They were covering his retreat, Joel realized. He scrambled to his feet. He leaped the next gap easily and the next.
The grinning serfs pulled him down behind the wall, clapping him on the back. Joel was too winded to talk.
One of the rebels was crawling across the roof towards him. He had a black arm-band. Something dangled from his belt—like hair. It was hair! Long black woman's hair—and it was bloody!
Joel bit his lip, feeling sick at his stomach. He remembered suddenly what Priscilla had said, "The Ganelon's have organized the worst elements among the Unfit—the criminally insane!"
The man reached him, said, "Who are you?"
"I'm from the palace," said Joel. He was careful not to look at the scalp. "I've news!"
"Palace!" echoed the serf. "Has it fallen?"
"No. Quick, man, where's a Ganelon. I have to make my report."
The rebel gave Joel a sharp suspicious glance. Then he lowered his eyes. "There's one below stairs. Come on." He began to crawl across the roof, hitching his projector after him. Joel followed on hands and knees.
A stairwell gaped ahead. As soon as the walls shielded them, the serf stood up. "Hurry it up," he growled. "I'm in charge. I'm not supposed to leave the roof."