Her head stirred; she forced herself halfway up on her elbows. Her head turned, the face tilted up to him, pale, wide-eyed, puzzled, and—yes, a little afraid.
Small wonder. He wasn’t exactly feeling bold, himself.
She gave her head a shake, squeezing her eyes shut, then forced herself up to a sitting position and pressed a hand to her forehead with a little moan.
Her blouse—or what was left of it-stayed behind on the ground. For a moment, all Dirk saw was her round, full breasts, the nipples like half-ripe cherries; all else seemed dim. He stiffened, galvanized even through the pain of his headache; then he forced his eyes up to her face.
She bowed her head forward, fingertips pressed against her forehead; black hair tumbled forward to hide her body. Dirk exhaled in relief.
She looked up at him, blinking, frowning against the pain. “How … what …?”
Dirk forced his lethargy down and threw on rationality like a cloak. “I’d like to know, myself. The last thing I remember is a pike butt hitting me between the eyes. But why didn’t the Squire take us in as prisoners?”
She nodded, then winced. “Yes … And where’s your friend?”
Dirk shrugged. “They probably did take him in. That means … I’ll have to find a way to get him out.”
“Yes.” She frowned. “How much does he know?”
Dirk shrugged. “Not much, for sure. All he knows about the rebellion is meeting the two of us.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just what is he?”
Dirk sat very still for a moment. So much for his story about Gar being a churl.
“A tourist,” he said slowly. “A man who goes visiting places just to see what they’re like. Probably a rich man’s son, looking for someplace where he can Do Good.”
“Then he is not a churl.” Her tone was a frosted dagger.
Dirk shook his head.
Her voice trembled with rage. “Why did you bring him?”
“I didn’t.” Dirk looked into her eyes. “He brought himself here, and just latched onto me. For my part, I thought it was better to have him where I could watch him, than to take a chance on his joining the Lords.”
She glared back at him; then her lips twisted wryly, and she nodded reluctantly. “Yes. I suppose you’re right… But now the Lords have him.”
Dirk nodded. “We’ll have to do something about that.”
“Can he be trusted not to tell what he knows?”
“As to that,” Dirk said slowly, “we should be finding out very soon now… I think he can.”
“Why should he? This is not his fight!”
“He’s made it his. And there’s something about him …”
Her frown turned to brooding. “Yes. He is strange.”
“He’s no novice with the quarterstaff,” Dirk said slowly. “You don’t expect a rich man’s son to be skilled with a churl’s weapon. And he claims to have been here for a month; surely a Sniffer would’ve found him out in that much time.”
“How did he escape them?”
“Yes.” Dirk leaned back on one elbow, slowly and carefully. “And how did he just happen to be near here when I, uh, came down from the sky? Sure, given that he was around here, I can understand how he could’ve figured out where to find me—but why was he here, and not fifty miles away?”
Her brooding sharpened into suspicion. “This is a strange visitor you have taken up with, skyman.”
“Dirk,” he said absently, turning to look at her. Then he smiled bleakly. “You might want to make yourself decent.”
She looked down. Her eyes widened. She caught up the remains of her blouse and pressed them to her.
But Dirk wasn’t watching; he was frowning, looking off into the leaves. “I had a strange dream while I was out…”
“I trust I wasn’t in it.” She knotted the ends of the rags around her neck.
Dirk shook his head. “Just a huge white face, with blue-green eyes and floating white hair. He said he was the Wizard of the Far Tower.” Madelon froze, her eyes widening.
“Yes.” Dirk turned to her, nodding gravely. “DeCade’s Wizard.”
“Who shall return,” she whispered, “when the time has come to tear down the Lords!”
They were both silent, the words of the Lay running through their minds:
For when my far towers drop down from the skies, And DeCade calls you out, then all churls, arise!
Dirk shrugged off the mood. “Only a dream. We can’t hope for magical help; we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
“Per—” Her voice broke; she moistened her lips. “Perhaps not. There have been rumors—”
“Of what? You’re not going to try to tell me the Wizard’s been seen; he’s been dead for five hundred years! I should know. His name was Nathaniel Carlsen, he founded our company, and—” He broke off, his eyes widening. “Of course! ‘For when my far towers drop down from the skies … Towers from far away, dropping down—our gigs and ships! Flareships dropping down from the skies!”
“You see,” she whispered, “the rumors are true! He is moving again!”
“Only his spirit,” Dirk said irritably, “his Dream and his Plan. The man himself is dead!”
“But rumor says he walks again among us. And DeCade is dead, too; but he shall rise again, to lead us.”
Dirk clenched his jaw in anger; it gave him the strength to force himself to his feet in spite of the pain. “Your living, human leaders are quite capable of running a successful rebellion by themselves, without supernatural aid—and it’s my job to find them and find out what they want us to do!”
Madelon started to answer, but the underbrush rustled, and they both whirled around.
A Farmer stepped out from the leaves, broad and massive—but with a lurking apprehension in his eyes, and something like awe. “You were dead,” he whispered.
Dirk stared.
Then he leaned back on his staff, head cocked to the side. “Oh, were we, now? Seems nobody bothered to tell us!”
“The Soldiers felt for your pulse; they held the feather to your lips,” the Farmer said doggedly. “You were dead.”
Dirk suddenly got the point. “But Gar—the big man who was with us—he was alive?”
The Farmer nodded. “Alive, and awake—though he was bleeding badly. They took him away to the castle, and the Soldiers bade us throw your bodies on the dunghill. But we did not. We bore you away to the forest, here, to come back and bury you properly, at night …”
Madelon nodded. “That was fortunate for us. You did well.”
“Very,” Dirk agreed. “And thanks for the offer, but we don’t really need the burial.”
“But your friend must be rescued.” Madelon stood, turned to the Farmer. “How can we get into the castle?”
The Farmer stood impassive, only his eyes widening at the impudence of her words, and the danger.
Then he nodded slowly. “My sister’s husband’s cousin’s son is a Butler; he is a footman there. I shall ask a man who shall ask.”
Madelon nodded curtly. Then she remembered her manners and gave him a dazzling smile. “Do so.”
The Farmer nodded, turned away.
“And good Farmer—” She boosted the smile a few degrees Kelvin—“Thank you.”
The Farmer looked back, nodded. “The word shall run,” he whispered. “It has begun. The dead have come alive …”
Then he was gone. Dirk stood staring after him, stupefied.
Then he turned angrily on Madelon. “There! You see how rumors begin? In two days it’ll be all over the kingdom as some sort of supernatural miracle! And all it was, was …”
Madelon raised her eyebrows politely, waiting. “Just a simple case of suspended animation,” Dirk finished weakly. “Uh … Just that …”
“And pray, sir, how was this done?”