Past Imperative [Round One of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  Who was also Zath, who had told his reaper not to let her reach Sussland alive.

  Who was also Ken'th.

  Daddy.

  Gim grabbed Eleal's arm and pulled her back into a doorway.

  She waited, but he did not explain what he had seen, or thought he had seen. Of course the guard would not necessarily parade around on dragonback with bands playing. It might be skulking in alleyways just as she and Gim were.

  Gim did not move for some time. Shivering at his side, Eleal realized that T'lin might have more mundane concerns than gods. She had told him about the Thargians, and she had specifically mentioned the Narshian she had recognized in their company—Gaspak Ironmonger. The dragon trader had laughed then, and made a joke about farmers buying leopards to guard chickens.

  Perhaps T'lin Dragontrader was a Thargian spy himself.

  The lyre was becoming unpleasantly heavy on her shoulders when Gim reached his objective.

  "We scramble up this trunk,” he said, “along that branch, and across the roof to the wall. Think you can manage that?"

  "No. You'll have to carry me."

  "Stay here then.” He reached for the first branch. “There's quite a drop on the other side, so don't break any ankles."

  A couple of minutes later, they were outside the city. Neither of them had broken an ankle, although Eleal's hip was hurting now, missing her special boot. Gim yanked her back into shadow while he scanned the moonlit meadow. Light shone on a bend of Narshwater in the distance, and the mammoth steps stood like a monument to a forgotten battle. The pen was invisible. Although this was spring, the grass seemed covered with a shimmer of silver frost. Perhaps it was only dew. T'lin's camp was an isolated patch of darkness, from which the wind brought faint belching noises.

  "See anyone?” Gim asked nervously.

  "No."

  "This is ridiculous! There's gotta be soldiers out there waiting for us! Dad said so. T'lin did too, more or less."

  Eleal yawned. She knew she ought to be excited and keyed-up, and she very definitely did not want to be captured and dragged back to Mother Ylla, but ... she yawned again. The night had gone on too long.

  She understood what was worrying Gim, though. There were few dragons in Narsh and those mostly belonging to the watch. Ranchers owned dragons, but the guard would very soon have accounted for all the dragons in the city itself and learned that none of them had been involved in her escape. The next move would have been to investigate the trader's camp outside the wall. It was absolutely certain that there would be soldiers there still.

  Furthermore, the camp was visible from the city gate, which was closed and guarded until dawn. Two people walking away from the wall would be as visible as a bear in a bed.

  "Why're they making all that noise?” Gim muttered.

  "Dragons always make that noise. If there were strangers around, they'd be making a lot more."

  "Really?"

  "Really,” Eleal said with a confidence she did not feel at all. She yawned again.

  "Come on, then!” Gim said. “It's trust the god or freeze to death!” He marched off across the meadow, leaning into the wind. Eleal followed by the light of the moons.

  As they reached the huddle of sleeping dragons, a tall shape stepped forward to meet them.

  "Name?” The voice was low, and not T'lin's.

  "Gim, er, Wrangler and, ah—my cousin, Kollburt Painter."

  "Goober Dragonherder. Follow me, Wrangler.” He led them to a tent, dark and heavily scented by the leather it was made of. It thumped rhythmically in the wind, but the inside seemed almost warm after the meadow. “Sit,” said the man.

  There was a pause while he laced up the flap, and another while he flashed sparks from a flint. Eventually a very small lantern glowed dimly, showing a few packs and a rumpled bedroll, no furniture, three people kneeling on the blankets, and beyond them the dark walls and roof swallowed the light, so that there was nothing more in the world.

  Goober was a thin-faced man with a dark beard, solemn as if he never smiled. Gold glinted faintly in the lobe of his left ear. He was garbed in the inevitable Ilama skin garments, plus a black turban. He pointed to it. “Can you tie one of these?"

  "No,” said the fugitives together.

  He produced two strips of black cloth and wrapped their heads up. Then he made them practice. To Eleal's fury, Gim caught the knack much faster than she did. She was too sleepy.

  "You'll do, Wrangler,” Dragonherder said. “You keep trying, Small'un. You look like a boiled pudding. Don't uncover the lantern until you've laced up the door again. Wrangler, you come with me."

  "To do what?"

  "To learn how to saddle a dragon and stop asking questions. I'm told you know the commands."

  By the look on Gim's face, he had already forgotten them, but he did not say so. The two departed. Left on her own, Eleal struggled with the infernal turban until it felt as if she had it right. Then she had nothing else left to do except wait.

  She inspected the mysterious packs—not opening them, in case she was interrupted, but feeling them carefully. She decided they contained little else but spare clothes.

  Sudden weariness fell on her like ... like an avalanche. Why did she keep thinking about avalanches? She leaned back against a pack. There had been no guards around the dragons, so the god was still helping her, right? Right.

  Goober Dragonherder had known she was coming, so T'lin had returned here from Kollwin Sculptor's and then gone back into the city again to visit Gaspak Ironmonger. Right?

  That must be right, too, but it seemed very odd. What had that meeting been about, and what had T'lin learned that evening that had made it necessary?

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  34

  EDWARD JUMPED DOWN TO OPEN THE FIRST GATE. HE DEliberately closed it from the wrong side so he could vault over it, dressing gown and all. He felt a whirling sense of wonder as he swung back up to the bench, agile as a child. Being a cripple had been a pretty stinky experience. The dogcart set off across the meadow.

  "Is his name really Oldcastle, sir?"

  Creighton shot him a frown, as if warning that they were not out of earshot yet.

  "No it isn't. There is no Mr. Oldcastle. Oldcastle is a sort of committee, or a nom de plume. Our friend back there is ... He's just that, a friend. He's been there a long, long time. I don't know his name. Probably nobody does anymore."

  The dogcart rattled down the slope toward the next gate. In daylight the land was bright with goldenrod and purple thistles.

  "Robin Goodfellow?"

  "That was the name of the firm. He would have been the local representative."

  No wonder his face had seemed Puckish. “Why blood? I thought a bowl of milk and a cake was his offering?"

  Creighton's tone had not encouraged further questions, but he must appreciate a chap's normal curiosity when he had just received a miracle.

  He cleared his throat with a Hrrnph! noise. “Depends what you're asking him to do, of course—or not to do, in his case. The value of a sacrifice is in what it costs. Blood's pretty high on the list.” He stared ahead in silence for a while, then said, “He would have lost on the exchange, though. You heard him say he husbands his resources. The mana he used to cure your leg he has probably been hoarding for centuries, and he can't replace it now—I don't suppose he gets any worshipers at all these days. We wouldn't have given him much, even with the blood. He's one of the Old Ones, but he does not belong to any of the parties involved in this. My associates here were desperately shorthanded and asked him to help, as he lives in the neighborhood. He agreed, much to everyone's surprise. For that you should be very, very grateful."

  Edward licked the cut on the back of his wrist. “I am, of course. Anything else I can do, sir?"

  "Yes. As soon as you've opened this gate, you go behind the hedge and get dressed. You look like a bloody whirling dervish in that rig-out."

  As he stripped, Edward discovered that his as
sorted scrapes and bruises had not been cured, only his leg. The flannel bags and blazer he wanted were badly crumpled, but he found a presentable shirt. His cuff links seemed to have disappeared altogether, his collars were all limp. He detested tying a tie without a looking glass, so he left that to be attended to on the road. In record time, he tossed his case into the dogcart and scrambled up beside Colonel Creighton, once more a presentable young gentleman.

  Except that he had only one shoe.

  As the pony ambled forward, he adjusted his boater at a debonair angle to cover the sticking plaster, and began fighting with his tie. Beautiful morning. Health and freedom! Breakfast now?

  In the light of day, Creighton was revealed as a man of middle years, spare and trim and indelibly tanned by a tropic sun. His close-cropped mustache was ginger, his eyebrows were red-brown and thick as hedges. His nose was an arrogant ax blade. He was staring straight ahead as he drove the pony, with his face shadowed by the brim of his bowler. As he seemed in no hurry to make conversation, Edward remained silent also, content to wait and see what the day would offer to top the night's marvels.

  Pony and cart clattered along the hedge-walled lanes, already growing warm. As they passed a farm gate, a dog barked. The damp patches on Creighton's trouser legs were drying. Somewhere a lie-abed cock was still crowing.

  Suddenly the colonel cleared his throat and then spoke, addressing his remarks to the pony's back.

  "You have seen a wonder, you have been granted a miracle cure. I trust that you will now be receptive to explanations that you might have rejected earlier?"

  "I think I can believe anything after that, sir."

  "Hrrnph!” Creighton shot him a glance, hazel eyes glinting under the hedge of red-brown eyebrow. “Did you feel anything unusual up there, by the way, even before our friend appeared?"

  Edward hesitated, reluctant to admit to romantic fancies. “It did seem a ‘spooky’ sort of place."

  Creighton did not scoff as a hard-bitten army man might be expected to. “Ever felt that sort of ‘spookiness’ before?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "For example?"

  "Well, Tinkers’ Wood, near the school. Or Winchester Cathedral on a school outing. I didn't tell anyone, though!"

  "Wise of you, I'm sure. Probably several of your classmates would have felt the same and kept equally quiet about it, but there's really nothing to be ashamed of. Sensitivity's usually a sign of artistic talent of one sort or another. Celtic blood helps, for some reason. It doesn't matter either way. When you get to ... Well, never mind that yet. There are certain places that are peculiarly suited to supernatural activities. We call them ‘nodes.’ They have what we call ‘virtuality.’ Some people can sense it, others can't. They seem to be distributed at random, some more marked than others, but here in England you'll almost always find evidence that they've been used, or are still being used, for worship of one kind or another—standing stones, old ruins, churches, graveyards."

  "That was why Mr. Old ... er, Mr. Goodfellow ... why he didn't cure my leg in the hospital?” Edward had wondered why he had been made to endure that journey.

  "Of course. It would have been much harder for him to do it there than at home in his grove, on his node. Perhaps even impossible for him nowadays."

  Creighton turned out of one lane into another, apparently confident that he knew where he was heading. For a while he said no more. Edward began to consider his options. To go to any local enlistment center might be dangerous. Of course the police would be much more inclined to look for him in a nursing home than at a recruiting office, but near Greyfriars he might be recognized by someone. His best plan was probably to head up to town and join all the thousands enlisting at Great Scotland Yard.

  Then the colonel began addressing the pony's arse again. “Officially I am Home on leave. Unofficially, I intended to observe the developments in Europe, do a bit of recruiting, and keep an eye on you."

  Edward said, “Yes, sir,” respectfully.

  "Things went—Hrrnph!—a little askew. The European thing sort of ran away with us. You see, the nature of prophecy is that it usually comes in a frightful muddle, with most incidents undated. Nevertheless, it describes a single future, so it must relate to a unitary stream of events, right?"

  "Er. I suppose so.” What had prophecy to do with anything?

  "Some foretellings you'd think you can do nothing about—storms or earthquakes. Others you obviously can. If a man is prophesied to die in battle and you poison him first at his dinner table, then you have invalidated the entire prophecy, you see? Prophecy is by nature a chain, so that breaking one link breaks the whole thing. If any one statement is clearly discredited, then the future described is no longer valid and none of the rest of the prophecy applies anymore. If the prophecy foretelling a man dying in battle also foretells a city being wrecked by an earthquake, then by poisoning the man, you can prevent the earthquake."

  Edward muttered, “Good Lord!” and nothing more. He seemed to have stumbled into a mystical world that was definitely going to take some getting used to.

  "It's all or nothing,” Creighton said. “Like a balloon. Poke one hole in it and the entire thing fails. And you were mentioned in a prophecy."

  "I see.” The Jumbo letter had mentioned a chain! Why had Edward been such a fool as to leave it behind?

  "About twenty years ago,” Creighton continued, “someone tried to kill your father, Cameron Exeter. The attempt did not succeed, but an investigation revealed that he was mentioned in a certain well-substantiated prophecy, the Vurogty Migafilo. Vurogty is a formal, legal statement. Miga means a village, like the English ham or by, in the genitive case. So in English Vurogty Migafilo would be something like Filoby Testament. It has been around for many years, and many events foretold in it have already come to pass. Many more remain. You see that to be mentioned in such a document is virtually a death sentence?"

  He paused, as if to let Edward make an intelligent comment, which seemed an unlikely possibility.

  "Because anyone who does not like anything else in the prophecy will try to block its fulfillment?” That felt reasonably intelligent, considering the hour.

  "Right on! Good man! In this case, the specific prophecy about your father was particularly unwelcome to the Chamber, and of course that increased his danger considerably."

  The trap jingled and joggled along the lane. A thrush sang in the hedgerow. The dawn clouds glowed in decorous pinks. It was all very normal—no genies going by on magic carpets, no knights in armor tilting at dragons.

  "What was that specific prophecy, sir?"

  "It was foretold that he would sire a son."

  "Sir!” This was starting to sound suspiciously like a leg-pull in very poor taste.

  "Furthermore, the date was specified very clearly."

  "June first, 1896, I presume?"

  "No. Sometime in the next two weeks."

  Edward said, “Oh.” He studied the thick hedges passing by. Life had been much simpler a few days ago. “Well, that's impossible, so this Testament has now failed?"

  Hrrnph! “No again. The date was a misinterpretation. The seeress may not have understood correctly herself, and she expressed herself poorly—the ordeal drove her insane and she died soon after. Prophecy requires an enormous amount of mana, which is why it's so rare. The person who had given her the talent miscalculated. He was utterly drained by her outburst. Almost died himself, or so it's said. That's beside the point. Anyway, the Service decided that your father had better go into hiding until the danger was past. And so he did."

  "He left New Zealand?"

  "He went back to New Zealand! Ultimately he went on to Africa. A year or so later he was blessed with a son, namely you.” Creighton spoke in sharp, authoritative phrases, as if he were instructing recruits in the mysteries of the Gatling gun. If he had been, then at least one recruit would have been totally at sea.

  Edward was tempted to ask if the prophecy had saved him from being a g
irl, but that would sound lippy.

  Creighton was still talking. “The Service has rather mixed feelings about the Filoby Testament, but all in all we tend to favor the future it describes. So he fulfilled that element of the prophecy and stayed where he was, at Nyagatha, killing time until the—"

  "Killing time? Sir, he was—"

  "I know what he was!” Creighton barked. “I dropped in there in ‘02 and met you. Cute little fellow you were, lugging a leopard cub around under your arm everywhere. Nevertheless, take my word for it, as far as your father was concerned, Africa was merely an extended working holiday."

  "A twenty-year holiday, sir?"

  "Why not? Exeter, when I say that your father belonged to the Service, I am not referring to His Majesty's Colonial Office. The Service to which I belong and your father belonged is something else entirely, and probably a great deal more important."

  Edward muttered “Yes, sir,” wondering how to bring up the question of his father's true age.

  Creighton did not give him the opportunity. “Now you understand why I waited until you saw your leg healed before I tried to tell you any of this."

  "It will take a little time to adjust, sir."

  Creighton might be crazy, but he seemed to know exactly where he was heading. The dogcart was entering a fair-sized village. A baker's wagon was making its rounds, but otherwise the streets were still deserted.

  "Time is something we don't have,” he said testily. “The opposition have tried three times to nobble you, Exeter. Five times, if you count the first attempt on your father and the Nyagatha massacre. They probably assumed they'd got you that time, by the way. That would explain why they left you alone for so long afterward. But this spring a certain building was buried by a landslide, and then everybody knew that the Filoby Testament was still operative. Your parents were definitely dead, so you must be alive. They set the hounds on you again. You can't expect your luck to hold indefinitely."

  "How can they find me now, sir? If I can hide from the law, then I can hide from ... Who exactly are the opposition? I mean, if someone's out to kill me, I'd like to know who."