Stasheff,Christopher - Rogue Wizard 2 - A wizard in Bedlam

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CHAPTER 1

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any

resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

This Ace Science Fiction Book

contains the complete text of

the original edition.

A WIZARD IN BEDLAM

An Ace Science Fiction Book/published by arrangement with

Doubleday & Co.. Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Previously published by Doubleday & Co.. Inc.

DAW Books edition / July 1980

Ace Science Fiction edition / February 1986

Cover art by Stephen Hickman.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part.

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group.

200 Madison Avenue. New York. New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-90214-6

Ace Science Fiction Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

200 Madison Avenue, New York. New York 10016.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Engines bellowed, and the stubby cargo boat wallowed up

out of the blastpit. It hesitated for a moment, feeling for bal-

ance, then shot up into the sky, roaring like an angry au-

rochs.

It cleared atmosphere and slewed into orbit, chasing the

great globe of the mother ship down the ellipse.

In the control blister, the pilot slapped his board to auto-

matic and looked up at Domigny. "Secure for coasting. Cap-

tain—reeling down the umbilicus. About half an hour till we

head back into the womb."

Domigny winced. 'Tve heard of extended metaphors. Lieu-

tenant, but you stretched that one so far that it snapped

back."

"Really, sir?" The navigator looked up in feigned surprise.

"I was about to compliment him on his knack for colorful

language." He was black-haired and lean, with a look of wiry

strength to him—almost the pilot's double. Not as close as

twins, closer than brothers—but they weren't related. Not

technically, anyway.

"That is a polite way of saying it," Domigny agreed,

"though I could wish he didn't take the term 'mother ship'

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quite so literally." He loosened his shock webbing, stood up,

and stretched. "Well, to business. Call the Seed of Insurrec-

tion, will you?"

The pilot winced as he thumbed the key. "I thought we

were done with that metaphor. . . . Lieutenant Dulain to

control, please."

The captain grinned wickedly and flexed an arm, kneading

his pineapple biceps with the other hand. He was broad in

the shoulder and beefy everywhere else, lard-faced and

grizzle-haired, with eyes that seemed a little too small but saw

much.

The navigator frowned thoughtfully. "I'm not sure that was

apt. Captain; the insurrection in Melange scarcely needs

5

6 Christopher Stasheff

seeding. From what Lords Port and Core were saying, Fd

guess it's about ready to blossom."

The captain glanced up in irritation. "I was under me

naive impression that conference was private. Charts.

"No, sir." The pilot grinned. "At least, not when you or-

dered Dirk to listen in on the conference-room bug. Certainly

you couldn't expect me to resist a temptation like that."

"I'd expect you to resist many things. Lieutenant, but

temptation isn't one of them," the captain groused, settling

himself back into his couch.

The hatch opened, and a young man in waistcoat, knee

pants, white hose, and buckled shoes climbed in. He looked

enough like the pilot and navigator to make a man wonder

about their mothers. But such a man would wrong those vir-

tuous women—the fault was in their ancestors.

Captain Domigny raised an eyebrow in the newcomer's

direction. "You heard. Dirk?"

Dirk made an elaborate bow. "Your wish is my command,

0 Captain."

Domigny turned to the pilot. "Turn on the blower, will

you. Lieutenant? It's getting a little thick in here."

"Not as thick as it was in there." Dirk straightened, mas-

saging his knuckles. "Little out of line, wasn't it? For Lord

Core to be there with Lord Port?"

"Ah, you noticed!" Domigny said brightly.

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm there? . . . But it looks a

little strange, no? I mean, Lord Core has moved up in the

world since I was an overworked brat on his estate—Lord

Privy Councillor to His Majesty, and all that—but, personally

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interviewing a freighter captain? Now, really!"

"Perceptive, perceptive." Domigny nodded over steepled

fingertips. "Well, you're supposed to be the dirtside oper-

ative—what do you make of it?"

Dirk sat down and leaned forward, hands clasped on his

knees. "Offhand, Fd say things are getting tense. I know our

spies said there was rebellion in the air—but they didn't say it

was the air around the throne."

"Well, it might not be." Domigny shifted in his chair.

"Anything having to do with the throne—who knows? No-

body's seen His Majesty since his coronation."

"Yeah, and as I remember, he looked pretty scared then,

poor kid." Dirk scratched behind his ear. "But then, who

wouldn't be, with Core as his agent? . . . Either way, rumor

A WIZARD IN BEDLAM 7

speaks loudly enough for Core to hear, so here he is, to make

very, very sure we don't help out, if anything does flare up."

"Not bad." Donrigny nodded. "A little superficial, perhaps,

but still, not bad. Now—what does this mean, in terms of

your assignment?"

"They'll be watching us like hawks," Dirk said immedi-

ately. "Each Lord will keep his radar screen manned, for a

change. When you drop me in the gig, alarmsll scream for a

hundred miles around."

"Well, not a hundred miles," Domigny said judiciously.

'Ten would be more like it. But it is to our advantage the

Lords allow only one spaceport. That's where they'll be

watching with basilisk eyes—so, if we drop you a hundred

miles away, there's still a chance you might get by unno-

ticed."

Dirk shook his head. "This is where (he action's going to

be—in the capital, near the King. It'd take me too long to leg

it in a hundred miles. Dont worry—I can lose any search

party they send out"

The captain sighed and shook his head. "Your choice. Tea.

afraid. Personally, I'd opt for a hundred miles away."

"I doubt it," Dirk said dryly.

The captain glared at him; but he couldn't hold it, and bis

face broke into a grin. "Well, maybe you're right. Lord

knows I wish it was my assignment—but age does have cer-

tain disadvantages. . . . What did you think of the 'no tour-

ists' policy?"

"Pretty insistent, weren't they?" Dirk smiled grimly. "No

more 'accidental' reconnaissance flights—isn't that what he

said? And that line about knowing your crew must get curi-

ous about a planet they trade with so much, but never get to

set foot on.... Think he suspects something?"

Domigny shrugged. "You know him better than I do. What

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would he suspect?"

"Anything," Dirk said promptly. "Up to and including our

landing secret agents to foment rebellion."

"But there've been 'accidentaf gig flights as long as we've

been trading with them—nearly five "hundred years."

Domigny watched Dirk keenly. "Wouldn't that lull his suspi-

cions?"

Dirk shook his head. "His predecessors', maybe. Not his.

This time, if he spots the gig coming in, he'll call you and

cancel the franchise."

8 Christopher Stasheff

Domigny smiled sourly. "Not effective immediately. Ifl

take them a little time to line up a new freight company.

They want their nice little 'best of all possible worlds' to stay

safe from outside influence, so they deal with only one com-

pany, us—but now their safety snaps back at them, and the

bars they put up to keep everybody else out will be keeping

them in. Besides"—he spread his hands—"what do we care?

Let them cancel us. Will that make us go away?" He jabbed

a finger toward the viewscreen, filled with a huge golden

sphere. "Well be sitting right there, behind the near moon in

the radar shadow, waiting for your call—and when you send

it, we'll break out every boat and drop down on them like a

nest of mad hornets."

"What if it's another flash in the pan?" Dirk said softly.

"DeCade didn't succeed five centuries ago. What if the rebel-

lion fails?"

"It won't," Domigny said grimly. "We've waited five

hundred years for this. The Wizard escaped off-planet under

cover of the chaos DeCade created, starved and scrimped till

he could start a freight line, took a huge loss underbidding

the first company so he could get the franchise, and died

happy only because he knew he'd set us on the path to this

day."

Dirk listened closely, knowing the words by heart, letting

them sink in to stoke the fire of his purpose into flame.

'Ten generations of us have escaped from our masters to

these ships," Domigny went on. "Escaped off-planet,

crammed knowledge into our heads till they ached, and

worked our backs raw to keep this line running, trading with

the planet of our birth so we could sneak in information,

arms—waiting for The Day."

He fell silent a moment glaring at Dirk. "It won't fail,

Lieutenant."

Dirk took a deep breath and stood, slowly. "No. It won't."

"Not if you do your job, you mean." Domigny stood

slowly, never taking his eyes from Dirk's. "If we drop down

before the peasants rise, and the rebellion fails because of it,

you'll be sitting in the blastpit when the ship lifts off."

Dirk looked into Domigny's grim eyes and knew he meant

it.

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"Find the rebel leader," Domigny went on. "Make contact

with him. Find out what he wants us to do. If he doesn't

want us to do anything and the rebellion breaks out, figure'

A WIZARD IN BEDLAM 9

out what we should do. But when you call, you'd better be

right."

"Don't worry," Dirk said evenly. "When I call, I'll be

sure."

Domigny held his eyes a moment longer, then smiled and

clasped Dirk's band and forearm tightly. "Good luck," he

said. "And when you drop from that gig, drop running."

The gig swooped down out of the night and slammed to a

stop as its hatch boomed open and Dirk shot out. He landed

rolling, swung up to his feet, and lit out for the trees at the

edge of the meadow. He glanced back over his shoulder—

once—to see the gig a hundred feet up and rising; then he

turned back to serious business, like running.

He sprinted through meadow grass, feeling as though a

hundred snipers had their sights locked on him every foot of

the way, and were just waiting for him to slow down a little

so they could see if there was a brandmark on his back, to

make sure he was a churl before they shot him down.

Then Dirk was in among the trees, and he had to slow

down to a rapid walk. He knew the forests well; they'd been

his first refuge when he escaped from serfdom twenty years

ago, and he'd run seven missions since—all involving the

forests now and then, usually for the same reason. He picked

his way through the underbrush, striking for the trail and

finding it, listening intently to the normal sounds of a night

forest—wind in the branches, scurrying of small animals, bat

squeaks. There was nothing out of the ordinary yet. He al-

most wished there were; the waiting was screwing him tight

as a piano string.

He swung on down the trail at a long, fast walk, staff slung

over his shoulder, moving through patches of starlight. H&

was a tall, lean, wiry man, dressed like an eighteenth-century

gentleman. The broad brim of his hat shadowed the deep-set

gray eyes, leaving the blade of a nose, prominent cheekbones,

hollow cheeks, and square jaw to the moonlight. It was a lean

and hungry face, and the man behind it tried not to think too

much.

He stopped suddenly, listening; then he slipped off the trail,

silent as a drifting cloud of poison gas, found the tree trunk

in the deepest shadow, and did a passable imitation of bark.

He waited, and the night waited with him.

10 Christopher Stasheff

Then, faint but growing fast, came tfae drum of horses*

hooves.

The drum roll swelled to an avalanche, and they swept

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past him single-file—hard-faced men with iron derbies acd

chainmail waistcoats. Somewhere in the middle of the string,

Dirk noticed the local Lord, in plum-colored tailcoat and

white satin, powdered wig uncovered to the night breeze.

Then he was gone, and the iron file was grinding by again.

Dirk leaned back against the trunk with folded arms, staff

resting on his shoulder, admiring the sight. He'd always loved

a parade. -^

Too bad he didn't have a gun. Not even a crossbow. It was

definitely out of character for a gentleman who wasn't in the

military—but not as out-of-character as it would have been

for a churl. A dead churl, possibly ...

Then the last horseman whipped on by, and the starlight

filtered steadily down. Dirk lifted his head, turned toward the

sound of fading hooves. That was all; he stayed still as a

crystal till the last hoofbeat had faded. Even then, he waited

till he was sure the night was quiet; then he moved out—but

not onto the trail. At a rough guess, the local Lord was man-

ning his radar screen and had detected the gig's landing—

though it was possible. Dirk supposed, that he was just on his

way to a late party, or a tryst with a churl's daughter. Still,

the Lords didn't usually bring more than a dozen bodyguards

for a social occasion. No, the hunt was on. They'd find the

meadow empty, of course, and would turn around and beat

the brush till daybreak. But not too deep into the brush; there.

were dangerous animals in the woods, mostly with two legs

and a nasty bite. They could leave a steel barb embedded in

a soldier's neck. No, they'd stay close to the trails—and

therefore it behooved Dirk to do the reverse.

So he struck out through the underbrush, humming softly

to himself, and looking brightly about him. It was a wonder-

ful time to be alive....

He came out of the woods a couple of hours later and

stopped in the shadow of an oak to get his bearings. The land

rolled away before him, wild meadow rising to a ridge a mile

away, dim and lustrous in the starlight.

Maybe an hour till moonrise—not time enough to make it

to the nearest village. Dirk looked for cover.

There it was, off to the left and halfway to the ridge—a

A WIZARD IN BEDLAM

rocky outcrop. Where there are large rocks, there are, if not

caves, at least niches to hide in. Dirk turned toward the little

hill.

As he came hiking up to it, the giant attacked.

He burst out of a crevice at the foot of the rockheap and

came bounding down the slope toward Dirk, roaring and

waving his arms—seven feet, three hundred pounds of mad-

dened, muscled mendicant.

Dirk fell back, his quarterstaff snapping up to guard posi-

tion, while his stomach hit bottom. He cowered behind his

staff in abject terror; then he remembered he was a trained

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Idller, supposedly skilled with the quarterstaff.

He set his feet, grounded the butt of the staff, and aimed

its tip at the giant's solar plexus.

The giant scrabbled to a halt and scowled down at him,

puzzled.

Dirk snapped the staff back up to guard.

"Rrowr-r-r-rl" The giant threw his arms up, hands curved

like talons.

Dirk's mouth tucked into a smile. The roar had a distinctly

tentative ring.

"Rrowrrr?" He sounded wary this time. " Traid! . . .

•Fraid?"

"Sony, no." Dirk shook his head, smiling. He pursed his

lips thoughtfully, then suddenly stamped the ground, yelling,

"Boo!"

The giant started and leaped back five feet. There he hesi-

tated, watching Dirk nervously, hands half-raised. He was

seven feet tall, and at least two and a half feet wide from

shoulder to shoulder, muscled like an ox. That was easy to

see because he was naked, except for a filthy rag of a loin-

cloth. His whole body was crusted with dirt, and the black

hair hanging down to his shoulders was matted and greasy. His

forehead sloped forward, jutting out over large, widely spaced

eyes. His nose had been broken a long time ago. His face was

wide across the cheekbones, but tapered sharply to a square

chin. His mouth was thin-lipped, wide, and, at the moment,

quivering, as he eyed Dirk warily—in fact, fearfully.

Dirk decided to press the advantage while he-had it. He

swung his staff up, bellowing, "For God, Harry, and Saint

George!"

The giant bleated, leaped up, executing an about-face in

midair, and landed running.

12 Christopher Stasheff A WIZARD IN BEDLAM 13

Dirk ran after him, bellowing happily and brandishing his

quarterstaff. The giant neighed in terror and ran for his life,

head flung back, elbows pumping.

Dirk chased him up the path for a good hundred yards,

where the giant turned aside and leaped into the rocks. He

was out of sight in five seconds, but pebbles rattled under his

feet, and Dirk followed the crunching with absolutely no

trouble. "Hurry, Watson! The game is afoot!"

He skidded to a halt at the end of the giant's trail, an

abrupt cul-de-sac where two miniature cliffs met in a comer.

The giant was scrabbling at the rockface, trying to get a

handhold. He threw an agonized look back over his shoulder,

saw Dirk five feet away, and whipped about, pressing bis

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back against the stone, mewing deep in his throat.

Dirk leaned his head against his staff, contemplating the

giant.

Then he leaped forward, yelling, "Havoc!"

The giant jumped, too, then shrank down onto his heels

against the base of the rock, arms flung over his head, sob-

bing like a baby.

Dirk planted the butt of his staff and leaned on it, hand on

his hip, head cocked to the side. What—in the names of all

the saints—was he to make of this?

He frowned down at the giant, brooding. The starlight

darkened the hollows of his cheeks, and exaggerated his

gauntness, giving him a battered, world-weary look, bringing

out the sadness that always dominated his face. The giant

seemed to be a little on the slow-witted side—maybe an idiot.

He wasn't exactly a rarity—there were a lot of half-wits run-

ning around the countryside. Giants weren't quite as com-

mon, but this one wasn't anywhere nearly as big as some. Dirk

had seen. There were dwarves, too, and geniuses, mostly neu-

rotic—and short-lived, the Lords saw to that. Not to mention

large helpings of mental illness and physical deformities—in

fact, everything one could expect from six hundred years of

inbreeding.

This giant was a case in point, and not really an extreme

one. The recessive genes that had given him his size had

taken away a large part of his mind, by way of compensa-

tion.

What was Dirk supposed to do with him?

He sighed, and eased his hat back on his head. Go off and

leave the big fellow, he supposed. He couldn't be encum-

bered—not on this mission.

But it didn't seem right....

The giant dared a peek upward. Dirk's sadness must have

reassured him because he lifted his head and, slowly, cau-

tiously, rose to his knees.

Dirk nodded, with a wry smile. "That's right, fella—you've

got it figured. I won't hurt you."

The giant's mouth stretched into a loose-lipped, lopsided

grin. He crawled forward to tug at Dirk's clothing. "Poor

Oar's a-hungered!"

Dirk pursed his lips. "Oh. You can talk."

Gar nodded eagerly and folded his hands together, looking

up at Dirk with pathetic eagerness.

Dirk sighed and fumbled in his purse, bringing out a silver

coin. "Money—that's all I can do for you. At least maybe

you won't go trying to rob travelers for a while. . . . That

was the idea, wasn't it?"

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Gar's eager grin slipped and faded.

"Jump out roaring," Dirk pressed, "and scare me so badly

I'd count myself lucky if all you did was snatch my purse?

That's how you live, isn't it?"

Gar nodded reluctantly, eyes downcast like a whipped

puppy.

Dirk nodded, too. "I thought so."

He flipped the coin, spinning through the air. The giant

clapped at it, missed, and scrabbled after it in the dust. He

came up with it wrapped tightly in a fist the size of a beef

joint and an ear-to-ear grin.

Dirk smiled bleakly and turned away. He'd have to find

another hiding place; an uneasy conscience made uneasy

sleep. He knew Gar wasn't his fault, but he still felt guilty for

sot being able to help him.

Whenever he was on this planet, he spent a lot of time

feeling guilty.

He set out for the ridge again, his guilt churning in with

the satisfied glow of philanthropy and the self-disgust of

feeling like a sucker.

Dirk came out of his morass of self-flagellation when he

realized he heard footsteps behind him.

He looked back over his shoulder. The giant was trailing

about fifty feet behind him, still grinning.

Dirk turned and leaned on his staff, frowning.

14 Christopher Stasheff

Gar stopped too, but he kept on grinning.

"Why are you following me?" Dirk said carefully.

"Nice man," Gar said hopefully. "Nice to Gar."

A red light flashed in Dirk's mind: SUCKER. He'd been

through this before, with a puppy that had followed him

home. It had grown into a small horse and eaten up most of

his salary. To top it off, the darned thing couldn't be trained.

He'd been through it with girls, too, with much the same

results.

The grin faded into a lost, mournful look. "No friend?"

"Look," he said desperately, "I don't need a sidekick. I

can't be tied down with responsibility right now. Especially

right now. You can't follow me now. Maybe later. Not now."

The big man's face seemed to crumple, his lower lip turn-

ing under. Tears squeezed out of his eyes.

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And a warning blared in Dirk's mind.

Up till then, he'd've bought it—attack, remorse, fear, the

whole bit. But—tears? They wouldn't have come naturally;

they'd have to be a deliberate play on Dirk's sympathy.

And anyone with enough brains and control to stage delib-

erate tears couldn't be all that much of an idiot.

And, come to think of it, roadside beggars didn't try to

latch onto their patrons. They'd had too many kicks from

their masters before they ran away.

Dirk straightened, cupping his hands on the tip of his staff,

ready to snap it to guard in the blink of an eye. "You just

overplayed it, friend," he said quietly. "You're no more an

idiot than I am."

Gar stared.

Then he frowned; his jaw firmed; he squared his shoulders;

and, somehow, he seemed much more intelligent.

Also dangerous.

Dirk swallowed and slid one hand down the staff, ready to

snap it up to guard.

Gar's mouth thinned in disgust. He shrugged. "All right,

the game's up. I won't try to run a bad joke into the ground."

"Joke?" Dirk said softly. "Game?"

Gar shrugged again, impatiently. "A figure of speech."

"Oh yes, I'm sure." Dirk nodded. "What game?".

Gar started to answer, then caught himself and grimaced

in chagrin. Twice in a row; it's a bad night. Okay, I'll admit

it—I was trying to latch onto you for a guide."

Dirk stood very still. Then he said, "Natives don't need

A WIZARD IN BEDLAM 15

guides. Also, a native would have a definite place—he'd be a

lord, a gentleman, or a churl. In any event, he wouldn't be

wandering around loose—unless he were an outlaw. But then

he'd be hiding in the forest with the rest of his band."

"Very astute," Gar growled. "Yes, I'm from off-planet. If I

didn't want you to know it, I wouldn't've said 'guide.'"

Very true. Dirk thought; but, by the same token, if Gar

was willing to admit he wanted Dirk for a guide, he had an-

other purpose that he didn't want Dirk to know about. Sec-

ond Corollary of Finagle's Law of Reversal: If a man says

something is true, then it isn't.

"If you did want me to know it," Dirk said slowly, "why'd

you pose as a poortom?"

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Stasheff, Christopher - Rogue Wizard 2 - A wizard in Bedlam

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