“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 financing—and 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 would 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 doublet—clutching 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.”