Past Imperative [Round One of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  In another bewildering change, she cried out and went rigid, head back, limbs spread, sprawling over her opponent. The man threw her off and backed away on hands and knees, bleeding and gasping as if he had been wrestling bear cats.

  Her eyes flicked open. “Athu!” she roared, in a voice as deep and resonant as Trong's—an impossible voice for that child-sized body. The drumming and singing stopped instantly. “Athu impo'el ignif!"

  It was the voice of the oracle. Outside the circle, priests began scribbling on parchment as the words of the goddess reverberated through the temple. Again the dialect was too archaic for Eleal to follow. She thought she heard her name a few times, but then she thought she heard several names she knew, and probably none of them was intended. The priests seemed to make sense of the torrent, though, for their pens moved rapidly.

  It died away into animal gurgles and stopped. A drum tapped. The singing resumed, a triumphant paean of thanks and praise.

  Red-robed priestesses pushed in to attend the unconscious oracle. The circle fell apart. Wives and husbands embraced in relief at the end of the ordeal. Trong released Eleal's hand. Ambria hauled her close and hugged her fiercely. In a moment she felt wetness. Bewildered, she looked up and realized that the big woman was weeping.

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  20

  IT WAS OBVIOUS WHY THE TEMPLE RARELY ASKED THE LADY for an oracle. The little priestess had been carried off, wrapped in a blanket. Her burly guardian had limped out, clutching a rag to his bleeding face and leaning on a friend. A young boy had brought a bucket and knelt to wash stains from the floor.

  The richly adorned priest with the big belly was chuckling as he pawed over a group of parchments, discussing them with other elderly priests and priestesses. They all seemed pleased.

  The troupe stood apart, huddled together, waiting to hear what the goddess had decreed. Eleal clung tight to Ambria's big hand and tried not to see Dolm Actor's patronizing sneer.

  Then the fat priest waddled over to them, still clutching the records. “The Lady has been most generous!” he boomed. “I have never seen clearer, more explicit directions."

  There was a worried pause. “Tell us!” Ambria said.

  "Just the two of them, I think.” He checked one page against another. “Yes, just two. The one named Uthiam Piper?"

  Uthiam whimpered. Golfren's arm tightened around her.

  "Three fortnights’ service, it would seem,” said the fat man. He shrugged his pillowed shoulders. “Not as severe a penance as I would have expected, really."

  Uthiam's cheeks were ashen. She raised her chin defiantly. “I have to whore here for forty-two days?"

  Shocked, the priest raised his shaven brows. “Sacrifice!"

  "For what?"

  "For your sins and your friends’ sins, naturally. They are free to go—except one, of course. One remains. I am sure you made out that much. It is a small price to win so much favor and forgiveness, for yourself and your loved ones. Many women learn to enjoy it.” He leered slyly.

  He had eyes like a pig's.

  Little Piol Piper cleared his throat. “I thought—” He stopped. He was the scholar. If any of the laity had understood those ancient words, it would be Piol.

  "You thought what?"

  The old man clawed at his silvery, stubbly beard. “I thought an alternative was offered?"

  The priest nodded, his dewlaps flapping. “But not a reasonable alternative for a band of wandering players, I am sure."

  "How much?” Golfren yelped. His fair-skinned face was paler than any.

  The fat man sighed. “One hundred Joalian stars."

  "Ninety-four, you mean! You know we have that much!"

  The priest pursed his thick lips sadly. “You cannot bargain with a goddess, actor."

  "But I was to give that money to Tion that he might favor my wife in the festival."

  "Your wife will not be attending the festival this year. She will be serving the goddess, here in the temple. The mammoth herders who risk their lives daily in the pass will certainly not be rash enough to offend Holy Ois.” His fat smirk left no doubt that the men would be advised of the danger.

  Golfren looked close to tears. “That gold was my father's farm and his father's before him! And we only have ninety-four."

  Everyone looked at Ambria, Uthiam's mother.

  Her hand in Eleal's was sweating. Her voice was hoarse: “If we make up the difference, Holy One, it will leave us penniless. The fare to Suss is reputedly higher this year than it has ever been. We are poor artists, Father! Our expenses are heavy. The festival is our only hope of recouping our fortunes so that we may eat next winter. Will the Lady ruin us?"

  The priest's eyes narrowed inside their bulwarks of lard, appraising her. “If you travel with the Lady's blessing,” he said reluctantly, “I believe the temple could arrange passage for you.” It was indeed possible to bargain.

  "Today! The festival begins tomorrow. We must travel today!” Hints of the old Ambria were emerging.

  "One hundred stars and you go today,” the priest agreed.

  Ambria sighed her relief. “And the other one?"

  "Mm?” He chuckled and consulted the parchments again, comparing them. “Oh, yes. Eleal Singer ... or Eleal Impresario ... the goddess called her something else ... No matter. She must remain. Must enter the service of Great Ois."

  Somehow Eleal had expected this. She shivered. She felt Ambria's hand tighten on hers.

  "There is no ransom for her?” Piol demanded.

  The fat man scowled. “Ransom? Watch your tongue, actor!” He looked around suspiciously. “Are you offering one?"

  "You have taken every copper mite we possess!” Ambria shouted.

  "Ah!” He shook his head sadly and consulted the scripts again. “In any case, we are given no choice in her case.” He glanced at Trong, who was projecting utter despair. “The, er, misadventure occurred in Jurg?"

  "Yes,” the big man muttered, showing no surprise.

  "Of course!” The priest chuckled, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Mighty Ken'th again! But the Lady is a jealous goddess! She demands the child.” He glanced around the group. “Come, you are being let off lightly! A hundred stars and the girl."

  Eleal also looked around. No one would meet her eye except Dolm Actor, who wore a distinctly I-told-you-so sneer.

  "She will be well cared for,” the priest said. “Trained in the Lady's service. It will be an easier, more rewarding life than you can offer her.” He waited, and no one replied. “In a couple of years ... But you know that."

  Getting no response, he beckoned with his fat soft fingers, summoning a woman almost as large as himself. “Take this one and guard her closely. Farewells would be inappropriate,” he added.

  Ambria released Eleal's hand.

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  21

  INSPECTOR LEATHERDALE HAD LEFT A MAN OUTSIDE THE door, as Edward soon realized. Conversations came along the hallway, stopped while they should have been going by, and then resumed again in the distance. Beds and carts slowed and squeaked as they were navigated around the obstacle. Perhaps the jailer had been there all the time, but he was one more indication that Edward was a murder suspect. As the guard could hardly be intended to prevent the criminal escaping, he must be hoping to eavesdrop on conversations. There was no other conceivable reason to waste a policeman's day, was there?

  The room was depressingly square. The walls were brown up to about shoulder height, where there was a frieze of brown tiles; above that the plaster was beige. Having nothing better to do, Edward catalogued his assets. Item, one brass bed with bedclothes, pillow, and overhead frame. Item, one chair, wicker-backed, hard. Item, one bedside cupboard in red mahogany. Item, one small chest of drawers to match ... one bellpull just barely within reach ... one iron bed table on wheels, with a flip-up mirror ... one wicker wastepaper basket.... He had a jug of tepid water, a tumbler, an ashtray, and a kidney-shaped metal
dish suitable for planting crocus bulbs. The cupboard contained a bedpan and a heavy glass bottle with a towel around it. Robinson Crusoe would have been ecstatic.

  A distant church tower was the only thing visible outside. The window was open as wide as it would go, but no air seemed to be coming in—it couldn't be this hot outdoors, surely? What a summer this had been!

  So he had left school at last and in little over a week become prime suspect in a friend's murder. He thought of Tiger, the school cat, and how he had liked to sit under the tree where the robins nested, waiting for the fledglings—two fledglings.

  Poor old Bagpipe! He'd never had a fair shake with his wheezing. And now this. There'd have to be an inquest, of course. How would their classmates take the news? How many would believe Edward Exeter capable of such a crime? He decided they would judge by the evidence, just as he would. At least this was England and he would be tried by British Justice. It wasn't as if he must deal with Frenchies, who made you prove yourself innocent. British Justice was the best in the world, and it did not make mistakes.

  At least, he did not think it did. Trouble was, he had no idea what the case against him might be. Could he possibly have gone insane, a sort of Doctor Exeter and Mr. Hyde? Was that why he couldn't remember? Lunatics were not hanged, they were shut up in Broadmoor and quite right, too! If he had a Hyde half who went around stabbing people, then his Exeter half would have to be locked up also.

  The bobby had treated him with kid gloves, and that was a rum go. A mere witness would be quizzed much harder than that—especially a witness who couldn't remember anything. He was a minor and an invalid, and the policeman had been very careful and respectful so that he could not be accused of bullying. Edward could recall much worse wiggings from Flora-Dora Ferguson, the maths master. Leatherdale must be absolutely sure his case was watertight, so he was in no special hurry to hear what the suspect might testify.

  At that point in his brooding, Edward heard a familiar voice raised in the corridor and thought, No! Please no! Visiting hours began at two o'clock and it couldn't possibly be even nine in the morning, and yet he knew that voice. He also knew its owner would not be blocked by any hospital rule in Greyfriars, nor by any matron, no matter how intimidating. Nor even by a uniformed constable from the sound of it.

  "Gabriel Heyhoe, don't be absurd. You've known me all your life. I dried your eyes when you wet your pants at King Edward's coronation parade. If you want to prowl through this bouquet in search of hacksaws, then go ahead, but meanwhile stand aside."

  Mrs. Bodgley swept into the room like Boadicea sacking Londinium. She was large and loud. She overawed, and yet normally she somehow combined a booming jollity with as much majesty as Queen Mary herself. She had been the star attraction at Speech Day for as long as Edward could remember and the boys of Fallow worshiped her.

  Today she swung a familiar battered suitcase effortlessly in one hand, and she was dressed all in black from her shoes to her hat. A black glove threw back her veil.

  "Edward, poor chap! How are you feeling?"

  "Fine. Oh, Mrs. Bodgley, I am so sorry!"

  Warning beacons flamed in her eyes, as a policeman loomed in the doorway behind her, his helmet almost touching the lintel. “What exactly do you mean by that statement, Edward?"

  "I mean I'm sorry to hear the tragic news about Timothy, of course."

  "That's what I thought you meant, but you must learn to guard your speech more carefully at present!” She towered above him, peering over her ample black bosom as Big Ben looks down on the Houses of Parliament. “The remark might have been construed as an apology. I brought your things. Your money I extracted and gave to Matron. I put the receipt for it in your wallet. And I brought this book for you. Here."

  He stuttered thanks as she thrust the book at him. “But—"

  "Timothy was enj ... said it was the best book he had ever read, and I thought you would need something to pass the time. No, don't bother thanking me. I'm sure he would have wanted you to have it. And apart from that I had better not stay and chatter or Constable Heyhoe here will suspect me of perverting the course of justice. I want you to know that we—I mean I—do not for one moment believe that you had anything whatsoever to do with what happened and nothing will ever convince me otherwise. I for one know that there was a woman's voice in that cacophony, even if the general ... but we must not discuss details of the case, Edward. Furthermore, I intend to see that you have the best legal advice available and if there is any need for money for your defense, should things come to that unhappy pass, then it will be forthcoming. I have already so instructed my solicitor, Mr. Babcock of Nutall, Nutall, & Shoe. So you are not to worry, and Doctor Stanford assures me that your leg can be expected to mend with no lasting ill effects."

  He opened his mouth and she plunged ahead before he could say a word.

  "Timothy always spoke very well of you, and the few times we have met I have been greatly impressed with you, Edward. I know that your housemaster and Dr. Gibbs rated you highly and I trust their judgment—most of the time and certainly in this. So do not fret. The whole terrible affair will be solved, I am quite sure. Now we must not say another word on the matter!"

  With a grim smile, she swirled around and flowed out of the room, the policeman backing ahead of her. Edward looked down at the book he was holding, and it was a blur.

  A nurse entered, bearing a vase of dahlias that had probably been growing in the grounds of Greyfriars Grange less than an hour ago. She lifted the suitcase from the floor onto the bed.

  "If you want to go through this and take out whatever you need, sir, then I'll take it away. Matron does not approve of luggage lying around in rooms."

  He muttered a response without looking. The book was The Lost World, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  He opened it at random and a bookmark fell out.

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  22

  TWO FLIGHTS UP, THE PRIESTESS WAS PUFFING AND LEANing a sweaty hand on Eleal's shoulder. They turned along another corridor smelling of incense and soap and stale cooking. Eleal was too numb for fear or sorrow. Mostly she felt a sense of loss: loss of her friends, her newfound family, loss of liberty, loss of career, loss even of her pack, which had been refused her. The distant chanting had died away into silence as if she were sinking into the ground, away from the living world. She reached an open door and was pushed inside.

  The room was poky and plain, seemingly clean enough despite its musty smell. Bare stone formed the walls, bare boards the floor and ceiling. It contained a fresh-looking pallet, a chair, a little table, a copy of the Red Scriptures, nothing more. A beam of sunlight angled in through a small window, seeming only to emphasize the shadows. No lamp, no fireplace.

  The priestess released her captive then and sank down gladly on the chair, which creaked—the bulges of her sweat-patched robe suggested a large body. She wiped a sleeve across her forehead. Her hair was hidden under her scarlet headcloth; her face was saggy, padded with chins and rolls of fat, and yet Eleal thought it was the hardest face she had ever seen.

  "My name is Ylla. You address me as ‘Mother.’”

  Eleal said nothing.

  Ylla's smile would have curdled milk. “Kneel down and kiss my shoe."

  Eleal backed away. “No!"

  "Good!” The smile broadened. “We shall make that the test, then, shall we? When you are ready to obey—when you cannot take any more—tell me you are ready to kiss my shoe. Then we shall know that we have broken your spirit. We shall both know. You are entering upon a life of unquestioning obedience."

  She waited for a reply. Not getting one, she narrowed her eyes. “We can try a whipping now if you want."

  "What about Ken'th?"

  Ylla laughed loudly, as if she had been waiting for the question. “Boys and old men pray to Ken'th. Men perform his sacrament willingly enough, but few would be seen dead near his temple!"

  Few women went near his temple either, for Ken'th w
as god of virility. “Is he my father?"

  "Perhaps. The goddess hinted at it. And it would fit with what your grandfather said. Women taken by a god aren't much use afterward."

  That much Eleal knew from the old tales—Ken'th and Ismathon, Karzon and Harrjora. When the god withdrew his interest, the woman died of unrequited love. How strange that Piol Poet had never used either of those two great romances as the basis of a play! (She would never see a Piol play again.)

  How strange to hear Trong described as her grandfather!

  There was no hint of sympathy in the priestess's stony face. “But don't think that makes you special. A mortal's child is a mortal, nothing more."

  Usually less, according to common belief. To call a man godspawn was about the worst insult possible. It implied he was a liar, a wastrel, and a bastard, and his mother had been as bad.

  Eleal thought of Karzon's shrine and that powerful, potent bronze figure. Ken'th also was the Man. What if she prayed to Karzon? She did not even know her mother's name.

  "If you are thinking of appealing to him,” Ylla said contemptuously, “then save your breath. Gods sire bantlings like mortal men spit. I suggest you don't mention it. You are an acolyte in the service of Holy Ois, and older than most, so I must explain a few things."

  She folded her plump hands in her lap. “We get many unwanted girls, usually much younger than you, but most of us are temple bred. My mother was a priestess here, and her mother before her. For eight generations we have served the Lady."

  "And your father?"

  "A worshiper.” Ylla showed her teeth. “A hundred worshipers. Don't try to lord it over me for that, godspawn. In a year or two the Lady will bless you. You will be consecrated by priests, then, and thereafter you will serve her that same way. You will regard it as a great honor."

  "No I won't!"

  The fat priestess laughed, flesh rippling under her robe. “Oh, but you will! When properly instructed, you will be eager to begin. I am forty-five years old. I have borne eight children to her honor and I think I am about to bear another. You also, in your time."