Past Imperative

by Dave Duncan

  “What’s the matter?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Nothing.”

  “Tell me! I told you about the festival!”

  He was turning pink. “Oh, I was just wondering if Holy Tion looks anything like…like Dad’s statue of Kirb’l.”

  “He doesn’t look at all! Don’t you even know that? There’s no image of Tion in the temple. No mortal artist could do justice to the lord of beauty.”

  “Oh. Dad’s carving…” Gim squirmed.

  “I’m sure it comes very close!”

  His milky complexion reddened perceptibly. “Little monster!”

  “That’s what T’lin meant by the gold rose. There’s one yellow rose given out, and the winner of that stands before the altar and represents Tion. He hands out the red roses.”

  Gim glowered. “I know that!”

  “I am sure you will win the gold rose!”

  She had thought that his face was red, but it had been barely pink compared with what it now turned. Scarlet spread from the roots of his hair to the collar of his smock. His misty mustache became fairer in contrast. She was fascinated. She couldn’t recall ever managing to provoke such an all-encompassing blush, like a stormy sunset all over the sky.

  “Go jump off a mountain!” Gim spun on his heel.

  She hobbled after him. “But it’s a very great honor to portray a god, and in your case you would be entering as a likeness of your father’s carving. Perhaps the god is telling us that he wants your father brought here to make—”

  Gim spun around furiously. “Go away and stop pestering me, little girl!”

  Oo! “But I am drawn to your beauty as stenchbugs to honey—”

  “Stenchbugs get stamped on!”

  “But beauty should be recognized and all women—”

  “What’s the argument?” asked T’lin Dragontrader, strolling over to them. He had stripped down to a smock and baggy Joalian breeches, both colored like a flock of rainbow birds. His sword dangled at his belt. The little gold ring glinted in his earlobe.

  “Nothing!” Gim barked.

  “I was just explaining about the gold rose.”

  “Ah.” T’lin shrugged. “Myself, I don’t think good looks are anything to brag about. But they’re nothing to be ashamed of, either, and you’ll grow out of them soon enough. Don’t let this little queen bee get under your skin, lad. How well can you play that lyre of yours?”

  “I’ll show you!” Gim said, eager for a distraction.

  “I’m no judge.”

  “I am,” Eleal said.

  T’lin folded red-hairy arms. “You keep out of this, pest. Can you twang a note or two well enough to enter? Not win, necessarily, just reasonably enter?”

  “Think so.”

  “Good. Then you’ll do that. You can be our scout at the festival.”

  Gim frowned. “The festival is to honor the—”

  “Then why are there reapers there? Your god told you to rescue this half-size bellyache, didn’t he?”

  Both men looked down at Eleal while she tried to think of a witty alternative to kicking Dragontrader’s shins.

  “I’m suggesting your responsibilities aren’t over yet,” T’lin said. “We’ve got her here, you and me, and we’ve got to try to keep her alive. Or do you put your trust in Sister Ahn’s swords-manship?”

  Gim smiled. “No, sir.”

  “Ah, the old bag’s awake, we can be on our way. Let’s see you saddle up, Wrangler. Come, Jewel of the….”

  Eleal spun around to see why T’lin was staring. She saw smoke. Something big was burning in Sussland.

  38

  “PIOL POET WAS PLANNING TO WRITE A DRAMA CALLED the Zoruatiad, about the siege of Ruat,” Eleal explained, “so of course that year we went there to let him look over the place. He never did write it, though. Once this was all Ruatland, and Ruat was a fair and mighty city. There was a bridge there in those days. Then came the Lemodland War. Ruatia fought for the Thargians, but the Joalians won, at least hereabouts, and Trathor Battlemaster razed the city and threw down the bridge. They made Sussby into the new capital, on their side of the river, but there’s still only the two bridges, at Rotby and Lameby. So Sussby grew up to became Suss, Ruatwater became Susswat—”

  “Do you ever stop talking?” Gim asked.

  “Not when faced with such an abundance of ignorance in need of instruction.” That was a quote from last year’s comedy, and quite witty under the circumstance, Eleal decided. She would forgive him, then. Besides, he had smiled enough to take the sting out of his words and Gim Wrangler’s smile would melt a statue of the Maiden. His face was scorched by the sun already and so coated with road dust that his eyebrows and mustache had vanished altogether. The latter looked much better when it wasn’t visible.

  T’lin was in the lead. Behind him Sister Ahn lolled in Blaze’s saddle like a bag of cordroot. Even if she was as unconscious as she looked, she was well strapped on. The youngsters were bringing up the rear. They had gained enough control over their mounts now that they could ride side by side and converse.

  The descent of Susslope had been easier than Eleal had expected, following the steepest route to avoid trees and then down avalanche cuts. Those in turn had led to a sizable river, which had soon entered a cultivated valley, and since then it had been all dirt road and dust and sweat. She had forgotten just how hot Sussvale was, or else the quick descent had given her no time to adjust. She had stripped down to breechclout and smock. Her legs were getting burned. So were Gim’s, because he was wearing no more than she was.

  Dragons did poorly in heat, and T’lin was holding them to a gentle zaib. On either hand sun blazed on lurid green paddy fields, where brown-chested men in wide straw hats would straighten from their work to inspect the travelers, and sometimes return their waves. Eleal suspected the water round their legs would be as warm as a hot bath. Some crop she should recognize and didn’t was flowering in acres of pale pink, scenting the air like custard. Once in a while the road passed through orchards of the great dark bellfruit trees, and the black shade was a blessing. Sometimes, too, watchcats would yowl from the little farms as the four dragons ran by.

  In Suss itself, and in the villages, men and women dressed in smocks that were no more than tubes of cotton with shoulder straps. Here the field hands wore only loincloths. For everyone, though, the brutal sun of Sussvale made the wheel-sized straw hats essential wear. Turbans were just not adequate. T’lin outfitted himself and his companions by buying hats right off the heads of children who ran out to see the dragons. Four copper mites bought four serviceable hats, which the original owners could replace with a few minutes’ work. Even Sister Ahn made no complaint when T’lin leaned over and placed one on her head.

  “We’re still heading northeast,” Eleal said. “So we’re not going to come out near Thogwalby at all. Probably nearer Filoby. And I wish I knew what that smoke was!”

  The black pillar had not dispersed; indeed it still seemed to be thickening. It stood almost dead ahead, towering over the hills like a menacing giant. The top spread out in a sooty layer, drifting gently westward, but for most of its height it was a vertical scar upon the hot, still afternoon.

  “I expect we’ll find out soon enough,” she added. The side valley was about to enter Sussvale proper.

  “How big is Filoby?”

  To avoid saying she had no idea, Eleal risked a guess. “About a hundred homes, more or less.”

  Gim nodded. “Built of what?”

  “Er. White stuff. Like those.” She pointed to a cluster of farm buildings.

  “Adobe. That doesn’t burn very well. What else is there at Filoby?”

  “A waterfall.”

  Gim rolled his eyes and joined in her laugh.

  “The Convent of Iilah,” she said.

  “Describe it.”


  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I’ve only passed by. The buildings are mostly hidden in the trees. There’s this sacred grove, you see. It’s a little round hill covered with mighty oaks. The temple is quite small. All you can see is the dome and some red tile roofs.”

  “Tiles need beams. Anything else?”

  “No,” she admitted, worried.

  “Then there’s your answer,” Gim said with a frown. He nodded at the smoke. “The late sacred grove.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the valley widened into Sussflat. The peaks of Susswall came into sight to the north, shimmering behind veils of heat haze. The rich plain was familiar to Eleal—a mosaic of orchards, bright green crops, tiny white hamlets—but she knew it must seem strange to Gim, native of a bleaker land. At times a star flashed in the distance; she pointed it out to him, explaining that it was sunlight reflecting from the temple roof in Suss itself. To the east, the ominous smoke still crawled into the sky.

  Red dirt tracks between the fields led eventually to the main Filoby—Thogwalby highway, which was no more than a wider version of the same rutted trail. In this hottest part of the day traffic was light: scrawny herds being driven to fresh pasture, a few ox wagons. Once Gim cried out in astonishment and pointed to a party of men riding long-legged moas in the distance. Eleal suspected they were soldiers and was relieved to have missed them.

  Eventually T’lin halted Starlight and waited for the others to gather around. “We must take a break,” he said, scowling at the mounts. “They can’t take this heat.” He nodded at a hillock ahead, capped by tall trees. “Head over there; I’ll catch up with you.” He rode off toward a cluster of farmhands, who were gaping at the dragons.

  Normally the others would have tried to follow Starlight, but now they were too dispirited to argue. Gim persuaded Beauty to move. Lightning and Blaze followed. The trees were smooth pillars, erupting into green canopies very high from the ground. Their shade seemed dark as a cave, and nothing else grew in it.

  Gim said, “Wosok!” and beamed when all three dragons obeyed him. He looked around approvingly at the grove. “Cool!”

  Eleal slithered down from Lightning’s saddle, feeling as old and stiff as Sister Ahn. “It isn’t really. It just seems cool after the heat outside.”

  “You have to argue, don’t you? What are these trees called?”

  “Parasol trees.”

  “Do you know that, or are you guessing?”

  “I know that, of course.” After all, she had just called them parasol trees, so they were called parasol trees by her, even if other people had other names for them. She sat down on the sand and leaned back against one of the great leathery trunks. The air did feel sort of cool. Filoby could not be much more than five or six miles away; even the flames were visible now.

  Gim had helped the nun dismount. The old woman seemed barely conscious. She did not ask for her sword, which was a bad sign.

  Ahn had never said that she was Eleal Singer’s protector. Although the sword seemed to imply that, the nun had firmly denied that it was a weapon. Nor had she ever claimed that the Maiden had sent her, only that she was fulfilling the prophecy. The Youth had designated Gim to rescue Eleal from the temple, but had sent him no further orders, no vision of later events. T’lin Dragontrader was Eleal’s guardian and keeper now. Her secret friend had turned out to be the most important person in her life. He was big and gruff, and she knew he had secrets she did not share, but she had no one else to trust. She wished she knew which god had sent him.

  T’lin joined them in a few minutes. He sat down, wiping his forehead with a brawny arm. His face was as red as his beard, and he was glaring. “Well, that’s the sacred grove, as we thought. Last night a large group of men went by here, heading for Filoby. Fifty or sixty of them. They joked that they were going to call on the goddess.”

  “What?” Eleal shouted. “You mean it was deliberate?”

  “Typical Sussian atrocity.”

  Defile the abode of a goddess? “Who were these savages?”

  Gim was frowning. Sister Ahn was slumped over, apparently barely conscious.

  T’lin’s green eyes were cold as ice. “The trainees from Garward’s monastery, led by some of the monks. At dawn they roused the people of Filoby to join them, and they sacked the convent. Anyone who refused to help was beaten and his house destroyed.”

  “Why would they do such a thing, sir?” Gim asked softly.

  “What happened to the nuns?” Eleal demanded.

  T’lin shrugged, apparently in answer to both queries.

  Despite the heat, Eleal now felt thoroughly chilled. “Last night you said there was a serious squabble in the Pentatheon, didn’t you?”

  “Seems I was right, then.”

  She was a token in a game being played by the gods. Garward was another avatar of Karzon and apparently just as much involved in this affair as Zath. The Man and the Lady were against her in all their aspects. The Youth was helping her, and now it seemed that the Maiden was on her side also—or at least on the opposite side from the Man, which must mean the same thing…mustn’t it? And the stake in this whole evil game was the Liberator, a baby.

  Sister Ahn stirred and tried to sit up straight. She still wore her woolen habit, which must now be intolerably hot. Somehow her face was both flushed and haggard. After a moment she spoke in a surprisingly firm voice: “Woe to the Maiden, for the Man shall ply his strength against her. Woe to her holy place. Virgins are profaned. See blood and ashes paint the face of sanctity. The sacred place yields to the strength of the Man and only lamentation remains.”

  “I suppose that’s part of your precious prophecy?” T’lin sneered.

  She nodded, blinking tears. “It is so written in the Testament, but there is no date given. I weep to see it.”

  “Me too. Doesn’t make any sense until it’s too late, does it?” He scowled contemptuously. “We need a change of plan. The thugs are probably on their way to Suss and the festival now, but there’s no point in us going to Filoby. We certainly can’t risk Thogwalby after this.” He eyed Eleal shrewdly. “And we can’t take you to Suss, either, can we?” He had guessed about Dolm Actor.

  “Wouldn’t I be safe if I took refuge in Tion’s temple?”

  “Would you? Would the priests let you? Besides, we must stop soon—the dragons can’t take this heat.” He was looking at Sister Ahn, though, who had slumped over again in abject exhaustion.

  “That only leaves one choice, sir, doesn’t it?” Gim said calmly. “We go to Ruatvil.”

  “There’s nothing there!” Eleal protested, and then realized that no-thing might be a very good thing under the circumstances.

  T’lin cocked a coppery eyebrow. “Know it, do you?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Nowhere to stay?”

  “Well, yes. There’s a hostelry.”

  “And do you know the Sacrarium?”

  “Of course,” she said, relieved that he had asked something easy.

  “Good. Then let’s zaib!”

  The big man rose to his feet and headed for the dragons before Eleal had a chance to find out why T’lin Dragontrader should want to go sightseeing. It seemed out of character.

  It was not true that there was nothing at Ruatvil. There were ruins, and trees, and hummocky pasture. As Eleal explained to Gim while they were riding in—repeating what Piol Poet had told her two years before—much of mighty Ruat had been built of clay bricks, and those parts had collapsed to mud once their roofs had gone. The stone buildings stood as isolated walls, broken towers, and stark, useless arches. Some families dwelt in shanties within these relics, in constant risk of death from storm or earth tremor. Other cottages had been constructed from fallen masonry and then roofed with turf, so that goats grazed on them. The result was a strangely widespread settlement, a village scattered like seed corn over the gr
ave of a metropolis.

  “I think I could have worked all that out for myself,” Gim said, looking around disparagingly.

  “If you win the gold rose, the priests will make you shave off your mustache.”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you the same question.”

  They were all weary. None of them had slept much in the previous night, and the journey had been hard.

  Ruatvil was not completely abandoned. The main street was still wide, although its paving lay buried in grass and heaved by tree roots. A few inhabitants were going about their business—herding goats, bearing loads of food and charcoal. They all paused to stare at the dragons.

  Eleal directed T’lin to the hostelry, which he would doubtless have found quite easily by himself. It brought back memories for her, yet it was smaller than she remembered. Once the building must have been some rich man’s mansion or a public edifice, and the walls still stood three stories high. Now only the ground floor was in use, and sky showed through the empty arches of the windows, for the roof had long since vanished. The entrance was an imposing portico, but the doors themselves had cooked meals for persons long dead, and only their rusty hinges remained.

  Piit’dor Hosteler was a large, ruddy-faced man with a gray-streaked beard and a prominent wart on his nose. Playing his role in traditional fashion, he rubbed his hands gleefully when T’lin flashed gold, gabbling at length how he anticipated an invasion of refugees from Filoby, and how the civic authorities of Ruatvil would require him to provide them with shelter, but if the noble guests were already in residence, of course, then they would not be disturbed, and fortunately his very best accommodation was still available…and so on.

  Gim was already unbuckling the straps that held Sister Ahn in her saddle. T’lin eased him out of the way. “Civic authorities!” he muttered under his breath. “Ten to one they’re his brother.”

  He lifted the old woman bodily in his arms, her sword dangling. Piit’dor Hosteler flinched with astonishment. His joviality vanished, and he backed away until he stood squarely before the steps to his front door, all the while staring hard at that sword.