A Wizard In Bedlam Read online

  Gar's eager grin slipped and faded.

  "Jump out roaring," Dirk pressed, "and scare me so badly I'd count myself lucky if all you did was snatch my purse? That's how you live, isn't it?"

  Gar nodded reluctantly, eyes downcast like a whipped puppy.

  Dirk nodded, too. "I thought so."

  He flipped the coin, spinning through the air. The giant clapped at it, missed, and scrabbled after it in the dust. He came up with it wrapped tightly in a fist the size of a beef joint and an ear-to-ear grin.

  Dirk smiled bleakly and turned away. He'd have to find another hiding place; an uneasy conscience made uneasy sleep. He knew Gar wasn't his fault, but he still felt guilty for not being able to help him.

  Whenever he was on this planet, he spent a lot of time feeling guilty.

  He set out for the ridge again, his guilt churning in with the satisfied glow of philanthropy and the self-disgust of feeling like a sucker.

  Dirk came out of his morass of self-flagellation when he realized he heard footsteps behind him. He looked back over his shoulder. The giant was trailing about fifty feet behind him, still grinning. Dirk turned and leaned on his staff, frowning. Gar stopped too, but he kept on grinning. "Why are you following me?" Dirk said carefully.

  "Nice man," Gar said hopefully. "Nice to Gar." A red light flashed in Dirk's mind: SUCKER. He'd been through this before, with a puppy that had followed him home. It had grown into a small horse and eaten up most of his salary. To top it off, the darned thing couldn't be trained. He'd been through it with girls, too, with much the same results.

  The grin faded into a lost, mournful look. "No friend?"

  "Look," he said desperately, "I don't need a sidekick. I can't be tied down with responsibility right now. Especially right now. You can't follow me now. Maybe later. Not now."

  The big man's face seemed to crumple, his lower lip turning under. Tears squeezed out of his eyes.

  And a warning blared in Dirk's mind.

  Up till then, he'd've bought it-attack, remorse, fear, the whole bit. But-tears? They wouldn't have come naturally; they'd have to be a deliberate play on Dirk's sympathy.

  And anyone with enough brains and control to stage deliberate tears couldn't be all that much of an idiot.

  And, come to think of it, roadside beggars didn't try to latch onto their patrons. They'd had too many kicks from their masters before they ran away.

  Dirk straightened, cupping his hands on the tip of his staff, ready to snap it to guard in the blink of an eye. "You just overplayed it, friend," he said quietly. "You're no more an idiot than I am."

  Gar stared.

  Then he frowned; his jaw firmed; he squared his shoulders; and, somehow, he seemed much more intelligent.

  Also dangerous.

  Dirk swallowed and slid one hand down the staff, ready to snap it up to guard.

  Gar's mouth thinned in disgust. He shrugged. "All right, the game's up. I won't try to run a bad joke into the ground."

  "Joke?" Dirk said softly. "Game?"

  Gar shrugged again, impatiently. "A figure of speech."

  "Oh yes, I'm sure." Dirk nodded. "What game?"

  Gar started to answer, then caught himself and grimaced in chagrin. "Twice in a row; it's a bad night. Okay, I'll admit it--I was trying to latch onto you for a guide."

  Dirk stood very still. Then he said, "Natives don't need guides. Also, a native would have a definite place-he'd be a lord, a gentleman, or a churl. In any event, he wouldn't be wandering around loose--unless he were an outlaw. But then he'd be hiding in the forest with the rest of his band."

  "Very astute," Gar growled. "Yes, I'm from offplanet. If I didn't want you to know it, I wouldn't've said `guide.' "

  Very true, Dirk thought; but, by the wanted token, if Gar was willing to admit he wanted Dirk for a guide, he had another purpose that he didn't want Dirk to know about. Second Corollary of Finagle's Law of Reversal: If a man says something is true, then it isn't.

  "If you did want me to know it," Dirk said slowly, "why'd you pose as a poortom?" "Poortom?" Gar frowned. "Oh, you mean an idiot.... Sure, I'd've rather you would have thought I was a native, just tagging along. But you found me out, so I had to come clean."

  Dirk wondered if the man knew how poorly he lied. But he nodded slowly, letting Gar think he believed him. Why not? It was a harmless delusion and might give Dirk an advantage. "How'd you get in? If you'd come on the freighters, I'd have known about it."

  Gar shrugged, irritated. "I've got my own boat." Dirk held himself stiff, trying to keep his face empty of emotion while he absorbed the information. A private yacht bespoke money-real money. But why would a millionaire come to Melange? "So you just dropped in for a visit," he mused aloud. "Don't you know Melange is off-limits to tourists?"

  "Off-limits to just about everyone, from what I hear." Gar smiled contemptuously. "That kind of thing is liable to give a man a bothersome itch in the curiosity bump."

  For a moment, Dirk had to fight down boiling rage. Not bad enough he and his kind had to be treated like animals-now they had to be a sideshow, too.

  He forced the tension to ease off. "So you just dropped in, managed to shake the search party, and went looking for a guide. Sounds a little thin, friend."

  Gar scowled. "No doubt. But it's not quite that simple-I've been here for a month already." "Oh? Like what you saw?"

  Gar's mouth twisted; he turned his head and spat. "It makes me sick to see a bunch of rulers, ostensibly educated and cultured men, so decayed as to treat their people like toys, whose sole purpose for existence is to satisfy their lords' drives and whims." He turned back to Dirk, glaring. "Why do you take it? Isn't there any manhood left in you? Why don't you just rise up and throw them out?"

  Dirk pursed his lips thoughtfully, surprised to realize he was suddenly thinking of Gar as a kid. But that's what he was-a spoiled brat with a conscience, a rich man's son with nothing to do and a need for a purpose, a reason for living. He couldn't find one in his own life, so he was looking at someone else's-probably rodding from planet to planet, hoping to find a cause he could believe in.

  And, at a guess, he'd just found it. Which in turn meant ...

  "You could've ambushed a traveler weeks ago, if you wanted to con yourself a guide," Dirk pointed out. "But you didn't; you tried to put the touch on me-tonight-when there aren't many travelers abroad. None, in fact--or at least, no one legal. Why me?"

  Gar turned away, disgusted. "All right, all right! I needed someone from off-planet, and when I saw the search party riding out at night, I knew they weren't just out after an escaped serf! Whole thing looked very familiar, in fact almost exactly like the party that came hunting me when I touched down! Therefore: wherever they were going, there'd be someone coming from, and that someone' d be from off-planet. So I figured out which way you'd come walking, and I laid an ambush! Good enough?"

  Dirk nodded slowly. It was fine--except that Gar left out the part about rebels. On an interdicted planet, an illegal visitor was either a spy or a rebel, possibly both. So Gar was trying to latch onto a contact with the rebel forces.

  Which meant he might not be from off-planet at all just a spy for the Lords.

  Dirk shook his head. He wasn't a spy-you could see it in his face. This was one planet where you could tell which side a man was on just by looking at him. Inbreeding will do that.

  So Gar was trying to contact the rebels, with an eye toward joining up; but of course he didn't want them to know that he knew.

  Yes. A kid.

  "Well, how about it?" Gar demanded. "Can you hack a tag-along? Or do I keep wandering on my own?"

  Dirk was very tempted to refuse; if there was one thing he didn't need at this point, it was an enthusiastic amateur. So he would've told Gar to go on his own, or go to hell, whichever he chose, if it weren't for one nagging possibility:

  The revolution might fail.

  And if it did, the churls were going to need high-powered help from off-planet: influ
ence-to push an investigation of the local government. And where there is money, there is influence.

  The kid had enough money for a private spaceyacht....

  Dirk shrugged, turning away. "It's okay by me, as long as you try to stay out of the way. But I warn you; it won't be a pleasant tour."

  He turned his back and swung off toward the ridge.

  After a moment, he heard footsteps behind him.

  CHAPTER 2

  They came to the village just before sunrise. Dirk stopped, the life draining out of his face, looking about him with bleak, starved eyes.

  Gar frowned down at him. "What's the matter?" "It always hits me like this," Dirk muttered, "coming into one of these villages after I've been away a year. It's almost deja vu, it's so much like the place I grew up. As though I've been here before and it's home-but it's not, it can't ever be. I don't belong here anymore...."

  He caught himself, realized he'd been spilling his guts to a total stranger, and one he didn't particularly trust. "Come on, let's get moving," he snarled. "We've got to get undercover fast."

  Gar frowned after him, then shrugged and strode fast to catch up. After putting on his clothes, he was dressed in the same fashion as Dirk. It was gentleman's clothing-their only possible coverfor- only gentlemen could travel from village to village at will. Only gentlemen, or Lords-but they all knew each other and would be quick to spot a ringer.

  They ambled down the village street, Gar trying to keep from staring at the villagers-the broad, squat men with broad, round faces, brown eyes, snub noses, and ball chins; and the women, almost as broad, with ample bosoms and hips, their faces similar to the men's but a little finer-boned. They were all dressed alike; the men in red or green jerkins and ocher hose, the women in blue or yellow homespun with red aprons. Occasionally a taller man walked by, with huge, muscular shoulders and arms, long-fingered hands, and a square face with a broad forehead and high cheekbones; but they were few.

  The houses were like their owners-low, broad, and round, with thatched roofs and mud-and-wattle walls, painted in pinks, pale blues, mint-greens.

  "They still look so much alike," Gar muttered. "Huh?" Dirk came out of a brown study, frowning. "What do you mean, `still'?"

  "Well, I've been here a month. By now I should be seeing individual differences."

  Dirk smiled bleakly. "Not really."

  Gar turned to him, frowning. "Why? How long will it take?"

  "Your whole life," Dirt said sourly, "and even then you'd make mistakes. It's not just a matter of their all looking alike to you simply because you're from off-planet."

  Gar scowled. "What else could it be?"

  "That they do all look alike," Dirk said sweetly. "I told you about the inbreeding, didn't I?"

  Gar stopped and stood, glowering down. "No, as a matter of fact. You didn't. Don't you have any taboos against incest?"

  "Yes, a very elaborate set. But they don't help much if you've all got the same genes to begin with."

  "That's impossible," Gar said flatly.

  Dirk shook his head. "Not if you have a small enough gene-pool."

  "That small a gene-pool couldn't survive. Not just genetically-the original colony on this planet wouldn't've had enough people to build a selfsustaining society."

  "Nevertheless, it happened." Dirk turned to look around the village. "Look it up in the official records-that's what we had to do, those of us who escaped off-planet. You see, we didn't know our own history-the Lords were very careful about that."

  Gar cocked his head to the side. "All right, I'll give you the straight line-what did the records say?"

  "The original ship . . ."

  "Ship?" Gar was restrained-only a little skepticism. "One ship, for a whole colony?"

  "Only one," Dirk confirmed. "You see, our lords and masters, in their infinite wisdom, decided not to take along any spare baggage, such as people who might not agree with them; so that one ship was limited to a very exclusive set of people who were sick and tired of not being able to have things their own way. About two thousand of them-at least, the record said six hundred families. Plus, of course; enough sperm and ova on ice to guard against too much inbreeding."

  "Of course," Gar murmured. "And the churls? Two thousand is a full shipload-or was, a few centuries ago. Figure a hundred farmers to support each Lord-"

  "Two hundred," Dirk interrupted sweetly. "You forget such essentials as butlers, cooks, maids, hostlers, and barbers."

  Gar nodded. "About half a million." Dirk shook his head. "Twelve." Gar held still, staring at him.

  Dirk turned away, looking out at the villagers. "Have you seen what these people bear on their backs, under their clothes? Have you ever seen one of them whipped?"

  "I've seen it," Gar grunted. "The capital letter 'C'."

  Dirk nodded. "The brand of slavery. They're branded with it when they reach puberty-you might call it our rite of passage, not that we chose it . . ." He broke off, brooding. "Of course, I don't have it. I escaped before then . . ."

  He shook off the mood, looked up at Gar. "Do you know what the `C' stands for?"

  "Well . . ." Gar scowled. " `Churl,' I suppose. That's the local term for the peasants, isn't it?"

  Dirk nodded. "It could stand for `churl.' But it stands for something else, too--'clone.' "

  Gar stared down at him, appalled.

  "Yes," Dirk said softly, "that's what they did. They brought twelve servants along, only twelvehow they conned them into it, heaven knows. As soon as they landed, they took bits of flesh from each of them, and made clones, then cloned the clones-hundreds of them, hundreds of thousands, until each Lord had as many servants and subjects as he wanted." He stopped, took a long breath. "And that's how my people came into being."

  Gar turned slowly, looking at the villagers. "No wonder you all look alike."

  "Yes, no wonder. Very efficient, isn't it? You can tell a man's place in life just by looking at him. The broad, stout ones are Farmers, like most of them here. The occasional tall one, with the muscles? He's a Tradesman, a blacksmith or carpenter. They just drafted one man with a mechanical aptitude, and stamped out copies until they had enough to go around. Then there're the Butler family, the Merchants, the Hostlers, the Soldiers, the Woodsmen, the Fishers--oh, and let's not forget the ladies: the Cooks, the Maids, and the Housewives-and that's it." He gave Gar a saccharine smile. "Pretty, isn't it?"

  "Inhuman," Gar growled.

  Dirk nodded. "That, too." He turned away, his eyes roaming the street. He stiffened. "Well, well, you get to meet another family-the Soldiers. Along with a genuine Gentleman, represented by the local Squire."

  Gar looked up.

  Five men were trotting toward them on tall horses, four in steel caps and chain-mail jackets behind a short, slender man with wavy golden hair, dressed in pale-blue hose and a purple doublet.

  "You might call him a hybrid," Dirk said softly. "You might, if you wanted to be polite ... You see, the Lords brought along all the best aspects of the Terran aristocratic culture-best for them, that is. Including the droit de seigneur, and the right to grab any churl woman and seduce her, or rape her if she's not seduceable. Anytime they want. And the bastard offspring they call `Gentlemen,' and make them knights and squires, to govern the villages."

  Gar nodded. "What do they call the bastards from a churl man and a lord's woman?" "Dead," Dirk said, too brightly. "Her, too, usually."

  The Squire came up, and drew rein. His Soldiers did, too, but managed to let their horses wander a little, nicely surrounding the travelers.

  Dirk watched them nonchalantly. Then he turned to the Squire. "Good day, Squire." "Good day," the Squire replied pleasantly. "You seem wearied, Gentlemen. Has your journey been long?"

  "Very." Dirk wondered what the Squire would say if he knew just how long, then sobered as he realized the man might. "And wearying-we found no shelter this last night, and perforce kept walking till dawn."

  "A hard tale," the Squire commiserated. "M
ay I ask your profession, good sirs? What business is it brings ye abroad, on foot, in such unsettled times?"

  Dirk noted the "unsettled times," though he saw no sign of it in the quiet, well-ordered village. "We're both younger sons." He included Gar in a gesture. "Our Lord had no place for us, so we must perforce seek other positions. We're bound for the King's Town."

  He saw the Soldiers stiffen. What was happening at Albemarle?

  "You have no employment, then?" The Squire hid his reaction much better than his Soldiers; he merely seemed wary.

  "No," Dirk said slowly. "We thought to seek places in the King's Army." He saw the Squire relax a little-but only a little.

  The young man nodded. "Then of course, you'd be bound for the King's Town . . ."

  "Sir, your pardon," said the sergeant suddenly, "but wasn't there word that wandering Gentlemen were goading the churls into joining the rebels?"

  "I have heard such talk . . ." The Squire gave Dirk a calculating look.

  Dirk felt Gar tense beside him.

  "Two out-of-place Gentlemen, wandering toward Albemarle," the sergeant mused. "Could be they's carrying word from one nest of outlaws to another."

  The Squire nodded, eyes on Dirk.

  Dirk decided on Righteous Indignation. "Sir! We are Gentlemen, and loyal to the King!"

  "So am I," said the Squire softly. "Yet, when all is said, each man is most loyal to his own interests. And, to say truth, we seek a spy, known to be near this parish, who would probably go disguised as a Gentleman."

  "One," Dirk pointed out, suddenly grateful for Gar's presence. "Not two."

  The Squire shrugged impatiently. "Two spies in-. stead of one is to our credit."

  "There's this, too," the sergeant pointed out. "Milord Cochon needs more foot soldiers."

  Dirk fought down a surge of panic and hauled out his best smile. "Squire, surely you jest. Who would a spy be from? There is only the King."

  "And the outlaws," the Squire reminded him. "Have you heard no talk of rebellion?"

  Dirk nodded slowly, frowning. "Aye, I've heard-but scarce could credit it; I see no sign." "But I do," The Squire said grimly. "You will come with us, Gentlemen. If you are not rebels, you will have my apologies, and places with Lord Cochon. But if you are . . ." He let the sentence hang, smiling grimly, and turned to the sergeant; jerking his head toward Gar and Dirk.