by Dave Duncan
After a mile or two, Dosh rounded a bend into a section of the valley that was more open. Its walls rose steeply from a flat floor, carpeted by shrubs but few trees. He saw the flicker of fires ahead, a cluster of fallen stars among the bushes. There were many more of them than he would have expected.
There was nothing to stop him riding right on by. He could be in Nosokland by morning, whether or not it killed his moa. That was what he should do. On the other hand, he must have at least an hour’s start on the Joalians, even if they risked the ascent in moonlight. He had come this way to warn D’ward, so he might as well do so.
His sentimentality would be the death of him.
He even decided as he turned Swift off the trail that, if he were to be completely honest—not something he encouraged in himself—he would admit that he would dearly love to spend a friendly evening with D’ward beside a campfire, chatting of old times and finding out just what all this Liberator racket was about.
He headed for the fires and the sound of crying babies. He noted people moving around in the shrubbery and guessed that they were gathering berries. How many berries would it take to fill a hundred empty stomachs?
A man appeared as if from nowhere, right in his path. He wore only a leather kilt—chilly covering in the mountains at night—and he carried a spear and a round shield. He said, “Halt!”
Dosh halted. The spear was a serious matter.
“State your business!” The sentry had a familiar accent, and suddenly his face was familiar also.
“Doggan! Doggan Herder! It’s me—Dosh!”
“Five gods! I mean, Bless me! It’s the faggot himself! What you doing here, slime?”
“I could ask the same of you.” Dosh considered dismounting, but he was more worried now by Swift’s teeth than Doggan’s spear. He wondered how many more of D’ward’s old Warband might be around and concluded that there would probably be quite a few of them. Nagian age groups were fanatically loyal and did everything in bunches. “Where’s your face paint, warrior?”
“Face paint is out!” Doggan said firmly. He was a short, broad man, more notable for muscle than brains. He seemed unaware that what he had just said was rank heresy to a Nagian. “I asked you what you wanted.”
“I came to see D’ward.”
Doggan thought about it. Then he gestured with the spear. “Follow me. And if you let that brute bite me, then it’s cutlets.”
“Lead on.” Dosh began rethinking strategy. A troop of Nagian warriors would be a fair match for the Joalians. If D’ward was willing to protect him, he might be out of danger.
A few minutes brought them to a campfire. Having hobbled Swift, he limped wearily forward into the light, his leg throbbing like hammers where the moa had kicked it. Half a dozen shivery-looking Nagians squatted around the flames, apparently listening intently to D’ward, who was sitting on a rock, expounding. He broke off what he was saying, his teeth flashing in a smile.
“Well, see who’s here! Our old messenger! Welcome, Dosh!” He was dressed in a dark, long-sleeved priest’s gown. He wore a close-cropped beard and hints of black curls showed under his cowl, but he would look more like a priest if he shaved both his face and his head. That would be a pity.
“Thanks.” Dosh moved closer to the fire and the others quickly made room for him, lots of room, as if he carried some contagious disease. He crouched down to warm himself, registering that these men were all from the old Sonalby troop—Prat’han Potter, Burthash Wheelwright, Gopaenum Butcher, and the rest. Every one of them would cut himself into small cubes if D’ward asked.
Silence alerted him; he looked up and saw that D’ward was waiting for him to speak.
“I heard you were at Jilvenby. A trooper in Joal told me. Thought I’d come and warn you.”
Even in the flickering firelight, D’ward’s eyes showed blue, twinkling with amusement. “That was very friendly of you, Dosh. The Joalians were no threat to me—but it was a kind thought.”
He had not changed at all. If he wanted people to think of him as a leader, he ought to let his beard grow longer. No, that might be true of other men, but it wasn’t true of him. He seemed too young, yet he was completely calm, absolute master of the group and of himself. Dosh felt the old magic at work again. This was a man who commanded respect and loyalty without ever asking for it. He talked with gods. He was foretold by prophecy. He elicited trust—and also confidences.
“He wasn’t quite what he seemed,” Dosh said. “He bore the mark of the Lady.”
Big Prat’han grunted, but what he meant remained unclear.
D’ward pursed his lips. “The only male Eltiana cult I know of is the Guardians of the Mother. They’re said to wear her symbol in a very intimate place.”
“That’s it.”
The smile faded. The stare seemed to sharpen. “And how did you discover that, Dosh?”
A couple of the men muttered inaudibly.
“No,” D’ward said. “If he was sworn to Eltiana, then he wouldn’t be doing that. Well?”
“I killed him.”
D’ward sighed. “Why?”
“He wanted me to betray you.” Dosh looked around the group hopefully. If he expected approval, then he was disappointed. These lunks had never approved of him. They had let him continue breathing only because D’ward had told them to. He cared nothing for their opinions, but he would like to think D’ward appreciated what he had done. He had felt that way about very few men in his life…no others at all that he could think of just at the moment.
D’ward said, “I suppose it explains why you ride by night. How did you ever get a moa?”
“Stole her, of course.”
“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“No, I just got better at it.”
D’ward scratched at his beard, seeming more exasperated than anything else. “I appreciate the news about Eltiana. The Guardians are her doers of dirty work—not as bad as reapers, but they can be dangerous. I just wish you hadn’t gained the information the way you did. Will you spend the night with us or are you in a hurry to admire new scenery? ’Fraid we can’t offer much in the way of hospitality.”
All the eyes turned toward the intruder, waiting for his reply. The Nagians were hoping he would leave very soon and thus clean up the neighborhood. He could not tell what D’ward wanted.
Wearily, he held out his hands to the fire again. The air was cooling off, leaving the night cold and dark. And lonely. “There’s a troop of Joalian cavalry—”
His tongue was not usually so eager to run away with him, and he reined it in.
Gopaenum threw more brush on the fire. Smoke and sparks billowed up to the stars.
“Not after us,” D’ward said. “I doubt they’re even coming to make sure we’ve left, because our safe-conduct runs for three more days yet. Are they on their way up the pass now or waiting for daylight?”
“Don’t know.” Dosh rose stiffly, wincing at the pain in his leg. “Well, I’ve told you my news. I’d best be going.” He thought of the long, lonely ride to Nosokvale.
“We welcome recruits,” D’ward said quietly. “You’re welcome to join us.”
Prat’han growled.
D’ward said, “Hush!” and Prat’han flinched as if he’d been slashed with a whip.
Dosh went down on one knee by the fire as a sort of compromise between going and staying. “Join what? What are you up to?”
“Tell him, big brother.”
The muscular potter scowled at Dosh. “The Liberator is fulfilling the prophecies. We are the Free, and we are on our way to Thargvale, where he will bring death to Death, as is foretold.”
That was utter insanity, but Dosh knew better than to argue with Prat’han. His head was as empty as his pots.
“What conditions?”
“Ah!” D’ward thought for a moment. “You’re a murderer, a thief, a liar, a sexual pervert of every description, and a traitor. Does that about sum you up?”
; Burthash guffawed. D’ward looked at him sharply.
He shriveled guiltily, muttering, “Sorry, Liberator.”
“I think you’ve covered all my good points,” Dosh said. “I also drink to excess and smoke poppy when I can afford it.”
“We can’t accept a man who does any of those things.”
“Then why are you wasting my time?” Dosh began to rise.
“Because you could promise to stop doing them.”
Dosh wondered if he’d heard correctly, and the others looked equally bewildered. With anyone but the Liberator, he would have assumed that he was being mocked, but D’ward’s eyes held no ridicule, only challenge.
“I don’t care what a man was, Dosh, only what he is now.”
“You mean you’d take my word for it? Mine? You think I could possibly keep such a promise, even if I wanted to?”
“Yes I do. You once told me you were the toughest bastard in the army, and I said I believed you. I’d believe you now. If you’ll tell me now that you’ll give up all those vices, then you’ll keep your word.”
The fire began to crackle more loudly, its smoke drifting away in the wind. Out in the dark valley were low voices, children, and someone singing what sounded like a hymn. Who were the Free? Just the Sonalby troop or all that ragtag collection of humanity? Join them? Him?
“Gods!” This was the greatest insanity yet.
“Only one god here. Your decision.” Suddenly D’ward laughed. “I’ve never seen you look scared before, Dosh!”
He was scared. His hands were shaking. “I couldn’t!”
“I think you could.”
That was what he’d wanted D’ward to say, but he still didn’t believe it.
The Liberator was watching him very closely. “We knew you as Dosh Envoy. If the troopers ask for you by whatever name you’re using now we can say we don’t know you.” He grinned faintly. “Besides, you’ll be a new man altogether, won’t you?”
New man? This was the sort of decision that needed a lot of thinking over. Dosh wouldn’t be a loner anymore. He would be one of this harebrained Liberator cult, heading for certain death in Thargvale or sooner. He had been one of the gang, once. Briefly.
“Why haven’t the reapers caught you already?”
D’ward shrugged.
“Reapers?” Gopaenum laughed raucously. “You want to meet some reapers? We’ve got a dozen or so around somewhere. Soon as they get near the Liberator, they aren’t reapers anymore.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind that,” D’ward said. “You’re avoiding the issue.”
Dosh looked uncertainly around the firelit faces. He couldn’t actually see the scorn and contempt, but he knew it was there. They were hiding it out of respect for D’ward, that was all. He heaved himself to his feet, feeling as if he weighed more than all of them put together.
“I wish you luck. You’re all crazy. Go and bring death to Death if you can. Me, I want to keep life in the living.”
He turned away. He had taken only a couple of steps when he heard D’ward call out, “See you in Nosokland.”
He walked on, paying no heed.
12
The first tyika houses at Olympus had been laid out on the perimeter of the node. When that loop was full, an outer circle had followed, forming the other side of a street, and after the Chamber had sacked the station, it had all been rebuilt to the same plan. Being “Boots,” the junior officer in the regiment, Julian lived even farther out, in a new suburb just beginning. A man’s residence defined his status very clearly, but it wasn’t all swank, for the innermost locations provided a distinct occult advantage. When followers of the Undivided anywhere in the Vales prayed to the apostles, a little mana would flow to those located on a node. It would not compare to the power the gods received from the worshippers in their temples but, year in and year out, it must mount up.
As the sky flamed blood red behind the peaks, he headed inward, feeling the first tingling of virtuality as he paced up the Pinkneys’ garden path to their front door. Through the open windows, he heard the polite laughter of the tyikank enjoying themselves. Three minutes later, he was clutching a glass of the sickly fluid that passed for sherry in Olympus and pretending breathless interest as his hostess described the new rock garden her Carrots were building for her.
Escaping from Hannah Pinkney’s horticultural saga as soon as he decently could, he began to circulate from group to group. He was required to discuss polo and cricket—the Carrots had taken it up and were becoming too bally good at it, old man—and of course the weather. Not a word was said about the Liberator.
“Fascinating news from Fithvale,” Prof Rawlinson declaimed. “Seems that Imphast has ordered her clergy out of red and into blue!”
Delores Garcia said, “Really!” Then she added vaguely, “Who’s Imphast?”
“Goddess of, um, female puberty. Obviously she’s changed allegiance from Eltiana to Astina! A major move in the Great Game!”
“Gracious!”
Prof began to explain, at great length. Julian knew nothing of Imphast and cared less. He moved on, analyzing who was there and who was not. Some people were only window dressing, not relevant to the Exeter problem—people like Hannah, for instance. Ineffectual people, gossipy, garrulous people. Some undoubtedly were relevant: Prof Rawlinson, Jumbo Watson, and a couple of the others Dommi had mentioned as having been recalled. In the background he could hear Foghorn Rutherford, this year’s chairman.
About three of the women might be significant: Delores, who had a body to drive men out of their wits and was reputed to be the only faithful wife in Olympus; Ursula Newton, with the shoulders of a wrestler and the unerring competence of a sergeant-major; Olga Olafson, who was unmarried, voluptuous, and a nymphomaniac. Scandal whispered that she even pursued Carrots.
He detoured away from Foghorn, who was leering at Cathy Chase, who in turn was portraying bored indifference, although they were current lovers. Extramarital affairs were the main source of entertainment in Olympus, but it was understood that they must be kept strictly confidential in case the Carrots gossiped. That deception was the second most popular game. Admittedly, there were few other games to play in a land so backward, but Julian considered it absurd early-Victorian hypocrisy. Of course, many of these people were early Victorian. In practice, everyone knew exactly who was sleeping with whom. If they didn’t, they could always ask their Carrots.
The Service were a very rum lot, and somehow that was even more obvious than usual tonight, but it took him a while to work out what was different. There was nothing conspicuously wrong with the dinner party—a dozen men, a dozen women, two Carrots serving drinks and probably twenty or more laboring away behind the scenes. Conversation swung from triviality to banality and back again.
Under the glitter of the chandeliers, the men wore tails, the ladies long gowns. This sort of dinner party happened almost every night of the year, for there was no restricted social season in Olympus. No one would ever mistake it for a formal dinner in Town. The discerning London hostess would look askance at the outdated fashions. She would eye the furniture with curiosity and inquire politely where in the Colonies this or that had come from, although she might well praise the Narshian rugs or the Niolian brasses, which were as good as anything from Benares.
On the other hand, the gathering was a reasonable facsimile of a social occasion in an outpost of Empire almost anywhere on Earth—dinner with His Majesty’s district commissioner. The Service did not serve the Empire on Which the Sun Never Sets, but it had the same altruistic motives as those who did. Like them, Olympians were dedicated to uplifting the benighted savage. They were just exiled a little farther away, that was all, or no distance at all, if one preferred that view of the paradox. The node here was a portal. Walk out on the grass, perform the key ritual, and you could be Home instantly. Unless you had made arrangements to be met by Head Office, you would be naked and penniless, of course, and you would certainly be morta
l again. No fear! It was a lot better to better the lot of the natives here in the Vales.
Then he realized what was wrong: A party that should be as lively as gaudy at Oxford was as flat as a geriatric Mafeking reunion. Strangers never revealed their age, and to discuss it was strictly off-limits, always, but he was the baby of the group. None of the rest of them would ever see twenty-two again. Olga had probably weathered several centuries. Jumbo and Pinky and Ursula Newton had been co-founders of the Service, along with Cameron Exeter and Monica Rogers, fifty years ago. Nonetheless, at a do like this strangers ought to be sparkling like a gang of adolescents. Tonight they seemed middle-aged. They displayed no wrinkles or silver hair, and their bodies were still trim, but their mood gave them away.
Joalvale was not the problem. The Church of the Undivided had no significant presence there and nothing to lose if Exeter provoked the civil authorities into repression—in fact a few martydoms were good for business, although it would be poor form to say so. No, the Chamber was the danger, and always had been. The Service feared the prophecies of the Filoby Testament almost as much as Zath himself did, for any attempt to fulfill them must provoke an all-out war that Olympus could not hope to win. Then the men and women of the Service would be faced with a choice between death and flight back to Earth and mortality. Their cosy fiefdom here would be wiped out.
They had the wind up!
He discovered Marcel Piran and Euphemia McKay in a secluded nook behind some potted shrubbery and invited himself into the conversation. Euphemia was a right-down stunner with green eyes and hair so authentically Irish red that it made the Carrots’ seem drab by comparison. Culture and intellect were not her strong points, but she had a devilish wit and a keen sense of mimicry—she was, in fact, a bundle of fun. Unfortunately she also had the worst clothes sense in two worlds. Tonight she was squeezed into a satiny gown of royal blue, which should have flattered her coloring and figure but made her seem frumpy and hippy. She looked much better without any clothes on at all.