Gar nodded. “About half a million.” Dirk shook his head. “Twelve.” Gar held still, staring at him.
Dirk turned away, looking out at the villagers. “Have you seen what these people bear on their backs, under their clothes? Have you ever seen one of them whipped?”
“I’ve seen it,” Gar grunted. “The capital letter ‘C’.”
Dirk nodded. “The brand of slavery. They’re branded with it when they reach puberty—you might call it our rite of passage, not that we chose it …” He broke off, brooding. “Of course, I don’t have it. I escaped before then …”
He shook off the mood, looked up at Gar. “Do you know what the ‘C’ stands for?”
“Well …” Gar scowled. “ ‘Churl,’ I suppose. That’s the local term for the peasants, isn’t it?”
Dirk nodded. “It could stand for ‘churl.’ But it stands for something else, too—‘clone.’ ”
Gar stared down at him, appalled.
“Yes,” Dirk said softly, “that’s what they did. They brought twelve servants along, only twelve—how they conned them into it, heaven knows. As soon as they landed, they took bits of flesh from each of them, and made clones, then cloned the clones—hundreds of them, hundreds of thousands, until each Lord had as many servants and subjects as he wanted.” He stopped, took a long breath. “And that’s how my people came into being.”
Gar turned slowly, looking at the villagers. “No wonder you all look alike.”
“Yes, no wonder. Very efficient, isn’t it? You can tell a man’s place in life just by looking at him. The broad, stout ones are Farmers, like most of them here. The occasional tall one, with the muscles? He’s a Tradesman, a blacksmith or carpenter. They just drafted one man with a mechanical aptitude, and stamped out copies until they had enough to go around. Then there’re the Butler family, the Merchants, the Hostlers, the Soldiers, the Woodsmen, the Fishers—oh, and let’s not forget the ladies: the Cooks, the Maids, and the Housewives—and that’s it.” He gave Gar a saccharine smile. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Inhuman,” Gar growled.
Dirk nodded. “That, too.” He turned away, his eyes roaming the street. He stiffened. “Well, well, you get to meet another family—the Soldiers. Along with a genuine Gentleman, represented by the local Squire.”
Gar looked up.
Five men were trotting toward them on tall horses, four in steel caps and chain-mail jackets behind a short, slender man with wavy golden hair, dressed in pale-blue hose and a purple doublet.
“You might call him a hybrid,” Dirk said softly. “You might, if you wanted to be polite … You see, the Lords brought along all the best aspects of the Terran aristocratic culture—best for them, that is. Including the droit de seigneur, and the right to grab any churl woman and seduce her, or rape her if she’s not seduceable. Anytime they want. And the bastard offspring they call ‘Gentlemen,’ and make them knights and squires, to govern the villages.”
Gar nodded. “What do they call the bastards from a churl man and a lord’s woman?”
“Dead,” Dirk said, too brightly. “Her, too, usually.”
The Squire came up, and drew rein. His Soldiers did, too, but managed to let their horses wander a little, nicely surrounding the travelers.
Dirk watched them nonchalantly. Then he turned to the Squire. “Good day, Squire.”
“Good day,” the Squire replied pleasantly. “You seem wearied, Gentlemen. Has your journey been long?”
“Very.” Dirk wondered what the Squire would say if he knew just how long, then sobered as he realized the man might. “And wearying—we found no shelter this last night, and perforce kept walking till dawn.”
“A hard tale,” the Squire commiserated. “May I ask your profession, good sirs? What business is it brings ye abroad, on foot, in such unsettled times?”
Dirk noted the “unsettled times,” though he saw no sign of it in the quiet, well-ordered village. “We’re both younger sons.” He included Gar in a gesture. “Our Lord had no place for us, so we must perforce seek other positions. We’re bound for the King’s Town.”
He saw the Soldiers stiffen. What was happening at Albemarle?
“You have no employment, then?” The Squire hid his reaction much better than his Soldiers; he merely seemed wary.
“No,” Dirk said slowly. “We thought to seek places in the King’s Army.” He saw the Squire relax a little—but only a little.
The young man nodded. “Then of course, you’d be bound for the King’s Town …”
“Sir, your pardon,” said the sergeant suddenly, “but wasn’t there word that wandering Gentlemen were goading the churls into joining the rebels?”
“I have heard such talk …” The Squire gave Dirk a calculating look.
Dirk felt Gar tense beside him.
“Two out-of-place Gentlemen, wandering toward Albemarle,” the sergeant mused. “Could be they’s carrying word from one nest of outlaws to another.”
The Squire nodded, eyes on Dirk.
Dirk decided on Righteous Indignation. “Sir! We are Gentlemen, and loyal to the King!”
“So am I,” said the Squire softly. “Yet, when all is said, each man is most loyal to his own interests. And, to say truth, we seek a spy, known to be near this parish, who would probably go disguised as a Gentleman.”
“One,” Dirk pointed out, suddenly grateful for Gar’s presence. “Not two.”
The Squire shrugged impatiently. “Two spies instead of one is to our credit.”
“There’s this, too,” the sergeant pointed out. “Milord Cochon needs more foot soldiers.”
Dirk fought down a surge of panic and hauled out his best smile. “Squire, surely you jest. Who would a spy be from? There is only the King.”
“And the outlaws,” the Squire reminded him. “Have you heard no talk of rebellion?”
Dirk nodded slowly, frowning. “Aye, I’ve heard—but scarce could credit it; I see no sign.”
“But I do,” The Squire said grimly. “You will come with us, Gentlemen. If you are not rebels, you will have my apologies, and places with Lord Cochon. But if you are …” He let the sentence hang, smiling grimly, and turned to the sergeant; jerking his head toward Gar and Dirk.
The sergeant nodded, and nudged his mount forward, bringing up a cocked crossbow.
Dirk’s hands slipped down on the wood, and the quarterstaff leaped end-over-end to crack down on the Soldier’s hand. The sergeant yelped; the crossbow clattered to the ground.
Gar’s staff lashed out over Dirk’s head, parrying a sword cut from the Squire. Out of the corner of his eye, Dirk saw another Soldier forcing his horse off the street into the space between two huts, winding his crossbow; but he had no time to worry, for a third Soldier was pressing in from the left, sword swinging up. Dirk snapped the quarterstaff around, caught the base of the blade near the hilt; the Soldier howled, and the sword flipped end-over-end into an alley.
Dirk heard a cry behind him, whirled to see the fourth Soldier slipping from his saddle, and Gar spinning back toward him, staff rebounding back to guard.
Dirk nodded, grinning, and swung back to the Squire, who had transferred his sword to his undamaged left hand and was chopping down. Dirk brought up his staff just in time; but the force of the blow slapped the staff back against his forehead. The world darkened, star-shot, as he fell to his knees; he could barely make out the Squire, swinging the sword up for another cut; then a huge body blocked his vision, he heard a CHUNK! and a shrill cry from the Squire, blessed Gar, and turned to see the sergeant on the ground, cranking furiously at his crossbow; bracing it against his knee with his forearm; but just to his left, the third Soldier picked up his sword and swung about, blade chopping down.