In Chateau Grenoble, the kitchen drudge came to the head Butler, murmuring quietly to him. He listened thoughtfully, nodding; she turned away. Then the Butler told one of his footmen to bear a message to a certain Sergeant of Guards. As the footman went, the Butler passed among the other servants, murmuring briefly to each; one by one, they finished what they were doing and went to the kitchens, where they took up knives and cleavers.
They marched up the great stairs toward the chamber where their Lord and Lady lay sleeping, each of them remembering many humiliations, injuries, and loved ones lost. On a landing they met a troop of guardsmen. The sergeant and the Butler exchanged glances, then marched on up the stairs, side by side. Fifty Soldiers and servants followed them.
The castle of Miltrait had a lord with a nasty, suspicious mind; he'd always made sure he kept a good standing army handy within the walls of his keep, and a squad of young lordlings (mostly his own) to stand behind the Soldiers with lasers. The lordlings had stood night watch in the barracks; which was why, though the house churls had opened the gate, the rebel army wasn't making much headway.
The courtyard was a frenzy of torchlight, hoarse screams, bellows of rage, winking laser beams, and the clatter of steel. At its center stood the Lord, armor bolted over his nightshirt, hewing and hacking about him, bellowing, "On, my bullies, on! Force them out through the gate; free this castle of vermin!" And slowly, bit by bit, the churls were being pushed back to the wall.
But, silent and unseen above them, a huge black egg drifted down, hovering over the battlements. One of its turrets swiveled downward, lining up on the Lord.
He happened to glance upward, saw the dark blot against the stars, and realized what was happening. He sprang backward with a bellow of warning-but the turret tracked him, and a rod of red fire sizzled out, strafing the long line of lordlings.
The Lord died in an instant. Some of his men survived long enough for the knives of the churls to reach them.
Lady Pomgrain fled back through the keep. Behind her, in the great hall, the air danced with laser bolts. Steel clashed on steel. Her husband fought like a maniac with the handful of gentlemen left to him, guarding her line of escape, but the churls pressed them hard; as soon as one was dispatched, another popped up in his place.
The Lady threw open a door on a spiral stair, stepped in, and bolted the door behind her. Up and up she climbed, panting heavily, till she came to a door at the roof of the tower. She leaned against it, gasping till she'd recovered a little of her strength; then, fumbling her keys in her fear, she unlocked it. The door swung open; she all but fell in.
The room was empty and clean, as immaculate as gray stone can be, except for a large metal console with a viewscreen in its center, at the far side of the small room. The Lady staggered over to it, pushed a button, and jewel-lights glowed into life. She threw a key and spoke into a grid on the console's face: "Alarm, alarm, emergency! The churls have risen on the estates of Pomgrain! They have taken the castle; they are slaying the nobles! Send help; let all men guard their own!"
The message rolled out from her castle in a huge, expanding globe. It touched castle after castle; and where it touched, receiving sets woke into life.
Decade and Dirk had donned outlaw clothing against the chill of the dark predawn hours, but Dirk still wore the rope belt, and the garnet in his ear.
The garnet buzzed; Dirk tapped recognition on the end of the rope/transmitter. He listened for a few minutes, frowning, then tapped an acknowledgment and turned to Decade. "The word is out; the churls of Pomgrain took their Lady too late. She sent out an alarm with her communicator. As I understand it, any incoming signal on the emergency frequency automatically turns the receivers on. All the Lords will know it by now."
"I think they knew it already, from sources closer to home," Decade said thoughtfully.
The alarm rattled from communicators all over the land; but in most castles, they spoke to empty air; there was no one near them. Some heard, but also heard the pounding at the door.
In the King's castle at Albemarle, a young lord jerked up out of a doze, listened a moment, appalled, then dashed from the room, to bear the word to Lord Core.
Core had just ridden in, covered with dust, choleric and choking. He listened incredulously; then he slashed out at the young Lord with the back of his hand, snarling. The lordling leaped back adroitly and was about to take offense when he realized Core was already gone, angrily pacing away, bellowing orders.
Ten minutes later, a fleet of small sentry boats with large laser cannon lifted off the roof of the palace, streaking away to all points of the compass.
The King did not hear. The King did nothing. The small silvery boats sped out across the countryside, so high up that the first few rays of dawn turned their hulls to rose.
As they sailed, tiny black specks appeared above them, swelling suddenly into squat black ship's gigs bristling with turrets. They fell like stones flung by giants. Too late, the silvery boats detected them and swung about, to bring their single lasers to bear. Rays of fire spat, and the silvery boats fell out of the sky, burning in glory.
Occasionally the black boat would fall, and the silver would speed on alone; another black speck would appear, high above it.
On the estate of Milord Megrin, the churls from all the villages converged on the castle, scythes and flails in hand. Atop the wall, sentries saw them and cried out in alarm. A corporal came running to each of them-and sapped them neatly behind the ear.
As the churls marched up to the great gate, it swung open, and they strode on in, to be met by servants, and not a few guardsmen. Silently, the Butler led them into the great hall, where they formed a semicircle, facing the great central archway. There they waited.
Suddenly Lord Megrin, with his wife and three children, came stumbling through the archway in their nightclothes. Behind them came a score of grim-faced Soldiers, their pikes at the ready. The Lord and his family stumbled to a stop, staring about them in the torchlight, dazed. Then the Lord cried out in indignation, "What means this! Why have you gathered here without my leave!" But there was an echo of dread in his voice.
The Butler stepped forward, his face politely grave. "DeCade has risen, Lord; his Bell is rungen. Throughout the land, churls are rising to strike down their Lords."
The Lord blanched, and his wife gasped, burying her face in her hands. Then she fell to one knee and clutched her children to her.
"Have I been so evil to you, then," he said quietly, "that you must serve me in like fashion?" "You have not, milord, and well you know it. You have ruled well and wisely over us; we have been fortunate indeed. Your punishments have always been just, and never harsh; you have never been cruel, nor taken advantage of our bodies. You have always seen that no man starved or froze, even if your family and yourself had to eat Lenten rations in the Christmastide to do it. Your wife has nursed us in our illness; you have cared for us and protected us. And, as you have served us, so shall we serve you now."
The Lord heaved a huge sigh of relief and relaxed; his wife looked up, unbelieving. Then tears of joy filled her eyes.
"But you must understand," the Butler said more gravely, "that what has happened now, must happen; too many of our brethren have dwelt in torture and abasement. The wheel has turned; the churls must rule. You may no longer be Lord of this manor."
The Lord stood stiffly, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he bowed his head.
"Yet credit us with sense," the Butler said more gently. "We doubt that any one among us could administer this manor half so well as your good self; we own it now, in common, but we wish you still to oversee the running of it, to instruct us and direct us."
The Lord stared, unbelieving. Then he cocked his head to the side, frowning. "Let me be sure I understand you. You tell me that I am your servant now, but that the service you require of me is your governing."
The Butler nodded, relief evident in his face before he brought it under control again. "Save only t
his: you are no more a servant than any other here. All here are now members of the community, and servants of it."
The Lord pursed his lips thoughtfully. "That is more than justice. If the churls have risen, as you say, you do me and mine much mercy."
"Only yours returned, milord. As you have cared for us, so we shall care for you."
"But will they let you?" the Lord demanded. "Will not Decade, or whoever rises to rule the churls, demand our blood?"
His wife looked up, alarmed.
"They may," the Butler said grimly, "but only if they kill each one of us to reach you. You are our Lord, and not a man shall touch a hair of your head!"
A rumble of agreement passed through the crowd.
The Lord stood a moment, trembling; then his eyes filled with tears.
Decade led his army out of the forest into a meadow. Dirk's head suddenly snapped up; he listened for a moment, then put out a hand to DeCade. "Tell them to wait."
Decade frowned, but raised a hand, signaling for a halt. The outlaws and other churls stopped, watching him, frowning.
Then they heard the low thrumming filling the air.
All eyes snapped up as the big black ship's gig floated down out of darkness. It touched earth; hatches opened, and a gang of black-clothed figures started hauling out crates.
"Your weapons, Decade," Dirk said, pokerfaced. "Handle with care."
Decade's eyes flamed. He swung his arm over his head, and the churls charged up to the ship with a ragged cheer. As the sky-men handed out pistols, grinning, five more ship's gigs came to land.
The army paused for instruction and target practice, on the each-one-teach-one system. Then they moved on toward Albemarle, singing softly, like a wind of destruction.
Moonlight painted swaths across the floor of the barracks room in the Lord de Breton's castle. The Soldiers snored on their pallets, a double row of gray-blanketed mounds.
A stocky figure in footman's livery appeared in the doorway.
Silently, it padded down the alleyway between the pallets and stopped next to a sergeant. He placed a hand on the Soldier's shoulder and squeezed; the sergeant sat bolt upright, instantly awake. The liveried figure whispered in his ear, then stood back; quickly and silently, the sergeant came to his feet. He took down his harness from a peg on the wall and strapped on his weapons. Then he padded down the alleyway, stopping here and there beside a sleeping Soldier. Wherever he stopped, he lifted a small bludgeon, and, remembering the Lord's rape of his sister on her wedding night, struck the sleeping man behind the ear. The Soldier grunted and went limp. The sergeant bound each one with his own harness, gagged him, and moved on to the next who might possibly be loyal to the Lord. When he had finished with the last suspect comrade, he straightened, surveyed the room for a moment, then prowled down along the alley again, shaking the remaining soldiers awake, whispering in their ears. They came to their feet, one by one, and dressed for war--chain mail and steel helmets-and picked up swords and crossbows. The sergeant stood surveying them as they drew up in formation; then he nodded, and turned to lead the way out the door.
As they marched, he beckoned to one Soldier and murmured in-his ear; the man turned away, to slip across the courtyard to the gate tower.
The gatekeeper sat his post, drowsing off to sleep. The Soldier's blade chopped down, and the gatekeeper slept very well indeed. The Soldier took the windlass, cranking it carefully. Slowly, the great drawbridge came down, thumped home. A horde of churls materialized from the shadows and swept in through the gate in almost military order, with scythe-blades fixed to knife-handles, and here and there the gleam of an old, but verywell-cared-for sword.
They moved in silently, divided into Tradesmen and Farmers, each village following its elder.
At the doors to the keep, the servants waited. As the churls came up, the servants turned away and strode into the castle. The army broke up into squadrons, each following a servant.
The castle woke to torchlight, shrieks, and cries. Half the Lord's Gentlemen ran from their bedrooms, buckling on swords. The other half would never wake again; the sergeant and his Soldiers had seen to that.
The remaining Gentlemen pulled together quickly and turned to fight the horde that pressed them; but the scythe-blades were sharp and the arms strong. Only the gentlemen in the front rank could use their lasers, and the hall was narrow. Churls screamed and died on lances of light, but their cousins behind them chopped off the arms that held the pistols. The Gentlemen fell back, retreating further and further upward, to their Lord's bedchamber.
The Lord stood in the doorway, beckoning. Quickly, the Gentlemen filed into the room, and the huge door boomed shut behind them. A moment later, the churls filled the corridor, bellowing for blood. Two Soldiers shouldered their way to the fore, attacking the oak with battle-axes.
Inside the Lord swung back a section. of wall and stood back while his family and all his Gentlemen filed down a hidden spiral staircase. The Lord waited till the last man was past him, then sealed the wall behind him. When the Soldiers broke into the room, it was empty.
Half an hour later and a mile away, the Lord and his retinue filed out of a hidden tunnel mouth. The churls were gone from the village; they had no trouble stealing horses. They mounted and rode away, cantering through the night.
Dirk marched with the garnet in his ear, now; the reports were beginning to come in quickly. He looked about him and saw only darkened woodland. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of an outlaw sliding through a moonbeam, and there was always the dark bulk of Decade a little in front of him, and Madelon, Father Fletcher, and Lapin behind; but that small band could almost have been walking alone through the forest.
And they weren't showing any sign of slackening. Dirk wasn't, either, but it was only good acting; his legs felt like noodles. It had been three hours since Decade had called a rest.
His earphone buzzed; Dirk lowered his head, frowning. "Dulain here." He listened silently, then nodded. "Received, with thanks. Keep me informed." Then he looked tip at the giant. "DeCade! Most of the castles have fallen; only a handful still fight-the ones where we had none of the Soldiers."
Decade nodded. "As expected. Those few will fight well into tomorrow, and some may need a full siege. No matter; we should have men to send them in plenty, by this hour tomorrow."
Dirk frowned; the giant didn't even seem to conceive of failure anymore. It could be a good thing, but . . . "In many of the castles, the Lords escaped."
Decade nodded again. "Of course. Let them ride through the night till they come to Albemarle. Let them ride."
It didn't seem like good tactics; why go against any stronger a garrison then they had to, at the King's castle? But Dirk shrugged, and, with a sigh, relayed the order on up, then looked up at Decade, frowning thoughtfully. "Uh ... some of the agents saw the fighting. They were flabbergasted by its smoothness."
"Were they?"
Dirk bit down on a surge of irritation, then let it pass. "Yes. You must admit it looks a little strange-a horde of peasants who've never had any military training, falling in like the bestdisciplined army, each man doing exactly what he's supposed to, without question, with perfect coordination, perfect timing."
"Why should this surprise you?" DeCade countered. "You saw it at the arena."
"Well, yes. But I didn't understand it then, either."
"Even though you felt it well enough to act on it." DeCade smiled tightly. "Still, you wish the names for it."
Dirk nodded. "We sky-men are peculiar that way, yes." Suddenly, bitterly, he felt his isolation from these people again.
DeCade sighed and came to a stop. He pressed a hand to his forehead, muttering, "I must have your words." He stood a moment in silence, stiffened. Lapin, Madelon, and the priest stared in alarm. Dirk gave them what he hoped was a reassuring nod and turned back to DeCade.
The giant lifted his head, took a long breath, then nodded and strode forward once again. "Well enough. You know our people are desce
nded from a mere dozen, each of whom was multiplied by magic--'cloned,' you call it-into many thousands."
Dirk nodded.
"Seven hundred years go by," DeCade went on. "The blood of those twelve has mingled again and again, but with no more mingling between types than the Lords could possibly help. There are now twelve clans-but each member of each clan is as like to every other as peas in a pod."
"Genetically identical," Dirk murmured. DeCade nodded. "That is your term. It takes sharp looking to tell one Tradesman from another. And the mode of living the Lords enforce for each clan makes all homes alike. At first each set of parents was somewhat different, probably; but as time went on, the differences damped out; within each clan, the people of each generation behaved more and more like one another. Each person had the same heredity; and, since parents and lifestyle are nearly identical, each person has an environment virtually the same. A Tradesman's house is different from a Farmer's, and a country Tradesman's house is different from a town Tradesman's-but town Tradesmen live in town, and have for several hundred years. Where your grandfather was born, so were you."
"Yes," Dirk murmured, remembering the family traditions his father had taught him. "For seven hundred years."
"Well, there you have it." DeCade shrugged. "Within each clan, heredity and environment are identical for every person."
Dirk stopped as though he'd run into a brick wall.
DeCade stopped, too, nodding down at him, brooding. "You told it to this body; did you realize what it meant? If heredity and environment are identical, behavior must be identical, too. Give any Tradesman a stimulus, and he will react like any other Tradesman. We know this; we feel it; and so we know what each of our clansmen will do. All know each other's actions before they do them; each knows what must be done. However, there is still enough of human caution in any group so that no man will move until another does. But give them one man to walk before them, and all will walk behind him, do as he does-for they know, in any set of circumstances, everything that must be done."
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