by Dave Duncan
Heads nodded solemnly all around the table. Bloody bunch of chickens!
Olga spoke up demurely. “Historically, if any one of the Five began to grow too powerful, the other four have always combined against him or her. They didn’t spot what Zath was up to until it was too late.”
She unfastened a button in Julian’s fly. He removed her hand and refastened it. She’d had her chance at what was in there two years ago.
Farther along the table, Prof Rawlinson took up the argument. “There is another point. Didn’t T’lin Dragontrader say that Exeter is preaching the Undivided?” Rawlinson was colorless, owlish, and clever in an impractical sort of way. He had the pedantic manner of a divinity student, but in the past he had been one of the pro-Liberator group. The Service had always been divided over the Liberator; now it seemed to be united. No one was on Exeter’s side except Julian Smedley.
“He could hardly do otherwise, I fancy,” said Pinky smoothly. “He did do some missionary work for us, remember? Mostly in Thovale, was it not? Yes, mostly Thovale. He will need a gospel to preach. The Testament by itself would not be enough. Couldn’t work just from that. He’d need something more, mm? So it’s quite natural that he would adopt our theology. Ready-made for his purpose, I’d say.”
“You mean he is stealing our church?” Hannah cried. She subsided into blushing silence under her husband’s frown.
“So if Exeter tries and fails,” Jumbo said, watching Julian, “he may bring us down with him.”
“Worse!” Prof chirruped. “Suppose, against all odds, he succeeds? If he does fulfill the prophecy, then he’ll be stronger than Zath. What will he become? What could he do with such power?”
No one seemed very worried about that improbable hypothesis, but Jumbo said, “That’s what bothered his father. Cameron didn’t want his son to become another pseudogod.”
Obviously everyone was against Exeter, whether he won or lost: Zath, the Pentatheon and their lesser gods, the various rulers of the Vales, the Service—they were all opposed.
Julian decided it must be his turn.
“You are asking my opinion?”
“Go ahead,” said Pinky. “You have the floor. The port is with you, Duffy.”
“I don’t believe it. I know Edward Exeter, and he was as much against the prophecy as anyone. There’s been some mistake.”
“Seventy-seven’s a sound chap.”
“But a native, sir. Would you expect Exeter to confide all his plans to T’lin Dragontrader?”
“That’s an interesting point, Captain. Very interesting.” Pinky filled his glass. “But the fact remains that Exeter is calling himself the Liberator. In public. Do we have a consensus that he should be stopped? Is that the sense of the meeting?” He glanced around with a smile, his eyes seeming to be shut. “Unless anyone has changed his mind, of course?”
What did stopped mean? Julian risked another glass of port as the decanter went by him. “Sir, Zath has been trying to break the chain of prophecy for thirty years. It’s too late to work on any of the other stuff in the Testament. The only way to stop it now would be to kill Exeter himself.”
Hannah and a couple of the other women gasped.
Foghorn boomed out, “Balderdash!” without meeting Julian’s eye.
Only Jumbo was looking at Julian, staring challengingly across the table at him. “Perhaps Exeter himself is trying to break it by committing suicide.”
“Not the Edward Exeter I knew.”
“That’s how it looks,” Foghorn said firmly. “Damned fool stunt! We owe it to him for his own sake to bring him to his senses.”
Here it came. It was Jumbo who put the question. “Are you with us on that, Captain?”
Julian held up a hand, the one without fingers. He sensed the surge of anger and embarrassment. “I agree with everything you’ve said about the dangers of the prophecy, yes. I support what the Service stands for absolutely—and so does Edward Exeter, as far as I know. I also feel that Zath is the embodiment of all that’s evil in the Pentatheon and we have a duty to overthrow him as soon as possible. I hope you are all with me on that! It would be the greatest service we could perform for the people of the Vales.” Was the Service really interested in the natives’ welfare or only in its own survival? “He’s not unlike the Kaiser, really. We’ve been righting a hellish war to stop him, back in Europe. Victory did not come cheap.”
He glanced around the table. He wasn’t increasing his popularity terrifically. “The war cost millions of lives, but it was worth it. Destroying Zath may be worth some sacrifice too, so I cannot dismiss whatever Exeter is doing without knowing more about his thinking. He may have seen something that the rest of us have missed. I think you owe him a hearing before you condemn him out of hand.”
Pinky drooped his eyelids again. “Quite right. Very sound. We ought to find out how the land lies. Would you be willing to go and talk to him, Captain, mm? Drop in on him, feel him out?”
“I’d be glad to. Always wanted to see Joalvale. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
Pinky nodded graciously. “Very obliging of you, Captain. It would put our minds at rest. But that’s quite a long jaunt. You will pardon my mentioning this, but you don’t have the experience some of the rest of us have. Two heads are always better than one, what? Not that we don’t trust you, of course.”
They trusted Julian as far as they could throw Kilimanjaro. He decided to make it easy for them. “I’d be very happy to have company, sir. You all know I can’t use mana. It won’t stick to me—or it sticks too well, rather.”
His preferred companion would be Euphemia, of course, and everyone could guess that, but he must not say so. The watchdog they chose would be Jumbo. He had been Exeter’s closest friend, his father’s friend, and a founder of the Service; he was adamantly opposed to the prophecy. He was a jolly dog, though, and a journey with him would be fun.
Foghorn Rutherford recalled that he was chairman of the Committee and fired a broadside of decibels. “That’s damned white of you, Captain! The sooner you can go and talk some sense into our young friend the better. We may send someone Home to seek out Miss Prescott and enlist her help, too, but that will take time.”
That was pure bosh, designed to lower Julian’s guard. The Service had already condemned Exeter. How far were they prepared to go to stop him? Jumbo was looking a bit shifty—were they setting Julian up as a Judas goat? Dammit, a chap ought not to go calling on a chum with an assassin in tow.
But obviously the business of the evening had been concluded. Tomorrow Julian Smedley would head north to find Exeter. The only remaining problem was to escape from Olga and find his way to Euphemia’s bedroom to do his lover’s duty.
13
“I shall be leaving in the morning,” Julian said, pulling on his pajama jacket. “Pack a bag for me, will you?”
Dommi closed the wardrobe door and turned with a smile. “It is already taken care of, Tyika. I have laid out winter garments in tribute to the advanced season and in presumption that you will be dragon traveling and may therefore cut short across country.”
“Good show. Um, Dommi…” It had occurred to Julian on his way home that, whatever dark deeds Jumbo Watson might have in mind, there was one person in Olympus who could be trusted to support Edward Exeter through Hull, Hell, and Halifax. Not that a native could do much in practice against a stranger, but a friendly face was worth a third arm on a black day. “I’ll be heading up north, going to find Tyika Exeter. I’m not sure there’ll be a spare dragon, but if there is, then you’re welcome to come. If you still want to, that is.”
Dommi beamed. “I shall be most and assuredly honored, Tyika.”
Why would the man leave his wife at such a time? Carrots were not expected to have such unexpected foibles, but it would not be right to ask. “I’m sure you’ll be a great help. I think that’s all, thank you. Night, Dommi.”
“Good night, Tyika. Do you wish me to open the window wider?”
/> “Yes. It’s a little stuffy in here.”
Dommi pulled the sash up another foot and departed, closing the door in silence.
Julian snatched up his dressing gown and headed for the window.
It was a black dressing gown.
Love was a rum business, and even rummier in Olympus than anywhere else. “Till death do us part” became meaningless frippery when life expectancy stretched out to three or four digits. All evening he and his sweetheart had smiled politely across the room at each other, exchanged meaningless small talk, behaved just like all the other guests. Thus was the game played, and everyone played it. But every dressing gown on the station was black.
He clambered over the sill. There was no reason why he should not just walk out his own front door, except that certain things should be done in traditional ways.
The night was a symphony, cool without being chilly, lit by the red and blue moons and a million stars and scented with the innumerable night-flowering blossoms of the Vales. The mountains looked as if they had been arranged by an expert stage designer, and the squirrel-like nightingales caroling in the bottle-gourd trees were almost as tuneful as the birds of the same name back Home. He hurried along the road, keeping to shadows as much as he could, seeing no one. It was embarrassing to meet a friend on such occasions, although by convention neither party would take notice of the other. The total absence of lights in the station did not mean that all the inhabitants were sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
His quest led him inward again, and soon the ancient thrill of lover hurrying to meet beloved was augmented by the familiar skin-tingling awareness of virtuality. As he passed Olga’s house, a bat-owl soared overhead, circled a few times to decide if he was prey, then decided he wasn’t and floated away behind the trees. Reaching the McKay residence, he picked his way around the side path until he came to a garden bench, which just happened to be under a window.
Which just happened to be closed.
Well, bother the woman! What was she thinking of? She knew he was coming. They’d been doing the drink-to-thee-only routine all evening, making sheep’s eyes and sending just-wait signals. William was still away exhorting the unbelievers—not that William cared two hoots who tumbled his wife. He slept with Iris Barnes these days…these nights.
Julian stepped up on the bench and rapped fingernails on the glass. He waited. Nightingales serenaded. He was tingly and twitchy already.
He knocked harder, with knuckles.
Light flared as the heavy drapes were moved, then vanished again. Now a pale figure knelt on the other side of the pane. It lifted the sash about an inch.
“Go away,” it whispered through the gap.
“No. What’s the matter?”
“Nothin’. Everythin’. Please! Not tonight.” The lilting Irish voice thrilled him as always. He had told her it was the sound of rain on peat, although then he’d had to explain that he’d meant it as a compliment.
She was crying!
“Darling Euphemia, tell me what’s wrong. No, let me in first.”
“Just go…please!”
“I will not go.” A nightmarish vision of Pinky in pink pajamas…“Not unless you have another man in there.”
“No! But please, Julian? Not tonight. We can talk when you come back from Joalvale.”
“Why? No! There’s something wrong? Look, if you don’t let me in here, I’ll go ’round and beat on the front door until I waken every Carrot in the house.” That ought to do it, for every woman in Olympus lived in dread of what the Carrots might be saying about her, even though she knew that every other woman was doing exactly the same thing and the Carrots really did not care anyway. The only thing that was not done was doing it with Carrots. “You’re upset. I want to help. I love you, darling!”
Euphemia made unromantic sniffing noises.
“I’m not going to rape you!” Julian protested, mentally reserving seduction as a definite option. “We can just talk, if that’s all you want.” If that was all he could achieve. She’d never been unwilling before, not once that he could recall. She would enthusiastically try anything he suggested, which had been almost anything he’d ever heard of or could imagine….
She rose and the light flared again as she departed, but she had left the window open. He slid a hand and a half under the sash and lifted. A moment later he pushed through the drapes and blinked in the glow of the candles on the dresser. She was standing in the middle of the room with her back to him, wearing a diaphanous pink nightgown, half transparent and completely the wrong color for her, but her gorgeous hair hung almost to her waist, a Titian waterfall that excited him as much as the glimmer of milky skin through filmy fabric.
He put a hand on one shoulder and a stump on the other and tried to turn her. She resisted and moved away. He restrained himself.
“What have I done?” Had any man since Adam not asked that question at some time in his life?
“Nothing, nothing at all. Just not tonight, darlin’. When you come back from Joalvale.”
“Right-oh!” he said thickly, although everything was obviously wrong-on. “You sit there, and I’ll sit over here, and you tell me what’s the matter.” He went over to the chair. He wished he knew more about women.
She sank down on the edge of the bed, hunching herself small, arms tight around her breasts and face down. Candlelight on that hair was enough to detonate him all by itself, but there was also the deep cleavage, the bulge of nipples like pale strawberries, the russet shadow at her groin. His heart was running the Grand National, jumps and all. He adjusted his dressing gown to hide the incriminating bulge.
“Now Wendy can tell Captain Hook what’s wrong.”
For a long time she just sat there, heaving with dry sobs, not speaking. He had very little experience with women. Olga had bedded him a few days after he had arrived in Olympus—just once. That once had satisfied Olga’s curiosity. It had been a devastating experience for a crippled, shell-shocked, war-damaged virgin of twenty-one. He had not begun responding to the hints again for several months, and even then he had not dared risk a commitment until that magical day when he had gone for a walk up the hill and had run into Euphemia purely by chance. One thing had led very quickly to the next thing, and they had ended up lying in some badly crushed wildflowers clad only in a healthy perspiration. Since then there had been no one else. She was everything he had ever hoped a woman would be.
She was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a lady. Her father had sold fish in Donegal. The other women tended to snub her. Bill McKay had gone Home on leave and returned with this common, working-class slip of a girl and…Lord knew how long ago that had been. One did not ask. Back Home, Julian would not even have considered her. His monstrous regiment of aunts in Cheltenham would succumb to mass hysteria if he ever brought home a woman like Euphemia McKay. The thought of her at the opera or even helping out the ladies at the church garden fete just did not pass muster. But this was Olympus, not Cheltenham, and she was his mistress. His, not Pinky’s!
“I’ve been greedy,” she whispered.
“What say?”
“I’ve been greedy.” She glanced up briefly, eyes red-rimmed, then dropped her gaze to the floor again. “I shouldn’t be keeping you all to myself like this.” Sniff, sniff!
“You are not communicating, darling.”
“Why don’t you understand? I’ve had my turn. They all want you! You’re young, really young, not just stranger-young. You’re handsome and a wonderful person and really no older than you look and so innocent, and Olga’s told them all about—about what a man you are, and you’re a hero, a real hero! So you ought to share yourself around and—”
Julian spoke a word he had not used since he left the Western Front. Then he stood up and began to pace back and forth across the room. He wanted to sit down beside her, but if he ever got his hands—hand—on her in his present mood, he wasn’t sure what might happen. Well, he knew what might happen, but not how.
No answer except more snuffling.
“What’s Pinky been telling you?”
She made a sound that was half sob and half gasp, but she did not look up.
“Well?”
“You’re going off to Joalland tomorrow.”
“So? I’ll be back. I’ll take you with me gladly if you’ll come.” It would cause a scandal, but he wouldn’t care if she didn’t.
“With Ursula Newton.”
Julian stopped pacing. “I thought I was going with Jumbo.” But no one had said so. He’d just assumed.
Euphemia shook her head, making the curtain of hair sway. He could not see her face at all. “Ursula.”
“Darling, that was not my choice! And if you think there’s anything between me—” He shuddered, and there was no faking required. Never Ursula! That female blacksmith? She hit a tennis ball harder than any man on the station. Mannish women repelled him. “I’d sooner crawl into bed with Foghorn.”
“You think it’ll matter what you are thinking?” she demanded, suddenly loud. “She’s been around longer than any of us!”
“Yes, but…What do you mean?”
“I mean no one’s ever known Ursula to work any miracles, have they now?” Euphemia’s brogue grew thicker when she was excited, and she was excited now, even if she was still wringing her hands and talking to the Narshian rugs. “She must have more mana saved up than any livin’ soul on the station, and if she wants you—and she does, I know it—then she’ll have you and you won’t have any say in the matter.”