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Gar looked up, frowning. He closed his eyes, nodding, then turned to Hugh. "Pick
up the live ones and lock them up somewhere. Set someone to doctoring the ones
who might make it, but give him a strong guard. Then get down to the armory
and break out weapons."
"Ho!"
Dirk looked up, saw Gaspard coming through the east door with fifteen churls
behind him. The big churl looked down at the carnage, shaking his head sadly.
"Too late for the party, hey?" He looked up at Gar. "Fortune was against us; they
were all here."
Gar nodded, then turned as Oliver appeared at the west door. "There were two of
them guarding the armory," the big Farmer reported. "Bertrand Hostler is dead."
Gar nodded. He didn't bother asking about the guards.
Fifteen minutes later, the churls assembled in the wardroom, armed and
somewhat armored. There was an occasional moan from the punishment cell
down the hall, where the live ones were locked; but it was blocked by the chink of
mail and the quiet, exultant laughter of the prisoners.
Hugh and his men swaggered back into the wardroom, fresh from a trip to the
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armory. Hugh held up a short sword and slapped the pistol at his side, grinning.
"It's astounding how these lift your spirits."
Dirk couldn't help grinning. "Just don't lose your head, Tradesman. There's still
tomorrow, and an arena full of guards to get through."
Hugh shrugged and thumped Gar on the chest. "What matter? With a brute like
this to lead us, who could stop us?"
Gar looked down with a bleak smile. "So I'm appointed permanent leader, eh?"
Hugh looked up, surprised. "Why, so you were before this coil began. Did you not
say you could conquer a world with us, Outlander?"
The holiday dawned bright and clear. The churls arrived with the sun, carrying
baskets of food; they were expecting a long day.
Dirk and Gar peered through the portcullis at the arena gate, watching the huge
beige bowl fill from the top down. Gar frowned, quizzically. "Little quiet for a
holiday crowd, aren't they?"
"I assure you," Dirk said sourly, "that this is one holiday during which all the
workers wish they were back at their drudgery."
The Master of the Games arrived about that time, too, banging on the wicket door
and striding in, bedecked in finery-yellow waistcoat and breeches under a scarlet
coat, gleaming linen, and a huge cocked hat. He strutted up and down between
the cages, filled with self-importance, watching the prisoners eating breakfast in
the pen, as they always had; he saw nothing out of the ordinary. On the other
hand, he wasn't looking for suspicious bulges. "It seems as though there were
more of them yesterday."
"Why, that's only because 'tis the day of the Games," the guard beside him
explained easily. "They've shrunk in on themselves, don't you see." He was the
only real guard left free; the rest of the day shift were behind bars, unconscious,
where they'd been dumped as soon as they came through the wicket door. But
Dirk had recognized Belloc, the man who'd smuggled him in, and had realized the
value of having one genuine Soldier among them.
The Master of the Games nodded, apparently satisfied. He swaggered up and
down the halls for half an hour, slapping at the guards with a riding crop, barking
out last-minute instructions. He didn't seem to notice how much his guards' faces
had changed overnight.
When Belloc had closed the door behind the Master, he turned about and
collapsed against it with a sigh of relief.
"When will we see him again?" Gar appeared from the watchman's booth.
"Not until after the Games." The rebel Soldier pulled himself up. "Which means
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never, I hope. For a while there, I was afraid I would have to kill him."
Now it was Gar who strode through the barred halls, checking to be sure each
churl had at least one weapon hidden on him somewhere. All the "guards" had
laser pistols. Gar tucked the last one into his loincloth, snaked out a hand to catch
Belloc by the shoulder, and headed for the arena gate. "Where do you boys
usually stand during the Games, Belloc?"
"Up there." Belloc pointed through the portcullis as they came up to the gate.
"Atop the wall, all around the Arena-in case of accidents."
Dirk smiled sourly. "Which means, in case three or four churls manage to gang up
on one lordling." Gar nodded, peering up to the stands. "Lot of brass up there,
too."
Sunlight glared off the armor and bared weapons of the Soldiers, fifty feet apart,
forming interlocking squares all through the stands.
"Castle Soldiers," Belloc explained, "there in case of trouble. We never had
anything to do with each other."
Gar nodded, lowering his eyes to the glare of full plate armor at the other side of
the arena. "These, I take it, are our worthy opponents?"
Dirk nodded. "With ten years of tutoring behind their swords and full plate armor
for a womb. The young sons of the noble houses-not a one under eighteen or over
twenty-one."
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