Past Imperative [Round One of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  He hurled the dish with all his strength. “ ... so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility ... ” She had not expected his attack and the missile took her full in the face. She stumbled back with a cry; the dish clanged and clattered on the linoleum. “ ... imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews..."

  He started to reach for the bell again, but it meant extending himself and would leave him open. He needed that hand for throwing. “ ... hard-favored rage ... ” She flashed toward him, cursing in some foreign tongue and raising her blade. “ ... then lend the eye a terrible aspect ... ” He hurled the water carafe, she flailed it aside; glass crashed. Where was everybody? “ ... like the brass cannon; let the brow ... ” He followed with the tumbler and scored a hit. “ ... galléd rock o'erhang ... ” He was o'erhanging the side of the bed now, earthquakes of agony running through his leg.

  She was holding back, watching him, a sinister dark shape. He continued to scream out his speech as loudly as he could: “Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide ... ” He had Bagpipe's book ready. Why, why, was no one coming? “ ... on, you noble English, whose blood ... ” She lunged forward and he hurled Conan Doyle. He thought it hit her, but she laughed, and spoke again in her guttural accent. “What next, Dvard?"

  She was right; he was running out of missiles. Why could no one hear him? He had never been louder in his life. “Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war.” She came, fast as an adder. He swung farther to the right as she slashed down at him, flailing his pillow around with his left hand, parrying the blow. But he had almost fallen off the bed, and the jolt on his leg brought a howl to his throat. That was the worst ever—he thought he would faint, and thrust the possibility away. Feathers swirled like smoke. He scrabbled with his right hand and found the empty urinal bottle. “ ... none of you so mean and base ... ” He swung it as a club against her arm as she struck again, wishing it had been weighted with contents. She cried out and dropped the knife on the floor. He tried to grab her dress with his left hand, thinking he might be able to strangle her if he could pull her close, but she slipped away. Oh—his leg again!

  His throat was sore with shouting, “I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips ... ” She made a dive to snatch up the knife. He swung the bottle at her head and missed. She came at him again and this time he thought it was all over “ ... straining upon the start. THE GAME'S AFOOT!"

  "Desist!” said a new voice in the corner.

  The woman spun around with a shriek.

  Edward had not seen him come in, but without question this was the same Mr. Oldcastle he had imagined before. Even in his fur-collared overcoat, with his ancient beaver hat set square on his head, he was a small and unimpressive ally. Yet, with one hand pointing his cane at the armed madwoman and the other tucked in his pocket, he was certainly the calmest person present.

  "Begone, strumpet! Go lick thy scurvy masters’ boots in penance lest they feed thy carrion carcass to the hounds."

  The woman hesitated, then fled out the door without a word. Her footsteps seemed to fade away almost instantly.

  The crisis was over.

  "Hey!” Edward gasped. “Stop her!"

  "Nay, nay, bully lad, it were no profit to deed her to the watch.” Mr. Oldcastle removed his hat and brushed it absently with his sleeve. “That wight has been accorded arts to rook their locks and manacles. Wouldst sooner close a cockatrice in a cockboat than jail yon jade."

  "You mean,” Edward said, easing himself back onto the bed, “she can get out through a bolted door?” He was soaked and shaking, his heart seemed to be running the Grand National, jumps and all, but he was alive. He was almost sobbing with the pain, but he was alive.

  "Aye, or in withal. Had they who seek thy soon demise invested her with deeper skills, thou hadst not fared so well.” The little man chuckled. “The recitation was most gamely done! It wanted something in smoothness of phrasing, methinks, but ‘twas furnished well in vehemence. Hal himself could not have seasoned the lines with greater spice."

  He stepped over to the bed and peered down at Edward with an intent expression on his puckish, wrinkled face. He brought a strange odor of mothballs with him. “The pain in thy leg is not beyond thy strength to bear."

  "Er. No, it's not too bad.” Edward panted a few times. “Amazingly good, considering.” It was not what he would describe as comfortable. He did not need a bullet to bite on, but he was making his teeth work hard.

  "It needs suffice for the nonce. Compose thyself a moment. I shall return betimes."

  With that Mr. Oldcastle laid his hat and cane carefully on the bed and bustled over to the door. Edward caught a brief glimpse of his tiny, stooped shape against the light, and he had gone.

  "Angels and ministers of grace defend me!” he muttered, as this seemed to be Shakespeare night. “What in the name of glory is going on here?” His heartbeat was gradually returning to normal. He was definitely awake and not dreaming. Feathers and water and sparkles of glass on the lino—and splatters of blood also, so he must have scored a hit, perhaps with the tumbler.

  And certainly an antique hat and stick lay on the bed, so Mr. Jonathan Oldcastle had really been present and did intend to return. Perhaps he had popped over to Druids Close, the town that received mail and did not exist? Steady, old chap! We'll have no hysterics here.

  Strangest of all—why was the hospital not in chaotic uproar? The racket should have wakened every patient on the floor and brought every nurse for miles. Edward thought about trying the bell and then decided to wait for his mysterious guardian to come back.

  That did not take long. The little man minced in with a pale garment over his shoulder, carrying a pair of crutches almost as long as himself. His stoop and the forward thrust of his head made him seem to be hurrying even when he was not.

  "Thy baggage waits without, Master Exeter.” He uttered the little cackling chuckle that was now starting to sound very familiar. “And thy breakage must wait within! Do don this Oxford.” He handed Edward a recognizable left shoe and threw down a dressing gown across his chest.

  "Hold a minute, sir! I can't walk on this leg!"

  "Indeed you will have to make like the wounded plover, dangling a limb to lure the plunderer from the nest. Be speedy, my brave, for worse monsters than the harlot may soon snuff thy scent, such as may overtop my wilted powers.” Mr. Oldcastle proceeded to fumble with the tackle that held Edward's leg in traction.

  "But running away is an admission of guilt!"

  "Staying will be a demonstration of mortality."

  Edward's response was stifled by a searing jolt of pain as the leg settled on the bed. He glared up at the old man until he had caught his breath and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.

  The puckish face frowned. “Ah, my young butty, dost not know that dragons of war are now full awakened? Beacon fires shall become funeral pyres and flames will consume a generation. Horror soon bestrides the world."

  "Yes, but what has that to do—"

  "Master Edward, those same elements that spawned this evil dissonance can now turn satisfied from that labor and address their intent to destroying thee. Until now they minded more those weightier matters particular to their desires. Thee they gave but little thought, for you are a mere favor they perform for other parties—who shall shortly be discovered to you. Thus thy foes dispatched to your dispatch only that demented trollop who has thrice ineptly sought to undo thee. Now at greater leisure they will loose such grievous raptors to contrive thy demise that thou surely will not see another dawn unless you now take urgent flight."

  In other words: Beat it!

  Absurd as it sounded, his convoluted speech carried conviction. There was no arguing with his obvious sincerity—after all, he had undoubtedly saved Edward's life a few moments ago. Edward pulled up his left leg and struggled into the shoe.

  The next few minutes were a stroll on the cobbles of Hell. He made the distance, but only because he chose to regard i
t as a test of manhood. He sat up and donned the dressing gown. His right foot was lowered to the floor with much help from Mr. Oldcastle, and he pushed himself up to stand on the left. Then he was on his crutches, heading across the litter of feathers to the door. To hold his right leg up was agony; to let it touch the ground was infinitely worse.

  It wasn't going to work, of course. The nurses would see him and take him back. They would telephone the police. But he had no breath to argue, and he sweated every step in silence along the wide, dim corridor, wobbling on his crutches with Mr. Oldcastle at his side. The little man had recovered his hat and silver-topped walking stick, and seemed to be fighting back a case of fidgets at the cripple's tortoise pace.

  The duty desk was deserted. His old battered suitcase stood beside it, his boater resting on top. Mr. Oldcastle placed this on his head for him at a jaunty angle and took charge of the case. Then he went ahead and opened the door to the stairs.

  Edward tried to say, “There's a lift,” but he had his teeth so tightly clenched that the words would not come out. Mr. Oldcastle might think that the rackety old cage would bring nurses and orderlies running, or perhaps he did not understand modern machinery. Edward went down three flights of stairs on one foot, one crutch, and a white hand gripping the rail. Mr. Oldcastle carried the other crutch. From the way he managed the suitcase, he must be much stronger than he looked.

  There was no one about, no one even tending the admittance desk by the front door. Edward reeled out of the hospital into the cool night air, wondering if he had left a trail of sweat all the way from his bed.

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  30

  "WOSOK!” GIM COMMANDED FIRMLY, BUT NOTHING happened. Starlight had his head down, buried in T'lin Dragontrader's loving embrace, and was purring so hard he could not hear the order.

  "Wosok!” T'lin murmured. The dragon sank down on his belly, still nuzzling his owner and purring loud enough to waken the neighborhood.

  There could be few places in cramped Narsh where a dragon might be hidden, but a sculptor's yard was one of them. Even so, Starlight was squeezed in between blocks of stone and half-completed monuments, and the space was hardly enough. A man with a lantern had just closed the gates.

  Eleal swung a leg hastily over the pommel plate and slid to the ground in an undignified rush, wincing as her bare feet struck gravel. She had barely rearranged her robe when Gim landed beside her, stumbled, and pitched over with a shrill oath. That was not a very dignified descent for a noble hero on what must surely be his first chivalrous exploit. He scrambled up, muttering and sucking an injured palm.

  Eleal had taken two unsteady steps toward T'lin when a portly woman came rushing out of the house with another lantern.

  "My dear! You must be frozen! Come inside quickly.” She propelled Eleal bodily over the sharp gravel and into a cozy, fragrant kitchen, brightened by no less than four candles. Swathed in llama wool blankets, Eleal was tucked into a chair close to the big iron range. The woman swung the door open and clattered a poker in among the glowing coals. Then she began stoking it with big lumps of coal from a shiny brass scuttle, using brass tongs. Shiny copper pans hung on one wall. There was a tasseled rug on the floor; painted china plates stood along a shelf so the pictures on them were visible. Gim's family might not live in a palace like the king of Jurg, but they were wealthy compared with a troupe of actors.

  Eleal began to shiver uncontrollably. She could not tell whether that was from the change of temperature or from nervous reaction, but she felt in danger of falling apart.

  "Hot soup!” the woman proclaimed as if invoking a major god. Granting the range fire a few moments’ mercy, she knelt to bundle her visitor's feet in her own still-warm fleece coat.

  Eleal forced her reply through chattering teeth. “That would be wonderful, thank you."

  "Vegetable or chicken broth?"

  "No chicken please!"

  "I'm Gim's mother, Embiliina Sculptor, and you must be Eleal Singer."

  "Yes, but how—"

  "Explanations later!” Embiliina insisted. She was much less bulky without her coat and hood. In fact, she was slim and surprisingly youthful to be mother of a boy as old as Gim. Her features were fine-drawn, her complexion pale and speckled with millions of tiny fair freckles. Her hair was a spun red-gold, hanging in big loose curls to her shoulders. She wore a quality dress of the same blue shade as her eyes. She wore a smile.

  T'lin Dragontrader strode in, filling the room, black turban almost touching the ceiling. His weather-beaten face and coppery beard seemed vulgar and barbaric alongside Embiliina's more delicate red-gold coloring. He began to peel off outer garments, scowling at nothing with a taut, grim expression. When he stepped closer to warm his fingers at the range, he was still avoiding Eleal's eye.

  And the door closed behind the man who must be Gim's father. He was of middle height and husky, although he looked small alongside the dragon trader. He clasped Eleal's icy hand in one twice as large and rough as a rasp, studying her with solemn coal black eyes. He was as swarthy as his wife was fair.

  "I am Kollwin Sculptor."

  "Eleal Singer."

  He nodded. “You are younger than I imagined. If you did what I think you did, then you're a brave lass.” He spoke with great deliberation, as if reading his words.

  "I d-d-didn't have time to think! The honor is G-g-gim's."

  The dark man shook his head. “The honor is the god's. Gim has gone to thank him for a safe return. When you are ready, you will wish to visit him also?"

  "Of course! At once.” Eleal stood up shakily.

  "Later!” Embiliina said, clattering pots. “The child's half-froze to death and the soup—"

  Eleal had almost resumed her seat when the sculptor said, “First things first.” His voice was slow, but not to be argued with. “You will promise not to discuss or reveal the place I am about to take you?"

  That settled Eleal's indecision—her curiosity reared like a startled dragon. “Of course! I swear I never shall,” she said eagerly.

  The sculptor nodded and turned to T'lin. “Dragontrader?"

  But T'lin had found himself a chair and spread out his long legs. He was a startling, many-colored sight in variegated leggings and a doublet of embroidered quilting. He was also a figure of menace. His long sword in its green scabbard lay by his feet, he still wore his black turban. He shook his head. “Secrets make me nervous. They are more often evil than good."

  Kollwin's ruddy face seemed to bunch up with shock at the refusal. “It is no great secret, a shrine to Tion. Just ... private."

  T'lin's green eyes stared back coldly. “Then why require oaths of secrecy?"

  "Because there are valuables there and I do not want them talked around. Not everyone is above stealing from a god."

  "Gods can afford the loss better than us poor workers. No, I shall give thanks in my own fashion later."

  Kollwin scratched a dark-stubbled cheek in contemplation. “Has that ring in your ear some special significance, Dragontrader?"

  T'lin drooped his red eyebrows menacingly. “If it has, then it did not deter your god when he needed my assistance."

  The sculptor thought for a moment and seemed to accept the reasoning, although he was not pleased. “Come then, Eleal Singer."

  "Just a moment!” Embiliina barred the way like an enraged deity. “You are not to drag that poor child outside again on a night like this in her bare feet."

  There was a minor delay while Eleal donned her hostess's boots and fleece coat, all much too large for her. There was another minor delay when Kollwin tried to go out and came face-to-face with a dragon. Starlight, being as nosy as any of his kind, had wriggled forward to see what was going on and his head filled the doorway.

  "Try opening the drape,” T'lin said drily from his chair. “And close the door before he tries to come in."

  That worked. The great head swung over to peer in the window, and then the sculptor was able to squeeze ou
t past the scaly shoulder, followed by Eleal, stepping over claws like sickles.

  Ysh's tiny disk shed her cold blue light through a gap in the clouds, sparkling like frost on the dragon's scales. Carrying a lantern, Kollwin Sculptor led Eleal all around the dragon to reach a small shed against the wall of the yard. The door was open, but she noticed that the timber was thick and it bore at least three locks. If that was merely “private,” then what was “secret” like? The inside was cluttered with all the litter she might have expected: tools and balks of wood and oddly shaped scraps of stone or metal. More interesting than those was the trapdoor in the floor, and a staircase descending.

  The sculptor went first, lighting the way. “This is very old.” His voice echoed up eerily. “There was probably a temple here, once upon a time."

  And now there was a shrine. The room was small and low, more like an oddly shaped volume of shadow than a chamber, a bricked-off portion of an ancient cellar. Where the walls were visible, some parts were of very rough, crude masonry, others had been cut out of living rock. The only light came from a pair of braziers standing on a rug, thick and richly colored and oddly out of place. Those were the only furniture. The air was chill and yet headily scented with incense.

  Beyond the rug was an alcove, and in the alcove stood the god.

  Gim knelt on stone in the center of the chamber, but he must have concluded his devotions, because he scrambled to his feet and turned to smile a welcome as the newcomers approached. It was the first time Eleal had really seen him. He was still bulky as a bear in his coat, but he had removed his hat, revealing a floppy tangle of gold curls, and his eyes were as blue as his mother's. His lip bore a faint pink fuzz, which he probably thought of as a mustache. Politely disregarding that, she concluded that her rescuer could be considered a very handsome young man—how appropriate! She returned his smile. Only then did she look at the god.

  The image had not been set in the alcove. Rather, the mottled yellow stone of the cave had been dug out to leave Tion in high relief, exquisitely carved. He was life-size, identifiable by a beardless face and by the pipes he held. The Youth was most often depicted nude, but here he wore a narrow scarf around his loins—an impractical garment that would rapidly fall off any mortal. He was striding forward out of the rock, one foot on the floor and the other still buried in the wall. He held his head slightly bent and turned, as if he were about to put the pipes to his lips or had just finished playing, while his eyes looked out at the visitors with a curiously enigmatic smile. As the creeping flames of the braziers danced, reflections moved on his limbs, his shadow fidgeted on the back of the hollow. He almost seemed to breathe.