The common room was paneled in dark wood and greasy smoke. They found seats at the long central table, and Dirk tried not to breathe too deeply. It was early; there were only a few other people at the board, eating what passed for breakfast.
"What do we do now?"
"Eat," she replied sweetly. "Or aren't you hungry?"
Dirk's belly answered her with a sudden, mutinous rumble. He remembered their last meal-an overly optimistic chicken who had foolishly gone out for a stroll; it had really been too young to go out alone-and fumbled in his purse, relieved to find all his money still there.
The innkeeper came up, wiping his hands on his apron-a fat Merchant type, with a smile pasted on for the gentry. "Your pleasure, Gentleman and Lady?"
"The best of whatever you have to break fast with." Madelon gestured airily with two fingers. The smile vanished. Its owner peered more closely into her face, while he said, much too casually, "There is roast fowl and wine, Lady. All else is too coarse for the palate of Gentry." Madelon nodded judiciously. "That will do. Bring the wine quickly, please."
The innkeeper bowed and turned away, moving as calmly and deliberately as though he'd seen nothing out of the ordinary.
Dirk pitched his voice low. "Whose is that sign?"
She stared at him a moment; then she smiled sweetly. "If you do not know it already, you have no right to."
Dirk's eyes narrowed; but before he could speak, the innkeeper was back, setting two wineglasses and a bottle before them, then bowing and turning away.
Madelon filled the glasses and handed one to Dirk. "For a man who claims to be of us, you seem to know little about us."
Dirk glanced uneasily down the table; which one of the other customers was the Lord's spy? But he'd have to have an amplifier to hear more than a low murmur. Not impossible-but Dirk didn't see any hearing aids.
He turned back to Madelon. "You don't learn very much about rebels when you're ten. You certainly don't meet any-except the ones who smuggle you out, and they don't tip you any secrets."
"Of course," she murmured. "Then you have met the Guild?"
"You could say so," Dirk said slowly. "But even after I was away, it was several years before I realized what they meant when they said the Guild. I mean, when the men helped me escape, I saw their guild-patches on their arms--but they were all from different guilds. And when I was a boy in the village, I knew the local Tradesmen were members of different guilds, and I got a hazy impression that there was a guild governing each trade, keeping up the quality of the product and doing the paper work-but never trying to improve the lot of their members, or doing collective pushing on the Lords......"
Madelon's eyes widened. Then she propped her chin on a fist, musing. "An interesting thought, that . . ."
"Yes." Dirk smiled wryly. "Bizarre new concept, isn't it? ... So after I was . . . `away' . . . it took me a while to realize that since anybody who wanted to oppose the Lords couldn't do it through his guild, they'd set up another, secret Guild for the purpose."
"It is confusing." She smiled sweetly. "We hope the Lords find it so, too. But do not your people deal with the Guild?"
"Oh yes, quite often-but mostly just to smuggle the occasional child off to us, or to assure them we're still working for them. They always keep us at arm's length-deal with us, but don't trust us."
"Small wonder, since you take only children. Why do you not take grown men and women, too?"
Dirk shook his head. "If we started doing that, every churl on Melange would be trying to join us-and with that kind of rush, the Lords'd be onto us in no time and shut us down. Escaping children are rare-and a child can learn more than an adult. Learn faster, too-and our operations require a lot of book knowledge. An awful lot."
"So you take only the brighter children," Madelon said crisply. "The others must stay with the outlaws, in the forest-and you wonder why we do not trust you! One would think you know nothing of us, had no idea of our sufferings!"
Dirk stiffened, "I know. I know well. My mother died in the dead of winter because Lord Core wouldn't give my father the medicine-even though he stood outside the portal all day in the snow. Then Lord Core rode through the village and spotted my sister and gave orders that she be brought to his castle. My father hustled her off into the forest before the Soldiers could get there, and I never saw her again. But Core had him whipped to death for it-and he made me watch with the rest of the village."
She stared into his eyes, surprised by the hate in his voice. Then her gaze softened. "And that is when you ran."
"Yes-before my father was buried, while they thought I was still too numb to do anything. But I vowed to come back and avenge them."
"And now you are back."
Dirk nodded. "And we're working on the other part."
Her eyes were wide, staring into his-and, Dirk realized, not black, but a very deep violet. Very deep-he seemed to feel himself losing hold of the hard wood beneath him, being drawn into those eyes, very deeply ...
Her lashes fluttered, and broke the spell. She dropped her eyes. "The tale of your sister is ... familiar."
Like her own, Dirk realized; and it hit him like a pile driver. Pity and tenderness welled up in him; outrage surged. If they had dared touch her, he'd ...
Whoa. He hauled himself back, shaken as he realized the emotions he'd just felt. What was it with this girl, anyway?
She looked up at him. "I cannot doubt you now, Dirk Dulain. You tell your tale with too much will; only one who has suffered as we have could feel so much hate." She reached out and took his hand. "I have helped you only with an ill will, so far; but now, we will be together in this, with all my will-and, I think, my heart."
Dirk sat, frozen by the spark-gap of her touch, fighting to contain the sudden surge of elation, to clear the subtle distortion that seemed to have come over the room.
Then he remembered that Gar wasn't around at the moment, and reason returned.
The innkeeper came up with the two roasted birds, and Dirk dropped Madelon's hand-with, it must be admitted, a little relief.
The fowls were small and they were both very hungry, so conversation lapsed while they both paid tribute to the cook. When the bulk of the meat was gone, Dirk shoved his plate away with regret-picking the bones wasn't seemly for gentlefolk. Madelon looked up, caught on, and, for once, followed his lead.
Dirk reached forward and refilled both glasses for the third time. "Next?"
"We wait." Madelon sat back and sipped. "It shouldn't be long."
It wasn't. A wiry, fox-faced man with a bolt of cloth materialized at their table. "Here are the goods you wished to see, Lady."
Madelon looked up with only the slightest trace of surprise. She recovered quickly and unrolled a yard or so, spreading it out over her lap and feeling, pinching, running her hands over it. "Yes, it is excellent stuff, but the color is not quite right. I wish a little more red in it."
"Ah!" The tailor nodded vigorously, as though she had confirmed a personal opinion of his own. "I know just the bolt, Lady-but it is at my shop. Will you come?"
Madelon rose and headed for the door, the tailor at her elbow. Dirk lingered long enough to drop several gold coins on the table-far more than the cost of the meal, but revolutions need financingand jumped to catch up.
They went down the street, Madelon and the tailor side by side, chattering happily about cloth, cutting, and draping in a jargon that meant about as much to Dirk as a language of supersonic emanations put out by silicate life-forms. He followed after, totally bemused.
A hand shot out from an alley to touch Madelon's elbow. Without the slightest pause, she turned into the alley, as though she'd planned on it all along. So did Dirk. The tailor hurried on by.
As Dirk turned the corner, their guide was turning away-a stocky sandy-haired youth with the badge of a smith's apprentice on his sleeve. Dirk regained some measure of self-confidence; the pattern was familiar. "I will lead you to a man who will lead you . . ." The tailor w
ould never be able to say where his two charges had gone because he didn't know; he'd be able to say only where the next guide had picked them up. He couldn't even tell who the new guide was.
As they came to the end of an alley, another hand shot out of a doorway, touching Madelon's elbow; again she turned and followed without breaking stride. Dirk followed her while the second guide went on by. The door opened onto a stairway, and they went down into a basement. Their guide shoved a hogshead aside, revealing a hole in the wall. Madelon stooped and went through, Dirk right behind her; behind him, the hogshead rolled back into place. Their next guide was waiting with a candle.
They followed, Dirk slightly stupefied by the Guild's coordination. True, they'd had centuries to lay out this route and rehearse the system; but still it was eerie, as though the guides could read each other's thoughts. But Dirk knew, from statistics, genetics, and his own experience, that there couldn't be that many intelligent telepaths on the planet-or at least, not in one town.
Four guides, one alley, two cellars, and a tunnel later, they emerged into a large granite chamber with tapestries on the walls, a rich carpet on the floor, and a finely carved, polished set of table and chairs in the middle. A chandelier with four oil lamps hung over the table, lighting the room brightly (by local standards).
Dirk looked around, frowning. There was no guide, so presumably this was the end of the trip; but who were they supposed to talk to? "Where's our host?"
"He will come presently." Madelon sat down at the table and reached for the bottle of brandy in its center. "Don't fret so, Dirk Dulain-we've five days yet."
Dirk wavered, glaring at her; then he threw himself into a chair and reached for the brandy.
He was beginning to feel remarkably peaceful by the time a hidden latch clicked and their host walked into the room.
Dirk eased around in his chair, smiling affably. He saw a tall, stout Merchant in a long burgundy robe over an ochre tunic and pale blue hose. He was round-faced, jowly, with small, hard eyes and a grim, puckered mouth. Over the robe, he wore a baldric embroidered with arcane symbols.
Dirk's smile vanished; he recognized that insignia. He was looking at the Grandmaster of the Guild.
Madelon came to her feet. "I am Madelon; my home village is Marcire, on the estates of Lord Busset. I am . . ."
The Guildmaster nodded, cutting her off. "I know you, Madelon; I have word from those who have met you. You bear word between the outlaws and the women of the houses. But who is he?"
Dirk stood slowly, as Madelon said, "He is from our friends in the sky . . ."
" `Friends?' " The Guildmaster mocked, turning to Dirk. "What do you here, sky-man?"
"We're not just friends, we are kin." Dirk held his anger carefully. "I am Dirk, son of Tobin, born in the village Dulain on the estates of Lord Core."
The Master's mouth quirked with impatience. "I know it well; I have helped enough of you escape when you were children. But it is in my mind that you forget us. You go away and come back only rarely, with the signs of good living upon you; and we never have any good of you."
"You shall," Dirk said, breathing ice, "when The Day comes."
"So you say."
"So we shall prove-and, I think, soon."
The Master's scowl deepened suddenly, to troubled brooding. "Yes ... so it would seem. It is in the air. ....."
"What signs have you seen?" Dirk pounced. The Master shrugged, irritated. "Signs? Who would see signs? If the Lords saw any sign-even hope in a churl's eyes-The Day would be doomed before it began. But everyone knows it; everyone feels it."
Only what he already knew, and no more. Dirk felt disappointed. For a moment, he let his mind reel into fantasy, imagining psionic transmitters, broadcasting a steady emotion of Something Big Coming, goading the churls to frenzied revolt. Then he jolted himself back to reality.
Which the Master promptly yanked out from under him. "There is rumor the Wizard walks among us again...."
Superstition! Dirk pressed his lips tight to hold back the anger. "Anything else?"
"Each churl is digging up his ancestors' weapon-hoard, and testing the blades, then reburying them." The Master shrugged. "And there is rumor that two outlaw couriers were slain by Soldiers, then waked to life again."
Dirk stood a moment, galvanized; then he realized that, if he had to put up with superstition, he might as well make use of it. He opened his mouth, but Madelon was ahead of him. "We are those two."
The Master's head snapped up, staring. "You?" Dirk nodded.
The Master slid a hand inside his doubletclutching a holy medallion, at a guess. White showed all around his eyes. "Were you truly dead?"
Madelon hesitated.
Dirk shrugged. "Who can tell? The churls said we bore no sign of life. For myself, I can tell you I dreamed."
The Master's eyes swung to him like a compass needle to a magnet. "A dream? What of?"
Dirk swallowed, then forced it out: "The Wizard of the Far Tower."
The Guildmaster's eyes widened their last possible millimeter. "In what way may I serve you?" he whispered.
Dirk came down with a sudden attack of conscience, so Madelon leaped into the breach. "A man of ours has been taken and sent to the Games. We must get him out, if we are to have any hope for The Day."
The Guildmaster turned to her in surprise, then frowned, musing. "It is indeed strange to take a man from the Games-once there, he will not be questioned, and at least will have a quick death. But if you say it must be done, then it must......"
"Dirk must go into the Cages, to take him word of the plan," Madelon said quickly, "and I must be in the stands, to lead them out. It is for you to choose the route and to have it cleared before us and blocked behind us."
The Master nodded. "Simple enough. It is also for me to smuggle your friend in?"
Madelon sighed with relief and nodded.
So did the Guildmaster. "That is more difficult, but possible, quite possible. Let me see. Alphonse is a trainer there, and the Master of the Cages is a cousin to . . ." His voice trailed off into mumbling as he turned away, chin in his fist, pacing the chamber.
Madelon caught Dirk's eye and gave him a glowing smile, lips parted in joy.
Dirk swallowed hard and tried to dig his toes into the carpet. He managed a weak smile back. The Master strode up to them, clasping his arms behind his back, nodding vigorously. "It shall be done, Lady and Gentleman-yes, it shall be done! I must go and see to the doing-will you abide here, to rest and refresh yourselves? One will come in good time to lead you to one who will lead you."
It was a command, for all that it was phrased so politely; but Madelon gave him her most dazzling smile. "We will be delighted, Guildmaster-and will do it quite gladly, for, to tell truth, we are sore wearied. I thank you for all your great kindness."
The Master actually blushed. "It is nothing, Lady; I delight in the doing of it. Do you seat yourselves now, and leave all else to me."
He whirled about, ducked behind a tapestry, and was gone.
Madelon turned to Dirk, glowing. "You were magnificent, sir! You knew just what to say!" But in this case, Dirk didn't.
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 up
on 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 cobblestoned 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 himbut 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 lether 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!
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