Dirk scowled. “Don’t have much faith in their sentries, do you?”
“Not greatly, but I have great faith in my outlaws.” DeCade turned to Hugh. “Did you discover how their cannon are mounted?”
“Aye, we have many of the King’s Soldiers here, now.” Hugh sounded a little nervous as he said it; old habits die hard. “They will not turn about.”
DeCade grimaced with exasperation. “Then we can only capture them; we cannot use them to keep the courtyard clear.”
Lapin shrugged. “We will do well enough, Grandmaster. Once our outlaws have scaled the walls and taken out the sentries, they may shoot down upon the courtyard with their new lasers.”
“And the Lords may fire down on them from the central keep,” DeCade said dourly. “Still, it will be some cover, and it may give the churls time to charge the gate.”
“We will have it open for them,” Hugh promised. He grinned. “There will be great fighting in the King’s grand hall.”
“And in the courtyard,” DeCade pointed out. “Once our own men are there, we cannot fire upon it.”
“Neither shall the Lords,” Lapin said grimly. “Our firebeams shall keep them from their Tower windows—never fear.”
DeCade nodded sardonically. “So they shall come out to the courtyard, to give us welcome.” He turned to Dirk. “That is when your towers must drop down, to overawe them.”
Dirk shook his head. “Won’t work. They’ll know we wouldn’t fire on our own.”
“But we shall,” Lapin said harshly. Dirk stared at her.
The huge woman shrugged impatiently. “If we die, we die. Death in battle, or death from a lordling’s whim—what difference?”
“That is a source of strength,” DeCade agreed. “Are all our people divided up by bands, and captains and lieutenants appointed?”
Hugh nodded and Madelon said, “We have made a chart of the castle from the servants’ memories. Each troop is appointed a hall, and each band a chamber.”
Dirk listened numbly, trying to decide whether it was fanaticism—or logic.
DeCade nodded. “Then all is ready—save one thing.”
Dirk came out of his daze. “I can’t imagine what.”
“The King.” DeCade’s eyes burned. Dirk stared at him.
“We must take the King.” DeCade stood up, pacing. “This is the keystone of the Wizard’s plan. Even if we slew every Lord but let the King live, he could escape, and forces gather round him.”
Dirk thought of some of the interplanetary freebooters and soldiers-of-fortune, and realized the Wizard’s wisdom. If the King escaped and managed to get word off-planet, a whole mercenary army would come blasting in to win back his kingdom for him—and just incidentally, for themselves.
“But if we take him,” DeCade went on, “and show him, bound, to his Lords, they may lose heart and surrender.”
Dirk scratched behind his ear. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in that. They strike me as a pretty independent lot. Matter of fact, I don’t think there’s a one of them who wouldn’t cheerfully watch the King hang, if it’d save him a few pennies.”
DeCade shrugged. “In that case, we can kill him and be done with it. Still, ‘tis worth the try.” Dirk wondered if he was the only man there who didn’t have callouses on his conscience.
“Well, it sounds good,” he said dubiously. “But aren’t you going to have to cut through all the Lords anyway, to get to him?”
DeCade cupped his hands over the tip of his staff and propped his chin on them. “I shall tell you a tale.”
“Oh goody!” Dirk sat down and propped his chin on a fist. “I’m just in the mood for a bedtime story.” Lapin scowled at him, but he ignored her.
“Many years ago,” DeCade intoned, “when first this land was peopled, our noble King’s first forefather set ten thousand churls to building his castle. A hundred of them slept and ate apart, the while they built his bedchamber; and, when it was done—he killed them.”
Dirk stared back at him for a moment. Then: “Nice guy… You’d almost think he had something to hide.”
“Aye,” DeCade agreed. “But alas, poor King! One churl, before he died, had managed to tell a churl outside the hundred, who told a churl who told a churl … and thus the word came to his son.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. And, before he died, the son told his son, who told his son, who told his son …”
Dirk held up a hand. “Let me guess. There was still one of them around the first time you tried this project.”
DeCade nodded, his eyes glowing.
Madelon, Lapin, and Hugh stared. Then they began to smile.
Dirk noted it with foreboding; whenever they got happy, he got worried. “Let me guess again. The secret was a tunnel.”
DeCade nodded. “A tunnel leading to a passage, which leads to a door that opens on the King’s private chamber.”
“And he told you where to find it.”
“Nay; he showed it to me.” DeCade’s eyes unfocused as he looked off into a distance centuries long. “One dark night, when we’d come close to Albemarle, he and I crept out, behind the King’s own lines, and found …” He shook the mood off. “No matter. It is there, and I can lead you to it.”
“If it’s still clear,” Dirk said dubiously.
DeCade shrugged. “If not, I’ll clear it.”
He did have one thing in common with Gar, Dirk decided. He was so damn sure of everything.
The outlaws moved out about an hour after sunset. The churls stayed longer, sharpening their weapons, talking to one another in low, hushed voices, and generally working up a good case of nerves.. Then, finally, they began to move out, by squads. Their faces were grim and their eyes were hard. Soon there was no one left in the clearing but DeCade, Dirk, and the twenty most skilled outlaws with staves in their hands, knives and laser pistols in their belts, and mayhem in their hearts. DeCade looked them over, then nodded curtly. “Put out the fire.”
The youngest outlaw stooped to throw dirt on the campfire. Its light dimmed and was gone. The troop stood silent in the soft light of the stars.
Without looking at them, DeCade turned and strode away. Dirk leaped to catch up with him. DeCade led them through the forest to a wooded gully that once must have housed a small river. But it had come down in the world woefully; a mere brooklet chinked and chattered its way over rocks at the bottom. DeCade turned to follow it downstream. Dirk turned with him, suppressing the impulse to look back over his shoulder. He knew what he would see—a score of outlaws following them in lockstep.
He looked up at DeCade. “Has it occurred to you that the King might have an unpleasant surprise waiting for us in that chamber?”
“There will be many surprises this night,” DeCade said dourly. “Have no fear; I have one of my own for each of theirs.”
Dirk pursed his lips. “Care to let me in on the secret?”
DeCade shook his head. “You would understand mine no more easily than I understand yours, Outworlder.”
Dirk thought that one over. Considering that DeCade had full access to Gar’s memories… However, it was a moderately polite way of saying no. Even so … “Surely our secrets cannot be so alien, one to another, DeCade. We are, after all, of one blood.”
“Yes, but both of us are alienated from that blood, Dirk Dulain—you in one direction, I in another. The sum and total is too wide a gap for talk.”
Dirk frowned, telling himself he had no reason to feel rejected. “Don’t tell me that, DeCade. Because, if it were true, I could never find a home.”
“Only by forcing yourself to fit into one,” DeCade agreed. “Which would you rather have, Dulain—the contentment and acceptance of a home, with the gnawing certainty that you are not really like yourself as long as you are in it, that you live a lie and are not like really like the people about you? Or to be able to live without pretense, being as you really are, but with the loneliness of the stranger forever hollowing your bowels?”