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 wild-eyed, 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 turned 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?