A Wizard and a Warlord

14

The priest blinked with surprise at the change of topic but answered easily. “The god knows, my friend, and the goddess—but no one else, except the Scarlet Company itself.”

“And if anyone else knows, they’re not telling,” Gar said in an angry undertone as he strode down the temple steps.

Alea hurried to catch up with him. “He really doesn’t know, Gar. His mind was blank with astonishment and no knowledge of the answer filled it.”

“I didn’t detect anything else,” Gar agreed, “and it was an ambush question, sprung on him out of nowhere. If he knew the answer, it would have leaped to mind immediately, no matter how well he kept it from showing in his face.”

“Perhaps there really is no one who knows about the Scarlet Company—except the few who are in it.”

“And they do seem to be very few,” Gar agreed, “a minor element in daily life, always there at the back of people’s minds but rarely thought of—they really don’t have much to do with day-to-day living.” He halted, fists clenching on his staff and driving its heel against the stone step. “Blast! It’s all wrong, all completely wrong! It just can’t happen this way!”

Alea hid a smile.

“A society can’t exist without a government,” Gar ranted, “not even a village culture like this one! There has to be a ruler, a council of councils, an Allthing, a Parliament, a committee of the wealthy and powerful, a hierarchy of priests—something!”

“We’ve looked everywhere,” Alea demurred. “There must be someplace we’ve missed, some structure we haven’t thought of! Peace and prosperity are impossible without government, even if all it does is keep people from robbing one another and killing each other off!”

“The villagers themselves do that, in the countryside,” Alea reminded him, “and the neighborhoods seem to do the same in this town. When everybody knows everybody else’s business, you can’t get away with anything.”

“So all they have to do is gang up on the culprit and scold him into unbearable humiliation until he straightens out—and if he won’t straighten, they kick him out to live in the forests as well as he can!”

“Where he becomes a bandit,” Alea said, “but there aren’t enough of them to be much of a threat until somebody like General Malachi comes along.”

“Whereupon they all sit back and wait for the Scarlet Company to stop him,” Gar fumed. “Don’t the idiots realize that they have to band together, train for battle, elect a war leader, do something to stop him themselves?”

Alea said nothing, only fought to keep a straight face.

“They don’t, and they never will!” Gar growled.

“Come on, let’s get out of this town—so much innocence is oppressive! Let’s go out into the countryside, where wild animals fight it out and the only order is the food chain!”

“Good idea,” Alea said, “but I’d rather not be in the middle of that food chain.”

“No, the top is a much better place,” Gar said, frowning, “and right now, that looks to be General Malachi and his band.”

“I don’t want to be gobbled up by them, either!”

“Definitely not to my taste,” Gar agreed. “I’d better become a half-wit again. Let’s go, Alea. One more good look around, say five more villages, and I just might have to give up in defeat and admit there’s a planet that doesn’t need me!”

Alea swallowed her amusement and kept pace with him to the city limits.

As soon as they were out of sight of the town, they stepped into a thicket, where Gar stripped off his trader’s clothes and folded them. Alea packed them away as Gar rubbed dirt on assorted portions of his anatomy and gave his face a light powdering of grime. Then, wearing only a loincloth and a blanket, he followed Alea out onto the road. As she strode west, Gar hunched, scuttling beside her, and said, “It’s odd, although I think it’s very important to be honest with my friends, I don’t hesitate for a second to put on a deception like this for my enemies.”

“That’s nothing strange,” Alea said scornfully. “You might as well say that a warrior in battle can’t hit his enemies unless he’s willing to hit his friends, too.”

“Well, that’s so,” Gar said thoughtfully. “I’d always thought of honesty as a moral issue, not a tactical one.” “Honesty isn’t. Dishonesty is,” Alea told him. “Besides, anyone believing you’re a half-wit is doing their own deceiving. A blind man could tell you’re no idiot.”

“Why, thank you,” Gar said, somewhat surprised. “Still, it’s the ones with keen eyesight I’m worried about, not the blind.”

“If you feel any guilt, it should be for the idiots,” Alea snapped. “That’s whom you’re insulting with that disguise.”

“Well, yes,” Gar said, “but then, I am an idiot compared to some men I’ve heard of.”

And to some women who’ve heard you, Alea thought waspishly. In the same tone, she said, “Don’t let that worry you. All men are fools in one way or another.”

“And all women are wise?” Gar asked.

“If I want a wise woman, there are plenty of them in the forest,” Alea retorted, “though I’m not one to hold with potions and simples.”

“Present company excepted, of course?”

“You may not notice half the things you should,” Alea said, “but that doesn’t make you simple. You do a good job of faking, though.”

“How do you know I’m not really doing a good job of pretending not to notice?”

That gave Alea pause—but not a long one. “Because you said you value honesty with your friends.”

“Yes, but you have to weigh one good action against another,” Gar said. “It’s all right to lie about small things to keep from hurting someone’s feelings.”

Alea stopped, rounding on him. “You mean you see a host of flaws in me you don’t talk about!”

“Not flaws,” Gar said, “but traits that you might think are flaws.”

“Such as?” Alea snapped.

“Taking every chance you can to pick an argument with me,” Gar said.

“I do not!”

“You see?” Gar asked. “It’s only a matter of my perceptions, and I’m likely enough to be wrong—so if I did think you were quarrelsome, it wouldn’t be right to say so.”

“I’m not quarrelsome!”

“Perhaps not, but you do enjoy a good argument.” Gar’s eyes were alight with the pleasure of this one. “Oh, and I’m the only one, am I?” Alea’s eyes were gleaming, too. She felt angered and aggravated but felt a strange sort of relaxation, too—as though she knew no harm could come from this.

She was wrong. The two were so intent on their wrangling that they forgot to pay attention to the thoughts around them, and the patrol came upon them before they knew it.

The sound of hoofbeats and the shouts to halt finally penetrated. Alea spun with a gasp, staring at the approaching horsemen.

“Run!” Gar snapped. “I’ll keep them from following until you’re good and lost!”

“I can’t leave you to fight them alone!” Alea’s staff snapped up to guard.

“Of course you can! They won’t hurt me, though I’ll let them think they have! And how will I break free of them if you aren’t there to shoot an arrow at the right moment? Run—please!”

“Oh, all right! ” Alea huffed as she turned and dove into the roadside underbrush.

Men shouted behind her, and trotting hooves broke into a gallop. Gar roared, and Alea risked a look back. Through the screen of leaves, she saw the “half-wit” unfold into a grizzly bear, charging the leader’s horse. The beast reared, screaming with fright, and the bandit, taken by surprise, went sprawling with a bellow of pain. Gar leaped, caught the reins left-handed and hung on, dragging the horse down, then vaulting onto its back, staff still in his right hand.

The leader bellowed with anger as he scrambled to his feet, shouting, “To me! Seize this impudent idiot!”

The two men who had been chasing Alea reined in, turned their horses, and went galloping back. The other three closed on Gar, pulling clubs from their belts and swinging.

They landed on shoulder and ribs. Gar howled with pain, swinging his staff in wild overhand arcs. They seemed to be the flailings of an untrained, uncoordinated simpleton, but Alea heard more knocks on wood than thuds on flesh—and knew that the blows that did land on Gar didn’t do anywhere nearly as much harm as they seemed to, that he had robbed them of their force with telekinesis. Still, he roared in agony and she winced, knowing that he would be black and blue tomorrow. All right, I’m safe! she thought.

Gar promptly fell off the horse and cowered in the roadway, wailing, arms up to protect his head and face. Clubs drubbed on his back until the red-faced leader held up a hand and called, “Enough!”

His men held off but still hovered near, clubs raised. The leader stepped up to seize Gar’s hair and yank his head back. “Let that be a lesson to you, bucko, and don’t you ever raise your hand to a sergeant or an officer again! From now on you’ll do as you’re told, and right quickly, too—for you’re one of General Malachi’s soldiers now!”

“Him? A soldier?” one of the bandits cried, scandalized.

“And why not, I’d like to know?” the sergeant demanded. “He’s big, and scary when he’s angry, we’ve all seen that and he can fight, though not very well. He’ll do fine to drive in front of us against the next batch of villagers who decide to talk back to General Malachi.”

“Drive?” Gar asked, peeking through his fingers. “That’s right, drive, like the ox you are!” the sergeant snapped. He turned to his men. “Tie his hands with a leading rope and let him run behind my horse.”

“Aye, Sergeant!” one of the men said, gloating. “We can drive him against the enemy broken as well as whole!”

“He’ll have to be able to walk, at least,” the sergeant grunted. “If he falls, we’ll give him a chance to get up—but he’ll be properly weary before he gets back to camp!”

As they lashed his hands together, Gar thought, Don’t worry, Alea—they won’t do me any real damage, no matter how badly they want to. Besides, after what we’ve seen, I’m all ready to meet General Malachi again!

Alea shuddered at the thought. He may have been right when he thought you were a danger to him—but don’t forget he’s a danger to you, too! I want you back alive, Gar Pike, not in pieces!

His answer wasn’t worded, only a warm glow that seemed to enfold her for a second, then withdrew as the sergeant kicked his horse into a trot and Gar jerked forward as the rope tightened. Then he was off running, chasing the tail of a cavalry horse while the other bandits whooped and rode alongside, aiming stinging slaps at his head and shoulders. Gar wailed dolefully and stumbled rather theatrically, but managed to keep up.

Alea stood watching him go, numbed and shaken. Why had he answered her scolding with such warmth? What did he think she’d meant, anyway? And was he right?

Unnerved, she stared after the soldiers until they were gone. Then she realized that she had been staring at an empty road for several minutes and gave herself an impatient shake. She knew what to do, what she had done before—the physical part of it, at least.

She found a tree with low branches, took a rope from her pack and tied it to the straps, also her staff, then laid them on the ground and leaped up to sit on the lowest limb. She rose to her feet and started climbing. Twenty feet high, she found a branch that forked almost at the trunk and sat down, tying herself to the trunk with the end of the rope. Then she hauled up her gear to set the pack on the fork before her and her staff across her knees. There, where she would be secure from attack for at least long enough to come awake and defend herself should the need arise, she closed her eyes, listening for Gar’s thoughts, concentrating on them until they became more real than the breeze that fanned her cheek or the songs of the birds that began to come back and settle near her, thinking the immobile woman only part of the tree.

Gar came panting into the camp, stumbling behind the sergeant’s horse, and this time he wasn’t faking. The sergeant reined in and Gar fell to his knees, sucking air in hoarse gasps and shivering in the chill autumn air. Inside, though, he was simmering with anger at the casual cruelty of his captors and ready to explode with frustration at a country in which everything progressed smoothly and peacefully, but without a government.

Everything, that is, except the bandits and a baby warlord named General Malachi who was showing signs of growing up all too fast—into a full-fledged tyrant. Gar might not have been able to find the government or even the Scarlet Company that was not stopping General Malachi, but he could certainly do it himself.

No! Alea thought with anguish. They’ll kill you!

But Gar wasn’t listening—he was looking up in feigned fear and apprehension at the sergeant, who was sneering, “Aye, you should cower! If General Malachi were here, he’d see you scourged smartly, be sure! But he’s not and not likely to be, for we’re an outpost, here to watch our next target, spy out its supply routes, and be ready to fall upon it when the general brings up his main force.”

Gar felt a stab of keen disappointment and an urge to break out of this nest of robbers, to hike back along the highway until he found the main camp and a general he could strangle. Still, where there was even an outpost of the army, the general would come sooner or later, and before he did, Gar might be able to size up the situation and learn its weak points. With telekinesis and teleportation, he probably could have killed Malachi by a bearlike rush, main force, and a straightforward attack, but the chances of his coming away alive weren’t as high as he would have liked. He throttled down his impatience and his anger, deciding to stay, learn the lay of the land, and be waiting to ambush the general when he came.

The sergeant stepped back, surveying Gar as though judging his worth. “Filthy beggar, aren’t you? Wash him, boys.”

Gar yelped as the soldiers descended on him, two to each arm and leg, and hauled him running to the nearest horse trough. They slung him in; then six of them held him down while the other two scrubbed with harsh soap and the sort of brush that’s used on horses. The sergeant stood by, grinning and calling directions.

“Don’t forget his hair, there’s liable to be as many lice in there as there are squirrels in the wood! Under his armpits, now, that’s the way! And don’t forget to reach where he can’t, or likely doesn’t.”

Gar howled, and didn’t have to pretend—the stiff brush was scraping him raw.

Finally the sergeant called, “That should do him, now. Haul him out and see if he’s improved.”

The soldiers yanked and Gar came out of the tub, lurching forward until he saw the spear point aimed at his chest and froze. He was pink and glowing with the scrubbing; he felt as though there couldn’t be a patch of skin left on his whole body.

Then a cold breeze blew and he began to shiver. The sergeant threw him a length of rough cloth that would have made burlap look fine. “Rub yourself down with that. Boys, fetch him our largest uniform.” Uniform? Looking out over the camp, Gar saw that all the men were indeed wearing brown tunics and tan leggins. They were lounging around a broad clearing a hundred feet across, a natural tableland that supported only a few trees, enough to give cover to sixty tents and the men who lived in them. The fires were low and smokeless, the ground trodden bare. Here and there, a man was chopping wood or hauling water, but most were sharpening their weapons or currying their horses.

Cloth struck Gar in the face.

“There, that’s the largest we’ve got,” the sergeant said. “It will have to do. Help him into it, boys.”

The soldiers cheered with the fun of another game. Gar squawked as they descended on him, yanking the tunic down over his head; he heard something rip. They knocked him down to pull the leggins up and lash them in place with black cross garters. Gar started to fight, then caught himself and throttled it down to only enough to convince them he was a terrified, uncoordinated idiot.

Finally they hauled him upright and yanked the cowl of his tunic up to cover his head.

“There you are, Sergeant,” one of them said, thumping Gar on the chest as he turned to his boss. “As smart a soldier as you’ve ever seen.”

The sergeant looked and brayed laughter.

Gar could imagine why. The sleeves of the tunic seemed as tight as tourniquets; their cuffs ended three inches below his elbows. The seams at the shoulders had split, leaving several inches of bare skin, and the only reason the leggins weren’t cutting off his circulation was because they had been sewn to be twice as wide as a man would need, depending on the cross garters to make them fit. Gar wore the cross garters because his “fellow” soldiers had tied them on, not because he needed them. The leggins ended halfway down his shins, of course, and they’d had to cut off the ends of the buskins, leaving his toes sticking out. At least, when General Malachi sees me, he won’t recognize me.

“Well, you’ll do, I suppose,” the sergeant said. “Come on now, and I’ll show you the quarry we’re set to watch.”

He led Gar over to the edge of the plateau, the other soldiers trooping along around him with raucous comments.

“Down there.” The sergeant pointed.

Gar looked down where the hillside fell away, the tops of the trees dropping in steps, letting him clearly see the shining curves of the river below, the tawny line of the road that intersected it, and where they joined, the sprawl of the town in which he had slept the night past.

They put him to work hauling water to the kitchen and timbers to the men who were setting up a wooden wall. After dinner, though, Gar had a few minutes to himself. He gazed off into space with vacant eyes, which no one would think unusual in a half-wit, but his mind was engaged in a lively discussion.

Don’t worry about me, Alea. I’m in no danger, worse luck.

Why not? Alea asked, but couldn’t keep the message free of her feelings of relief.

Thanks for caring, Gar answered, his thoughts colored by the warmth of affection. Apparently General Malachi isn’t going to be here for some time, if at all—this is just an outpost, a handful of troops here to scout the lay of the land and the best routes for invasion. Until Malachi does come, no one’s apt to recognize me—especially not in their own uniform, if you can call this outfit that.

Don’t sound so disappointed, Alea thought. If the chief bully isn’t coming, why are you bothering to stay?

Because this is an excellent place to learn his plans, Gar answered, and when I know their invasion tactics, I can warn the town and tell them how to defend themselves. They could do what these bandits are doing, for starters—build themselves a wall of sharpened timbers.

Then I’ll go tell them so! Alea thought. At the very least, I can tell them they’re in danger.

A good thought, Gar said slowly, but if General Malachi has agents in the town, you could be in danger.

I accepted danger when I landed on this planet, Alea retorted. How about you? There’s a limit to how many men you can fight off by thinking at them!

There’s danger, yes, Gar thought slowly, but I’ve faced much worse, and this is too good a chance to pass up, studying the enemy on his home ground.

Alea caught the overtones to his thoughts, and frowned. There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? You’re still hoping to find a government!

No, I’ve given up on that, Gar answered, but I might learn something about this band of thugs, and why such a gentle civilization could produce so many of them.

Alea set out at first light and came back to the town in the afternoon. As she walked down the road and in among the houses, she saw what Gar meant about a wall—there was nothing to keep anyone from simply walking in, as she had, and the broad stretches of grass and patches of garden around the city were an open invitation to horsemen to enter riding, trampling vegetables and people. She remembered the charred timbers of the new village and shuddered. That could not be allowed to happen again!

She stopped the first citizen she saw by catching his shoulder. “Sir,” she commanded, “defend yourself!”