Dirk stared.
Then he cocked his head to the side. “Just like that, huh?”
“Aye. What of it?”
“Been thinking it over, have you?”
DeCade gave him a sardonic smile. “Several hundred years, these people tell me.”
Dirk thought that one over a second, then nodded and turned back to the rope-end. “Uh-huh. Right … Dulain to Clarion. Copy and retransmit to all agents—General Call, Emergency/Red Alert: ‘DeCade has rungen the Bell. Bring down your Lords at dawn; then send men to Albemarle.’ ”
There was no reply. Dirk frowned, listening closely. No, there was ambient sound; the connection hadn’t been broken. “Clarion—come in!”
“Copied.” The voice on the other end was strained, almost unbelieving. Then the operator cleared his throat, got his voice back to business. “Hold please, Dulain.”
Dirk frowned, pressing the garnet into his ear. What was the matter?
“What moves?” DeCade growled.
“I don’t think they can believe it’s finally happening.”
“Copied, Dulain; will execute.” Dirk stiffened; it was the Captain’s voice. “What else, Dulain?”
“Uh-hold for instruction.” Dirk looked up at DeCade. “When and where do you want the Far Towers to fall?”
DeCade’s face went blank; then he frowned in thought. “They bear arms, you said?”
Dirk nodded.
“What quantity on each ship?”
“A thousand rifles and ten laser-cannon. That’s portable, for the churls; the ships themselves each mount four cannon and a hundred bombs.”
DeCade’s face tightened as he consulted Gar’s memories; Dirk wondered if he was getting used to the pain. DeCade nodded slowly, still thinking. “How many ships?”
“Twenty-one—one for each province, and two for Albemarle. Believe me, that’ll be enough.” DeCade stared down at him for a long moment. Then he said, “You have your own battle plan.” Dirk nodded. “You want it in detail?” DeCade grimaced in disgust. “Credit me with some sense, Dulain. Do as you have planned; I doubt not your strategy stems from the Wizard, as does mine; they should mesh. As to time, bring them at dawn; let all move at once.”
“We can raise the land by midnight,” Dirk suggested.
DeCade stared.
Then he scowled. “Why did you not say so sooner? If you can … are you certain?”
Dirk nodded emphatically.
“Then do, by all that is holy! Let all move at midnight; so much more will the Lords be taken unaware! Bring the ships down then, save for the two over Albemarle. Let them ride unseen till I call them!”
Dirk nodded, turning back to the mike with a gloating smile. “Amend previous message: have churls bring down Lords at midnight. Bring ships down then, too, except for the two over Albemarle.”
“Copied. Anything else, Dulain?”
Dirk looked up at DeCade. “Anything more?” DeCade shook his head, his eyes glinting. Dirk turned back to the mike. “No more, Captain.”
“Copied and over.” The Captain’s voice suddenly turned warm, exuberant. “Well done, Dulain! If we had medals, you’d get one! How did you ever find the leader?”
Dirk started to answer, then caught himself short. “Uh … I couldn’t,” he said slowly, “so I made one.” And, before the Captain could say anything, “End contact.”
CHAPTER 12
When the sun was setting on a village far to the south, the churl “elder” (he was in his fifties) was leading his work gang home from the fields. As they came, they sang a slow ballad with a heavy rhythm—a work song that any listening Lord would have thought was pure nonsense. Even the numbers didn’t make sense.
As they sang, another churl in a dust-stained tunic exactly like theirs stepped out of a thicket by the roadway and fell in with them. No one seemed to notice, but the air about them was suddenly charged with tension.
The newcomer eased his way up to the headman. The “elder” glanced at the garnet ring on the stranger’s hand, and looked away. “What word, Sky-man?”
“The bell is rungen. Bring down your Lords at midnight; then send men to Albemarle.”
The “elder” nodded thoughtfully and fell in with the song again. The gang wound on home as though nothing had happened; and, where an outcrop of forest touched the path near the village, the stranger slipped away.
The men went on into the circle of thatched huts as though it were any other evening. Each went to his own house, but with a stony look on his face. Then the village proceeded to supper, and gossip in the doorways, and mending tools and clothes, as it always did, while the sun finished setting and the first stars came out. When the light was gone, each family went back in within doors, and the village slept—a little more than ninety souls.
A little later, young men began slipping out of huts, one by one, and out to the fields. When they came to open ground, they struck out running—the easy, regular lope of long distances. There were perhaps nine of them in all, each striking out in a different direction.
The elder of a nearby village woke in the velvet darkness, frowning. It came again—a quiet, steady knocking. The elder’s face went blank; he climbed out of his pallet.
He opened the door to see a tall young churl with the light behind him, breathing heavily. The elder scowled. “Jaques Farmer-of-Thierry’s son,” he growled; there was little love lost between his own village and its nearest neighbor, on the next estate. “More foolish than I thought, to run about at night.”
“ ‘DeCade has rungen the Bell,’ ” the youth panted. “ ‘Bring down your Lord at midnight; then send men to Albemarle.’ ”
The elder’s face went blank again. Then he turned aside, murmuring kindly, “Come in. You must take food and drink, poor lad.”
The lad went in, smiling his thanks; the door closed behind him.
A little later, the elder’s son slipped out and went from door to door.
Not long after, nine young men struck out running into the fields, each in a different direction. By the time the courier set off on his way home, eighty-one villages had been informed, and each had sent out nine more runners.
DeCade’s band slipped through the darkened forest with no more noise than a brisk breeze makes—except for Dirk. He was feeling highly embarrassed; he didn’t seem to be able to take a step without snapping a twig. He was indulging himself in feeling mortified when a tiny buzz sounded, no louder than a cricket.
DeCade stopped just before him and scowled back over his shoulder.
Dirk pried the stone from the ring, set it to his ear, and tapped an acknowledgment on the frayed end of his rope belt.
“All agents have reported back,” the Captain’s voice informed him. “Each has alerted at least one village—fifty villages in each province, a thousand in all.”
Dirk frowned as he tapped acknowledgment; that didn’t sound like much, out of 250,000 square miles. “Our agents have alerted fifty villages in each province,” he informed DeCade.
Near them, Lapin nodded in satisfaction. “And each has told nine other villages; each of those has told nine more. I doubted, Dirk Dulain, but you spoke truth—they will all rise by midnight.”
“It does rather look that way.” Dirk was numb; somehow the scope of the whole thing hadn’t hit him before.