Fifteen minutes later, the churls assembled in the wardroom, armed and somewhat armored. There was an occasional moan from the punishment cell down the hall, where the live ones were locked; but it was blocked by the chink of mail and the quiet, exultant laughter of the prisoners.
Hugh and his men swaggered back into the wardroom, fresh from a trip to the armory. Hugh held up a short sword and slapped the pistol at his side, grinning. “It’s astounding how these lift your spirits.”
Dirk couldn’t help grinning. “Just don’t lose your head, Tradesman. There’s still tomorrow, and an arena full of guards to get through.”
Hugh shrugged and thumped Gar on the chest. “What matter? With a brute like this to lead us, who could stop us?”
Gar looked down with a bleak smile. “So I’m appointed permanent leader, eh?”
Hugh looked up, surprised. “Why, so you were before this coil began. Did you not say you could conquer a world with us, Outlander?”
The holiday dawned bright and clear. The churls arrived with the sun, carrying baskets of food; they were expecting a long day.
Dirk and Gar peered through the portcullis at the arena gate, watching the huge beige bowl fill from the top down. Gar frowned, quizzically. “Little quiet for a holiday crowd, aren’t they?”
“I assure you,” Dirk said sourly, “that this is one holiday during which all the workers wish they were back at their drudgery.”
The Master of the Games arrived about that time, too, banging on the wicket door and striding in, bedecked in finery-yellow waistcoat and breeches under a scarlet coat, gleaming linen, and a huge cocked hat. He strutted up and down between the cages, filled with self-importance, watching the prisoners eating breakfast in the pen, as they always had; he saw nothing out of the ordinary. On the other hand, he wasn’t looking for suspicious bulges. “It seems as though there were more of them yesterday.”
“Why, that’s only because ‘tis the day of the Games,” the guard beside him explained easily. “They’ve shrunk in on themselves, don’t you see.” He was the only real guard left free; the rest of the day shift were behind bars, unconscious, where they’d been dumped as soon as they came through the wicket door. But Dirk had recognized Belloc, the man who’d smuggled him in, and had realized the value of having one genuine Soldier among them.
The Master of the Games nodded, apparently satisfied. He swaggered up and down the halls for half an hour, slapping at the guards with a riding crop, barking out last-minute instructions. He didn’t seem to notice how much his guards’ faces had changed overnight.
When Belloc had closed the door behind the Master, he turned about and collapsed against it with a sigh of relief.
“When will we see him again?” Gar appeared from the watchman’s booth.
“Not until after the Games.” The rebel Soldier pulled himself up. “Which means never, I hope. For a while there, I was afraid I would have to kill him.”
Now it was Gar who strode through the barred halls, checking to be sure each churl had at least one weapon hidden on him somewhere. All the “guards” had laser pistols. Gar tucked the last one into his loincloth, snaked out a hand to catch Belloc by the shoulder, and headed for the arena gate. “Where do you boys usually stand during the Games, Belloc?”
“Up there.” Belloc pointed through the portcullis as they came up to the gate. “Atop the wall, all around the Arena—in case of accidents.”
Dirk smiled sourly. “Which means, in case three or four churls manage to gang up on one lordling.” Gar nodded, peering up to the stands. “Lot of brass up there, too.”
Sunlight glared off the armor and bared weapons of the Soldiers, fifty feet apart, forming interlocking squares all through the stands.
“Castle Soldiers,” Belloc explained, “there in case of trouble. We never had anything to do with each other.”
Gar nodded, lowering his eyes to the glare of full plate armor at the other side of the arena. “These, I take it, are our worthy opponents?”
Dirk nodded. “With ten years of tutoring behind their swords and full plate armor for a womb. The young sons of the noble houses—not a one under eighteen or over twenty-one.”
Gar scowled, squinting against the sun. “What is this—their rite of passage?”
“You could call it that,” Dirk said slowly, “though no lordling could live this long without getting a taste of blood. Whipping churls, or killing one who tried to escape. For most of them, this is the first time the churls fight back. But that’s only part of it.”
Gar transferred his scowl to Dirk. “Would you mind explaining that?”
“Our lords and masters are very efficient; anything they do has to have at least two purposes.” Dirk turned away, looking out at the arena. “You see, in spite of everything they can do with education, youth does tend toward idealism. Somehow, in spite of everything they can do, a few of their sons always wind up with horribly humanitarian ideas—churls are human, justice for all men, sympathy with the underdog, all men should be happy—downright subversive.”
Gar looked down in surprise. “Liberals? You mean these dinosaurs are actually capable of producing an open-minded man?”
Dirk nodded. “Far too often for their comfort. Happens to every noble family at least once in every generation. So they bring them here, put them in the arena against churls who’re armed enough to be dangerous, and just possibly lethal, even to a man in full plate armor. And these churls are the hotheads of the nation, drilled and primed to come out craving blood and howling hate.”
“Like killer wolves,” Gar said tenderly.
“It seems to be singularly effective. What chance is there of a young man coming out of that with any thoughts of gentleness left—fifty steelfisted churls charging down on him, screaming for his blood.”
“It would tend to cool idealistic enthusiasm,” Gar agreed.
Dirk twisted on a smile. “Moraclass="underline" Kindness to churls is lethal. And that’s how you make a reactionary out of a young radical.”
“How many come through it with any shred of an ideal left?”
“One,” Dirk said judiciously. “I’m no historian, mind you but I know of only one.”
“Oh?” Gar raised an eyebrow. “What happened to him?”
“He started treating his churls decently, and the neighboring Lord didn’t like that—it might give his own churls nasty ideas. So he declared war, and the King lent some of his own troops to help out.”
Gar nodded slowly. “I take it there wasn’t too much of him left by the time they got through.”
“His daughter managed to escape, with her grandfather. We smuggled them out; now he’s lobbying for us with the Tribunal.”
Gar nodded. “And the liberal?”
“He stayed on the planet—or in it, I should say. Six feet down.”
A trumpet blew in the arena, and Belloc reached up to touch Gar’s shoulder. “Gather them, Outlander. It is time.”
The churls were pacing, impatiently swinging their lead-clad fists and growling at one another. Dirk slammed the iron door open, and every head in the room snapped around toward the crash. The muttering cut off, and every eye fastened on Gar as he stepped in. He ran his gaze over them in a quick survey and nodded, satisfied. “All right, now’s your chance. Come out howling, they expect that—but don’t get carried away. Keep sight of me, whatever you do. Follow me wherever I go, and I may bring some of you out of this alive. Don’t stop to pick off a tempting lordling along the way just follow.”
Their cheer went up, and Dirk’s spirits dropped. They wouldn’t remember.
But Gar nodded, satisfied, and turned away. The churls streamed out after him, down the halls to pile up against the portcullis like a human flood.