A Wizard In Bedlam Read online

  "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 wildeyed, 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 tumed 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?"

  CHAPTER 4

  There was an easy way, of course-Dirk could go into a tavern, pretend to get drunk, start saying nasty things about the Lords. This system was guaranteed to produce five stocky Soldiers on a moment's notice, who would be quite amenable to hauling Dirk off to the nearest Reeve/Gentleman, who would send him off to the Cages with all due alacrity and expedition. Dirk was all in favor of alacrity and expedition, they'd been his companions in trouble before; but he wasn't too happy about the chance of being brought to Lord Core's notice. It is extremely difficult to explain the presence of a dead body, especially if it's yours. Nonetheless, Core would no doubt be rather insistent on getting answers, and his forms of insistence were not likely to be conducive to Dirk's future well-being. So lawbreaking was out.

  That meant Dirk had to be smuggled into the cages-and that meant the Guild.

  He and Madelon made i
t to Albemarle, the capital, in two nights and four Soldiers. Dirk hoped their Lord would put down their disappearance to outlaws, which was almost true.

  They rode into town right after the gates opened, cleverly disguised under a heap of cabbages. The churl driving the cart was understandably disconcerted when, at the first hidden corner, his vegetables heaved and erupted, spewing out a Gentleman and his Lady (Madelon had procured new clothes somewhere along the way; Dirk had carefully not asked how). But he recovered quickly and turned his eyes front as they dropped to the ground and hurried off, churls acquired selective perception rather early in life.

  Dirk and Madelon turned a corner and slowed down, breathing a little more easily. Dirk's interest perked up as he looked around him at the narrow land and half-timbered buildings. He'd been a country boy, so the towns didn't awake that haunting sense of alienated familiarity that troubled him in the villages. Also, there was more variety, even at this early hour, as they turned into the main street-a Butler from the castle on an errand; a Hostler leading horses out of a Lord's town house; a Tradesman in front of his shop, throwing a pot; a party of Merchants en route to the countinghouse. Each was distinct, obviously a member of his Guild-after all, occupations were chosen for them by looks-but there was a strange sameness to them, a blending, as the blending of several colors produces a muddy gray. They all had the same color hair-dun, sparrow-colored; they were all round-faced, all of medium height and build. In the towns, all the genotypes mixed together and produced a hybrid-but only one hybrid; the genepool was sharply limited.

  The light-headed delight of the morning passed, leaving sullen, smoldering anger. Dirk muttered, "And even if the Lords had known this would happen, they probably still would've done it."

  Madelon looked up, puzzled. "Done what?" Dirk started to answer, then clamped his mouth shut, remembering that the churls didn't know what a clone was.

  And if they learned, what would it do to them? "Set up the Games." And, quickly: "All right, we're here. Now where do we go?"

  "In there." She pointed to a tavern.

  Dirk looked up at the sign. "There'll be Soldiers."

  "We are dead-don't you remember?" She pushed him through the door.