by Dave Duncan
FUTURE INDEFINITE
Round Three of the Great Game
DAVE DUNCAN
Copyright © 1997 by Dave Duncan
Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 0-7592-7048-1
ISBN-13: 978-0-7592-7048-0
In dedicating books I have too long overlooked someone who deserves a dedication more than almost anyone—my agent, Richard Curtis. He not only makes my job more profitable, he also makes it much more fun. One day his Collected Correspondence will be the humorous bestseller of the twenty-first century. So, thanks, Richard! This one is for you. (Have you sold the Swahili rights yet?)
VALE WEST
VALE EAST
Men say I am a saint losing himself in politics. The fact is that I am a politician trying my hardest to become a saint.
Mahatma Gandhi
Saints should always be judged guilty until they are proved innocent.
George Orwell
In wrath the Liberator shall descend into Thargland. The gods shall nee before him; they shall bow their heads before him, they will spread their hands before his feet.
Filoby Testament, 1001
The Players
The Pentatheon, the five paramount “gods” of the Vales:
Visek the Parent
Eltiana the Lady
Karzon the Man
Astina the Maiden
Tion the Youth.
They acquire mana from the native population by terror or deception, and while away the centuries playing the Great Game with human pawns.
Their many minions are known as avatars,* especially the Chamber, who are the worst of them, led by:
Zath, the “god” of death. Although officially an avatar of Karzon, he has become dominant by empowering murderous devotees known as reapers to offer him human sacrifice, a most potent source of mana.
The Service, a group of altruistic strangers who are attempting to overthrow this malignant tyranny by promoting a new faith, the Church of the Undivided.
The Filoby Testament, a book of prophecy that predicts the coming of the Liberator who will bring death to Death, but identifies him only as the son of Cameron Exeter, a member of the Service in the late nineteenth century.
Head Office, an organization of strangers on Earth who frequently cooperate with the Service on Nextdoor and who sheltered Cameron Exeter when he fled back to Earth to escape Zath’s efforts to break the chain of prophecy by murdering him.
The Blighters, another group of strangers on Earth, who will sometimes attend to the Chamber’s dirty work there, and who in 1912 hunted down Exeter and his wife at Nyagatha in Kenya and slew them.
Edward Exeter, the only son of Cameron and Rona Exeter, and thus the Liberator foretold.
The Game So Far
In August 1914, just as the Blighters succeeded in provoking World War I, they also came close to killing Edward. Rescued by Head Office and Julius Creighton of the Service, he found his way to Nextdoor, fulfilling the prophecy that said he would come into the world in Sussland during the seven hundredth Festival of Tion and be aided by someone named Eleal, who turned out to be a juvenile member of a troupe of actors. When Edward made contact with the Service, he refused to undertake his prophesied mission, determined to return to Earth and fight for King and Country. He also rejected Tion’s efforts to bribe him with an offer to cure Eleal’s deformed leg.
Further attacks by Zath’s agents caused him to lose touch with the Service. Lacking knowledge of the keys and portals, he was stranded on Nextdoor. In Nagvale, he was befriended by the young men of Sonalby and accepted into their age group. War broke out between Joalia and Thargia, two of the three great powers of the Vales (the third being Niolia). Because Nagland was a Joalian colony, the junior warriors were conscripted to participate in an invasion of Lemodvale, a Thargian ally. Through charisma and innate ability, Edward advanced to supreme command and rescued the Joalian-Nagian army from disaster. He escaped from Zath with the assistance of Karzon.
After further wanderings, Edward located T’lin Dragon-trader, a native Service agent, and eventually Jumbo Watson, one of the senior members, who led him to the station at Olympus. He still insisted on returning to Earth, but the Service was seriously divided on the merits of the Liberator prophecy and procrastinated. Eventually Jumbo offered his personal assistance and instructed Edward in the workings of a portal—which dropped him into the middle of a Belgian battlefield. Arrested as a suspected German spy, he was rescued by his cousin Alice Prescott, former school friend Julian Smedley, and Head Office agent Miss Pimm. In order to warn the Service that Jumbo was a traitor, Edward returned to Nextdoor with Julian, meaning to stay only a few days. He discovered that Olympus had been sacked by Zath’s agents and the girl he loved was among the dead. Roused to fury at last, Edward swore revenge and walked out of Olympus.
Contents
I
1
II
2
3
4
5
6
III
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
IV
17
18
19
20
V
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
VI
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
VII
48
49
50
VIII
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
IX
61
62
63
I
Behold! Exalted, I nave come. I have escaped from the nether world. The roads of the earth and of the sky are open before me.
The Book of the Dead, 78
1
Prat’han Potter was growing tired of waiting to die. He had been standing in chains in the courtroom since dawn, and pretending to be brave for so long had turned out to be much more wearing than he had expected. Seventeen of his age brothers had already been tried, convicted, and taken out to be whipped. But he had been the ringleader and this was his third offense, so he had been assured he would be found guilty and put to death. He was starting to think it would be a welcome release, the sooner the better, and if the Joalian crotchworms had not gagged him, he would be telling them to get on with it. He hoped his martyrdom would be the spark to light the revolution that Nagvale so badly needed.
“Granted that death is the only possible sentence in this case,” the advocate for the defense said in a bored voice, “impalement is an exceptionally painful, lingering form of execution, and I would ask the court to stipulate more merciful means for this defendant, if My Lord Judges will permit me a brief word on the subject.”
“Briefly, then,” the president conceded with poor grace. All three judges were Joalians, as were all the other court officials. Most of them were sweltering in formal robes and floppy hats, for the courtroom was as hot as a kiln. Indeed, Prat’han’s only consolation was that he was clad in nothing but his usual leather
apron. And chains, of course, lots of chains.
The courthouse was the largest and most splendid building in Sonalby, recently erected by the Joalian overlords as a symbol of the enlightenment they brought to their colonies. It contained at least four rooms, all with shiny plank walls and windows of stained glass. This room was the largest, but even with only one defendant remaining, it still contained far too many people for its size—the judges up on their bench, two advocates, four clerks, half a dozen sword-bearing guards. Although the door in the tiny area railed off as a public gallery stood open in a vain attempt to let in some air, it admitted nothing but a view of the village huts of wattle and thatch. The street was deserted. There was not even a mongrel cur left in Sonalby today to hear the victims howl at the whipping post or watch Prat’han die. The inhabitants had vanished before dawn, to show what they thought of Joalian justice. It was not much of a rebellion, but it was the best the poor sheep could manage.
“My Lords are gracious,” said the advocate. He had not spoken ten words to his supposed client, and all they had in common was that they were both bored. “First, I respectfully point out that the only crime the defendant committed was to paint his face. My Lords will forgive me if I concede that I might be tempted to do the same if I had such a face.”
The judges smiled thinly. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Prat’han’s face except that he was not allowed to paint it the way his forefathers had done for a thousand years. Women told him he was handsome even when his face paint had been smudged to a blur. He tried again to lick the roof of his mouth and was again balked by the foul-tasting wooden bit. His jaw ached from being held open so long.
“Objection!” said the prosecutor, half rising from his seat. “The paint is itself not the issue. The issue is that the governor has prohibited a specified list of barbaric tribal customs such as ritual self-mutilation. Face painting is one of the forbidden procedures.”
The left-hand judge smothered a yawn. “And the law specifies impalement. Have you anything else to say?”
“Yes, My Lords,” the advocate for the defense said hastily. “Briefly, the accused, Prat’han Potter, had a distinguished military career in the recent war against Thargia. He was troopleader for Sonalby during the campaign in Lemodvale and the subsequent glorious and historic invasion of Thargvale, fighting alongside our noble Joalian warriors. When the victorious joint army returned to Nagland three years ago and was forced to suppress the usurper Tarion, the accused strangled the usurper with his own hands during the assault on the palace. He acquitted himself throughout with great distinction, receiving a commendation for personal bravery from our own noble Kalmak Chairman.”
The judges exchanged annoyed glances. They were all political appointees, and Kalmak was currently top dog in the Clique and hence effective ruler of both Joalia itself and its colonies.
Prat’han made loud protesting noises around his gag and rattled his chains. If the court decided to refer the appeal for mercy all the way to Joal, then he might have to wait two or three fortnights for an answer, and he could not see that strangulation would be enough of an improvement to justify the delay.
“Silence that man!” said the left-hand judge.
A guard punched Prat’han in the kidneys. Taken by surprise, he screamed and fell to his knees in a rattle of chains, choking for breath, fighting nausea. The courtroom floor swam before his eyes. Long before he was ready to be brave again, he was hauled to his feet to hear the sentence. He could barely straighten up properly or control his breathing.
“…previous convictions,” the judge president droned, “have used up any goodwill earned in the war. You have been found guilty of treason against the Nagian People’s Democratic Republic. The sentence of the court is—”
“Wait a moment!” said a new voice.
It was not a loud voice, but all heads turned. The speaker was a tall youth standing in the hitherto deserted public enclosure. Lean as sinew, tanned to walnut, black haired, empty-handed, naked except for sandals and a leather loincloth—just a typical Nagian peasant in from minding the herds? But Prat’han recognized him instantly and forgot the sickening throb of pain.
“You have a very short memory, T’logan,” said the newcomer. “So have you, Dogurk. I remember when you were T’logan Scribe and Dogurk Scholar. Have you forgotten so soon, My Lord Justices?”
He swung a long leg over the railing, revealing a glimpse of very pale thigh under the leather. As he brought the other leg over, one of the guards lurched forward, drawing his sword. D’ward just looked at him, and he stopped as if he had hit a wall.
D’ward resumed his approach to the bench. Two of the judges had lost color, even in that steaming sweat house. Where had he come from? All this time and never a word—yet he walks in at this very instant…
“Three years ago, My Lords, you were under my command, remember? Not quite four years ago, you were about to die outside Lemod, trapped by a guerrilla army and the onset of winter. The only thing that saved you—and all the rest of your great Joalian army—was that the Nagians took the city in the nick of time and found you safe haven. That is correct, isn’t it?”
He was in the center of the courtroom now. He folded his arms and scowled up at the bench. Judges T’logan and Dogurk nodded in horrified silence.
D’ward, D’ward! Where had he come from? He had vanished in Thargvale three years ago, and no one had heard anything of him since. He had not changed at all. Prat’han knew how his own once-taut belly had begun to thicken and how the hair had crept back from his temples, but D’ward was still that same wiry youth he had been then—a boy with a black-stubble beard.
The third judge began, “What is the meaning of this—”
“Shut up!” said D’ward. “I respectfully remind the court that Prat’han Potter was the third man up the rope in that assault. He saved your lives, you miserable slugs! And you, T’logan—I remember him jumping into the freezing torrent and lifting you out bodily when we were making our escape from Lemod in the spring. I saw it with my own eyes! He saved you again.”
The judge president made incoherent choking noises.
“And now?” D’ward added enough scorn to turn the oven into an icehouse. “And now Joal has enslaved the entire population of Nagvale. Oh, I know! I know you think you’re raising them from barbarism to civilization, but they don’t see it that way, and the complete suppression of a culture seems like enslavement to me. Civilization, you call it? Because Prat’han Potter is a proud man as well as a brave one and chooses to decorate his face with what he regards as sacred symbols of his manhood, you plan to put him to death in the foulest way you can think of?”
An agony of silence filled the courtroom.
Then Judge T’logan spoke the forbidden name: “The Liberator! What are you doing here?” He glanced uneasily around the courtroom, as if expecting to see reapers assembling.
D’ward Roofer, D’ward Troopleader, D’ward Hordeleader, D’ward Battlemaster…D’ward Liberator! He had never accepted that title before, but this time he did not refuse it.
“Just passing through. But if you harm my age brother Prat’han, then I may decide to stay here and organize the Nagian Freedom Fighters. And if I do choose that option, My Lord Justices, I will throw every last Joalian out of the vale inside two fortnights. I will trample you as I humbled the might of Thargia. I am the Liberator foretold! Do you doubt my word?”
The three judges shook their heads in unison, although they probably did not know they were doing so.
“So, My Lords, you will now issue the prisoner a severe reprimand and release him.”
Judge T’logan spluttered and drew himself up. “That is not—”
“Now!”
The judge subsided again. He glanced at his associates. Dogurk nodded. Trillib nodded, more reluctantly.
“Release the prisoner!”
Two minutes later, Prat’han staggered out into the blinding sunlight, leaning on the Liberator’s sh
oulder.
Five minutes later, the two of them arrived at his shop and he could drink his fill of tepid water, cleanse his mouth, slump onto his work stool and gape at D’ward. The stabbing pain in his back had faded to a dull ache.
No one had seen them, of course. No one had screamed out D’ward’s name, or even Prat’han’s own, for he would be something of a hero himself now, being so unexpectedly alive. The people would not return until after dark, and the rest of the senior warriors must be off tending one another’s stripes.
Under its thick reed-thatched roof, the shed was cooler than the sun-drenched street outside, but not by much. The heavy smell of clay that always hung in the air had faded in the last fortnight, while the potter languished in the village jail. Sunlight blazed in through the open door, glowing on the warm pinks of the wares that cluttered the floor—dozens of jars, bowls, jugs, plates, all waiting for buyers. Flies droned around or walked on the wicker walls. Prat’han was both surprised and delighted to see his spear and shield still leaning against the wall. He would feel castrated without those old friends, although it was illegal to take them outdoors now, and rumors persisted that the Joalians would soon confiscate every weapon in the vale.