As they came to a crossroads, another troop came galloping out, nearly colliding with them. The Lord swore, sawing back on the reins; men cursed and women screamed. Horses slewed to a stop with stiffened legs, churning up dust. The Lord grabbed at his sword; then he froze, staring at the brightly dressed figure at the head of the strangers, recognizing the Lord Montpasse.
The two troops stared at one another for a long, frozen moment; then the two troops mingled, with loud laughter of relief and friendly insults.
A few minutes later, a single, stronger band trotted through the night, with two Lords at its head. Five miles later, they caught up with another doubled band; then another, and another. Soon a thousand horses rumbled down the King’s Highway, bound for Albemarle.
Dirk’s earphone clicked. He frowned and tapped out an acknowledgment. He listened for a few minutes, then pulled himself to his feet and threaded his way through the packed bodies in the huge clearing, elbowing his way toward DeCade.
It was dawn, and DeCade had finally declared a rest. It was needed. Their numbers had kept growing through the night; they’d been joined by small bands of outlaws and churls at every mile. It was a huge motley army, and it needed sorting out—by clans, of course.
It was also a very weary army. Dirk had worried about that, until the word had started circulating that they’d be at Albemarle by noon—no wonder, the way DeCade had been pushing the pace. Dirk was relieved. Okay, they’d hit Albemarle bone-tired but everyone could get at least six hours’ sleep before they had to get organized for a night attack.
DeCade looked up as Dirk snaked his way through to the giant and flopped down beside him. “What word?”
“The Lords ride,” Dirk answered. “The ones who escaped are riding down the main roads toward Albemarle. And they’re joining up with each other: some of the bands are several thousand strong.”
DeCade nodded. “As it should be. Send word to let them ride, but not let them rest. Pick off the stragglers and outriders; that will keep them fearful and running.”
Dirk frowned. “Sure you want to do that? They’ll double the size of the garrison, at least.”
“More, by far.” DeCade smiled, gloating. “There should be at least three thousand of them come to their King for sanctuary—probably five—and the castle was built for a thousand only. The King won’t need to go outside his own house to find chaos.”
“Not that he ever does, anyway.” Dirk pursed his lips. “Doesn’t it bother you that they’ll triple their fighting strength?”
DeCade shook his head. “Better to have all the rats in one nest and destroy them at one blow.” Dirk thought of a nice, tidy little tactical bomb dropping down on the packed castle, and he shuddered. “You sure you—”
“Send the word,” DeCade snapped. “This, too, the Wizard planned, Dirk Dulain.”
Dirk frowned up at him, wondering if there was anything of Gar left at all in the huge body. Then he met DeCade’s flinty stare and decided not. He stood up and wormed his way through to a clear space, and sent the message. Could’ve done it there, with DeCade, of course; but somehow he just didn’t want to be near the big man right now…
“He is a wonder, is he not?”
Dirk looked down toward the voice and saw Madelon. Instantly, his face lost all expression. “I suppose so,” he said slowly, “but not quite a miracle, if that’s what you mean. Not quite.” She glared up at him. “How can you say that? Surely it is a miracle for a man to come alive again in another’s body!”
“Not when the ‘miracle’ is helped a little by machines.”
“Machines! What machines were there, in DeCade’s great cave?”
“His staff.” Dirk ignored her shocked stare and sat down beside her. “I took a look at it while it was still broken. There are tiny wires inside it, and each of them is a string of circuits-off-world magic. I didn’t know what kind of machine it was, but now I think I do.”
“Oh? And what, may I ask, would it be?”
“A psionic recorder and amplifier. When DeCade held that staff five hundred years ago, it recorded his thoughts through the brass bands on it. So there they lay, for five hundred years, waiting for somebody to grab hold of the conductors and put the two broken ends together, completing the circuit. Apparently three ordinary men tried—and it poured DeCade’s memories into them through their hands. Their nervous systems couldn’t take two personalities at once; the men died from shock.”
Madelon’s eyes widened. “But did you not tell me Gar was a psycha-psychometter …”
“A psychometrist. Yes. He could’ve picked up DeCade’s memories just from touching the staff, even without a recorder.”
“So when he did touch the staff …” she whispered.
Dirk nodded. “He got the whole thing. Not just DeCade’s memories added to his own—he got DeCade. All of him—the whole personality.”
“He became DeCade,” she breathed. Then she frowned. “But if he is this thought-reader you speak of, would not the staff have killed him more surely than the others?”
Dirk nodded. “Ordinarily, yes. But he wasn’t in his ordinary state at the time, you see—his mind had withdrawn into some remote corner of his brain. His whole nervous system was clear for DeCade to charge into. He found a mind like a blank sheet of paper—so he wrote on it.”
“And came alive again.” She turned to look at DeCade, where he sat on a log across the clearing, occasionally visible through the weaving bodies. “But—Gar’s mind is still in him?”
“Oh yes. You’ve heard him say it—that he has the memories of the man who owned the body. But more than that—he’s got the personality, too, probably still walled off in its corner—and every now and then, I think it tries to get out. When he turns silent and just stands there, scowling as though he’s got a headache, I think Gar’s trying to come through. From what I’ve heard of DeCade, he’s pretty much of a hothead—act first and think later. But Gar goes at it the other way around—when the time comes for action, he’s got it all thought out and ready. No, he’s still there—and, at a guess, he’s accepting the whole thing—for now, anyway. He knows this is his one chance to get a revolution going on this planet and that it won’t succeed without his thinking backing up DeCade’s actions.”
Madelon stared at him, scandalized by heresy; then she frowned thoughtfully and turned to gaze at the giant where he sat, head bowed, hands on the brass bands of the staff laid across his thighs. “Are they speaking to one another now, inside his head, where none can see or hear them? Are they working out a plan together—or warring?”
“I don’t know,” Dirk frowned down at her, noting the look in her eyes—awed, worshipful—and realized he’d made his own case worse. DeCade alone she might worship, but she’d never have thought of touching him; you don’t try for an affair with a god. But now Dirk had put the thought in her head that DeCade wasn’t quite infallible—and, worse, that there was an ordinary, accessible mortal inside his body. And one, moreover, that she’d been extremely interested in, anyway. Resentment tightened into resolution; Dirk stood up. “I don’t know,” he said again, “but I think I’ll find out.” And he strode away across the clearing; ignoring her startled protest.
DeCade still sat silent, frowning in concentration. Dirk hesitated as he came up to the giant, then sat down slowly and waited.
After a time, DeCade shook his head and closed his eyes. Then he opened them and looked up at Dirk. “What troubles your mind; Outlander?”
Dirk frowned back at him thoughtfully, trying to find a place to begin. What did you say to a man of two minds? “Hi, there! Can I speak with your better half?”