“They’re rebels. Any man who’s here was overheard speaking against the Lords—maybe just a joke, or a drunken curse. Or both. And most of them have good senses of humor—they would’ve pulled a large audience.”
“Including Soldiers?”
Dirk nodded. “And didn’t particularly care. Because, of course, there was a lot of anger behind them—to make them lose their heads that way.”
“I’m surprised all they did was talk.”
“If they’d actually done anything, they wouldn’t be here. If they’d tried to kill a Lord, or stake out the local squire with a set of sickles, they’d have been strung up by the heels and beheaded right there. No, this place is for the ones with sharp wits and hot blood—too smart to do something instantly fatal, too hot-tempered to be able to hide their anger and hatred.”
“It comes to the same thing,” Gar said slowly. “Instantly fatal, or fatal within the year—what of it? Dead is dead. There must be some with more brains and cooler blood.”
Dirk shrugged. “If a man looks intelligent but doesn’t make waves, they put a robe around him and call him a priest. They have to have a few churls who can read or write, after all—and who can preach resignation and humility to the masses.”
Gar raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got a religion?”
“Oh yes. Eighteenth-century Christianity, with all the trimmings. The Lords thought of everything. And they preach patience, all right—but the Lords don’t know that, with most of them, the patience they preach is just a matter of waiting for DeCade to come back to life. They’re the focal points of the communities-priests always have been. But the Lords don’t know what they’re focusing the churls on.”
Gar nodded slowly. “And, of course, they have to be celibate.”
Dirk nodded. “The penalty for fornication is death—for both parties. And any children born of it.”
Gar scowled, nodding. “So the hot-tempered intelligent ones get killed off in the Games, and the cool-tempered intelligent ones don’t pass on their genes. Either way, smart genes get filtered out—but only the ones smart enough to be troublesome, of course. Couldn’t have a population of idiots… Yes, very neat.”
“Not completely. These berserkers may be smart enough to stay unmarried, but they are passionate. They’ve usually passed on a gene or two before they got caught.”
“So,” Gar said slowly, “the filtering never ends. It’s got to be continual, a regular event.”
“Yes, and they do make quite an event of it. They gather all the available churls together to watch it.”
“That should have a very salutary effect.”
“Oh, it does,” Dirk said softly, “but not quite the one they expect. The whole mob comes away every year, more determined than ever to turn out for a bloodbath”—his mouth twisted—“as soon as DeCade rises again.”
“Yes, there is that little problem,” Gar mused. “How do you plan to start the revolution if DeCade doesn’t rise?”
“We haven’t quite got that one figured out yet,” Dirk admitted.
“And who’s going to figure it out?” Gar smiled wryly. “By your account, all the brains get killed off or culled out.”
“No,” Dirk said slowly, “not all. Not the really smart ones, no.”
Gar frowned, puzzled; then his face cleared, with something like shock. “Of course. The really intelligent ones would be smart enough to hide it—successfully. They’d never be caught or found out.”
Dirk nodded. “All we’re left with is geniuses. And, with the kind of inbreeding we’ve got, there’re a lot of them—almost as many as there are idiots. The Wizard was no accident.”
“Yes. The Wizard.” Gar chewed at his cheek, thoughtfully. “Most of your boys—the spacers—made it off-planet because they had to leave their homes rather suddenly, didn’t they?”
“Most of us, yes. Which means we were found out while we were still very young. So, in answer to the question you’re polite enough not to ask, surprisingly. No. We don’t consider ourselves geniuses. Smart, yes, most of us—but not that smart.”
Gar nodded. “So where do you find them?”
“A few in the forests, with the outlaws—they got sick of pretending. But most of them are in the cities, in the secret organization.”
“The secret society.” Gar’s eyes widened; he nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. It has a long and honorable history.”
“Well, not exactly honorable; I can think of quite a few that weren’t. But, shall we say, effective?”
“Let us hope so, in this case.” Gar raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And just how do these geniuses of yours plan to start the revolution without DeCade?”
“I don’t know,” Dirk said slowly, “and I’m not sure they do, either.”
CHAPTER 6
For all their good cheer, the prisoners’ nerves began to fray as the days slipped by. The tension was partly fear, of course; but it was partly eagerness, too. The boxing practice became more feverish, less deft. They began to bark at one another during the slivers of free time, after supper; there was an occasional quarrel.
Their last dinner, the night before the Games, was better than usual—they actually had a few ounces of meat each. But afterward, they sat around the walls of the great chamber, turned in on themselves, occasionally muttering to one another—or, more often, growling.
One of the Merchants sat idly throwing a pebble against the wall, catching it on the rebound, and throwing it again. Chink, chink! It began to get on Dirk’s nerves, even though he was fairly sure of living through the debacle tomorrow. Oliver, the Farmer, paced the chamber, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged gorilla-huge, lithe, and deadly, and ready to erupt into snarling fury.
“Cease that infernal pacing, Farmer!” one of the Woodsmen rasped. “It’s bad enough in here tonight, without you winding it tighter!”
Oliver whirled, his fists coming up; but before he could speak, Gar snapped, “Hold!”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped Oliver—or at least changed his direction. He turned toward Gar slowly, eyes narrowing. “And who are you to command me, Outlander?”
Gar lifted his head, raising his eyebrows. “Why, I am myself. Care to debate the point?”
Oliver started toward him, fists coming up. Hugh, the big Tradesman, growled, “Oh, stop it, the pair of you! Isn’t it bad enough the Lordlings’ll be hacking us to bits tomorrow, without our tearing at each other now?”
Oliver slowed, turned toward him, puzzled. He looked back at Gar; his mouth tightened in a quick grimace, and he turned away, to take up his pacing again.
The Woodsman glared at him and started to speak; but Hugh caught his eye and he subsided. Oliver began to beat his fist into his palm in time to his pacing. “Something’s got to break. It’s got to.”
“It will,” a Hostler growled. “Tomorrow.”
“Don’t speak of tomorrow.” Hugh snapped. His mouth tightened in chagrin. “Damn! I’m doing it too, now.” He looked about him, glowering. “We need a song.”
The room fell suddenly silent. They all knew which song he meant—and they also knew the penalty for singing it. Death. Instant.
Dirk raised his head and looked slowly about the room, saw the naked craving in each face, but also the fear that overlaid it.
So slowly, softly, Dirk began to chant the Lay.