one could know—save us!”

“Well planned,” the priest approved. “But every plan can go awry; and if only one should slip away, to bear the word—”

“How?” Hugh interrupted. “What Soldier could outrun or hide, in our own for—”

“Enough,” Lapin said—not loudly, but with the weight of a new bride’s biscuit; and the argument was killed. Silently, they all turned to her.

“We will hide,” she said. Silence stretched a skein.

“Why!” Hugh erupted. “Odd gods, woman! How much chance is this?”

“None,” Lapin said with profound calm. “But it would be war, and the Bell has not yet rung.” Hugh stood staring at her in poleaxed silence. Then he turned away, his face thunderous, and took the kettle off the fire. Madelon stayed a moment longer, glaring furiously at the older woman; but Lapin turned a granite gaze upon her, and Madelon turned away, flushing.

Dirk stared, paralyzed. Just one word from this she-leviathan, and a whole peasant army threw away a certain victory. In his mind’s eye, he saw a vast and ready army, stretching across the length and breadth of the kingdom, armed and poised to strike—and frozen, immobilized in ice. Because a word had not been spoken, had not because it could not—because the lips that had to speak it had turned to rot and dust, five hundred years before.

A hand clasped his shoulder, jolting him out of his trance.

“It might be best if you would come with me,” Father Fletcher suggested. “I know these woods and can lead you to a safe place.”

Dirk raised his eyes, saw Gar and Madelon standing behind the priest. He looked out over the clearing, saw it almost empty, except for a few stragglers who slung packs on their backs while he watched, and a hundred brushwood shanties.

He turned back to Father Fletcher, nodded judiciously. “Yah. That might be a good idea.” Father Fletcher strode away toward the trees. Dirk glanced at Gar and Madelon, then turned and followed the priest.