he was a bit more than imagination, she thought: "Go get fucked, Richard!"
She must have been holding up the proceedings because she noticed the recorder shooting her what appeared to be an impatient backward glance. "What?" she demanded belligerently.
"I think he expects us to keep up," warned LaRoche.
Now, this pain-in-the-arse was real. He could almost have been Richard. She snarled at the naked man beside her as if he was in collusion with the old guy. "Why doesn't he try walking without shoes?" It was loud enough for the monk to hear which was exactly her intention.
LaRoche groaned. "Provoking this man isn't smart," he hissed. "I think he wants to help us."
"My feet hurt and I'm pissed off," she grumbled sulkily.
"Just suffer in silence for a while longer," LaRoche pleaded. "For both our sakes. Please."
Mireille snorted, tutted and stumbled on, her lips pinched tightly together. Then LaRoche was whispering to her again: "Where do you think we are? How did we get here? It's like a nightmare."
She couldn't help laughing. "What - you reckon you'll wake up in Beverly Hills with Julia Roberts' hand round your dick?" She straightened her face, added a slow, condescending blink. "Get real, man. Did you ever have a dream this coordinated?"
He fought silently with the logic of her argument for a few moments, finally shook his head. "I can't believe what seems to be happening."
She halted, stood on one leg and hooked up a foot to check her sole. It was filthy and bleeding. She showed it to him. "Believe it."
LaRoche didn't have to inspect his own feet to know they were a mess too. "If this isn't a dream, where are we?" He was desperate for a solution he could cradle and feel comfortable with.
"The man said Lonfay, wherever that is. At a guess: locality of Shit Creek, or somewhere like. And this is probably the best part."
Depression swept over LaRoche clouding his already grim expression. He had stopped, was gazing about, seemed to be toying with insanity as a convenient escape route. "But I don't understand. How did we get here?"
"How the fuck do I know." Mireille choked off her irritation, aware of its self-destructive potential. If she could only stay cool maybe she could cope with this weird gig. Unlike a certain pathetic excuse for a man who had all-but given up. Still, if nothing else he made her look good. Might pay to take him along for the ride....
She slid an arm through his, began guiding him. Obscenities poured from the crowd. She ignored them. "Listen, maybe you're right and I'm wrong. Yeah, sure I am." She hugged his arm tighter, trying to encourage him out of his depression. "In a minute all this will have gone. You'll find you've had a wet dream. Then you can sneak out of bed without waking the little missus, duck into the bathroom to wash your PJ's before she springs you. And I'll bet if you open the window and look out there'll be little piles of dog crap all over your nice front lawn. If that's what you need, it'll be there waiting for you. See if I'm right."
He was desperate, wanting to believe. "You really think so?"
She offered a reassuring smile. "Would I lie to you?"
9
Spectators had previously been pushing and shoving, jostling to keep pace with the reborns; at least, the new arrivals they thought were reborns. Now they held back, not daring to enter the clearing ahead. Vallande, however, continued on. Mireille and LaRoche hesitated at the edge of the crowd, unsure whether the intangible sanction applied to them as well as the draff.
The recorder was up ahead, flapping a sleeve at them. The voice of the mob urged them on with gibes and obscenities. Mireille spun and they jumped back. A sea of medieval faces watched and laughed. She waited expectantly - maybe Sir Anthony Hopkins in tunic and hose, complete with hunchback would come blundering towards her pleading for water. Then someone would call: "Cut!"
The thought was double-Dutch, but an associated feeling inside was clear enough - this wasn't real; in a moment sanity would return and all would be revealed. Both hopes were non-events. The faces were starting to jeer, seemingly disappointed that she hadn't offered some outrageous response to their baiting. So, she gave them the finger. They puzzled the gesture, obviously had no idea what it meant. "Dorks," she muttered, then continued to guide LaRoche clear of the stinking herd towards Vallande.
They had entered a narrow strip of sand extending between two hills a kilometre apart. Ahead was an uneven carpet of low, rusty-coloured scrub. It was all the same, right to the horizon. Boring, Richard reminded her. She quite liked it - out of principle.
There were others in the clearing, small groups of naked people each with its own recorder. "The ones from the Canal," whispered LaRoche, eyeing up the closest group without seeming to be perving.
"Reborns," Vallande clarified, then added in a conspiratorial hiss: "Genuine reborns. They will know instinctively what to do." He studied his two charges in turn. Were it possible for a shadow to express dismay, the one beneath Vallande's hood did just that. "But you don't, do you?"
LaRoche stared dumbly. Mireille said: "We learn fast. Just tell us."
"I only wish there were time." The recorder stepped closer, lowered his voice. The scent of aromatic herbs drifted from the cowl as he spoke. "Past this point you are on your own. Be guided by instinct. Do what you must to survive. There are no laws in the Deadlands except those you choose to make."
Mireille dug LaRoche gently in the ribs. "Sounds neat, huh?"
"That's hardly the word I would use," said Vallande flatly. "This is no game, Mireille. Nor a dream, as you would have your companion believe." He dipped his hood at the man. "I'm afraid she was humouring you, LaRoche."
The truth was the kind LaRoche didn't want to hear. He glared at Mireille as he pulled his arm from hers. "You promised me! Just a dream, you said!"
Mireille shrugged. "Sue me." She spoke to Vallande: "What gives now?"
The hood rose a little, paused while Vallande translated her alien phraseology. "I assume you mean what happens?" His body-language drew attention to the outlying scrub; and something more particular and a little closer. "You see those weapons?" There were a number of curved swords like wide-bladed scimitars sticking up out of the sand. "Sabrettes," explained the recorder.
Mireille released LaRoche's arm, wandered over to take a look. "Be warned, Mireille," said Vallande hastily as he bustled after her. "To take up the sabrette is a sign that you accept the Commission."
Too late. She had already stooped, had gripped a sword by its hilt and was plucking it from the sand. The draff roared. Mireille's eyes lit up. She turned to face the mob, brandished the sabrette aloft. The spectators went wild. "Hot shit! What did I do?"
"You took up the sabrette, Mireille." Vallande still spoke quietly, but a hint of pride had crept into his tone. "You have accepted the Commission and should now pledge to respect The Order and preserve The Balance."
Hell, maybe things weren't so bad. This bit seemed cool. The crowd revved her on and she loved it. "Yeah, right on. I do, I do." She held the sabrette higher, punched the air with her other fist. "Woo-hoo!" The draff responded with hysteria. "Hey, is this cruel, or what!" She rushed back to LaRoche's side. "Come on, man. Join the party. Everyone should be a hero sometime."
Vallande stepped closer and waited. "It is your choice, LaRoche. Take up the sabrette or become one of the draff." The recorder waved a contemptuous arm at the crowd.
The naked man's thoughts were a mess. He didn't know what to believe any more. "Is there no alternative, no way out of this God-forsaken place?"
"Only in death. How soon you embrace it depends on you."
LaRoche remained silent. Mireille caught his arm, dragged him towards the arrangement of swords. "Take a punt, man. What have you got to lose?"
"I__I d-don't know." He bent limply, grasped