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 welclass="underline" 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 it 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.”