The sentry paced slowly—and Gilda stepped out of the trees into a patch of moonlight squarely in front of him. He froze, staring in surprise and alarm, and she moved toward him, every movement sensuous, her voice low-pitched and husky. “Good evening, soldier.”
The sentry recovered, but kept his voice low, as much in surprise as anything else. “Good evening, damsel. What’re you doing on the road in the middle of the night?”
“My horse went lame this afternoon, and I’ve been creeping through the woods ever since, afraid of bandits but hoping for—”
The shadow-shape of Loftu rose up behind the soldier and struck with his blackjack. The soldier stiffened, staring at Gilda in amazement. Then his eyes rolled up, and he folded.
Orgoru stared, amazed at the resourcefulness of the woman he had married. Then pride swept him, and the urge to be worthy of her. He waved to his men and led the way silently out to the tents.
They went two to each canvas, standing, waiting for Orgoru’s signal. He raised a hand, then swept it down and yanked the stick out of the end of the tent. His companion did the same at the other end, and the canvas billowed down to outline the form of the sleeping soldier. They dropped to their knees and tucked the canvas under the man’s body, and he came awake with a shout of alarm. A dozen other shouts filled the clearing, then curses of anger, but they did no good; willing hands were rolling every single soldier over and over, cocooning them in fabric.
“Stop!” a man bellowed. Orgoru froze, then looked up.
A slight man in dark livery held an arm around Gilda’s chest, a knife to her throat. Orgoru’s heart sank—the spy himself! He had slept apart from his men and come running at the shout! Gilda struggled, cursing, but the spy held her as though his arm were iron and called, “Stand away from those tents and keep your arms high, or she dies!”
CHAPTER 22
Orgoru rose and stepped away from the tent instantly, arms rising as his stomach sank—but live or die, he couldn’t risk harm to Gilda. More slowly, the other false magistrates followed suit, and soldiers thrashed about, scrambling to free themselves from fallen tents. Several scrambled to their feet, catching up halberds or turning on their captors with roars of anger—but one soldier spun and centered the point of his weapon between the spy’s eyes. “Loose her, Captain!”
The spy stared, unbelieving, and Orgoru came alive with hope. “Strike them down!” he shouted, and false magistrates threw themselves on soldiers with a will, wrestling with them for their halberds while their mates came up from behind, pulling blackjacks from their sleeves. They struck, and the soldiers slumped to the ground. The rebels threw themselves on the tents to roll up the soldiers again. Feet and fists shot out, flailing blindly, and a few of the rebels went sprawling, but the rest struck downward themselves, then tumbled the canvas-covered lumps over and over. In a few minutes, the whole clearing was still, if not quiet—there were a great number of groans, and not a little cursing.
But the spy still stood with his knife at Gilda’s throat, glaring down the length of the pike at the soldier. “You, a traitor, Mull?”
“I won’t marry any but my Maud, Captain, and she’s pledged to another,” the soldier said stubbornly. “I’d rather go to the gallows for treachery, than spend my life in prison or slavery for refusing to wed.”
The spy spat, “Go to the devil, then!” and flicked his hand. The knife shot end over end toward the soldier, who yelped and leaped aside as Gilda crouched and bowed with a snap. The spy howled as he flew over her head. He landed in a heap, and Orgoru was on him, striking with a blackjack. It smacked; the man went limp, and Orgoru turned to reach for Gilda.
But she was already kneeling by the soldier. “Lie still, fellow! It’s only a cut, I think, but it should be bandaged for all that!”
“Bless you, ma’am,” Mull said, wide-eyed.
“Bless you, for my life and hope!” Gilda tore the rip in Mull’s sleeve wider. “Yes, it’s only a cut. Orgoru, a little aqua vitae!” She took the bottle he handed her and warned, “This will hurt, but it will make sure your wound doesn’t fester. Distract him, Orgoru!”
Distract him? She was better suited to that than he! Nonetheless, Orgoru gave it a manful try. “You’re with us, soldier. Why?”
“It’s as I said, sir—I heard that you mean to declare that everyone has the right to try to be—AAAHHH!—happy, and … all that goes with it, so…” Mull paused to draw in a long, shuddering breath as Gilda began to wind a bandage around his arm, then went on, “So I couldn’t let the Captain stop you.”
“Stout fellow!” Orgoru clasped his good hand. “We’ll be forever grateful to you, and if we win, you’ll be named among the heroes!”
“I’m no hero,” Mull gasped. “I won’t lie—I’d rather have slept in my tent all night, and not taken a chance of hanging. But I couldn’t watch my hopes for happiness die with you.”
“There!” Gilda tied off the bandage and helped Mull sit up. “You’ll show that wound to your grandchildren, Mull, and boast of it!”
“Only if I find the right woman, ma’am, and fall in love,” Mull demurred, then stared as Gilda turned into the fortress of Orgoru’s arms and let herself give in to trembling. He held her close, stroking her hair and murmuring reassurances.
Mull nodded. “Yes, if I have the luck to fall in love as you have, I will have grandchildren. I thank you for your healing, ma’am.”
“It’s the least we could do,” Orgoru said. “I wish there was more.”
“Well…”
Orgoru braced himself. “Name it!”
“I’m a dead man now anyway, sir, if you don’t win, so … could I march with you?”
So they marched, down every low road and bypath, men born peasants, grown up to become lords in delusion, and cured to live lying lives as false magistrates. They ambushed the patrols set to ambush them, or saved one another when the patrols were too clever for one group alone. Fifty-three of the magistrates and their men died in the occasional clashes, but day by day, they came closer and closer to the capital, their numbers swelling as watchmen and bailiffs and reeve’s men who had heard of the revolution came secretly to join them. It was an army three thousand strong who surrounded Milton Town a week later, with seven thousand more on the road.
Miles fretted, pacing in the indoor gloom of the warehouse near the town gate. “There must be a thousand traps laid for us by now! The spies must have told the Protector that we’re rebelling!”
“Not really,” Dirk told him. “You told that agent in the Protector’s kitchens to feed and water the questioner and his torturers, and to spread the word that they had a real hard case going, and weren’t to be disturbed—not that anybody would get all that curious about secret police business, anyway.”
“Still, Renunzio must have made reports!”
Dirk grinned. “I forgot to tell you about that last curse Renunzio threw at me before I gagged him.”
Miles turned, staring. “Curse? What curse?”
“He hoped I’d spend the rest of my life running flat-out through a nightmare with never a rest or a drink,” Dirk said, grinning, “for coming before he’d told the Protector about us.”
Miles stared, speechless, but Gar nodded. “It’s the way of bureaucrats. Sometimes they hoard up all the good news, instead of giving it to their superiors in bits and pieces. They tell their bosses when they have the whole situation wrapped up and under control, to make themselves look all-powerful and totally competent. They usually hope for promotion. Sometimes they even get it.”
“You mean the Protector never even heard about our rebellion?”
“Well, we can’t be sure Renunzio didn’t tell anybody else,” Dirk hedged. “Might be he couldn’t resist bragging—but I don’t think so. He’s the kind who wouldn’t want to report it to a superior because the boss might steal the credit.”