Past Imperative [Round One of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  Feeling very uneasy, he said, “It makes me think of The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent."

  "You're on the right track. It's very old. And what we are about to do is very old, also—there's a price to pay. You're going to have to trust me in this."

  Creighton had produced a large clasp knife. He unfastened his right cuff and pulled back his sleeve to uncover his wrist. He drew the blade across the back of it, holding it to the side, well clear of his pants. He stretched out his arm and let the blood dribble on the mossy boulder. In the gloom it seemed black.

  He passed the knife to Edward.

  It was exam time.

  Edward wondered what Uncle Roland would say if he were present, and thought he could guess the exact words.

  The cutting hurt more than he expected, like cold fire, and his first attempt was a craven scratch that hardly bled at all. He gritted his teeth and slashed harder. Blood poured out, and he adorned the stone with it—like a dog peeing on a post, he thought.

  "Good man,” Creighton muttered. He accepted the knife back, closed it one-handed, and dropped it in his pocket.

  "Now what, sir?"

  The reply was a whisper. “Wait until it stops dripping. Don't speak—and it may be best if you keep your eyes down and don't look too directly at, er, anything you may notice."

  Edward himself could refrain from speech, but his teeth were going to chatter. His fingers and toes were icy. Even his leg seemed to have gone numb; it hardly throbbed at all now.

  Something moved at the far side of the circle, a shadow in the undergrowth. He tried not to stare, but that was not easy. Whatever or whoever was moving might have been very hard to see clearly in any case.

  The shape flitted from stone to stone, peering around this one, over that one, darting to and fro, pausing to study the visitors like a squirrel or a bird inspecting a tempting crust. A man? A boy, perhaps? He made no sound. He was a darkness in the shrubbery, as if shadow went with him, or was deeper where he was. He would grow brave and approach with a mincing, dancing step, then suddenly scamper back as if he had taken fright or had decided that the other way around the circle would be a safer approach.

  Gradually Edward built a picture in his mind: no clothes, thin, terribly thin, and no larger than a child. His head seemed clouded with silver hair, but without taking a direct look, Edward could not decide if it was a juvenile ash-blond or white with age. He was too small and much too young to be Mr. Oldcastle, and yet there was something familiar about him—the way he held his head forward, perhaps? Or perhaps he was much too old to be Mr. Oldcastle. He was not an illusion.

  He was not human, either, and the grove was silent as a grave.

  Advance, retreat, advance ... At last the numen was only ten or twelve feet away, behind the closest of the standing pillars. He peeked round one side, then the other. There was a pause. Then he repeated the process. Suddenly the decision was made. With a silent rush, he scampered through the undergrowth and took refuge on the far side of the fallen boulder, out of sight but more or less within reach.

  Edward discovered that he was growing faint from holding his breath too long. What was now on the other side of this rock? Out of the corner of his eye he watched the streaks of blood, half-expecting them to disappear, but they didn't.

  The voice when it came was very soft, like a single stirring of wind in the grass. “Take off the splints, Edward."

  There was no doubt about the words, though, nor the meaning, and no Shakespearean mumbo jumbo either. Exam time. Finals.

  Edward looked down at the white cocoon of bandage that extended from his toes to the top of his thigh. Then he looked at Creighton, who was staring back at him expectantly.

  A cripple on the run could hardly be any worse off. Edward began to fumble with pins and bandages. In a moment, Creighton handed him the knife again. Then it went faster. No use wondering how he was going to wrap the whole thing up again.

  He wasn't. He knew that. He ripped and tugged until his leg was uncovered—damned good leg, not a thing wrong with it.

  Creighton doubled forward until his face was on his knees, and stayed there, arms outstretched.

  Oh, Uncle Roland, what do you say now?

  Edward pulled his legs in under him—no trace of stiffness, even—and adopted the same position, kneeling with head down and arms extended.

  God or devil, it was only right to thank the numen for mercy received, wasn't it?

  A few moments later, the pony jingled harness and began to munch grass. A bird chirruped, then others joined in, and soon the glade exploded into song. The sky was light, leaves rustled in a breeze that had not been there a minute before. The world had awakened from an ancient dream.

  Creighton straightened up. Edward copied him. Then they scrambled to their feet, not looking at each other. There was no one else present, of course.

  Edward closed the knife and offered it.

  "Leave it,” Creighton said gruffly. “And the bandages also.” He strode over to turn the pony.

  Feeling very thoughtful, Edward gathered up the bandages, the splints, the crutch. He laid them tidily alongside the bloodstains. He limped after Creighton in one shoe and one bare foot, but when he reached the dogcart, Creighton silently handed him the second crutch.

  He hobbled all the way back to the circle again. The grass was trampled where he and Creighton had knelt. On the other side of the stone, where the numen had been, there was no sign that it had ever been disturbed. What else would you expect?

  He stooped to lay his burden with the other offerings. Then he changed his mind and deliberately knelt down first. He bowed his head again and softly said, “Thank you, sir!"

  He thought he heard a faint chuckle and an even softer voice saying, “Give my love to Ruat."

  It was only the wind, of course.

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  33

  WHEN PLAYING CHILLY NARSH, THE TROUPE WAS forced to compromise on classical costuming. In her herald role, Eleal had worn long Joalian stockings under her tunic and still shivered; she had never experimented with real Narshian menswear. It was even more fiendishly uncomfortable than she had suspected—and difficult! In warmer lands the deception would not have been possible at all, for although she had not matured in the way T'lin had so crudely mentioned, she had progressed to the point where she would not be mistaken for a boy if she paraded around in just a loincloth. So there were advantages to the Narshland climate after all, but she would never have managed to dress without Embiliina's motherly assistance.

  The breechclout was a band with a tuck-over flap. Then came well-darned wool socks and the diabolical fleece leggings, cross-gartered all the way up, the tops held by a web strap that looped around the back of her neck. How fortunate that she had little bosom yet to worry about! On top went a wool shirt for the mountains, so often washed that it was thick as felt, and a smock that reached halfway down her thighs; then boots. She pinned up her hair under a pointed hat that tickled her ears. She eyed herself disapprovingly in the looking glass. As she had been warned, the garments were all shabby castoffs. One of her leggings had a hole in the knee and the other was patched.

  "How does it feel?” Embiliina Sculptor said, smiling.

  "Drafty!"

  "Mmm.” Gim's mother chuckled mischievously. “Men seem to like the freedom. If you need to, er ... well, pick a good thick bush to go behind, won't you, dear?"

  Her smile was so inviting that for a moment Eleal wanted to throw herself into this so-kindly lady's arms. Her eyes prickled and she turned away quickly. She was no longer a mere waif supported by a troupe of actors and given odd jobs to make her feel useful. In some way she did not understand in the slightest she was important—a Personage of Historic Significance! She must behave appropriately. Perhaps in a hundred years poets like Piol would be writing great plays about her.

  She headed for the bedroom door. Without her specially made boot, her walk was very awkward. Not just Clip, clop, but rather
Step, lurch ... “Fortunately,” she said brightly, “my dramatic training has taught me how to portray boys."

  "Er ... yes. This way, dear."

  Gim was waiting in the kitchen, bareheaded, but otherwise already wrapped in outdoor wear. He had a lyre case slung on his shoulder. He smirked bravely when he saw Eleal, but the smirk faded quickly. His eyelids were pink, as if he was fighting back tears. It was all very well to trust a god, but she wished Tion had provided a more convincing, experienced champion to escort her.

  His father looked even more worried, trying to act proud.

  "Oh, dear!” Embiliina said. “Have you said good-bye to your sisters?"

  "They're asleep, Mother!"

  "Yes, but did you go in and see them so I can tell them you did?"

  "Yes, Mother,” Gim said with exaggerated patience. He turned to his father. “I don't suppose I can go and say goodbye to Inka, can I?"

  Kollwin shook his head. “I don't think Dilthin Builder would be very happy to have you hammering on his door at this hour. Your mother will tell Inka in the morning and give her your love."

  "And tell her I'll write?"

  "And tell her that you'll write. Now you must hurry. The entire watch must be searching for Eleal Singer by now. The priests will have half the city roused. Keep your eyes open. Hurry, but don't be rash. And especially look out for pickets around the trader's camp—they must know she escaped on a dragon."

  Gim's fair face seemed to turn even paler. “What'll I do then?"

  "You're the hero, son. I think you leave the girl by the wall and go on alone to investigate—but you'll have to make your own judgment."

  Gim nodded unhappily. “The guards may just arrest Dragontrader and seize his stock!"

  "No. That'd need a hearing before the magistrates—but I suppose they may even drag them out of bed for something this big. Off with you, my boy, and trust in the god."

  The ensuing farewells became openly tearful. Eleal turned her back and tried not to listen. She could not help but think that no one had ever said good-bye to her like that.

  She had no baggage except a few odd clothes Embiliina had insisted on giving her, and they were easily tucked into the top of Gim's pack. He was already burdened with the lyre, but he made indignant noises when Eleal offered to carry either. He strode off along the dark, windy street, long legs going like swallows’ wings. Suddenly he slowed down and peered at her.

  "Why're you limping?"

  "I'm not. It's just your imagination."

  "Good!” Gim said, and speeded up again. He seemed to have forgotten that she was the heroine and he only her guardian, but she would never ask him to go more slowly, not ever! Soon she was panting in the heavy fleece coat that had been added to all her other ridiculous garments. She grew hot, except where the night wind reached. Perhaps men would be better behaved if they dressed more comfortably.

  At the first corner Gim stopped and peered around cautiously. Then he strode off again into the wind.

  "Who's Inka?” she asked.

  "My girlfriend, of course."

  "Pretty?"

  "Gorgeous!"

  "You love her?"

  "Course!"

  "Does she love you?"

  "Very much! You scared?"

  "Yes. You?"

  "Horribly."

  He was supposed to be a strong, comforting supporter! He had not studied his role very well. “You weren't scared on the dragon, were you?"

  Gim turned into a narrow alley. “Yes I was—and Holy Tion had shown me that bit! He didn't show me this at all. Along here. Besides, all I had to do was shout Choopoo! and close my eyes and hang on. I'm a painter, not a hero!"

  Of course he was brave! Of course he must be a hero if the god had chosen him. She decided Gim Sculptor's modesty was more admirable than Klip Trumpeter's pretenses.

  "And I'm an actor, not a Historic Personage."

  He chuckled. “I wouldn't believe you were either if the gods didn't keep saying so. What you need instead of me, Eleal Singer, is someone like Darthon Warrior."

  "You came?” she exclaimed.

  "Dad took me. Just the Varilian. Couldn't follow half of it. Wish you'd done a masque."

  "So do I. I get to sing three songs in the masque."

  He did not ask for details, so she prompted, “Was I a convincing herald?"

  "You were all right,” Gim conceded, “if heralds were ever girls."

  Eleal did not say another word to him for quite some time.

  He led her along narrow lanes, down smelly alleys, across cramped, sinister courtyards. Soon she was hopelessly lost, but he insisted this was a shortcut. She kept thinking of Kollwin Sculptor's warnings about the guard, but the streets seemed to hold no people, only windy darkness. Bats flittered overhead and a couple of times she noted small eyes glinting in garbage-strewn corners.

  Ysh shone bright blue in the east and that should be a good omen if the Maiden was supporting Tion's rescue efforts. But Eltiana dominated the sky, glaring red, and that was bad. There was no sign of Trumb, who must be due to eclipse one night soon. That was always a bad omen, and it would be especially scary now.

  When the green moon turns to black,

  Then the reaper fills his sack.

  "What's a lovers’ gate?” Eleal asked.

  "A way over a city wall. You'll understand when you're older.” Gim stopped at a dark archway.

  "I understand now."

  He hissed. “Sh! Watch your step in here."

  "Here” was a black tunnel. He felt his way, leading her by the hand.

  They emerged into a well enclosed by sheer walls stretching up to a tiny patch of sky where two bright stars were visible. There was no visible exit except the tunnel arch and one stout wooden door that looked very determinedly shut. The smell was nauseating.

  "Made a mistake?” Eleal inquired in a whisper.

  "Not if you can climb like my sisters. Hold this a moment. And be careful with it.” He handed her his lyre case while he removed his pack. Then he showed her the handholds and footholds in the walls, leading up to a patch of not-quite-so-dark darkness. She had missed it because it was higher than even his head and a long way above hers.

  "I'll pass the pack up,” he said, taking his lyre back for safer keeping.

  "What's on the other side?"

  "Kitchen yard. Private house. Don't expect they're hanging out washing at this time of night."

  "Can you fit through there?"

  "Could last fortnight. Up with you."

  Leggings did have some advantages over long skirts when it came to climbing. Eleal scrambled up, feeling the stones icy cold in her hands, but it was an easy climb, as he had said. The opening had once been a barred window, although which side had been “inside” and which “outside” she could not tell. Now it was a gap between two yards, only one bar remained, and there was room for a child or a slim adult to squeeze through—the sort of illegal shortcut every child in the city would know about and love to use. She wriggled her head and shoulders through and then stopped.

  The yard was small, not large enough to hang very much washing, just house on one side and sheds on the other. No lights showed, but moonlight revealed that the way was definitely not clear. She looked back down at Gim, his face a barely visible blur.

  "There's a small problem,” she whispered.

  Gim said, “What?” impatiently.

  "A dragon."

  "What?” He sounded as if he did not trust her to know a dragon from a woodpile. She was blocking the preferred route, but he stepped on his pack, leaped up with long arms and legs and a scrabbling of boots on stone, catching a grip on the bar and hauling himself up beside her, dangling by one hand and one elbow.

  "I'm so sorry,” Eleal said in his ear. “I see it's only a watchcat after all."

  It was Starlight. He was crouched directly below her, and he knew she was there, for he was snuffling inquiringly. With his neck almost straight up, the soft glow of his eyes see
med close enough to touch. Any minute now he might decide to recognize her and issue an earsplitting belch of welcome. He would probably dislike having people drop packs and lyres and themselves on him.

  Gim grunted. “Better take the long way round.” He let go and dropped. He had forgotten his pack. The sounds of body parts thumping stone seemed to go on rather a long time.

  Eleal clambered down cautiously. By then he had stopped using bad words and was sitting up, trying to rub his head and an elbow at the same time.

  "You didn't dirty your coat, I hope?” she inquired solicitously.

  "Shuddup!"

  "Whose house is that?"

  Gim clambered painfully to his feet, rubbing his hip. “Gaspak Ironmonger's."

  "Do you suppose he has a private shrine, too? Do you think T'lin Dragontrader belongs to another mystery?"

  "Probably. Most men do."

  Interesting! She'd suspected that. “Not Tion's, though? Then whose?"

  "Why do girls talk so much? Keep quiet.” Gim hoisted his pack again, but he made no objection when Eleal slung the lyre strap over her shoulder.

  They crept back to the tunnel. This time the way was easier, for Ysh's eerie beams shone in from the street entrance.

  Now Eleal had a whole new problem to consider. T'lin had said he would give thanks to the gods in his own way. That suggested that he had gone to seek out the Narshian lodge of whatever god bore his particular allegiance.

  Would he be giving thanks or seeking instructions? And what god would he favor? Obviously not Tion, or he would have prayed at Sculptor's shrine, nor Eltiana, or he would not have aided in Eleal's rescue. She could not imagine T'lin dedicating himself to the Maiden. Astina was the patron goddess of warriors, true, and athletes, oddly enough, but her attributes included justice and duty and purity. None of those sounded like T'lin Dragontrader's preference. Visek was the All-knowing, of course, but he was rather an aloof god, and not easily swayed, god of destiny and the eternal sun. T'lin ought to be more concerned with commerce and domesticated animals, and the gods for those were avatars of Karzon, the Man.