Past Imperative

by Dave Duncan

  “Something wrong?” T’lin demanded.

  The hosteler began to mutter about evil omens.

  “All of us or none! Which is it?” T’lin was still holding the old woman as if she weighed nothing. He rolled forward menacingly.

  “She is ill?”

  “Merely fatigued.”

  Obviously unhappy, Piit’dor faltered. Daughters of Irepit must be rare in Ruatvil, but visitors with real money would not be common either. He forced an ingratiating simper. “Oh, my lord is most welcome, and all his companions. The reverend lady shall be fittingly attended.” He scurried up the steps muttering, “My wife…”

  “I’ll bet the ceilings leak,” Gim said.

  “Yes, they do.” Suddenly Eleal began to yawn. She was too weary to relate how much it had rained on her previous visit. It had not seemed funny at the time. She thought that even a cloudburst as bad as that one would not waken her tonight, once she found somewhere to lie down.

  Hayana Hosteler was even larger than her husband, boisterous and motherly, with a matching mole on her nose. She knew all the traditional business of her role—the smear of flour on the forehead, the fast shuffle on flat feet, the wiping of hands on apron—and she arrived with an entourage of several adolescent assistants. Displaying no superstitious dread of a Daughter of Irepit, she bemoaned the poor sister’s distress, saw her laid on a mattress, and then chased the men away.

  Furnished with a bucket of water of her own in a corner of the big room, Eleal set to work to remove the sediment of her journey. Although her inclination was just to fall over and sleep, she could not do so until Hayana and her brood stopped fussing around Sister Ahn. They were to share the same bedchamber. That mattered little; there would have been ample room for a couple of the dragons as well.

  Sunlight poured in two huge empty window arches, so there was no privacy—and no security either, for anyone could approach through the woodland outside. The roof was partly composed of the original beams and upstairs flooring, now sagging badly. Where it had collapsed, the holes had been patched with tree trunks. The beds were oddly placed, obviously in the driest locations, for much of the mosaic floor was grimed by dry watercourses, relics of rain.

  She had no garment other than the smock Embiliina Sculptor had given her, and it was red with dust. With her hair still damp and her feet still bare, she found herself hustled off to eat. Gim was already doing so, sitting in lordly solitude in a vast room furnished with rough-hewn tables and benches. Faded fragments of frescoes clung to the walls. His hair was as damp as hers, but he did have a clean smock. There was no sign of T’lin, who was probably fussing over his precious dragons.

  Lunch—or perhaps dinner, or maybe supper—comprised heaps of fruit and hot bread and goats’ milk cheese. Gim, his new cleanliness emphasizing his sunburn, tried each sort of fruit in turn, demanding to know its name. Eleal told him, making up suitable noises when she wasn’t sure. Apart from that, neither spoke much.

  Eventually she could keep her eyes open no longer, although she knew the sun would not set for a couple of hours yet. “I am going to bed!” she announced firmly.

  Gim donned a superior, tough-male expression. “I am going to practice my lyre, unless Dragontrader needs me.”

  “You can practice drums and you won’t keep me awake,” Eleal said, and headed off to her room.

  A mattress in one corner was invitingly empty. Another near the center bore a snoring Sister Ahn. No matter! Eleal would sleep if—Eek!

  A man was peering in the window. It took her a moment to realize that it was T’lin Dragontrader in a straw hat and a drab-colored local smock. She had never seen him without his turban, and there was something odd about his beard.

  “Only me!” He dropped a bundle over the sill. “Brought you something to wear. Up all night—expect you want to sleep now?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Just tell me how to find the Sacrarium.”

  Fogged by fatigue, Eleal regarded him blankly for a moment. He had apparently smeared his beard with charcoal, dulling its normal copper red. Why did Dragontrader want to be inconspicuous?

  And why did he not just ask one of the locals to give him directions?

  “You can’t miss it,” she said. “Follow the main road north to the old bridge. It’s east of the road, ’bout half a mile. There’s a sign, and a path.”

  “Oh. Good. Er…anything you need before you kip?”

  Eleal yawned and stretched divinely. “Can’t keep my eyes open.”

  “Right.” T’lin eyed her with bright green suspicion. “If you do wake up when I’m not around…Well, this isn’t Narsh or Suss, remember. You stay here!”

  Eleal walked over to her mattress and sat down, promising faithfully that she would go no farther from the hostelry than the dragons, which she could hear belching faintly.

  “Just remember what happened at Filoby this morning,” T’lin said thoughtfully. “They catch bigfangs hereabouts sometimes, too.”

  She went on the offensive. “Are you trying to keep me away from something, T’lin Dragontrader?”

  “No, no! You sleep well.” He disappeared.

  Perhaps food had revived her. Perhaps it was only curiosity. Either way, she knew she could not sleep now. She rushed over to the bundle he had tossed in, discovering a smock and a pair of sandals. He would almost certainly hang around for a while and watch the window in case she tried to follow him. She changed quickly into the clean smock, grabbed up the sandals, and ran out the door. Slop slap slop slap…

  39

  EDWARD HAD NOT EXPECTED TO SLEEP, BUT HE DID. THE wagon was hot and noisy. From time to time he would become aware of snores, wheels rumbling, axles squeaking, and the clopping of hooves. Very rarely a lorry would go by or children would shout abuse at the hated Gypsies. Dogs barked hysterically. At such times his worries would surge in on him again and for a while he would stare at the painted slats above his nose while plot and counterplot raced around in his mind. What proof of age or identity would he need to enlist? He would not dare use his own name. His OTC Certificate would be useless and was unobtainable now anyway, back in Kensington, so he could not hope for early routing into officer training. Well, he would not mind the ranks. But how long could he conceal his identity? How long until word filtered back to Fallow and Greyfriars?

  Sometime during the morning the caravan halted for a while. He did not bother to investigate the reason for the stoppage. He did not think it would be a police roadblock looking for him, but if it were, the Gypsies could handle it. They had centuries of practice at dealing with rozzers. Creighton continued to snore.

  By now Alice must have heard of his disappearance. She would be worried crazy. On the other hand, he thought with much satisfaction of his uncle’s reaction, wishing he could somehow take him to that hilltop grove and introduce him to Puck. He wondered how Head Office had contrived the Oldcastle sham for the last two years. A committee, Creighton had said, and yet all his letters had been answered in the same handwriting.

  The wagon rolled again. He slept again.

  He dreamed of his parents and awoke shaking.

  In the dream they had been sitting on the veranda at Nyagatha, writing a letter together like a committee of two, and in the way of dreams he had known they were writing to him.

  That Jumbo letter was what was bothering him. It tied in so well with what Creighton had told him! Without it, he probably would dismiss all of the colonel’s story as rubbish—mended leg or no mended leg.

  “I see you’re awake at last.” Creighton was stripped to his undervest, shaving with a straight razor. “Was that the sleep of the just, or just sleep?”

  “Yes, sir,” Edward said, with what he thought was admirable self-control. He felt limp and sweaty in the noon heat. There was no room for him to climb down. The wagon was still moving and he might jostle Creighton and ma
ke him cut his throat. The man was infuriatingly tight-lipped, but that would be going a bit far.

  The wagon lurched as Creighton stooped to see in the looking glass, preparing a stroke. He cursed under his breath.

  “Will you tell me where we are, sir?”

  “Halfway to where we’re going. We’ll be there tonight.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Stonehenge.”

  Edward sensed a leg-pull and then realized. “A node, of course?”

  “The most powerful in Britain, so I’m told.”

  “And who do we meet there? Druids?”

  “Druids? I suppose they would have used it, but I suspect it was ancient even in their time.” Creighton aimed another stroke at his neck. Apparently he was in a more informative mood now, for he carried on talking as he wiped the razor. “It has no resident genius now, so far as I know—so far as my friends in Head Office know. Nodes have another purpose, many of them. They can be used as portals.”

  He had just confirmed something Edward had been afraid of.

  “Portals to where?”

  “Various places. Most of the European ones connect with a territory known as the Vales, but that may just be a peculiarity of the keys we know—something to do with the languages or the cultural trends in rhythm. Try this.” He laid down his razor and beat a rapid tattoo on the table. “Can you do that?”

  Edward reached up to the roof in front of his nose and repeated the beat.

  Creighton whistled. “First time? That was perfect, I think. Do it again.”

  Edward did it again, wondering what the catch was.

  “Let’s see if you can do the whole thing then!” This time Creighton repeated the refrain and continued drumming. The whole thing was long and extremely complex, but obviously just a series of variations and syncopation. Edward played it back to him exactly.

  “Exeter, you’re a wonder! How the deuce did you manage that? I thought it would take you all afternoon to get it.”

  “I was raised in Africa. The natives have far more complicated beats than that. Try this one.” His fingers were rusty, and it really needed two drummers, but he managed a fair imitation of one of the simpler Embu rhythms.

  Creighton listened in silence, and then suddenly laughed. It was the first real laugh Edward had heard him utter, a raucous bray. “I could never come close! Well, that takes care of one problem. How are you at learning stuff off by heart?”

  “Average, I suppose.”

  “Modesty? You played the king in Henry V. That’s a tough part.”

  “How did…You read my letters to Mr. Oldcastle?”

  “A summary of what you’ve been up to.” Creighton seemed to have forgotten that half his face was coated with soap. “Repeat this:

  “Affalino kaspik, fialybo tharpio,

  Noga nogi theyo fan

  Affaliki suspino.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Lord knows. It’s in no known language. Probably older than the pyramids. Try it.”

  That was tougher. It took him several tries and repeats.

  “They go together, don’t they?” he said. “What’s the melody?” He began to sing the words to the beat.

  “Stop!” Creighton barked. “Do not mix the ingredients until I say so!”

  “Sir?” Edward wondered yet again if the man was crazy.

  “Beat, words, melody, and dance. You must learn them separately. Together they’re a key.”

  “A key to what?”

  “A key to a portal, of course. I hope it’s one of the keys to Stonehenge. Let’s try the next verse.”

  “A key to a portal to where?” Edward said angrily.

  “Obedience without question! Second verse—”

  “Sir!

  They glared at each other, but Edward was so riled now that it was Creighton who looked away. He smirked into the looking glass and picked up his razor again.

  “The keys are all very ancient,” he remarked cheerfully. “Shamanistic, most of ’em. Been used for thousands of years. We’ve got a chappie at Olympus who’s made quite a study of them, trying to figure out how they work. Not all keys work at all nodes. In fact we know how to work very few of them as portals, and not all of those lead to Nextdoor, although most of them do—that’s why it’s called Nextdoor, I suppose. The European ones are definitely biased in favor of the Vales and vice versa, he says, but there are exceptions. There’s one in Joalland itself that connects to one in New Zealand. Does that surprise you?”

  “No,” Edward admitted. “And another in the Valley of the Kings?”

  Creighton cut his cheek and barked out an oath that would have had any boy at Fallow sacked on the spot.

  “What do you know about that?”

  Apparently Edward had poked a very sensitive tooth, which he found highly satisfying. “It’s sometimes called the Valley of the Tombs of Kings. Near Luxor. A bunch of pharaohs were buried there.”

  Creighton glared, blood streaming down his neck. “Answer my question, boy!”

  “Will you first answer some of mine?”

  “No, I will not! I am not playing games!” He was, though. “This is a matter of life and death, Exeter—your death, certainly. Possibly mine too. Now tell me how you learned of the Valley!”

  Reluctantly, Edward conceded. “A letter my father wrote just before his death, sir.”

  “Where did you see this letter? Where is it now?”

  “Back at the hospital.”

  With another oath, the colonel took up a perfectly good shirt and dabbed at his cut. “Who was he writing to? Not you.”

  “No, sir. A chappie called Jumbo. The letter was never sent, obviously. I found it in his papers last week.”

  Creighton grunted. “Well, you’re right. Jumbo is one of us. There is a portal in Egypt. Now the opposition may learn of it! Damn it to hell! I wonder if I can send a telegram from one of these villages?” He glared wordlessly at the shirt.

  “I expect the police will impound my belongings, sir.”

  “You think that will stop the Blighters? Well, you didn’t know; it’s not your fault. The Luxor portal is handy because it leads directly to Olympus. Some others do, but they’re better known. This key I’m teaching you usually leads to somewhere in the Vales. What else was in that letter?”

  “I think,” Edward said icily, “that you cheated.”

  “Absolutely unthinkable,” Creighton told his reflection blandly.

  “I think that when my parole ends, you will have made it impossible for me to enlist!”

  “Did I ever say I wouldn’t?”

  “That,” Edward snarled, “is hairsplitting! Bloody lawyer talk!”

  Creighton made his Hrrnph! noise and glared again. “And that is insubordination!”

  “You extracted my word of honor. Where’s your honor?”

  “Insolence! Impudent puppy!”

  They were both shouting now.

  Edward swung his legs around, dropped to the floor, and straightened up to confront the colonel. He cracked his head resoundingly against the roof, seeing blue flames.

  Creighton snorted mockingly. “See? You can’t even stand on your own two feet. You’re a dead man without me around to save you, Exeter. You’d never get into uniform. The Blighters will track you down, and this time they won’t beat around the bush. They’ll snuff you like a candle.”

  Edward sank down on a suitcase to massage his scalp. Trouble was, he had every reason to believe the maniac. “One of the first things I heard you say, at the hospital, was, ‘He cannot cross over with that leg.’ Cross over to where?”

  Not getting an answer, he looked up. Creighton was regarding him sourly. Then he shrugged. “Nextdoor, I hope. Nobody’s ever tried Stonehenge before, that I know of, but we’ll have to risk it. If it d
oesn’t work, we’ll head over to the big circles at Avebury and try there. All our usual portals in England will be under surveillance. According to the Filoby Testament, my lad, you arrive at one of the nodes in Sussland, which is in the Vales, on Nextdoor. We must trust the prophecy.”

  “On Nextdoor? Not in Nextdoor? Nextdoor’s an island?”

  Creighton turned back to the looking glass. “No,” he said. “Not an island. Nextdoor is a lot more than an island.”

  “And that’s where the guv’nor was living before he came back to New Zealand? The missing thirty years when he did not grow old?”

  “You’re a sharp little nipper, you are!” Creighton said. “Give me that first verse again.”

  40

  SUSSWATER WAS SAID TO BE THE LEAST NAVIGABLE RIVER in the Vales. Muddy yellow, it roared along the bottom of a canyon whose sides were hundreds of feet high and usually sheer. In only three places was it narrow enough to bridge, and the bridge at Ruat had been the first and most splendid. When Trathor Battlemaster had laid siege to the city he had begun by throwing down the stone arch on the north bank. The south arch still stood, a notable landmark dangling vestiges of its ancient chains and straddling a paved road now trod by none. From its base the towers of Suss were clearly visible to the north, the sun glinting on the roof of Tion’s temple. They seemed but an hour’s stroll away, yet it would take a strong walker all day to reach them. The citizens of Suss had blocked any effort to rebuild the bridge, lest Ruatvil rise again as a rival.

  So Piol Poet had said.

  The Sacrarium must once have been a noble and imposing monument, standing by itself near the edge of the cliffs. It was revered as the oldest holy building in the Vales, its builders long forgotten. Even Trathor had not dared violate a temple so sacred, but time, storm, and earthquake had done it for him. All that could now be seen was a pentagonal platform of giant blocks bearing remains of a circle of pillars. Many were represented only by their bases, less than a dozen still retained their full height. What sort of roof or lintels they might once have supported was unknown, and theologians could not explain why they had originally numbered thirty-one. Pilgrims still came, although rarely, and devout persons had kept the inside of the circle clear of rubble. The surrounding land had been too holy to plow; it had grown a forest instead, and now the lonely ruin was buried in jungle.