At least Gar had the grace to look embarrassed.
But he plowed on: “The women own the goods of the household? Not the men?”
Hugh cocked his head to the side. “How could they? Would they know how to care for such things? I do not understand your questions, Outlander.”
But Dirk suddenly did. The outlaws were a free churl society, the only one on the planet. Their economy and social organization would be the template for whatever grew up after the Lords were thrown out. Of course Gar was curious.
And, come to think of it, so was Dirk. Let’s see—economy, a form of socialism. Sex roles clearly defined, but with equal rights under custom—which would, presumably, grow into law.
But what about government?
Suddenly Dirk was very curious about the power structure in this outlaw band.
“I notice everybody seems to take orders from Lapin,” he said slowly.
Hugh turned to him, more puzzled than ever. “She is Keeper here, aye.”
“I thought you said no one bent their backs to anyone else.”
For a moment, he thought Hugh was going to hit him.
But the big Tradesman set his jaw and visibly forced himself to unclench his fists. He took a deep breath, turning his face toward the fire. “Lapin governs, but only by the approval of the whole band. When they do not like what she wishes them to do, they complain and protest, bitterly and loudly—and if enough join in the protest, Lapin gives way, and forgoes her wish.”
Dirk nodded, and Gar rumbled, “What if enough of them wished someone else to lead?”
“There are those who have wanted to lead,” Hugh said slowly, “and the band has discussed it, and wrangled, and argued; but in the end, all but a few called for Lapin.”
“But if it went the other way around?” Dirk pressed.
“It has not happened.” Hugh gave him a very cold stare. “But I believe in Lapin. She would step down.”
“Would she have a choice?”
Hugh watched for a moment. Then he began to smile, shaking his head slowly. “Perhaps not. As I said, none here bow their backs.”
“And I’ll wager they are on the watch, to be certain no man asks them to.” Gar put down his plate, still chewing, and rose, wiping his hands with a tuft of grass. “I have a sudden desire to speak with this paragon of yours, Hugh. Take me to her, if you will.”
The big Tradesman looked up, startled. Then he grinned, and rose. “Aye, gladly! This should be worth the watching—if you seek to match wits with Lapin!” He looked back at Dirk. “Will you come?”
“No,” Dirk said slowly, “I don’t think I’d learn anything new.”
Hugh frowned. “How’s that again?”
“Nothing. But tell me this, Hugh … from whom does Lapin take orders?”
“Why, no one.” Hugh grinned. “Till DeCade arises.”
Dirk nodded sardonically. “That’s what I’d thought, somehow. No, I think you can get by without me.”
Hugh shrugged. “As you wish.” He turned away and led Gar off around the fire.
Dirk sat watching them go, chewing the last mouthful. There was no point in talking to Lapin; he was looking for the top rebel leader; and she wasn’t it. No one was.
Except DeCade …
“Good evening, Outlander.” Dirk looked up, instantly wary.
A lean old man with a tonsure and a monk’s robe sat down beside him, turning a friendly smile toward him. In spite of himself, Dirk smiled back. “A good evening it is. But I’m not an outlander.”
The smile was still friendly, but the monk shook his head with certainty. “There is the touch of the alien in the way you say your words, in the way you bear yourself—a thousand small things. Any man can see it—you are not completely one of us.”
Dirk bit down on bile and nodded reluctantly. “You’re right. I’m a churl—but I’m a churl from the skies.”
“Ah.” The old man nodded, satisfied. “From the Wizard’s towers. Yes, there would be strangeness in the way you say your words—and the words themselves strange, I should think.”
“Strange words?” Dirk frowned. “Oh—you mean words like ‘molecular circuit,’ ‘monofilament,’ ‘nuclear fusion.’ ”
“Exactly.” The old man smiled, pleased, but there was a watchful look in his eyes. “Words of wizardry, I fancy. Surely you who have followed the Wizard into the skies would have far more such surface wisdom than any others of our people.”
Dirk frowned. “ ‘Surface’ wisdom? How do you mean?”
“No doubt these words give you great powers.” The old man smiled gently. “But will that help you live your life more fully and happily, my friend? To understand the Riddle of Life?”
“I suppose not,” Dirk said slowly. “I take it any other kind of wisdom is ‘surface’?”
The monk shrugged. “By my beliefs, at least.”
“And you may have a point,” Dirk admitted. “At least, that kind of wisdom is about all that could let these people stand to live at all, let alone happily. I was wondering how a guerrilla army could manage having children around, when they have to be ready to split up and run any minute.” The monk nodded. “But the children understand it as a fact of their life and dismiss it as easily as the adults do—more easily perhaps.”
“When they have to run, they do. Till then, they don’t think about it.”
“Quite so,” the monk agreed. “So they have no need to worry for their children. The mothers carry the infants, the babes ride their fathers’ shoulders—and all the others can go to ground and stay hidden as well as any rabbit.”
“Oh.” Dirk’s eyes widened. “So that’s why the top banana calls herself ‘Lapin.’ I was wondering why they called their chief ‘Rabbit.’ ”
“Of course.” The old man smiled, amused. “They have great respect for rabbits, I assure you. In fact, they surpass them when it comes to hiding and lying still till the King’s hunters have passed them. But these rabbits have teeth, and very sharp ones.”
“I believe it.” Dirk’s eyes strayed to an outlaw who sat near the fire, making arrows. “Didn’t I notice you playing that game with them earlier, Father?”
The old man glanced at the arrowmakers, then nodded. “Aye, I must admit I have some skill at it. For that reason, they call me ‘Father Fletcher.’ ”
Dirk frowned at the chagrin in the old man’s voice. “That bothers you, eh? A man of the cloth, making weapons of war?”
“Somewhat,” the old man admitted. “But Our Lord said to love our enemies and forgive them; He did not say we should not fight them.”
Dirk cranked his head around to try to swallow that one, but found he couldn’t. “I—ah—don’t quite think that’s—uh—an accurate reflection of the—ah—gist of His preaching.”
The old priest tried to shrug, but it bowed his shoulders. “We do what we must, Dirk Dulain; and if my conscience wakes me in the night with screaming, that is my concern and no one else’s.”
But Dirk had suddenly lost interest in the topic. “You know my name.”
“Aye.” A smile touched the old priest’s lips again. “So does the whole of the camp, by now. None ever escaped the arena before; you are men of some moment.”
“I’m overcome by the honor,” Dirk said dryly. “Are you chaplain to this merry army, Father?”
“Only a wandering guest, like yourself.” The old man looked out over the camp, and Dirk thought he saw a certain yearning in the lined and weary face. “I am a hedge priest, my friend—a clergyman without a parish or a flock, wandering wind-tossed over the earth, bringing words of hope to all the people.”
“ ‘All …’ ” Dirk rolled the word over his tongue, wondering whether he liked its flavor. “How many bands like this are there, Father?”