Past Imperative [Round One of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  "The oracle proclaimed me a child of Ken'th."

  "Yecch!” T'lin's red beard twisted in an expression of disgust.

  "It's not my fault!” Eleal protested,

  "No. Nor your mother's either. Can you confirm that, Kollwin Sculptor?"

  "I was told that the oracle implied it. The Lady is always enraged when her lord philanders with mortals."

  Embiliina said, “Oh dear!” and patted Eleal's hand. “It doesn't matter, dear."

  Eleal recalled Ambria in The Judgment of Apharos again. “Peradventure, it may. Both the Lady and the Man decreed that I must not be allowed to fulfill the prophecy."

  "Eltiana yes,” T'lin said. “How do you know about Karzon?"

  Eleal drew a deep breath.

  "A reaper told me."

  Gim sniggered. He looked at his father ... at the dragon trader ... at his mother. His eyes widened.

  "Go on,” T'lin said, his eyes cold marble.

  Eleal told the story carefully, leaving out Dolm's name. She described him only as “a man I know."

  It was a very satisfying performance. When she had finished, Embiliina seemed ready to weep, Gim's eyes were as big as Starlight's, and the two men were staring hard at each other. Dragontrader chewed at his copper mustache. Sculptor had clasped his great hands and was cracking knuckles.

  "By the four moons!” T'lin growled. “Your god is the Joker!"

  "He is,” Kollwin said stubbornly, “but he is my god. We are supposed to get her to the festival, I think."

  "That would be my interpretation."

  Eleal protested. “I'm not sure I want—"

  "You have no choice, girl!"

  "Apparently not,” the dragon trader agreed.

  "Is it possible?"

  T'lin did not answer that. He clawed at his beard with one hand, staring morosely at the range. “We seem to have been sucked into a serious squabble in the Pentatheon! I did not tell you of my first visitor—a doddering old crone trailing an unsheathed sword."

  The others waited in silence. Embiliina moved her lips in prayer.

  "A blue nun, of course,” T'lin continued. “Of all the lunatic regiments of fanatics that harass honest workingmen ... It was barely dawn and I had a hangover. I listened with a patience and politeness that will assuredly let my soul twinkle in the heavens for all Eternity. Then I sent her away!” He clenched a red-hairy fist. “I thought she was senile. I should have known better, I suppose."

  Kollwin raised heavy black brows, pondering in his deliberate fashion. “She came before the oracle spoke?"

  "Before the holy hag could have scampered down there from the temple, at any rate. She babbled about Eleal Singer being in trouble. I pretended I did not know who she was talking about. She smiled as if I was an idiot child, then tottered away, saying she would return. I told my men I would flatten every one of them if she ever got near me again."

  "Who are these blue nuns?” Gim asked, worried.

  "Followers of the goddess of repentance,” said his father. “A strange order, rarely seen in these parts. Harmless pests."

  T'lin shook his head. “But the stories ... When Padsdon Dictator ruled in Lappin—him they called the Cruel—one day he was haranguing the citizens from a balcony and a sister in the crowd pointed her sword up at him and began calling on him to repent. Padsdon's guards could not reach her, and he either could not or would not depart. Before she had finished, he leaped from the balcony and died!"

  Kollwin shrugged dismissively. “You believe that?"

  "I do,” T'lin said with a scowl. “My father was there."

  In the ensuing silence, the range uttered a few thoughtful clicking sounds.

  "So the Maiden is on Eleal's side—the Youth's side,” Embiliina Sculptor said softly, blue eyes filled with concern now. “What of the Source? Have we any word of the All-Knowing?"

  Her husband shook his head. “If the Light has judged, the others would not be still at odds."

  "That is obvious!” Eleal declared. “Tragedies always end with the Parent deciding the issue. It's not time for Visek yet."

  Gim grinned, but no one argued.

  "You must take the girl to Sussland, T'lin Dragontrader,” the sculptor said heavily.

  The big man groaned. “Why me?"

  "Who else? The priests will be scouring the city already. The Lady...” Kollwin shrugged, looking thoughtfully at his son. “It is possible?"

  "Normally I would say it was,” T'lin growled. “Normally I would say I could run over to Filoby and be back before dark. But Susswall is treacherous at the best of times. How will it be now, with the Lady of Snows enraged and bent to stop us? May colic rot my guts! And when I arrive I may find armies of reapers waiting for me!"

  Eleal had already thought of that complication—how could she return to the troupe when Dolm was there?

  Gim was wilting under his father's stare.

  The sculptor cracked his knuckles again. “I shouldn't ask this. Don't answer if you don't want—"

  Gim relaxed and smirked. “No I didn't."

  "Didn't do what?” his mother demanded.

  Kollwin laughed and clapped his son's knee. “When he took his vows last night ... the night before last I suppose it is now ... When he prayed to Tion, he was going to ask to go to the festival. Right, lad?"

  Gim nodded wistfully, looking much more like a child than a romantic hero of damsel-rescuing prowess. “I thought about it, but you asked me not to. So I didn't."

  Now approval shone in his father's smile. “I noticed you didn't actually promise! I was sure you wouldn't be able to resist the opportunity. I'm proud that you did. But the holy one knew how much you want to go. He has overruled us."

  Gim's grin returned instantly. “You mean I get to go?"

  "You have to go, son! You were the one who profaned the Lady's temple. Her priests will blunt their knives on your hide if they catch you. It is your reward, I suppose. You will do this for us, Dragontrader?"

  "It won't take much more avalanche to bury three of us than two,” T'lin agreed morosely.

  Kollwin uttered a snort that would not have shamed the dragon trader. “Four! You think the blue sister has gone back to her nunnery?"

  T'lin threw back his head and howled, but whether from rage or merriment Eleal could not tell. Starlight's answering belch rattled the casement.

  "Oh that does it!” the big man said, heaving to his feet. “That'll waken half the city. That'll fetch every priest in the Lady's temple!"

  Eleal stood up, but he frowned at her.

  "I can't take you! Every lizard in the streets is going to be stopped and questioned. Can you dress this troublesome wench to look like a boy, Embiliina Sculptor?"

  Gim's mother looked Eleal over and pursed her lips. “I think we have some old castoffs that will fit."

  "Excellent!” T'lin turned a thoughtful gaze on Gim. “Never knew a city without a lovers’ gate."

  "I know a way over the wall, sir,” the boy said.

  T'lin nodded. “Have you a trade yet, stripling?"

  Gim smiled nervously. “I am apprenticed to my uncle, Golthog Painter. I play the lyre, but..."

  "As of now you're Gim Wrangler!” Dragontrader pulled a face. “Remember I hired you in Lappin last Neckday and I pay you one crescent a fortnight.” He grinned. “But I may make it two. I don't usually pay that for greenies, understand, but you made a good start on impressing me tonight. Bring the girl down to my outfit as soon as she's ready. You'll impress me a lot more if you make it."

  "Very generous of you, sir!” Gim straightened his shoulders. “The god will guard us."

  "He'll have to.” T'lin on his feet could not have dominated the kitchen more effectively had he been one of his dragons. He swung around to the sculptor. “What of you and your lovely wife? The priests will be after you also."

  Husband and wife exchanged glances. “Us and our other fledglings?” Kollwin said. “What sort of a family picnic are you planning to conduct o
ver Narshwall, T'lin Dragontrader?” He shook his head. “We have friends who will help us offer penance to assuage the Lady's wrath."

  T'lin did not argue—he had scowled at the mention of children. “Probably cost you a whole new temple.” He stooped to cup Eleal's chin in his raspy hand. He tilted her face up and frowned at her menacingly. “Most women wait until they have tits. You have set the world on its ears already, minx!"

  Eleal had been thinking the same, but she knew Ambria would not tolerate such vulgarity. She assumed her most disapproving expression. “Wait ‘till you see what I'm going to do in Suss, Dragontrader,” she said.

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  32

  A DOGCART STOOD UNDER THE GASLIGHTS. THE DRIVER jumped down and came trotting up the steps. He wore a sporty suit and a bowler hat, but no overcoat. He was scowling under a bristly hedge of eyebrows. He had a clipped, military-style mustache, and a clipped, military-style bark: “You brought him!"

  "Aye!” Mr. Oldcastle chortled. All Edward could see of him was the crown of his hat and his Astrakhan collar. “I bring thee a doughty cockerel for thy flock—truly a recruit of sinew."

  "The devil you do! But I'm not at all sure I want him, don't you know?"

  "Well, thou hast him now. Present thyself by whatever name thou deemest most fitting."

  The man eyed Edward disapprovingly. “Name's Creighton I knew your father.” He began to offer a hand, then realized that both of Edward's were engaged. He was obviously an army man, very likely Army of India, for there was a faint lilt to his speech that such men sometimes picked up after years of commanding native troops.

  "Pleased to meet you, sir,” Edward said. Balanced precariously on one foot and his crutches, he was shaking so violently that he was frightened he might fall, and the thought was terrifying.

  "By Jove!” Creighton said. “The man looks all in. Couldn't you have made things easier for him, sir?"

  Mr. Oldcastle thumped the ferrule of his walking stick on the granite step with a sharp crack. “I have already expended resources I would fain husband!"

  Creighton's reaction was surprising. As a class, Anglo-Indian officers were self-assured in the extreme, yet he recoiled from the little old civilian's testiness. “Of course, sir! I meant no criticism. You know we are extremely grateful for your assistance."

  "I know it not, sirrah, when you presume so.” Then came the familiar dry chuckle. “Besides, I let him demonstrate his mettle. He tests an admirable temper in the forge."

  "I expect he does,” Creighton said offhandedly. “But he cannot cross over with that leg."

  "It shall be attended to, Colonel."

  "Ah!” Creighton brightened. “Very generous of you, sir. Well, lean on me, lad. We'd best get you out of here, since you obviously can't go back."

  Edward could tell he was not welcome, but that was hardly surprising. War or not, there was going to be a hue and cry after him very shortly. “I have no desire to cause trouble, sir."

  "You already have. Not your fault. And my esteemed friend here has made a good point. I know spunk when I see it. Just what I would expect of your father's son. Come."

  After that remark, Edward had no choice but to descend the steps and install himself in the dogcart without screaming even once.

  Creighton took the reins, with Mr. Oldcastle sitting beside him. Edward sprawled along the backward-facing bench behind them. The pony's hooves clattered along the deserted road. Soon the gaslights of Greyfriars were left behind, and they were clopping along a country lane under a bright moon. He had been rescued from both the law and the knife-wielding woman, but he was now a fugitive from justice, utterly dependent on Mr. Oldcastle and this Colonel Creighton. He did not know who they were or what their interest in him was.

  He was wearing a shift and a dressing gown, one shoe and a straw hat—hardly the sort of inconspicuous garb he would have chosen for a jailbreak, and certainly not enough for small hours travel in England, even in August. He shivered as the cool air dried his sweat. His leg throbbed maliciously with every bounce and lurch. He suspected it was swelling inside the bandages; he wondered what more damage he had done to the shattered bones. He felt utterly beat.

  "Gentlemen?” he said after a while. “Can you tell me what's going on?"

  Creighton snorted. “Not easily. Ask."

  "I didn't kill Timothy Bodgley—did I?"

  "No. The objective was to kill you. He got in the way, I presume. Damned shame, but lucky for you."

  "Why, sir? Why should anyone want to kill me?"

  "That I am not prepared to reveal at this time,” Creighton said brusquely. “But the culprits are the same people who killed your parents."

  After a moment, Edward said, “With all due respect, sir, that is not possible. The Nyagatha killers were all caught and hanged."

  Creighton did not turn his head, concentrating on the dark road ahead. His rapid-fire speech was quite loud enough to be heard, though.

  "I don't mean that bunch of blood-crazed nigs. They were dupes. I mean the ones who incited them to go berserk."

  "The missionaries who threw down their idols? But they were the first—"

  "The Chamber was behind that Nyagatha incident, and even then the purpose was to kill you."

  "Me?” Edward said incredulously. “What chamber?"

  "You. Or prevent you from being born, actually. There was a misunderstanding. It's a very long story and you couldn't possibly believe it if I told you now. Wait a while."

  That ended the conversation. He was right—Edward could not even believe what he had already seen and heard. To be suspected of killing Bagpipe was bad enough. To be held responsible for his parents’ death and the whole Nyagatha bloodbath would be infinitely worse.

  And yet that cryptic Jumbo letter had hinted at unknown dangers and secrets his parents had not lived to tell him. Whoever Jumbo was, he had never received that letter.

  Damnation! He had forgotten to bring the Jumbo letter! It was back at the hospital.

  Obviously there was not going to be any logical, mundane explanation. Mr. Oldcastle had said that those behind this whole horrible mystery were involved in the outbreak of a worldwide war, and he had claimed that the ringlets woman had occult abilities to bypass locks—implying that she had both entered Fallow and exited Greyfriars Abbey through bolted doors. The little man himself had sent her away without any visible use or threat of force. One or the other of them had most certainly arranged for the patients and staff of the hospital to be smitten with inexplicable deafness, at the very least. Where had all the nurses gone? Had they met the same fate as Bagpipe? How had Mr. Oldcastle himself arrived in answer to Edward's Shakespearean summons?

  None of it made real-world sense, nor ever would. You could not expect Sherlock Holmes if you already had Merlin.

  The only brightness in the murky affair was the thought of Inspector Leatherdale's face when he learned of his suspect's disappearance.

  A halt and sudden stillness jerked Edward out of a shivery daze. Creighton jumped down at the same moment. He went to open a gate and lead the pony through it. After it was shut again, he scrambled back to the bench and the dogcart went lurching slowly across a meadow, climbing gently. The sky was starting to brighten in the east, and the moon was just setting.

  Edward was not sure how long they had been traveling—an hour, perhaps—and he had no idea where he was, but then his familiarity with the country around Fallow did not extend as far as Greyfriars. Lately Mr. Oldcastle had been giving directions, so Colonel Creighton did not know either.

  He was stiff and cold. His leg throbbed abominably. But he was alive, and at the moment he was free. Both conditions might be transitory.

  Beyond another gate the track was thickly overgrown, winding into the patch of woodland that crowned the little hill. The pony picked its way cautiously, brush crackled under the wheels, and overhead the sky was almost hidden by foliage. The air smelled heavily of wet leaves. After about ten m
inutes of that, the trail ended completely, ferns and high grass giving way to bracken and broom. No farmer's cattle grazed here. A faint predawn light was evident, but not enough to show colors, only shades of gray.

  Creighton reined in. “We get out here, Exeter. I'll give you a hand down."

  Getting out of the dogcart was even worse than getting in. The accursed leg felt ready to burst the bandages and the splints as well. The grass was cold and wet.

  "Leave one crutch and lean on me,” Creighton said. “Just a few steps. And leave your hat, too."

  In that undergrowth, a few steps were plenty. Eventually Edward reeled and almost fell.

  "Two more yards'll do it,” Creighton said. “Other side of this stone. Good man. Now, you'd best sit down. No—on the grass. I expect it'll be chilly on your you-know-what, but this shouldn't take long."

  Edward was already aware that the long grass was soaked with dew, and he did not see why he should not try to make himself comfortable on the wall instead, but he was hugely relieved just to sit, leaning back with his hands in the dewy leaves, his legs stretched out before him. He took a moment to catch his breath and then looked around. Creighton was kneeling at his side, bareheaded. It was highly unusual to see an Englishman out of doors without a hat.

  "Where's Mr. Oldcastle?"

  "He's around somewhere,” Creighton said softly. “He can undoubtedly hear what you say. Any guesses as to what this place is?"

  Puzzled, Edward took another look. The trees were mostly oaks, but very thickly grown together, mixed with a few high beeches. The stillness was absolute—not a bird, nothing. Eerie! He was tempted to start cracking jokes, and knew that was merely a sign of funk. Funk would also explain his teeth's strong desire to chatter, however much he might prefer to blame the cold.

  The low wall at his side was not a wall at all, but a long boulder, mossy and buried in the undergrowth. Eventually he made out a tall shape within the bracken at the far side of the glade. Then another, and he realized that he was within a circle of standing stones. Scores of them dotted the countryside of southwestern England, relics of a long-forgotten past. Sometimes the stones were still upright, sometimes they had fallen or been pushed down by followers of newer gods. The great boulder beside him had been part of the circle.