A Wizard in Peace

CHAPTER 23

The Protector threw back his head and laughed; sharply and harshly. “So now we come to the truth of it! It’s not the good of the people that you want—it’s my power and my palace! But government isn’t that easy, young man!”

“I know,” Miles replied. “I’ve been an inspector-general for five years, and all those men outside have been magistrates for at least a year, some for five..”

The Protector stared,-taken aback. “An inspector-general? At your age?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stuff and nonsense, boy! Who made you an inspector-general?”

“I did, sir. I kidnapped a real inspector-general and took his place.”

The Protector stared at him, the blood draining from his face, and his voice was almost a whisper. “And those men in the square?”

“They kidnapped the real magistrates and reeves, Protector, and took their places, too.”

“Impossible! You can’t become a magistrate without years of training!”

“Months,” Miles said. “I studied very hard in private, and so did they.”

“Impossible! Who taught you?”

“The Guardian of the Lost City of Voyagend—and Gar and Dirk here.”

The Protector’s gaze swung to Gar, and his eyes were windows into death. “So. You’re the one who has spread this sedition throughout my realm.”

“I have that honor,” Gar said with a slight bow. “The seed put down roots quickly, for the soil was very fertile.”

“Meaning that the people were eager to believe what you told them—but ignorant people are always quick to believe lies! I’ll have you hanged from the castle walls, then chop your bones into pieces so that every magistrate can have one for a charm!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Protector.”

“Oh? And why not?” the Protector growled. “I hope you’re not counting on that self-taught rabble in the square to protect you from my soldiers!”

“I did have something of the sort in mind, yes.”

“Then come gaze upon your downfall, fool!” The Protector strode over to a set of French windows and threw them wide. Instantly, the chant of “Liberty and rights!” slammed in, but he waded through it, stepping out onto the balcony and pulling a bright yellow scarf from his sleeve. He waved it, and the edges of the crowd boiled as soldiers charged out from between the buildings. The doors of the palace opened, and a horde of troopers burst out, laying about them with their pikes and halberds. A cry of fright went up from the crowd, and it pulled in from the edges. The soldiers charged in among them.

“Your men may have faked governing,” the Protector said, “but they can’t fake fighting.”

“No,” Gar agreed. “They’ll have to do the real thing.”

Even as he said it, the rebels began to push back, seizing soldiers’ halberds and wrestling them for the weapons—but other soldiers turned and began to fight their own men!

Orgoru was in the forefront of the crowd, shaking his fist and shouting louder than any, when the huge oaken door before him burst open, spewing soldiers who ran at him, halberds leveled. Orgoru cried out in dismay and anger, leaping backward into other rebels—but they were giving way, too, and he staggered against them, but stayed on his feet, remembering that they had expected such an onslaught, and how to deal with it.

“Aside!” he bellowed, and pivoted, following his own order. The halberd-blade shot past him, and he seized its shaft in both hands, pulling hard. The soldier staggered, off balance, and another rebel chopped down at the man’s hands with an open palm. The soldier yelped with pain. Orgoru twisted and spun away with the halberd in his own hands while the other rebel yanked the soldier’s helmet loose, and a third struck with a blackjack.

Another halberd stabbed toward Orgoru. He parried, shoving it aside with his own weapon, and the rebel next to him pushed it down against the cobbles. The spearhead caught in a crack and the butt jammed back against the soldier’s belly. He sagged over it with a grunt, and the rebel struck with a blackjack.

Then there were three soldiers all at once striking at Orgoru, and he whirled his halberd madly, all the reflexes of his quarterstaff play coming to deflect their weapons. He didn’t succeed fully—blades tore into his robes, and pain streaked his side and his hip, but he kept up his defense while his fellow rebels worked their way in, seizing pikes and striking with blackjacks. Finally the last soldier dropped, and Orgoru sagged, gasping for breath.

“Look out!” someone cried, and another halberd was jabbing toward him. Orgoru managed to bring up his own weapon barely in time, striking the halberd up, and it cut his cheek as the blade hissed by. Shaken, he struck harder with the butt than he had intended, cracking into the side of the soldier’s head. He glimpsed blood before the man sank from sight, and Orgoru hoped he wouldn’t be trampled by his own mates. He faced another soldier—the troopers couldn’t get at very many of the rebels, because they were at the edge of a huge crowd. But by the same token, there were a lot of soldiers, each eager for his chance as the last one fell.

Each rank of soldiers charged into the crowd, and the rebels opened way for them, then closed in from the sides, shoving halberds down with their bare hands and striking with blackjacks and batons. As one rebel wearied, he fell back, and another took his place—but Orgoru found himself wondering how long they could keep it up. Who would fail first, the soldiers or the rebels?

He heard shouting in front of him, and whirled, then stared in amazement. Soldiers were fighting soldiers! Orgoru cheered, and led rebels in to help.

“Down with traitors!” one soldier cried, and rebels piled onto him.

“Long live the Protector!” cried another, and a rebel kicked his feet out from under him.

But Orgoru braced himself, waiting, and sure enough, another soldier cried, “Down with the Protector!” but the man he was fighting echoed him: “Down with the Protector!”

“How can we tell which is which, Orgoru?” another rebel asked him, bewildered.

“Take them both,” Orgoru answered. “We can apologize later.”

They did.

The Protector stared. Then he swung about to Gar, howling, “Traitor! You’ve suborned my army too!”

“Only half of them,” Gar told him, “but as you see, I’ve also taught my homegrown magistrates to fight. I’d guess your soldiers will all be bound tightly in fifteen minutes at most.”

For the second time, the Protector felt the stab of fear. He tried to ignore it and demanded, “How will you govern if you tear down my government?”

“Just as we have for the last five years,” Miles said. “I told you that we have all taken the places of real magistrates.”

“How many of you are there?” the Protector whispered. “Three thousand here, and five hundred more on the way. With the watchmen and soldiers who have joined them, seven thousand in all.”

“Five hundred magistrates and reeves! That’s half the officials in my realm!”

“Yes, Protector. We can govern with that many.”

“What did you do with the real ones!”

“They’re our guests, in the Lost City of Voyagend,” Miles told him. “We haven’t hurt them, but they’re very restless.”

“And you think they’ll be as glad to govern for you as for me!” the Protector whispered. But the shadow that haunted his face was certainty, for he knew human ambition, and knew the captive magistrates would do just that. He spun about to look out the window again, and saw that the rebels were winning.

“This is how it is throughout the land,” Gar said behind him. “The soldiers loyal to you are outnumbered two to one by those we have persuaded to see the glories of the New Order.”

“I think not,” the Protector snarled. “Far from this city, they will be loyal to me, and have triumphed! I have had messengers tell me this within this last hour!”

“They told you only what you wanted to hear,” Dirk said. “They were afraid to tell you anything else, for fear you might not promote them.”

“You lie!” the Protector snarled, and, to his ministers, “Seize them!”

The ministers threw off their cloaks, and instead of the gray-haired, reverend statemen they had seemed to be, they appeared as toughened sergeants who drew swords and leaped upon Gar, Dirk, and Miles.

Gar sank to his knees, arms wrapped around his head, and four soldiers fell on him with victorious shouts. Dirk spun about to set his back against Miles’s as he whipped out his rapier and Miles pulled a sword and buckler from under his robes. Eight sergeants surrounded them, but paused as the oldest commanded, “Drop your swords, raise your hands, and we’ll let you live!”

“Yes, long enough to torture us into telling you everything you already know,” Dirk retorted. “Have at you!” He leaped forward, thrusting and slashing, which was very poor tactics, because the soldiers moved to surround him.

Then halted, as a roar filled the chamber. They flicked glances over, astonished, and saw the pile of four of their fellows erupt. Soldiers flew back to strike into the wall and the floor as Gar surged to his feet, shaking them off and drawing his rapier. Before they could recover, he struck the swords out of the hands of two of them, then turned to the third as he scrambled to his feet. The fourth lay unconscious.

Dirk and Miles both struck while their opponents were staring at Gar. Miles’s buckler cracked the head of one, and his sword lanced another’s shoulder. The man fell back, clutching his wound with a howl as the sword dropped from his fingers—but the other two moved in. Miles backed up—and felt his spine jar against Dirk’s, who was facing two men of his own. Two others lay unconscious and bleeding.

Gar struck up the sword of the first man to reach him, then balled a huge fist in his tunic and yanked him off the floor to throw him into his fellow. Both went down with a crash. Gar leaped forward, kicking the sword hands; each man howled with pain, and the blades went flying across the floor. Gar turned to help Dirk.

Dirk wasn’t doing too badly. He had managed to catch one soldier with an arm around the throat and hold him as a shield while he parried madly on his right. The other sergeant fell back, clutching a bleeding arm, sword falling from nerveless fingers. Gar yanked both assailants off the ground, and tossed them onto the pile he had started. They landed just as two others were trying to get up, and knocked them back onto the floor.

Miles was already down, bleeding from three cuts, trying frantically to hold off the two blades that darted about him, fending some with his buckler, parrying others. Gar yanked both soldiers off their feet and sent them flying to the discard pile. Two more scrambled to their feet, staggering and woozy, but bringing up swords. Dirk shouted, and they turned to face him. He fenced madly for the minutes it took Miles to scramble to his feet; then Miles shouted, and one of the soldiers turned to face him. He thrust, but Miles parried. He swung his sword up for a cut, but Miles lunged and skewered the man’s shoulder. He shouted with pain, and his sword fell. Miles struck his head with the buckler, and the soldier collapsed, out cold. Moments later, Dirk’s opponent fell beside him.

“A little help here,” Gar called. He was standing by the discard pile, catching soldiers as they scrambled up, and throwing them back. Miles and Dirk came running, and as the next two soldiers stumbled to their feet, they found themselves staring at the tips of two blades. They froze, and Gar knocked their heads together. They slumped, unconscious. Two more of their fellows were also out, their heads having struck the floor instead of a fellow soldier’s stomach. The others, seeing the odds against them, hesitated.

“Surrender,” Gar said quietly. “You haven’t a chance, anyway.”

Slowly, the men held up empty hands.

“Lie down on your bellies with your hands behind your back,” Dirk directed. “Miles, tie them up.”

Miles pulled the men’s belts off and began to tie them, wrist and ankle. Dirk joined him, then looked up at a sudden thought. “Where’s the Protector?”

Gar looked around at an empty room. “Dirk, finish the job,” he snapped. “Come on, Miles.”

Miles looked up, startled, then ran after Gar. Distantly, he knew he’d been wounded, but also knew he couldn’t let that stop him.

Through the corridors they charged, bowling aside footmen and butlers who squawked with surprise and fear. Down the stairway they galloped, two at a time, out the huge doorway and into—

A melee of soldiers fighting soldiers.

“Through them!” Gar shouted. “Don’t stop to fight!”

They twisted and turned their way between battling men, barely managing to escape edged weapons, and thrust their way into the crowd, where they were surrounded by Robes.

They stared around them, appalled. Then Miles cried out. “How are we to find him? Everyone’s wearing official’s robes!”

“His are richer, and his chain is more massive,” Gar called back, “and his robes are purple instead of red or blue!”

Miles called, “How can we find purple among all these blue and red?”

“The other rebels will recognize him as one they don’t know!”

“Recognize him?” Miles protested. “There are so many of them from so many different towns that they don’t even recognize each other!”

It was true; Miles had done his work too well. Unless some rebel stopped to think what the purple robes meant, the Protector was hidden in a sea of his enemies—and with the fight against the soldiers foremost in their minds, the rebels weren’t likely to pay much attention to the color of their neighbors’ robes!

“One side! One side!” Gar thrust his way through the crowd, seeking, searching—but in the turmoil of the fight, he couldn’t see anything but red and blue. To the center of the crowd he waded, crying, “The Protector! The Protector! Look for purple robes!”

Soldiers looked up and froze in alarm, staring at the giant looming over them. They recovered quickly and turned to fight again—but Gar was already past them, still calling, “The Protector!” Rebels who had never seen Gar, saw and drew back, recognizing him from what they’d heard about the mythical beginner of their revolution. But nowhere did he find the purple robe.

Then a thin cry went up—thin, but echoed and amplified by a dozen voices, then fifty. Gar turned and plowed straight for it. A lane opened for him, rebels pulling back, thrusting soldiers away with their own pikes, straight to the Protector, struggling in the arms of a grizzled sergeant.

Gar plucked him up and held him high, crying, “We have your Protector! Put down your weapons, or he dies!”

All over the square, soldiers looked up in astonishment to see their Protector writhing high above their heads—and the rebels they were fighting struck them down. Then the rebels, too, realized what was happening, and drew back, giving the soldiers a chance to surrender. The soldiers saw the Protector and moaned. Pikes clattered on the paving stones, and soldiers cried, “I surrender! I surrender!”

Gar lowered the Protector to the ground. “You shall be our honored guest for a few days, Protector.”

“Yes, until you can work up the courage to hang me!” the Protector snarled, and turned on the man who had caught him. “You, Sergeant Alesworth! You, who were one of my personal guard for fourteen years! Why have you turned against me now?”

The sergeant stared back at him, stone-faced. “Do you remember that I loved my wife, Protector? And that she died?” The Protector went pale. “Yes. I remember.”

“And remember that three months later, you made me marry again?”

“It was for the best! Best for you, and for the realm!” Alesworth shook his head. “We made each other miserable, Protector, and she turned her misery against my children—but you didn’t know about that, did you? No, nor care.”

“For that?” the Protector whispered. “Only for that, you have brought down the realm?”

“No, Protector,” the sergeant said, “only healed it.”

The ceremony took place in that same square, two days later—time enough to clean up the evidence of the fight. As they waited at the door for the Protector and his “honor guard,” Dirk surveyed the clean pavement, slightly stained here and there. “Only sixty-three dead and a hundred twenty-seven wounded badly enough for hospital. That’s certainly the least bloody revolution you’ve ever managed, Gar.”

“Yes, but sixty-three people are dead,” Gar said grimly. “If this is the best I can do, maybe I should get out of the business.”

Dirk shrugged. “Sixty-three because you did lead a revolution, a thousand dead from the secret police and suicide due to misery if you hadn’t. More than a thousand, many more, if you count the rest of the years this dictatorship would have stayed in power.”

“Maybe,” Gar said grimly. “Maybe.”

“At least these were clean deaths,” Dirk pointed out. “Only one died from torture. Of course, Miles had a little torture, too, but you gave him express healing.”

“Yes.” Gar frowned. “He never did ask how his feet managed to heal so quickly, just started worrying about all his rebels. That shows either an excellent character, or a revolting degree of faith in me.”

“Well, people with faith in you do tend to revolt… No, no, sorry! Hey, here he comes.”

They both bowed slightly as the Protector came up flanked by guards, none loyal to himself. He acknowledged their bows with one of his own, mouth tight with irony. “Are you taking me to sign my own death warrant?”

“No, Protector,” Gar said, “only the documents transferring power to the provisional government.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Oh, yes. At the moment, we’re not intending to kill you at all.” Gar said it so casually that even Dirk shuddered.

“At the moment,” the Protector said dryly. “And if I refuse to sign?”

“Then we shall escort you to your permanent guest quarters…”

“Which you shall do in any case.”

“Ah, then,” Gar said brightly, “you do realize that we don’t plan to execute you.”

“Then you are fools,” the Protector said simply. “There’s no greater threat to a government than a deposed head of state. I might escape, gather men who would rally to me—and there are many, I assure you!—and lead a counterrevolt.”

“You might,” Gar agreed, “if you could escape. We have great faith in our jailers.”

“Then you are doubly fools, for there’s no prison human hands can build, that another human brain can’t find a way to escape.”

“Then we must be content to be fools,” Gar returned, “for if we violate your right to life, then we betray our own ideals, and build a mortal weakness into our New Order before it’s even begun.”

“Then fools you are indeed,” the Protector retorted, “but I would be a worse fool not to take advantage of your folly. Come, show me your document and I’ll sign it! Then cart me away to your prison, so I can set to working out my escape.”

“As you wish, Protector.” Gar bowed him on. The guards fell in to either side; Dirk and Gar fell in behind him.

“He’s right, you know,” Dirk said softly. “This kind of mercy is foolish.”

“Perhaps,” Gar returned, equally softly, “but he hasn’t met the Guardian and his robots yet—or his human jailer.”

A band played a solemn air as the Protector marched to the table in the center of the square, where Miles awaited him. People lined the walls of the surrounding buildings five deep, people hung from every window to watch, and soldiers stood stoutly in front of the crowd, to restrain anyone who became too exuberant—but no one did. There were two thousand people, at least, watching that day, and not one of them cheered or shouted; there was only a constant hum of muted conversation as they talked to one another in wondering tones about the unbelievable event they were witnessing.

Miles bowed as the Protector came to the table and handed him a quill pen. In loud, ringing tones, he declared, “Protector, you have read these documents in the privacy of your chambers. Will you sign them?”

“I haven’t much choice, have I?” the Protector said, with full sarcasm.

“You have every choice!” Miles orated. “If you do not wish to sign, you shall be treated with every bit as much respect as though you did!”

“Or every bit as little,” the Protector retorted. “And if I don’t, what shall you do then?”

“We shall declare your government to be null and void by the will of the people. Then we shall continue as we have planned, to hold elections. Everyone shall place his ‘vote,’ a slip of paper containing his choice, through a small slot in a locked box. These votes shall be counted, and the will of the people thus determined.”

The Protector yanked the quill from his hand. “Enough! I’ll sign. Whatever excuse you find for your rhetoric, it won’t be me!”

He bent over the table, dashed off his signature with a flourish, then straightened and handed the pen back to Miles—and the crowd cheered.

They cheered wildly, explosively. Their shouts of joy rang off the marble façades of the buildings all around the square, beating at the Protector, deafening him with rejoicing, and for a brief moment, he looked uncertain. Only for a moment; then he turned back to Miles with a sardonic smile, waited till the cheering had slackened, and cried out in a voice even louder than Miles’s, “Now! Take me to my prison!”

He was horrified when the crowd cheered again.

The Protector halted and stared in amazement at the opalescent walls rising high above the trees. “What city is this?”

“One that was lost,” Orgoru explained to him. “Our ancestors built it when they first came to this world.”

“That’s a fairy tale—that our ancestors came from a star!”

“It’s quite true, and the biggest of the ships in which they came lies beneath this city—but you’ll learn all that from its Guardian, if you wish to.”

“Only a fool doesn’t wish to learn!”

“Then you’ll have every chance you want,” Orgoru assured him. “Come, let me introduce you to your host.”

“You mean my jailer for the rest of my life, don’t you?”

“As you wish.” Orgoru stepped forward and gestured to the stocky man who awaited them in the stone gateway. “Protector, this is Master Bade.”

Bade held out a hand, but the Protector’s lip curled in scorn. “Come, now! You don’t expect me to shake hands with my jailer, do you?”

“I see you have the courage to stare at the unvarnished truth.” Bade withdrew his hand.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not at all, which is why the harshness of your government drove some of us to seek refuge in delusion. We came here to live a dream life, convinced that we were truly princes and lords.”

“A fairy tale indeed! What brought you from it?”

“A giant,” Bade said, “but we don’t know how.”

For a moment, the Protector’s eyes fired with hatred. “It seems I owe him even more than I thought.”

“Don’t let it bother you—he doesn’t insist on his due. Will you come up to the top of the wall with me, Protector? I have a sight to show you that may interest you.”

“My cell?”

“No, you shall have a palace for a prison. The only hardship is that you shall dwell in it alone.”

“Then show it to me quickly, so that I can begin planning my escape!”

“Let me lead you to the last men who said that.” Bade led the way onto the top of a tower. The Protector stepped out—and saw a gleaming skeleton. He stared, horrified. “You wouldn’t even bury them?”

“ ‘Them’?” Bade looked up. “Oh, those aren’t skeletons, Protector, only robots. Don’t worry, in a few days you’ll scarcely notice them.”

Horror of horrors, the skeleton moved—but the face it turned on the Protector was a featureless eggshell. He shrank back, but noticed how casually Bade went on, and followed him, but with wary glances at the robot, especially as it turned to shadow him.

They came out onto the parapet, and Bade gestured. “There they are.”

The Protector looked down—and saw hundreds of men in red robes, with here and there a blue one, even one or two in the plain homespun of a peasant or an inspector-general. His heart sank as he realized he was looking at his kidnapped magistrates and reeves.